Stuart’s staff were all scattered, and seeking new positions. I was one of them, and I again asked myself more gloomily than at first, “Where shall I go?” The gentlemen of the red tape at Richmond would doubtless inform me, however; and riding on steadily, with a keen look out for scouting parties, I at last reached the city. On the next day I filed my application in the war office, to be assigned to duty. A week afterward I had not heard from it. Messieurs, the red tapists, were evidently not in the least bit of a hurry--and hat in hand I awaited their good pleasure. II. THE “DOOMED CITY.” Richmond presented a singular spectacle in that summer of 1864. It was styled “the doomed city,” by our friends over the border, and in truth there was something gloomy and tragic in its appearance--in the very atmosphere surrounding it. On every countenance you could read anxiety, poverty, the wasting effect of the terrible suffering and suspense of the epoch. All things combined to deepen the colors of the sombre picture. Hope long deferred had sickened the stoutest hearts. Men were nervous, anxious, burnt up by the hot fever of war. Provisions of every description were sold at enormous prices. Fathers of families could scarcely procure the plainest food for their wives and children. The streets were dotted with poor widows, bereaved sisters, weeping mothers, and pale daughters, whose black dresses told the story of their loss to all eyes. Hunger clutched at the stomach; agony tore the heart. Soldiers, pale and tottering from their wounds, staggered by. Cannon rattled through the streets. Couriers dashed backward and forward from the telegraph office to the war office. The poor starved--the rich scarcely fared any better. Black hair had become white. Stalwart frames were bent and shrunken. Spies and secret emissaries lurked, and looked at you sidewise. Forestallers crowded the markets. Bread was doled out by the ounce. Confederate money by the bushel. Gold was hoarded and buried. Cowards shrunk and began to whisper--“the flesh pots! the flesh pots! they were better!” Society was uprooted from its foundations. Strange characters were thrown up. The scum had come to the top, and bore itself bravely in the sunshine. The whole social fabric seemed warped and wrenched from its base; and in the midst of this chaos of starving women, feverish men, spies, extortioners, blockade-runners,--over the “doomed city,” day and night, rolled the thunder of the cannon, telling that Grant and Lee were still holding their high debate at Petersburg. Such was Richmond at the end of summer in 1864. Society was approaching one of those epochs, when all things appear unreal, monstrous, gliding toward some great catastrophe. All rascaldom was rampant. The night-birds had come forth. Vice stalked, and flaunted its feathers in the light of day. Chaos seemed coming, and with it all the powers of darkness.