the bitterness of grief, for it seemed as if a mighty bulwark
had been swept away. I had known Bishop Polk as a faithful and loving
shepherd of souls, feeding his flock in green pastures, tenderly
leading the weary and grief-stricken ones beside the waters of
comfort. But when the peaceful fold was invaded, when threatening
howls were arising on every side,--casting aside for a time the garb
of a shepherd, he sallied forth, using valorously his trusty sword,
opposing to the advance of the foe his own faithful breast, never
faltering until slain by the horrid fangs which greedily fastened
themselves deep in his heart. As I have already mentioned, I made
during the winter and spring several visits to the front. At one time
my husband, a member of Fenner's Louisiana Battery, was with his
command in winter quarters at Kingston, whither I went to pay a visit
and to inquire after the needs of the "boys." My little son (who had
by this time joined me at Newnan) accompanied me. Kingston was at this
time a bleak, dismal-looking place. I stopped at a large, barn-like
hotel, from the gallery of which, while sitting with visitors from
camp, I witnessed an arrival of Georgia militia, whose disembarkation
from a train in front of the hotel was met by a noisy demonstration.
They were a strange-looking set of men, but had "store clothes," warm
wraps, sometimes tall hats, in all cases _good ones_. This, with the
air of superiority they affected, was enough to provoke the fun-loving
propensities of the ragged, rough-looking veterans who had collected
to watch for the arrival of the train. As the shaking, rickety cars
passed out of sight, these raw troops walked up to the hotel and there
strode up and down, assuming supreme indifference to the storm of
raillery which assailed them. Of course my sympathies were with the
veterans, and I laughed heartily at their pranks. One of the first to
set the ball in motion was a tall, athletic-looking soldier clad in
jeans pants, with a faded red stripe adorning one leg only, ragged
shoes tied up with twine strings, and a flannel shirt which
undoubtedly had been washed by the Confederate military process
(_i.e._, tied by a string to a bush on the bank of a stream, allowed
to lie in the water awhile, then stirred about with a stick or boat
upon a rock, and hung up to drip and dry upon the nearest bush or tied
to the swaying limb of a tree). "A shocking bad hat" of the slouch
order completed his costume