Tom's Letter From the Seat of War—The Pilgrim's Progress—Niagara Falls—Visit to Canada—Letters From Richmond Hill—Great War Interest in Canada—The Girl's Letter to Papa—Tom's Letter and Poem on the Great Fight With the Bloodhounds in South Carolina.

I have always believed that it was because the Lord loved me that He gave me so good a husband, who, by the bye, is preserved to me yet, and for the same reason, that He allowed me to have my dear mother with me again. She has been the very joy of my life, and is with me still. I would have missed my gallant and devoted Tom in no small degree when he went away to the war among so many others of the brave and true, only he was so attentive about writing me letters during his absence. I have kept all those missives of his, and laid them carefully away, and I have always said they would make a good book if they were printed; and some day I may put them in book form.

And Tom's numerous and well-written letters were not only a perpetual treat and joy to myself, but the two sweet girls, and Mr. and Mrs. John B. Sutherland, and a few select friends who came round the house seemed never to tire of reading his letters. He also wrote each of them a separate letter occasionally, but as a general thing, his long letters to myself had to serve for all.

During all this time the girls were growing up finely, and every twelve months I had their photographs taken and sent to him to let him see how nicely they looked in their New Year's dresses. Tom sent up photographs of himself in his plain soldier's dress, and also in his officer's dress, after his promotion. Poor Tom! My eyes often filled with tears when his letters came, and I sat down with an anxious heart to read their contents. I knew, of course, that the children and I should be provided for, should Tom be numbered with the slain, but we all longed to see him, and prayed much to Almighty God that if it was His gracious will our Tom might come home to us once more from the war.

It was at this time that one Christmas my two daughters were cojointly presented with a large, splendid, and well-illustrated copy of "The Pilgrim's Progress"—a book that attracted them so much that they have been reading it ever since! This glorious book kindled up all the latent enthusiasm of their souls, and in their excitement over "Doubting Castle," "Vanity Fair," and a hundred other wonders, they even wrote letters to their father about that wonderful book and its author—the tinker and preacher of Bedford. Their youthful enthusiasm amused their father very much, and he wrote back to them at once to read all in the Pilgrim's Progress that they wanted. They used to take turns with the book; one would read for an hour at a time, and the other would listen. I have always looked back upon the coming of that book into my house as a real blessing.

And still we always continued to attend the ordinances of our sweet little Church on Vine street—attended them on the Sabbath and during the week. The girls went to the Sunday School, and we adults assisted all that we could.

As Niagara Falls were not more than twenty-two miles away, we all occasionally took a holiday and went down and spent the day there, crossing over to the Canadian shore by way of the Suspension Bridge, that we might stand on Table Rock and see the great "Horseshoe Fall." Well, really, the Falls of Niagara are a wonderful sight. Even our own smaller American Fall is a splendid sight, though rather diminutive compared with the great Horseshoe Fall on the Canadian side of the river. I can never understand how a mere puny man can stand before the great Creator's works here, and say, "There is no God."

During the fall of 1864, I took my two daughters and went as far as Oxford county, Canada, to pay a visit to a dear family with whom I became acquainted in Buffalo. The weather was most delightful, and we enjoyed ourselves very much indeed during the month we remained on the farm. At that time I wrote the following letter to Tom, and will here introduce it, as it will speak for itself:

"RICHMOND HILL, Oxford Co., Canada, Sept., 1864.

"To Captain Thomas Lincoln,

"My Dear Husband.—The children and I took the train at Buffalo and came here two weeks ago, to pay a long-promised visit to the Gibsons at 'Richmond Hill' farm, which lies in the county of Oxford some ten or twelve miles from the nearest station on the railroad. We left Buffalo early in the morning, and thus had the whole day before us, and plenty of leisure to look at the highly cultivated country through which we passed. The country was truly delightful all the way to Ingersoll, were we got out of the train, and where one of the Gibsons met us with a buggy. We all got in, and the children and I were greatly pleased with the charming country all around us, the farms being in such a high state of cultivation. But it was not all farming land that we passed through, for our way in one place led us through the forest, where the squirrels were running in perfect freedom overhead in the branches, and we could hear the woodman's axe ringing both far and near and bringing down the tall trees. After we had come about ten miles, we saw 'Richmond Hill' high up on the rising ground on the far side of a very narrow valley, that ran down to the cypress swamp away on our right hand. So we issued out of the woods on the top of the hill we were now descending, made our way along the creek at the bottom for a little distance to the right, and then we opened a big country gate and made our way up through the fields to the farm house door. While the girls and I were looking around at the grand view presented on all hands to our astonished eyes, the front house door opened, and out came Mrs. Gibson and her two daughters, and as many of the sons as were at home at the time of our arrival. They helped us out of the buggy, kissed and embraced us most rapturously, and gave us a very warm, hearty and enthusiastic welcome. (My whole soul fairly grows warm when I think of that welcome among the good Canadians). So they brought us into their nice house, which reminded me of the 'Palace Beautiful' in the Pilgrim's Progress. I had a little room for myself on a wing of the house. They called my room the 'Guest Chamber,' and it was a snug room with a pretty name I am sure. The girls slept in another small room near my own. Our things were all brought into the house and well disposed of within reach, and we felt most thoroughly at home among a kind people whose loving ways filled me and the girls with surprise. Mr. Gibson himself came home during the day, and gave us a warm welcome to Richmond Hill, and we saw the whole family with the exception of two who were not at home at that time.

