“Ah!” said he, shaking his head regretfully, “there’ll never be another Stonewall, he was popular even with the union men; they all admired our dashing commander.” He added with kindling eyes, “I remember one day, when our troops were camped on the south bank of the Rappahannock about a mile from the shore, the Federal troops occupied the opposite side; both encampments extended for several miles, a line of pickets was stretched along both banks, and though within easy rifle shot of each other, firing was by tacit agreement for a while suspended. Although talking across the river was strictly prohibited, the orders were not heeded, and lively wordy skirmishing was carried on. One day, loud cheering was heard on the left of the Confederate line, and as brigade after brigade took it up, the sound rolled down the southern side of the river. “‘What’s all that cheering about, boys?’ asked the Federal pickets. “‘It’s old Stonewall riding along the line,’ was the reply, shouted across the water; and the pickets on both sides of the river took up the cry, and foes and friends together were waving their hats and shouting-- “‘Hurrah! hurrah! for old Stonewall!’” Having duly admired all we ought to admire, we descend the hill and commence our explorations of the town. We thread the pretty shady streets, pass the Monumental Church, erected above the ruins of the Richmond Theatre, which was destroyed by fire in 1811 during the performance of _The Bleeding Nun_, when scarcely a dozen of the audience were saved, and many of the most influential families of the town perished in the flames. We pause a moment before the “Allan House,” where that strange mystical genius, Edgar Allan Poe, passed the early years of his most troublous self-tormented life. It is a square, old-fashioned, brick building, with a high sloping roof, surrounded by ragged, forlorn-looking weedy grounds; ruin is fast working its will with the old house, and desolation seems to flap its wings from the tumbling chimney stacks, while memories of brighter days are brooding behind the shuttered windows. Presently we pass the Libby Prison--a large, low, melancholy-looking building on the banks of the river. We shudder as we remember the tales of bygone sufferings there, and pass quickly on our way to visit the tobacco factory of Messrs. Mayo and Co. No overpowering odour such as we had apprehended greets us there as we enter the premises, but a sweet pleasant fragrance, like that of Spanish liquorice or some agreeable confection, pervades the atmosphere. We arrive at the busiest business hour of the day, and the “hands,” consisting of several hundred negroes, are industriously at work, weighing, sorting, sifting, and pressing with all their might; a hive of the busiest of human bees, singing their quaint songs, but never for a moment relaxing in their labours--their melancholy, melodious voices rising and falling, swelling and rolling, in waves of harmonious sounds.