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[121] more easily habituated than to the absence of many really dispensable comforts and pleasures. I have said all partitions were broken down — as completely as in that valley residence of a Revolutionary general of Virginia, in which the apartments assigned to his guests were indicated by chalk lines upon the floor. Home was a den shared with others, perhaps with strangers. All of the invasions into normal restraints and sanctities that this implied was known, perhaps, only to those who could not undress to rest or change their clothing except by arrangement. That people had to wait on themselves was a matter of course, and by comparison a minor hardship. It has been said there was no business, no mails, no open stores, no hotels, or places of congregation and discourse; no passage of vehicles, no social pastimes, no newspapers, no voice of the Sabbath bell. When the weight of anxiety that rested on the hearts of the people is duly reckoned, and with it the total lack of all means by which anxiety is usually diverted and the tension of thought relieved, it is a great wonder that many did not become insane. That they did not, gives another proof of the heroic texture of the beleaguered population.

It is not quite true that there were no papers. Three copies of the Citizen were published by Mr. John J. Shannon, an old gentleman, in whom, however, there was no lack of ardor and courage. The Whig office was burned just before the siege, and the Citizen's quarters were struck by the shells time and again, its type scattered, its floors flindered; but the semi-occasional issue was continued to the last. It was printed on the back of wall-paper, and its circulation was limited. Sometimes papers were handed across the lines and sent to headquarters and afterward, by regular grade, through the circle of headquarter attaches. Every one was worn to a frazzle, though the news it contained was not generally of a kind to encourage perusal. In this state of suspended animation, it is really wonderful how people continued to drag out their endurance from one hopeless day to another. Perhaps the very vigilance they had to exercise against the shells and the activity necessary to avoid them, kept the besieged alive. Every day, too, somebody would start or speed a new story of deliverance from without, that stirred up, although for a fitful season only, the hearts ,bowed down by deep despair. Now it was E. Kirby Smith, and now Joe Johnston, who was at the gates. The faith that something would and must be done to save the city was desperately clung to till the last. It probably never had deep roots in the reason of the generals, the men in the lines, or the people. But at such times men

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