When I arrived at Waco I found the wildest excitement every where prevailing. A large number of Union men had been arrested, and several hanged. Neither the property nor the life of the loyal people was safe. A number of men for no other offense than refusing to openly commit themselves to secession, were rendered homeless by the torch of the incendiary; and like the leper, no one would give them shelter. A draft was imperiously called for, for already it was discovered that however much the Southern heart was fired, the number of volunteers the exigency demanded, was not forthcoming. Draft, draft, draft; every where the word was repeated; nothing would satisfy the rebels but a resort to conscription; but they knew less of the unpleasant character of that bitter operation than they did three years after, or they might have hesitated before demanding a resort to the wheel of fortune.

Soon after my return, a ranger, named Michael Somerville, an Alabamian, and a friend of mine, quietly informed me that the vigilance committee had my case under consideration, and had been discussing the propriety of hanging me, and that the subject had been broached to the rangers, but it was soon discovered that I had entirely too many friends to permit them to molest me seriously. It was then resolved to draft me; and to this my friends offered no objection. About the last of July, 1861, an order for a conscription in McClennan county was received at Waco. The document came in on the mail stage from Austin about nine o'clock at night, and on the following morning, after eating an unusually early breakfast, I mounted my pony and was off for the north.

The first place aimed for was Jefferson, at the head of Soda lake, a place of some commercial importance; and on reaching it, I found the excitement there as wild as at Waco. Already large quantities of stores were being accumulated there, to be used in the pending campaign, and the streets continually echoed to the sound of the drum, as company after company of the Johnnies passed through them. From Jefferson I started to the north western corner of Louisiana, where the State joins both Texas and Arkansas. While traveling along one day, I heard some guns firing a short distance to my left, but supposing it to be a company of troops discharging a volley at a target, I paid no attention to the matter. But presently two men rode hurriedly past, and from what I could gather of their conversation, I was led to believe that some horrid transaction had just taken place. Desirous of knowing something of its nature, I rode rapidly along, and soon overtook the two men and entered into a conversation with them, and asked them, in a careless manner, what the firing meant; and in response, one of them gave me the details of a most horrible murder which had just been committed. A house stood near the corner of the State, to which I have already adverted, owned by a prominent Union man, whose name I can not now give, it having slipped my memory; and it appears that he had given offense to a Captain Jolly, who was an aspirant for a commission in the rebel army; and that as a method of revenging himself, Captain Jolly had led twenty-four men to the house, and in cold blood, he and his party shot down and killed four men and wounded two more; and that they had likewise killed a negro woman. My companions manifested the utmost abhorrence at the deed, and soon gave me to understand that they, themselves, were Union men.

As I traveled through Arkansas, I passed myself off as a nephew of Albert Pike, who was at that time a Brigadier General in the rebel service; replying, when questioned, that I was going to Little Rock to see the General, and enter the service. Of course I had to play the part of a secessionist all this time; had I done otherwise, my life would have paid the forfeit. But once in Little Rock, I had played my game out, and I had not the remotest idea how I was next to proceed; but knowing that delay was dangerous, I at once set about contriving a way of escape, and finally got off.

Near the town of Arkadelphia, I overtook a preacher on the road, and we immediately entered into a conversation on the political situation, and I was not long in ascertaining that his sympathies were with the Union cause; I then told him frankly, that I was a Union man, and I inquired of him how persons of that political faith were treated in that region. He appeared frightened at my frankness; and as we were near the town, he advised me not to go through it, but take a byway that led around it, and into my road again some distance beyond the place. He then stated that at least twenty men had been hung in that vicinity, for their devotion to the old government.

I politely declined to accept his advice, as to making a circuit of the town, but told him I would ride through to see the sights; and on arriving in front of the hotel, I dismounted, threw myself "around a drink," and then mounted again; but did not ride off immediately, as I had entered into an interesting conversation with the clergyman. But I had not been there long, when I was surrounded by a large crowd of soldiers, who at once set to questioning me, as to what was the news, where I was going, where I was from, etc.; and to all of these, my answers were so different from the tenor of our private conversation, that the Reverend Gentleman must have pronounced me, in his mind, as a rival of Baron Munchausen, with a fair prospect of eclipsing his fame. Nevertheless, he seemed pleased at the sudden political summersault I had turned, and he doubtless fully appreciated my motives for becoming so readily a convert to secession.

