The last three or four days of the month I spent in going the rounds of the hospitals attending to special cases; and ere its close many a noble heart ceased to beat, many a manly form was cold in death, and many a newly-made grave might have been seen in the Soldier’s Cemetery; yet comparatively few of the Michigan soldiers in the hospitals I visited died--only four, I believe--two of the Eighth, one of the Sixteenth Infantry, and poor William Eaton, of the First Cavalry, who lingered beyond all expectation. He was the first Michigan soldier that died to whom my attention was particularly called, and for whom I had felt a special interest, and his death seemed like taking another from our already broken circle. “Warrior, rest! thy toils are ended, Life’s last fearful strife is o’er; Clarion-calls with death-notes blended Shall disturb thine ear no more. “Peaceful is thy dreamless slumber; Peaceful, but how cold and stern; Thou hast joined that silent number, In the land whence none return.” _CHAPTER IV._ MOUNT VERNON--JOHN DOWNEY--CHAPLAIN HOPKINS--MRS. MUNSELL--COLD WEATHER--NEW ARRIVALS--GEN. BERRY AND DR. BONINE--DEATH OF MASSACHUSETTS SOLDIERS--THANKSGIVING--RED TAPE--KIDNAPPING. _November 4th._ As a party, consisting of Dr. Bonine and wife, Mrs. May and daughters, and Mrs. Johnson, wife of Adjutant Johnson, of the Second Michigan volunteers, were going to Mount Vernon this forenoon, they insisted upon my going with them, and as I had never been there, and fearing that another opportunity might not present itself during my stay here, I consented to do so, provided they would call at Camp Convalescent on their way, as I had a few quilts to dispose of. My request being granted, we are soon on our way; arriving at camp, we distribute our quilts, and head our horses for Mount Vernon, seven miles from Alexandria. It is nearly noon when we arrive, and a few minutes after we are within the same walls where once had lived and died the “Father of his country.” The mansion is a two-story frame building, made in imitation of marble, with a colonnade fronting the river. We are conducted through the house--that is, the portion of it open to the public--by the gentleman in charge of the estate, whom, I am sorry to learn, is a secessionist. There are but few articles of furniture left--an old harpsichord, table, sofa, a large blue platter, and a bedstead--is about all. The bedstead, said to be a _fac-simile_ of the one on which that great and good man died, stands in the room which witnessed the closing scene of his life--a pleasant room on the second floor, commanding a fine view of the Potomac. As I stood and looked out upon the lovely landscape before me, I could not help thinking how many times Washington had looked from the same window, upon the same scenery--the same pleasant grove, the same sweet flowers, the