the landlord to be an old gentleman named Paine,
who appeared to be somewhat out of his head. Two days before the
Confederate cavalry had vacated the village, and the army had been
encamped about the town for many months. A sabre conflict had taken
place in the streets; and these events, happening in rapid succession,
combined with the insolence of some Federal outriders, had so agitated
the host that his memory was quite gone, and he could not perform even
the slightest function. There is a panacea for all these things, which
the faculty and philanthropy alike forbid, but which my experience in
war-matters has invariably found unfailing. I produced my flask, and
gently insinuated it to the old gentleman's lips. He possessed instinct
sufficient to uncork and apply it, and the results were directly
apparent, in a partial recovery of memory. He said that meals were one
dollar each, board four dollars a day, or by the week twenty-five
dollars. These terms are unknown in America; but when Mr. Paine added
that horse provender was one dollar per "feed," I looked aghast, and
required some stimulant myself to appreciate the enormity of the
reckoning. I discovered, however, that the people of the village were
almost starving; that beef had been fifty cents a pound during the whole
winter, flour twenty-five dollars per barrel, coffee one dollar and a
quarter a pound, and corn one dollar per bushel. The army had swept the
country like famine, and the citizens had pinched, pining faces, with
little to eat to-day and nothing for to-morrow.

I acquiesced in the charge, as no choice remained, and asked to be shown
to my room. A burly negro, apparently suffering _delirium tremens_,
seized my baggage with quaking hands, and lifting a pair of red eyes
upon me, shuffled through a bare hall, up a stairway, and into a
bedroom. I never saw a more hideous being in my life, and when he had
flung my luggage upon the floor, he sank into a chair, and glared
wofully into my face, breathing like one about to expire.

"Young Moss," said he, "cant you give a po' soul a drop o' sperits? Do
for de good Lord's sake! Do, Moss, fo' de po' nigga's life. Do! do!
Moss."

I poured him out a little in a tumbler, less from charity than from
fear; for he knew that I was provided with a bottle, and I seemed to
read murder in his eyes.

He drank like one athirst and scant of breath, making a dry, chuckling
noise with his throat. When he had finished, he leane