While riding along with my clerical friend, I was warned of a "little log grocery on the hill," where, my informant said, about a dozen men, mostly strangers, had been set upon and killed, by secessionists, since the political excitement had commenced. It was located in a dense, piny woods, and frequented by the lowest class of men in the country; but this admonition instead of rendering me cautious, only excited me, and started within me a desire to "see the sights;" and I therefore rode directly up to the grocery, which, on my arrival, contained no man except the keeper. I at once dismounted, and entered, determined to see what the place was like. The landlord of the place was a very clever man—all grocery keepers are, you know, on the same principle that the cat is, while you stroke it the way the fur lays—and at once entered into a conversation with me about the state of the country, and our prospects of whipping the yankees; and of course, according to our figures, it would be easily accomplished. When he learned that I was a nephew of Albert Pike, he was glad to see me, and insisted on my remaining with him, which I did, from the time of my arrival, at noon, till ten o'clock the next day.

During the afternoon, a party of men collected around the place to drink, talk politics, and curse the yankees; and of course I bore my part, and if some of my yankee friends could have heard me "set them up," they would have been astonished at my hypocrisy, if not edified by my discourse. At supper, my new found friend shut up the grocery, and took me home with him to supper, and I was introduced to his wife and brother, as a nephew of Albert Pike. His wife prepared for me a splendid meal, while he took me around and showed me his place, stock, crops, and niggers, all of which, of course, I admired. While we were eating supper, his brother came in, and called him out, and the two stood whispering together for some time in an excited manner, at the same time, as I thought, casting suspicious glances at me; after which the elder brother went away abruptly. What now, I wondered; was there some scheme on foot against me? They eyed me several times exceedingly closely; and I asked myself: could there be any suspicion against me? I had certainly not been indiscreet? then what could that hurried manner, and those sidelong glances portend?

I began to think I had been followed from Texas by some vindictive rebel, who wanted to prevent my going north, when the mystery was suddenly solved, without my being compelled to ask any questions. The man, whose name was White, informed me that his brother had just been in to invite us over to a dance. His daughter was married a few days since, and they had been dancing ever since. This was the third night, and the party would break up in the morning. What a weight of anxiety that declaration, which I saw was made in good faith, removed from my mind! I tried to beg off, as I needed rest; but it was of no use; his brother, he said, would accept no refusal; and without more ado, I went.

We had a walk of about two miles through a gloomy swamp, when we began to hear the sound of a violin breaking the stillness of the night; and also the sound of shuffling feet, keeping time to the music, together with the heavy rattling of a puncheon floor; and very soon after, we emerged from among the bushes into a little clearing, where was a large double log-cabin: with lights streaming out through every crevice; and into this we entered without ceremony. Forty or fifty stalwart men—real sons of the forest—were there, with checkered coats and what had been linen standing collars on heavy cotton shirts with no bosoms; but, alas! exercise in a hot climate in midsummer generates sweat, and sweat will tell upon standing collars; and theirs were clinging to the neck like wet rags; they likewise had on striped home-made pants, and very heavy cowhide boots.

Some of the girls were truly handsome. I never was much of a critic of ladies' clothing, and, therefore, I will not here undertake to describe the outline, except to say that the dresses were of very costly material, and made after the very latest of rustic fashion, and each one was highly pleased with her appearance.

On a kitchen table sat a very big, and, certainly, a very black negro, playing the violin, and calling off, in mellifluous sing-song tones, tuning his voice to the music of his instrument, perfectly. There were two cotillions on the floor, whirling and twirling, in the giddy mazes of the dance, to the voluptuously measured cadence of the "Arkansas Traveler"; (who has not heard it?). The music is familiar to almost every ear, but, alas! how few there are who have been so favored by Divine Providence and propitious circumstances as to have seen the "Arkansas Traveler" danced by natives to the manor "born"—no other people know the manner of its performance, as do the people of Arkansas; and no other musician can render the piece on the violin or banjo like a Arkansas plantation darkey. By the side of the fiddler sat a veteran banjo picker, who added much to the effect of the music; and, as the fiddler called off the figures of the dance, this old darkey would recite the dialogue of the Arkansas Traveler, keeping perfect time to the music. For the benefit of the reader who has never had the pleasure of seeing it performed, I will endeavor to convey an idea of it, although one can give but a faint conception, on paper: the thing must be seen and heard to be appreciated.

