In the upper east room General Di Cesnola-then colonel of the 4th N. Y. Cavalry-instructed a class of officers in the school of the battalion. In the upper east room Colonel Cavuda, of the 114th Penn., wrote his book afterwards published and widely read, entitled "Libby Life." The dream of his life was to free his native island from Spanish rule. At every hour of the day learned linguists taught classes in French, German, Spanish, and all popular languages. Phonography was taught as well as grammar, arithmetic, and other branches. A book in Libby was the object of immeasurable envy, and I remember on seeing an officer with Hugo's "Les Miserables," I sought out the owner, put my name down on his list of applicants to borrow it, and my turn came six months afterwards. Dancing was among the accomplishments taught, and it was truly refreshing to see grave colonels tripping the "light fantastic.” Under the ministers daily and nightly prayer meetings were held. It was not infrequent to see a lively breakdown at one end of the room and a prayer meeting at the other; to hear the loud tum of the banjo mingling with the solemn melody of the doxology. The doctors endeavored to enlighten audiences by occasional lectures on "Gunshot Wounds," "Amputation," "The effect of starvation on the human system," and other cheerful topics.

Gen. Neal Dow, of Maine, eloquently warned his fellow prisoners against the blighting evils of intemperance. While the general was a prisoner his cotton mill at Portland was burned, and one of the Richmond papers copying the news substituted for "mills" the word "distillery,” a cruel joke on the earnest general. A debating society was formed, and all manner of subjects were discussed, bringing to light a goodly number of eloquent speakers, who have since achieved fortune and distinction throughout the country. A form of amusement at

night when the lights were out was what was termed the "catechism," which consisted of loud questions and answers, mimicries and cries, which when combined and in full blast, made a pandemonium, compared with which a madhouse or a boiler foundry would have been a peaceful refuge.

Such cries as "Tead, of Reading!" "Pack up!" "Who broke the big rope?" "Who stole Mosby's hash?" and "Who shaved the nigger of the truck?" were as intelligible as Choctaw to the uninitiated, but plain enough to those who

used them, alluding as they did to events and persons of the prison.

At night the prisoners covered the floor completely, lying in straight rows like prostrate lines of battle, and when one rolled over all must necessarily do the same. It was inevitable that among such large numbers there should appear the usual infliction of snorers, whose discord at times drew a terrific broadside of boots, tin cans, and other convenient missiles, which invariably struck the wrong man. Among our number was one officer whose habit of grinding his teeth secured him a larger share of room at night than was commonly allowed to a prisoner, and his comrades hoped that a special exchange might restore him to his family; for certainly he was a man that would be missed wherever he had lodged. On a memorable night when this gentleman was entertaining us with his "tooth solo," one comrade who had been kept awake for the three previous nights, after repeatedly shouting to the nocturnal minstrel to "shut up," arose in wrath, and, picking his steps. in the dark among his prostrate comrades, arrived at last near a form which he felt certain was that of the disturber of the peace. With one mighty effort, he bestowed a kick in the ribs of the victim, and hurriedly retreated to his place. Then arose the kicked officer, who was not the grinder at all, and made an address to his invisible assailant, employing terms and vigorous adjectives not seen in the New Testament, vehemently declaring in a brilliant peroration that it was enough to be compelled to spend wakeful nights beside a man who made nights. hideous with serenades, without being kicked for him. He resumed his bed amid thunderous applause, during which the grinder was awakened and was for the first time made aware of the cause of the enthusiasm.

The spirit of Yankee enterprise was well illustrated by the publication of a newspaper by the energetic chaplain of a New York regiment. It was entitled The Libby Prison Chronicle. True, there were no printing facilities at hand, but, undaunted by this difficulty, the editor obtained and distributed quantities of manuscript paper among the prisoners who were leaders in their several professions, so that there was soon organized an extensive corps of able correspondents, local reporters, poets, punsters, and witty, paragraphers, that gave the chronicle a pronounced success. Pursuant to previous announcement, the

last leg was by the happy Grand Walk-Around

sources of our property room.' The whole was covered ingeniously by five army blankets. Indeed the elephant, seen by the "footlights" (four candles set in bottles), was pronounced by the critics of The Libby Prison Chronicle "a masterpiece of stage mechanism."

