You would have said that this man was slowly dying with
the cause for which he had fought; that as the life-blood oozed, drop
by drop, from the bleeding bosom of the Southern Confederacy, the last
pulses of John M. Daniel kept time to the pattering drops.
One morning, at the end of March, his physician came to see him, and
found him lying on the outer edge of his bed. Not wishing to disturb
him, the physician went to the window to mix a stimulant. All at once a
noise attracted his attention, and he turned round. The dying man had,
by a great effort, turned completely over, and lay on his back in the
middle of the bed, with his eyes closed, and his arms folded on his
breast, as though he were praying.
When the physician came to his bedside, he was dead.
It was four days before the fall of Petersburg and Richmond; and he was
buried in Hollywood, just in time to escape the tramp of Federal feet
around his coffin.
His prophecy and wish were thus fulfilled.[1]
[Footnote 1: These details are strictly accurate.]
IV.
GARROTED.
When I left Mr. John M. Daniel it was past ten at night, and designing
to set out early in the morning for Petersburg, I bent my steps toward
home.
The night was not however to pass without adventures of another
character.
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