The scene represents a belated traveler in Arkansas, in an "airly day." I suppose, reader, when your "dad" and mine were boys, or, perhaps, earlier, he halts before a dilapidated cabin, to see if he can get to stay all night. It is a miserable squalid place. The rain is pouring down in torrents, and the old man of the house is perched on a whisky barrel in the only dry corner, playing the first part of a tune. The children are huddled around the fire, peering curiously at the stranger, while the old woman, with one arm a-kimbo, is stirring a pot of mush over the fire, holding her dress back between her knees, to keep it from burning. The roof of the cabin is partly demolished; a couple of pigs ruminating about on the ground-floor, and chickens, with dripping feathers, roosting on the timbers over head. This is the state of affairs when the story opens; the reader can gather the remainder as the old banjo player recites it.

"Balance all," shouts the fiddler; when the old banjo picker starts off with:

"Hello, ole man, kin I get ter stay here all nite, rad di di da di di da da da."

"First and third couple, forward and back," yells the fiddler.

"Yer kin get ter go ter de ole boy, I guess," breaks in the banjo picker, keeping time with the dancers' feet.

"First lady balance second gemman."

"I say, ole man, whar doe dis road go to, rad di di da di di da da?"

"Swing," yells the fiddler, and old white head goes on with:

"I ben a livin' here about forty years an' it aint gone no whar yit, ra di di da di di da da da," etc.

"How far is it to de forks ob de road? rad di di da," etc.

"Ef yer done kep on, yer done ben dar by dis time," then again chimed in his rad di di da di di da da da.

"I say ole man, is ye gwine ter let me stay all nite? rad di di da da."

At the next break in the music, he answers:

"Aint got nuffin to eat, stranger, yer better go on ter de nex house, rad di di da da," etc.

"How far is it, ole man, to de nex house? ra di di da da," etc.

A pause then ensues, when he continues:

"'Bout nineteen miles, I guess, rad di di da," etc.

"Ole man, dats too fur ter ride ter nite in de rain."

He then paused, in order not to speak his part, when the other called off, but after the call, chimed in again:

"I can't help dat, yer know, rad di di da da."

After a moment's reflection, the traveler seems to resolve on a new course of tactics, and begins with:

"I say, ole man, why don't yer put a new roof on yer house? rad di di da di di da da."

"Oh, er's a rainen too hard."

"Why don't yer put de roof on when it aint a rainen? rad di di da," etc.

"Oh, when er don't rain, er don't need it, rad di di da di di da."

The old fellow keeps on playing, while the traveler again reflects a moment; one thing is certain, it is raining too hard to proceed, and he must stop; and a happy idea suggests itself. Hitherto the man with the fiddle had only played one part of the tune, and it seemed to be a favorite air; and the traveler, who is himself a master violinist and composer, says:

"I say, ole man," (the reader will remember I give it as the darkey recited it), "why don't yer play de rest ob dat piece? rad di di da di di da da."

All this time the dance is progressing, and the young folks "spreading" themselves, and full of glee, at the recitation, while the violinist almost excels himself.

"Don't know no more; does you know it all? rad di di da."

"Sartinly, I does." Instantly the old man springs from the whisky barrel, invites the traveler to dismount, orders one of his own little urchins to put the traveler's horse in the stable, tells his wife to get supper, assures the traveler that his son will soon be back from mill; has a chicken taken down and killed for supper, has a jug of whisky brought in from the smoke-house, and assures the traveler that they are not so nearly starved out as he had a moment before supposed; then mounting his guest on the whisky barrel, gives him the fiddle, and calls for the balance of the tune, which was played with a gusto, and christened the "Arkansas Traveler," since so popular among violinists.

The dance was exceedingly amusing. The girls moved very lightly and with considerable grace; but the men made a tremendous lumbering over the loose puncheon floor. When it came to the "balance all," the heeling and toeing of those heavy boots, was positively horrifying; but the "swing" was rendered with such a hearty good will, and the girls seemed to enjoy it so well, that I almost wished I was a dancer myself.