"The friends and neighbors round about heard of our arrival and came to see us, and to invite me and the girls to pay them a visit as soon as ever we were able to do so. Indeed, had I known of the beauty and enchantment of this place and such a kind family, I would have been here long ago, never you fear!

"This glorious visit to Richmond Hill, where we have already been for two weeks, seems to the girls and me the essence of all enchantment, and the very ground we tread upon seems to be perfectly enchanted ground. The weather is so fine, the Gibsons themselves are so refined and polished, and there is so much beauty all around us, that life itself seems to be one long day of joy. It is so delightful to climb the hill behind the house, and look across the deep and narrow valley below us to the primÆval forests through which we rode; then we can see the winding creek away to our right, and the evergreen cypress swamp away upon our left. After we have seen all that, there are still the farm houses and cottages lying all round about us on the hill tops, and we often turn into one of them and sit down for an hour after our walk.

"The Gibsons are neither Secesh, nor semi-Unionists, nor even Copperheads! They are good Union people out and out, and they are for the restoration of the American Union. You would be thunderstruck if you were here and beheld the overwhelming interest that the Canadians take in the Civil War in the States. They are mostly Unionists, but some few would rather see the South win,—just the very same as they are in England and France. But we need not blame these few Canadians, nor go all the way across the North Atlantic to England, and Germany, and France, for all the Northern States are honeycombed with Democrats and semi-Unionists called 'Copperheads,' who are doing almost as much harm to our arms as the rebels themselves; because they sympathize with the South,—they desire them to retain their slaves, and would object to the colored man being made a freeman and a citizen. They have no heart for the Union with freedom.

"We have little cause indeed to find fault with Southern sympathizers far, far away beyond the deep, blue seas, when they are swarming all over the North, and are found mixed up in every part of the Union,—East, West and South as well. There are tens of thousands of people, who, I firmly believe, would rather see the very Union itself broken up than that the curse of slavery should now come to an end! We here in Canada have nothing to do but look around us to see the proofs of all this. In these trying days, when Uncle Sam is compelled to resort to one draft after another draft, to fill up the depleted ranks of our armies, there are thousands and tens of thousands of men who have crossed over here into British America, and I have seen plenty of them with my own eyes. One day I met quite a fine young doctor from Maine,—quite a fine medical man, and a good looking fellow to boot, who addressed me in these words, "I was at home in Maine with my newly married wife when the draft came, and I was taken. I have no hatred against Southern men who never did me any harm, and considered I had no right to throw my young life away on Southern bullets. I had also other conscientious objections to the whole business, and did not consider their war any interest of mine! The Canadian frontier, therefore, being near at hand, it was my own privilege to do just as I pleased—'to use force' as well as they! So I crossed the Canadian border, and here I am in good health and safety! Upon that he drew a letter out of his inside vest pocket,—a letter just received from his wife, along with the photograph of her, which he showed me, and she looked most uncommonly pretty too.

"One day the girls and I were walking along the high road when we met six men who had come over from the Northern States, and all over the length and breadth of Canada, they are everywhere, and indeed, the very woods seem to be full of them!

"The first thing I do in the morning, and the last thing at night, is to pray to our Father in Heaven for you, my own dear Tom,—that he may take care of you; and, if it be his good will and pleasure, to bring you back safe and sound to us at home. I no longer wonder at some people being fond of travel. No wonder, for it has its charms and great ones too. It seems to me so very strange that the children and I,—in a few hours time, should be transported from the City of Buffalo to this romantic and almost ethereal home upon the hills of Western Canada, and then for me to turn around and think of you and the rest of the army battling away for freedom and union in the Fair South! We get the papers here every day. They are brought from the nearest post town which is three miles away, and then we all have such a scramble to hear the latest news from the seat of war, as they call it on their great headlines. It does not surprise me so much that we at home should make such an ado over the war news, but that these Canadians should also take so much interest as ourselves seems to me most astonishing indeed. It is just three miles from here to the post town, and one day we three went to spend the day with some relatives of the Gibsons. On an open space at the entrance to the town stood a large tent,—a kind of show called 'The War in the South.' We paid the showman five cents apiece and went in to see the pictures of the war set out on the canvas. We looked through the round, bull-eye glasses, and the general effect was to magnify the whole scene to a very great extent. I must confess that after all that I have read and heard, this peep-show, or whatever else you may call it, gave me a better idea of the field of war, and its far-spreading extent than all I have ever learned from other sources,—all put together.