It happened one evening when it was determined to compliment the efficient management with a rousing benefit, that two officers, whose duty it was to impersonate the hind legs of the elephant, were unable to appear on account of sudden illness, and their places had to be filled at the last moment by two other officers, who volunteered for the emergency. This was an acknowledged kindness on the part of the volunteers, but their acceptance of the parts without sufficient rehearsal proved exceedingly embarrassing to the management and positively disastrous to the elephant himself, or, to speak more accurately, to themselves. At the appointed time the elephant appeared, his entree being greeted with the usual round of applause. In spite of the lack of preparation the wonderful tricks of the animal were very creditably performed and enthusiastically recognized by the crowded house. The anxious manager was happy as he gave the signal at last for exit. Most unfortunately at this vital moment certain strange convulsive actions of the animal revealed the painful fact that a positive difference of opinion existed between the fore and hind legs of the animal as at which side of the stage the exit should be made. In vain the perspiring manager hissed from the wings: "To the right, gentlemen! For God's sake, go to the right!" A murmur of excitement ran through the audience, the convulsions of the animal grew more and more violent, and excited people in the audience shouted loudly: "The elephant's got a fit!" "The monster is poisoned!" "Play the hose on him!" "Down in front!" "Police!" A perfect babel ensued, in the midst of which the seams of the blanket gave way and the shrieking audience witnessed the extraordinary spectacle of an elephant walking off in four different directions, each leg fiercely gesticulating at the other and exchanging epithets more pungent than parliamentary. The despairing manager had no alternative but to ring down the curtain, but in his excitement he pulled the wrong rope, the sky fell down on the heads of the orchestra, and the show ended for the evening. The stage was at the northern end of the kitchen, and was formed by joining four

long tables. The curtain was made of army blankets sewed together, and was suspended by small rings to a horizontal wire over the heads of the orchestra. It could be drawn together and apart at the manager's signal bell.

One of the best performances given was on Christmas Eve, 1863. That night the room was crowded with men who felt a homesickness that needed some mental physic such as we proposed to give. It was a time for thoughts of wives, children, and sweethearts at the North, and perhaps our play did them good. Programmes, neatly printed in the prison, from which a reduced fac-simile has been made, were freely circulated.

The most exciting event in the prison's history was the famous tunnel escape, February, 1864, by which 110 of the prisoners gained their liberty-or rather about half of them-fifty of the number being retaken outside the Richmond works, the writer being one of those recaptured. The tunnel was certainly an ingenious and perilous work, projected and completed under the direction of Col. Thomas E. Rose, of the 77th Penn. Regt., who escaped through it, but was unfortunately retaken.

Considerable excitement was caused by the arrival of a woman at Libby in the uniform of a Union soldier, she having been discovered among the prisoners on Belle Isle in an almost frozen and famished condition. Inquiry revealed the fact that she had in this garb enlisted in a Western cavalry regiment in order to follow the fortunes of her lover, who was an officer in another company of the same command.

In a skirmish in East Tennessee she had the ill luck to be made a prisoner. Her case naturally awakened active sympathy amongst her fellow prisoners, and a collection of money was made by them to procure her a supply of clothing, so that she might be sent home by the next flag of truce.

It would fill an interesting volume to sketch briefly the lives and experience of the men who have been within the walls of Libby or to trace their career since. Many have since fallen upon the battle field, and a sad number have died from the effects of their long imprisonment.

Some have since become the governors of states and some have held seats in the Cabinet. Their voices have been heard in Congress, at the bar, and in the pulpit, and their names will remain a proud heritage to their children and their country.