Bearded men were seen crying on the ninth of April, 1865. But it was _surrender_ which wrung their hearts, and brought tears to the grim faces. Grant’s cannon had only made “Lee’s Miserables” cheer and laugh. IV. THE BLANDFORD RUINS. These memories are not cheerful. Let us pass to scenes more sunny--and there were many in that depressing epoch. The cloud was dark--but in spite of General Grant, the sun would shine sometimes! After reading the _Examiner’s_ comments, I mounted my horse and rode into Petersburg, where I spent a pleasant hour in conversation with a friend, Captain Max. Do you laugh still, my dear Max? Health and happiness attend you and yours, my hearty! As I got into the saddle again, the enemy began a brisk shelling. The shell skimmed the roofs of the houses, with an unearthly scream; and one struck a chimney which it hurled down with a tremendous crash. In spite of all, however, the streets were filled with young women, who continued to walk quietly, or to trip along laughing and careless, to buy a riband or some trifle at the stores.[1] That seemed singular then, and seems more singular to-day. But there is nothing like being accustomed to any thing--and the shelling had now “lost its interest,” and troubled nobody. [Footnote 1: Real.] “Good!” I said, laughing, “our friends yonder are paying us their respects to-day. They have dined probably on the tons of turkey sent from New England, and are amusing themselves shelling us by way of dessert.” And wishing to have a better view of the lines, I rode toward Blandford. Do you remember the ivy-draped ruins of the old “Blandford church,” my dear reader? This is one of our Virginia antiquities, and is worth seeing. Around the ruins the large graveyard is full of elegant tombstones. Many are shattered to-day, however, by the Federal shell, as the spot was near the breastworks, and in full range of their artillery. In fact it was not a place to visit in the fall of 1864, unless you were fond of shell and a stray bullet. I was somewhat surprised, therefore, as I rode into the enclosure--with a hot skirmish going on a few hundred yards off--to see a young officer and a maiden sitting on a grass bank, beneath a larch tree, and conversing in the most careless manner imaginable.[1] [Footnote 1: Real.] Who were these calmly indifferent personages? Their backs were turned, and I could only see that the young lady had a profusion of auburn hair. Having dismounted, and approached, I made another discovery. The youth was holding the maiden’s hand, and looking with flushed cheeks into her eyes--while she hung her head, the ringlets rippling over her cheeks, and played absently with some wild flowers, which she held between her fingers. The “situation” was plain. “Lovers,” I said to myself; “let me not disturb the young ones!” And I turned to walk away without attracting their attention.