"As we stood and looked we could see the long, fertile, southern plains under the noon-day sun; the woods and forest lay around them like a fringe in the distance; so minute and life-like did the very trees and bushes appear that I could almost tell what species they belonged to. Other pictures, in which we were ten times more interested, showed us the northern and southern armies on the march with flags flying, or else they were encamped on the edge of a wood among the lofty trees. There were also scenes of war and a battle which looked really too dreadful, even to behold the pictures of them. At such times I felt quite inclined to shut my eyes on such awful scenes. 'If such is the mere picture,' I said to myself, 'what must the reality of actual war be.' When we had thoroughly satisfied ourselves with this famous little peep-show, we came out, considering that we had had a good five cents' worth,—I mean five cents a piece! And so we moved on to our friend's house, where we had a most uncommonly warm welcome, and where we spent the whole day, some other friends coming in to see us during our pleasant visit.

"I must not forget to tell you that at the farm house at 'Richmond Hill' they have quite a fine piano; and, as my experience during the great Abolition campaign in the North made me quite an adept at speaking and singing in public, I have been able to entertain these good Gibsons and other Canadian friends with some of the music and songs I used to play and sing. Our girls also have dome very well on the piano, to be so young yet.

"We all send our warmest love to you; and if I see any good reason for writing you again before we leave Richmond Hill, will send you another Canadian letter before our return home, and I remain, my dear Tom, ever your most affectionate wife,

"BEULAH LINCOLN."

When we had been a month at Richmond Hill, and were getting ready for our departure on the following day, the girls had a great desire to write their papa. So I furnished them with the writing materials, upon which they put their heads and thoughts together, and wrote the letter that follows:

"RICHMOND HILL, October, 1864.

"Our Dear Papa:—

"With great pleasure we send you this letter, we your daughters, who love you. We are all quite well, and hope you are well also amidst the dangers and toils of the war. All the letters and other things that you sent us to Buffalo were forwarded to us to Richmond Hill, in Canada. We have read your letters over and over again with great interest, and the friends here have read some of them that told all about the military operations in the fields, and they were very well pleased with their contents, for the Gibsons are great union people too.

"As the weather here has been most delightfully sunny, and we have been so much in the open air on these Canadian hills, both mama and our two selves have gotten quite fat, and also look as people do when they come from the bathing places on the sea shore. We also feel right good, all three of us, for we have had a grand time, and been so very kindly used. Thus our hearts and minds are content, and we are going home to Buffalo to-morrow filled with pleasure, like heavily laden bees going humming to their hives with plenty of sweet honey.

"We have been to church in the town every Sunday since we came here. The Gibsons are Presbyterians, and so we went to the Presbyterian church, and indeed it is very beautiful. We stood up to pray instead of kneeling down as we do at Vine Street, in Buffalo, but Dr. Bell is a famous preacher.

"As the buggy could not hold everybody, mamma rode both ways and we walked, and we never thought of getting tired.

"The horse is an awful quiet one, something little 'Gentle Annie' of the song. We were not a bit afraid to drive on week days by our two selves, and bring the mail from the postoffice; and then we learned how to drive and manage a horse. But the Gibson horse would never make a war horse, he is not strong enough, and the cannons would frighten him too much.

"We do not go to market here for fruit and vegetables. We just open the gates to the garden and orchard, and bring in all the potatoes, cabbage, turnips, pears, peaches, apples, and whatever else we may need. We have been very busy paring apples; and besides that we have a lot of fruit in jars that we are going to take home to Buffalo. The preserves will be nice in winter.

"We met with a wonderful piece of good luck at Richmond Hill. The Gibsons have got an enormous copy of the Pilgrim's Progress,—as big as a family Bible, published in London, and all the pictures are quite different from those in our own. O, what grand times we had looking at all the pictures!

"When night came on, we girls took our turn and read 'The War in the South' in the 'Daily Toronto Globe.' How our eyes did glisten as we read many parts of the news!

"We will leave this house to-morrow after an early breakfast. One of the sons will drive us to Ingersoll railway station. We have now seen the whole family,—all the Gibsons. We never knew that there were such fine people in Canada. We are all so very glad that the Lord directed our young feet to this place.

"We must now close our letter with much love from everybody, and we are, our dear papa, your most loving daughters,

"—— and —— Lincoln."

