of the river. The unfortunate wretch who fired the train was killed by
the explosion, and lay buried hard by, his hands sticking out of the
shallow grave into which he had been huddled. This was the story they
told us, but whether true or not I must leave to the correspondents of
"Notes and Queries" to settle.

There was a great confusion of carriages and wagons at the stopping-place
of the train, so that it was a long time before I could get anything that
would carry us. At last I was lucky enough to light on a sturdy wagon,
drawn by a pair of serviceable bays, and driven by James Grayden, with
whom I was destined to have a somewhat continued acquaintance. We took
up a little girl who had been in Baltimore during the late Rebel inroad.
It made me think of the time when my own mother, at that time six years
old, was hurried off from Boston, then occupied by the British soldiers,
to Newburyport, and heard the people saying that "the redcoats were
coming, killing and murdering everybody as they went along." Frederick
looked cheerful for a place that had so recently been in an enemy's
hands. Here and there a house or shop was shut up, but the national
colors were waving in all directions, and the general aspect was peaceful
and contented. I saw no bullet-marks or other sign of the fighting which
had gone on in the streets. The Colonel's lady was taken in charge by a
daughter of that hospitable family to which we had been commended by its
head, and I proceeded to inquire for wounded officers at the various
temporary hospitals.

At the United States Hotel, where many were lying, I heard mention of an
officer in an upper chamber, and, going there, found Lieutenant Abbott,
of the Twentieth Massachusetts Volunteers, lying ill with what looked
like typhoid fever. While there, who should come in but the almost
ubiquitous Lieutenant Wilkins, of the same Twentieth, whom I had met