The bride showed us to the supper room, where we found a table loaded with every luxury which the State could afford. We did justice to the viands, and then went back to the dance. The bride was anxious to dance with me; at least her uncle told me so; and I felt considerably abashed, when I told him I could not dance. Not to be able to dance, in Arkansas, is as bad as to be no horseman, in Texas. The bride went through one set with her uncle, who appeared to be about the best dancer in the house. The girls all seemed to vie with her, which made me conclude that they wished themselves in her place; while the lady herself acted and looked as pretty as she knew how.

The fiddler threw all his powers into his playing and his stentorian voice; and the men heeled and toed with a hearty goodwill, and the puncheons rattled beneath their measured, swinging tread. It was a complete and graphic picture of good old fashioned social life. Indeed, the dancers exerted themselves so long, and well, that the puncheons seemed to take up their spirit, and appeared as if endeavoring to extemporize a hornpipe on their own hook. I had often heard the old story of the man in Arkansas who gathered up half a bushel of toe nails on his floor, after a dance; and I was scarcely inclined to doubt its truth, after what I witnessed on that night.

We enjoyed ourselves hugely, till after twelve o'clock, when we went back to my friend's house. When I was about to start, on the following day, he insisted that I should remain longer with him; but I urged the pressing state of affairs, telling him that we Southerners must take the field, as quickly as possible, if we would prevent the country from being overrun by the Yankee vandals of the North. Excuse me, reader, but I was talking at a mark then.

When I arrived at Little Rock, I found the town full of soldiers, who had come in response to the first call of the Governor for three thousand men; and these were the same troops who fought at Wilson's Creek, a short time after. While at Little Rock, I was attacked by bilious fever, and was sick for ten days. I stopped at a hotel kept by Capt. Lee, who was a violent secessionist. My story about being a nephew of Albert Pike, was of great service to me; and I was enabled to keep up appearances, without being detected, by the fact that he and his sons were all out in the Indian Nation, recruiting savages for the rebel service.

When I got well, and was able to leave, I found myself guard bound. The town was under military law, and every road was picketed, so that escape was next to impossible. I had been compelled to sell my horse to pay expenses while sick, getting but fifteen dollars for an animal worth at least one hundred; and I was walking along the levee a little disconsolate, when I saw a little steamboat called the William Henry, and I immediately went on board of her. Looking around, I saw the carpenter at work on the bow, and I stepped up to him, and inquired if he wanted any help, telling him I would assist him down to Napoleon, for my fare. To this proposition he readily assented; remarking that he always liked to have help when there was work to do.

While I was talking to him he stuck the foot adze into his foot, and cut the big toe almost loose from his left foot. The blood flowed profusely, and I at once set myself to work and bandaged up the wound, in the presence of the captain and mate, and he was sent to the hospital immediately. As soon as this was done, the captain turned to me and said:

"Young man, are you a ship carpenter?"

"They call me one," I replied.

"Do you want to ship?" was his next question.

"Yes, for a while," was my response.

"Then go to work," said he, "and I'll give you fifty-five dollars a month, and fare in the cabin."

"I'll do it," was my response, "as long as I like the boat; and I'll tell you how I like it at Napoleon."

He was satisfied, and turned away, while I went on shore for my outfit. At the tavern, I found no one but a negro clerk, to whom I paid my bill; and, as he had too much manners to be inquisitive, I left the house without being reported to the police—the hotels being required to report all arrivals and departures to the military authorities. Once more on the boat, she soon shoved out, and I began to feel tolerably safe. I found there would be plenty of work all the time, but as I had never been a carpenter—never having worked a stroke on either house or boat in my life, I was a little afraid I should not be able to sustain myself in that capacity. "A still tongue makes a wise head," was my motto then; for I did not know the technical terms used by carpenters or boatsmen. I did not know even all the names of the tools furnished me to work with; so it was manifestly to my interest to preserve silence. I went to work, however with confidence, and energy; resolved, if they found out how little I knew, it should be by observation, and not from anything I might say. The work must have been creditably done, for I heard the captain boast to the pilot that I was the best "chip" he ever had. My greatest horror was a recruiting officer, named Harrison, who come down to see me. He was a reckless man, a planter, who seemed to care little for money, and I may add, for anything else. He said he wanted to raise a company of guerrillas, for the purpose of "carrying the war into Africa;" and that he wanted young men who were not afraid to follow him, and that he intended to go right into the Northern States.