We got home to Buffalo once more all right, but that grand visit made a very great impression upon our hearts and minds. I have attempted to place a few sketches of it before my kind and indulgent reader, but Oh, dear me! if I were to write down all that I could write about that famous visit it would fill up a whole book. Perhaps I may return to the subject again.

Soon after our return to our happy and pleasant home in Buffalo, I received the following letter from Tom:

"NEW ORLEANS, La., October, 1864.

"Mrs. Beulah Lincoln,

"My Dear Beulah:—Since I was promoted to the rank of captain, my duties have varied a good deal more at different times than they did when I was a private in the ranks. I have lately been away in the interior of this State, but here I am back to the Crescent City once more, and ever trying to attend most faithfully to my duties. I tell you, my dear Beulah, it takes every one of us to do our very best,—with a long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull altogether,—to pull down this terrible and powerful rebellion. People can think, and talk, and even write all they please; but I am firmly convinced that had Abraham Lincoln not issued his famous emancipation proclamation on the 1st of January, 1863, the war would go on for twenty years, and perhaps we would have to compromise with the rebels even then. And then they are such fighters! Why, they are worse than tigers! However that may be, I know one thing,—since the issuing of that proclamation the rebellion has been cut down in territory on all sides; and, as we have got hold of the rebel ports, one by one, the blockade runners have been cut off by sea to that extent. Thus we have cut off their supplies from foreign nations; and right here I may notice that, as to the millions of silver and gold that the South has piled and heaped from the toils and labors of the oppressed slaves,—of all that ill-gotten coin, there is perhaps not one dollar of it left now in the entire South. It has all gone to buy the munition of war in Europe; and yet the cause for which the South has expended it will all be lost!

"The rebellion is going down, and will come to an end by and by. I suppose there are now about 200,000 colored troops in the field, many of whom used to raise the crops for 'old Massa.' Now white men must stay at home and raise the crops, and look after their own families into the bargain, and all that is so much more cut off from their resources.

"I used to be of the opinion that after all the lickings we have given them, and seeing that they had no prospect but ultimate defeat before their eyes, they would come to terms and lay down their arms. But no!—nothing of the sort indeed! They have still their pride left, and that is something!—I don't think we will ever conquer them; but we will just wear them away, one by one, till there is not another rebel left. The armies of the nations of history have usually laid down their arms when they saw that the struggle was quite hopeless; but so long as there is even one Southern rebel left who can stand on his feet and hold up a flag, I believe they will say that the South is still independent and free! We will never conquer them; we shall have to wear them out!

"We here at the seat of war in the South are splendidly supplied with an abundance of newspapers, magazines, and I know not what besides. Some are illustrated with all sorts of pictures, and some are not illustrated; and they appear to be sent to us poor fellows by all sorts of good people from all the four winds of heaven. In one of these latest magazines there is a very vivid representation of a terrible fight that the First South Carolina Colored Regiment had with bloodhounds at Pocataligo Bridge, on the 23rd of October, 1862. The rebels came streaming on through the woods, with horse, foot and dragoons, and also the bloodhounds. Our own brave men advanced boldly through among the trees, and attacked dog, horse and man in a terrible hurry. The hounds especially dashed against our men with great fierceness, but they were shot down and bayoneted quicker than it takes me to tell the tale with pen and ink. Then the gallant troops held them up aloft for joy on the points of their bayonets and laughed. The dogs looked just like meat on the point of a fork. I have turned the entire scene into a little poem of my own. Here it is:

"We met the bloodhounds at the bridge,

They ran with all their might;

Their open months cried bow, wow, wow!

It was a glorious sight.

We ran our bayonets through their backs,

We shot them with the gun;

It was all over with the dogs,

And 'twas most glorious fun!

"In former days those brutes were used

To hunt the flying slave;

They tracked them through their dismal swamps,

And little quarter gave;

But when they tried the game of war

We knocked them on the head,

We shot them quick, and ran them through,

Until every hound was dead!

"Thus perished those bad dogs at once,

We tossed them high for fun;

We held them on our bayonet tops,

And finished the last one;

Which was a flitting end for them,

The brutes shall bark no more,

Nor hunt the flying fugitive

On Carolina's shore!

"But slavery there has lost the day,

They need bloodhounds no more;

All men and women now are free

On Carolina's shore;

The white man now will learn to work

Like other men I trow,

Nor raise the bloodhounds for the chase,

Big brutes that cry bow, wow!

"But I must lay down the pen, or else I am sure you will begin to get tired of my long letter. I was very greatly interested, indeed, in your glorious visit to Canada. I would like to go there myself. Perhaps we will all visit them together some future day. With much warm love to yourself, the girls, and all the rest. I am as ever,

"Your most loving husband,

"THOMAS LINCOLN."