There was a daughter, Mary, who was decidedly and emphatically a warm-hearted "Female Rebel." An elder sister, Miss Maggie, whom I will only attempt to describe as a most amiable, sweet girl, with dark, wavy, auburn hair, was the Union girl of the family; though not as outspoken or decided in her way of expressing herself, she was, nevertheless, settled in her conviction that the Government was right and that slavery was wrong; and she put it, at the time, in a way that was comforting to me:

"It's not right; slavery is a sin and an evil, and it will not be permitted to exist."

Of course, Miss Maggie became a favorite with me during the week or two that I remained confined to the house by the bruises which had been so aggravated by the cold and neglect into something that threatened serious results. She was the good angel of the family, and attended to my every need as if I were an only brother returned from the war to receive her nursing and tender care.

There was also a younger sister, Laura, perhaps about twelve or fourteen years old, the little beauty of the family, with dark eyes and long, curling hair, whose political sentiments, sweetly and disdainfully expressed, agreed with those of the Rebel sister. All of the family were, however, kind and good, and, in the almost constant discussion of the merits of the two sides, not an unkind or harsh word was spoken of either.

At every meal-time the old gentleman reverently asked a blessing over the table, and usually lengthened it into prayers for both sides.

Around the corner from Mr. Craig's house, on a lot that almost joined the Craig property, in the rear, was the house of Parson Brownlow. At the time of which I am writing Mr. Brownlow was achieving national reputation by his bold and defiant stand against the Southern leaders, and his outspoken, belligerent Union sentiments had gotten him into all sorts of trouble with Jeff Davis' Government.

I had heard of Parson Brownlow all my life, having been raised in a Methodist family. Before the war I had been much interested in his denominational discussions with the Baptists of Tennessee, the accounts of which were printed at the time.

The Craig family were, I think, Baptists, and probably on this account they were, as Miss Craig politely put it, "Neighborly, but not intimate," with the Brownlow family.

It seemed as if the family had always been in hot water. There was a son, who had either killed somebody or been killed himself. Another boy was around stirring things up in a way that made the old town lively.

The old gentleman owned and edited a paper--the Knoxville _Whig_--that circulated pretty much everywhere, and served to stir people and things up, not only in East Tennessee, but all over the country.

At the time of which I am writing, the parson had been arrested, by order of the Rebel Government, for his outspoken Union sentiments, and was a prisoner in his own house.

I thought at the time of my visit that, personally, Mr. Brownlow and his family did not seem to receive much sympathy from his immediate neighbors, though politically the town was in full accord with his sentiments.

The members of the family were, however, quite able to take care of themselves. They seemed to be entirely indifferent as to the opinions on the propriety of their course that other people might entertain.

Mr. Brownlow himself was a rather tall, gaunt, smooth-faced old gentleman; just such an appearance as one would expect to find in the pioneer backwoods Methodist preacher of the Peter Cartwright stamp.

His smooth face, which was strongly marked, was rather expressionless, reminding one somewhat of an Indian. The cheek-bones were prominent, and his under lips protruded, which, with his touseled hair, gave him something of a belligerent air.

I saw him frequently, and it always seemed to me as if his broad lower jaw snapped open and shut when he spoke, something like an automatic machine that one sees the ventriloquists working on the stage. On my youthful and inquisitive mind, at the time, was created the impression that he never spoke at all except to "jaw" somebody or something. I'm not attempting a criticism of Parson Brownlow. Everybody knows that every time he opened his mouth he said something, and that his words to-day are quoted all over the land. It was his abrupt manner that seemed so odd and harsh to me, when compared with the mild, courteously-spoken words of the official and Unionist, Mr. Craig, my host--the two persons being so closely associated in my mind and observation daily.

The home of Parson Brownlow was one of the plain, old-time structures that are to be met with by the hundred in every town of like size and character as Knoxville. It was situated in what would be called a back street; it was not so pretentious, but probably fully as comfortable as some of the houses on the front streets.

Of course, there was a porch in front of the house extending over each side of the front door. The only difference in the style of architecture in this particular porch from all the others was, that on account of its abutting too closely on the pavement, or slab-stone walk, the steps led down from each side of the porch into the little front yard instead of straight in front on to the pavement.

At the time of my visit there was another ornament or decoration to the Parson's front door-steps that was not to be seen on the other houses, in the form of living statuary, representing Confederate soldiers in gray uniforms, and with loaded muskets in their hands, who were on guard as sentries over the person of the Parson, who was then a State prisoner.

He was subsequently removed to jail and compelled to live in a damp disagreeable pen, that had been used for years as the slave-cage for runaway niggers. This was rough, but it's true, as I can testify.