This boast may be a little amusing, but Mr. Harrison was not the only one who at that time indulged in such hallucinations, and who entertained such wild hopes. He intended, he said, when he got into the Northern States, to "go for all that was in sight, and let the tail go with the hide." I told him he was just the man to suit me, but I was engaged on the boat, and could not quit her. His was the sort of service I liked, but I could not go into it now, at least until the captain could get another "chip;" but in the event that I enlisted, I would have a preference for his company; and to make him believe I was serious, I took his address. He was one of the men who accompanied Lopez to Cuba, and said he had been in two fights on that island in an hour and a quarter. He was satisfied to take my name as I gave it—Mr. Fitzhugh. He would stand and talk to me and the other boat hands by the hour, and often puzzled me by his sudden and almost inexplicable questions.

At Napoleon I sawed out five large hatches in the boat, so that freight could be stowed very rapidly in the hull; and after this had been done, the men began to load her throughout with military stores. The boxes were handled very carelessly, and would frequently split open, when I would be called upon to nail them up. They were filled with harness of all kinds. Besides these the boat took on a large quantity of ammunition for musketry and artillery, and also a full battery of guns, and sixty-five government wagons; all consigned to Fort Scott, Arkansas, for the use of Ben McCulloch's army. The next morning a large boat—the Mary Kean—came alongside, and I told the captain I was too weak to work, and would consequently go up to Memphis on her. He did not like to have me leave him, but seeing that I was really not in good health, he offered no objection. The best of the joke was, I told him I wanted to go into the service, and that, by confederate law, he dare not dissuade me from going. On board the Kean I found a great number of rebel officers, strutting about in new uniforms and gauntlet gloves, with all the dignity of princes of high degree. I took one look in the cabin, and that was enough for me; and I instantly put down on deck, and stowed my humble self away on a lot of coffeesacks.

The fever had returned on me, and I was suffering terribly. At Memphis I stopped at the "Woodruff House," a neat little tavern, kept by a woman named Smith, whose husband was in the rebel army, and was stationed at that time at Fort Pillow. At this house I remained sick a week, and when well enough to go out, I found myself once more guard-bound, with a duller chance of making my escape than at Little Rock.

The first thing I did was to visit all the depots, at each one of which I found a provost guard stationed, who inspected the passes of passengers. I made a careless inquiry, and found that every road leading from the city was picketed. It was at the time when Tennesseans were moving their troops through Memphis into Missouri, a great part of which were at Wilson's creek.

The provost marshal's office was kept by Col. C. H. Morgan, a man, by the by, who very much resembled the notorious John H.; and to him I went, telling him that I wanted to go to Bourbon county, Kentucky, where my parents lived.

"Well, sir," said he, "you must bring with you two respectable witnesses, whom I know, to testify that you are a good Southern man."

I replied that it would be useless to try to do that, as I was an utter stranger in the city, and that no one knew any more of me than he did; and he at once informed me that I could not leave the city. At this I got angry, and told him I would go without a pass, and he replied that he would have me arrested. I at once moved for the door, and as he had no guard, he could not stop me. I told him that I did not think his recommendation would be of much value to me or any other honest man, and then made tracks.

This was in the evening, and that night I sold my Mexican saddle and other equipments, which had belonged to my horse, so that I was without baggage, except a pair of saddlebags, to carry; and I resolved at once to get out of Memphis at all hazards.

Next morning, as I was standing in the door, I saw a great crowd about the market-house, which was only a short distance from the tavern; and when I first observed them, they were just about scattering to go home. There were a great many country wagons there, which had come with produce; and these were about to leave the city, and it occurred to me that the opportune moment for escape had arrived. I hurried off, and paid my bill, and then walked to the market-house, and hailed a countryman, asking him to let me ride in his wagon. He did so cheerfully, and when in I asked to be permitted to drive, to which he agreed; and taking off my ranger blouse, I threw it in the wagon, and we drove out. There were provost guards on duty in the streets, arresting every suspicious person; and there were pickets at the end of each street, but they did not stop us, as they evidently supposed we were both farmers; and on we rattled through two camps of five thousand men each, and finally reaching a point about six miles from the town, I parted from my friend, and took the road for Nashville on foot.

At Summerville I was stopped by a crowd of men who were very anxious to know who I was, where I was from, where I was going, what I had been doing, and what I was going to do, and so on; and they also appeared exceedingly anxious to ascertain my political opinions. Of course I was secesh. I had been warned before I got to town that I had better go around it, as no one was allowed to pass through it, unless they were well known rebels. Nothing daunted, however, I halted in the village, and sure enough, was overhauled and placed in the hands of the vigilance committee.

On learning that I had been a ranger, one of them, a Mr. Reeves, inquired if I knew any man of his name in Texas.

"Calvin Reeves?" I asked.

"Yes; and he is my brother," was the response. He then asked me a great number of questions, which I answered without hesitation, and so truthfully, that my account corresponded exactly with that which Reeves had given himself. We had both been in Johnston's regiment, and our narratives corresponded exactly. The examination lasted from twelve o'clock till dark, after which they professed themselves satisfied that all was right and released me, telling me that I could go on. But I had not proceeded more than a hundred yards before I was called back, and one of them said to me:

"You say you are going home?"

"Yes, sir;" I replied.

"You live in Paris, Bourbon county, Kentucky?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you intend to fight for the south, do you?" my questioner persisted.

"I will if I know myself," said I.

"You think you will stick to your principles, when you get there?" he said.

"Yes, sir, I feel very confident of that," I answered.

"You know," he continued, "that a good many Kentuckians are a little tender-footed now; they don't like to come out against the Union, and they don't like to go with the abolitionists; and I am afraid when you get back there, you will let them talk you out of your principles."

"I am not so easily converted as that comes to," said I, jocularly.

"Well, how is it," he asked, "that you are on foot?"

"Because," was the reply, "I am unable to ride."

"Well, then," said he, "we will help you;" and they accordingly made up a purse of eight dollars and seventy-five cents and gave it to me.

"Now," said one, "you go over to the tavern and stay all night."

I arose to comply, and was thanking them for their kind interest in my welfare, when a stout looking man, who had sat in a group of three or four others, apart from the near ones, rose and remarked:

"Young man, I think you had better go with me; I will give you accommodations for the night."

He then led the way, and I followed him home, and he gave me a very good supper, after which I retired at once. All this time I was wondering what made him take such an interest in me. After I was in bed, Reeves and a lawyer visited me, who said they had called to have some further talk about Calvin Reeves and his doings in Texas; and it was not until I had told them a second time all my acquaintance and experience with him that I discovered they were comparing my statement with his.

"Why," I asked, "have you not seen him yet? He left Texas some time since, to come home."

"O yes," they replied, "he has been at home, but has now gone off to fight the yankees."

They bowed themselves out about midnight, after having talked me nearly to sleep several times. The most of the conversation was about politics, and I excused my ignorance on the different topics advanced, by telling them I had just got in off the plains, and was not posted; but taking good care to be just secesh enough to give confidence, and not strong enough to arouse suspicion.

When they had gone, I began to flatter myself that I was done with them; and that now all were satisfied and I should be troubled no more. Next morning I met my host at the breakfast table, and found him dressed for a journey. He then began a conversation by remarking:

"My name is John D. Stanley; I am sheriff of this county, and am going down the road with you as far as La Grange. It is nearly car time now."

He then added that a man had been killed at La Grange, and he was going down to see about it. We went to the cars together and occupied the same seat; and on our journey he kept up a continued questioning; but I was not to be thrown off my guard. He, however, only went as far as Warsaw with me, and then returned to Summerville, while I took the train to Nashville. His story about the murder, was, doubtless, a hoax, or he would have gone on with me to La Grange.

Nashville was the only civil place I had been in yet; and there was less of bitterness than I had seen elsewhere.

At this place I was met by my father, to whom I had written, requesting him to meet me there. His journey was made at the imminent risk of arrest and incarceration in prison; but fortunately he had a commission from Governor Magoffin, of Kentucky, on which he got through. As king Isham G. Harris remarked:

"Col. P——, that is a better pass than I can give you;" and I believed him when he said it, for at that time Gov. Magoffin's name would pass a man in either section, and Harris' would not.

In due time we arrived at Portsmouth, Ohio, where my father was publishing a paper at that time; and the reader may imagine my joy at again meeting my mother and sister in a land of freedom; though my joy was marred by the fact that my youngest brother was lying at the point of death. Three weeks after I returned, he expired, dying a christian's death, full of hope in eternal life.