One reason, perhaps, for his removal to the jail has not been given by himself or his friends. As I have said, the Brownlows were a peculiar people--"devilish peculiar," in fact.

While we can all admire the pluck and spirit of the family, which resented the presence of armed Rebel soldiers on their own door step--their castle--one can not help but feel that a little discretion, mixed up with their abundant spirit, would have brought out more satisfactory results.

The Parson's combativeness must have been in the blood of the family, as it was not confined to himself and his sons, but was exhibited while I was there, in a striking manner, by one of his daughters. For some fancied or real offense on the part of one of the guards, who was stationed at her father's door with a loaded gun in his hands, Miss Brownlow, after deliberately giving the soldier and his officer "a piece of her mind," coolly walked up to the guard and vigorously and repeatedly slapped him in the face, and kept up her attack until the man actually backed down off the side of the porch, while the officer of the guard, who was with him, hastily scrambled down on the other side, leaving her in possession of the entrance to the castle.

The incident had a widespread notoriety at the time, when the facts reached the North; the affair was widely published throughout the country with many exaggerations. I did not witness this affair, but gathered from the Misses Craig and others what is probably the true story.

My confinement to the house of my good friends, the Craigs, though sick and sometimes suffering, was made to me the most agreeable two weeks of my trip South, all through the kind care and attention of the family.

Miss Maggie and myself seemed to be nearest in accord in our sentiments, not only of the war, but maybe of love and peace and, through her pleasant friendship, I was enabled to lose, in a manner, some of my interest in the far-away Capitola.

By the exercise of some diplomacy, necessitating a good deal of talking and some shameful lying to a young and innocent girl, I induced Miss Maggie and her sister to take me down to the Brownlow house, as a visitor who was desirous of meeting the now celebrated family.

I did not dare to intimate to Miss Maggie that I sympathized deeply with the cause of the Brownlows; in fact, I never admitted to a living soul, not one--not even after my return from my trips--the true character and purpose of the undertaking. An elder sister, having some doubts about the Brownlows' probable reception of a visitor in a gray blouse uniform, thought it advisable to arrange the matter beforehand, and sent the little girl around to the house one day with a polite note, stating that a Maryland soldier desired the pleasure of their acquaintance.

The mother looked with some disfavor on the proceeding, but, of course, Maggie and I accomplished our purpose, and the note was returned with a verbal answer to "Come ahead." This was not exactly as encouraging a response as we had hoped for, but, after a little fun from the mother and older sister over our probable reception, they arranged among themselves for a short call during the afternoon.

I was gathering information; and, feeling secure through my supposed sympathy with Mr. Brownlow, I had not the least hesitancy about meeting him personally; I did not consider the family failings at all. I knew, too, that I should soon leave there for home--my mind was already settled on that--and I could travel now without the fear of meeting any persons who had known me at Manassas, Richmond, or Pensacola. My plans were to reach the Union lines at the nearest point, which was then Cumberland Gap.

As I have tried to explain, the Brownlows' residence was just around the corner, so that it was like a neighborly "run in for a little while" for the Misses Craig to escort their guest around to their house that afternoon.

The Parson being a prisoner in his own house, his guard was under strict orders not to permit any communication between the imprisoned, fighting preacher and his Union friends.

To make this military order thoroughly effective, the officer of the guard had found that it was necessary to make it general, so as to exclude everybody, as it was well seen that the population were almost unanimously loyal, the visitors to the Brownlow family were most likely to be enemies to the Rebel Government, or, at least, Unionist suspects.

When we reached the door, where we encountered the guard, Miss Craig left to me the task of overcoming the obstruction of a loaded musket in the hands of a soldier in gray. I am not sure whether it was the shameful lies I told the guard, the gray uniform I was wearing, or the pleasant, smiling face of my companion that had the effect of inducing the man in charge so suddenly to change, yield and admit us into the house without question. But I have always inclined to the belief that the influence was the large, imploring, brown eyes of my lady companion, which were brought to bear on the guard. I remember that we had some talk after the visit closed about this guard, who kept his eyes more closely on Miss Maggie, during our visit, than either on the prisoner or the other surroundings.

Once over the threshold, we had yet to encounter the old lion in his den, or, more properly speaking, the wounded bear in his hole.

The weather was so cold that a fire was necessary, which fact was impressed on my mind by our introduction into the Parson's presence, his first salutation being a request to "shut the door," and then at once apologizing in a mild, apologetic manner; he complained of the rough usage he had been obliged to submit to in his own house, by the guard insisting upon opening doors through his hall whenever they saw fit. He, and more especially his wife, imagined they did more of this than was necessary, for the sole purpose of annoying him. Mrs. Brownlow insisted that the purpose of the soldiers was to kill her husband by exposing him to these draughts during his illness.

The Parson had been quite seriously ill for some time. The sickness was incurred by his terrible exposures, first while an outcast or exile in the mountains, and subsequently by the miserably mean and hoggish treatment while confined in the Knoxville slave-pen cage among the crowded Unionists.

The complete story of the imprisonment, sufferings and brutal treatment of the hundreds of Unionists, among whom were some old men of seventy-five years; embracing in the list of martyrs, preachers, lawyers, judges, as well as others of the most prominent and respectable people of that section, simply because they were Unionists--or had dared to be loyal to the Government, or even entertained at a remote period an opinion on the subject different from that of the Rebel--would excel in many respects the horrors of Andersonville. I regret that I can not in this narrative tell half of my own observation, but perhaps some one will yet write the true story of East Tennessee in 1861-62.

While I was there as a Rebel soldier, I witnessed one sight alone, not one horrible feature of which has been effaced from my memory, and which has not--that I can recall--been made generally public. I refer to the double execution of an old man of seventy, a respected class-leader in the Methodist Church, and his son. The old man was obliged to hear first the dreadful shrieks of innocent protest from his son's lips, and though the boy's cries pierced even the hearts of the New Orleans wharf-rats, who had the execution in charge, the old man was brutally compelled by Colonel Ledbetter to gaze upon the dreadful, horrible agony of his son on the scaffold, where he himself was to be hung in a few moments.

At the time of our visit, Brother Brownlow was snugly wrapped up in one of those old-fashioned, striped shawls, that probably belonged to his wife's wardrobe. He sat that afternoon in a great, old, hickory rocking-chair, with his stocking feet perched on another chair, looking at me, at first sight, more like a sick old woman than such a dangerous character as to require the constant attendance of a large armed guard at his door, day and night. His face was thin, and his general appearance of emaciation showed the effects of his recent sickness and sufferings. I can well recall the queer expression of wondering scrutiny in the big eyes of the old Parson, as he slowly turned to me when I was introduced by his neighbor's daughter as a "refugee" soldier from Maryland. That he was a little bit suspicious as to the object of this visit under such circumstances is not to be wondered at, when his surroundings at the time are remembered.

As a consequence, perhaps, Mr. Brownlow was not inclined to talk to me, more than the ordinary politeness to a stranger in his own house demanded. The Parson's wife and daughter, however, who were present, did not seem to entertain any doubts or fears as to any danger to be apprehended, as they kept up a constant clatter with Miss Maggie about the outrageous treatment they were being subjected to.

To my own surprise afterward, as well as theirs at the time, I blurted, involuntarily, out some genuine expressions of sympathy for them, when Miss Brownlow detailed how the brute, Colonel Ledbetter, had, without ceremony of a request, rudely entered the sick man's chamber, demanding that "this 'assumed' sick man set an hour when he would be ready to leave town." This, at a time when Mr. Brownlow was not able to lift his head from the pillow of the bed, to which he was then confined. On this rather premature outbreak on my part, Miss Maggie took occasion to say to the family:

"I'm sure our friend is not a very bad Rebel; he is pretty homesick, already."

This latter observation seemed to rouse the Parson's interest in the visit, and turning to me, in a voice almost inaudible from weakness, he said:

"I should be glad to know what induced a Maryland boy to leave his home for this Secession cause."

Just what I replied must be left to the imagination. I don't remember myself, only that I went as far as I dared, and said in manner--if not in words--that I was going back home. Something was said, either by Miss Maggie or myself, as to the opinions we both quietly entertained that slavery was wrong and was at the bottom of it all, which seemed to stir the old man up in a way that astonished me. I don't remember his exact words, but if there is any one thing that Parson Brownlow could do better than another it was to pile up epithets.

[Illustration: AN INTERVIEW WITH PARSON BROWNLOW.]

"No," he said, raising his voice to a half-shriek; "it's not slavery. I am a slave-owner myself, and I am a Union man," and then continuing in a strain of abusive words, directed to the leaders, which would read something like this: "Any man who says I am a Black Republican or an Abolitionist is a liar and a scoundrel," getting more excited as he continued: "It's these God-forsaken, white-livered leaders, who are hell-deserving assassins."

His family seemed so accustomed to this sort of talk that they took but little note of what the Parson was saying; it scarcely had the effect of stopping their own flow of complaint about the guards.

Mrs. Brownlow said to her husband in a quiet way not to allow himself to become excited, on account of his weakness, and with a mild hint added that he might be overheard.

"I take back nothing I have ever said: they are corrupt, unprincipled villains; if they want satisfaction out of me for what I have said--and it has been no little--they can find me here any day of life, right where I have lived and preached for thirty years."