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Emmerson, H. Fairley, J. Ferguson, J. Flynn, W. Fox, Dr. Gilligan, M. Goold, Rt. Hartnell, W. Henry, T. Hind, Mrs. Hunt, F. Inglis, J. JeffVrs, K. Johnston, W. Johnston, T. Kelsall, J. Madden, Rev. Miller, J, J. Mitchell, G. Mitchell, W. Moran, T. Mullen, Miss, Footscray. McDonald, Collingwood. McGregor, R. Perry, E. Pinn, D. Potter, P. Powell, W. Richardson, E.

Robertson, J. Subscribers whose names are marker! Barns, Dr. Biggs, A. B , Collingwood. Bleasdale, Rev. Burke, Miss, Sandridge. Byrne, M. Byrnes, Rev. Cameron, E. Carew, J. Carr, J. Conard, J. Conneoee, Rev. U , Kew. Doig, J. Dowling, P. Drake, J. Draper, Rev. Soddon, Rev. Sharpies, J.

Shew, E. Smith, W. South, G. Stevens, S. Strahan, E. Thompson, Dr. Trythall, S. Walker, J. Wallace, J. Wattie, W. South Yarra. Wilson, T.

Fields of Vision 1

Williams, J. B , Pentridge. Contributions received.. Stack, Euroa, C. The Gentleman has been engaged for a Considerable time in Private tuition. Apply, J. Educational Gazette Office, Melbourne. The Educational Difficulty, No. Training Schools.. Local Committees.. Athletic Sports and Games, and their Use in Education.. Original Poetry—Simplicity of Truth.. Notes of a Lesson.. Hints on Pupil Teacher Examination.. Honor Examination.. Notice to Local Managers..

Notice to Subscribers.. In every Denominational school one uniform system of instruction and classification of children is carried out. But what do our children actually learn? So much at least is compulsory. They could parse and construe any passage in the first four books of Caesar. And what was the money cost of all this to the parents of the children 1 Five shillings a month!

In the very class we are now speaking of, two lads were receiving gratuitous instruction, and one of them was at its head. So much, at present, for our Teachers and our Taught. We have in no wise overstated matters. We speak what we know. Report upon the St. James's Training Institution and Boarding Establishment. Dixon', Esq. We have before us Mr. The Board appears to have but little influence in this important particular upon pupil teachers. In the following passage from the report for , Mr. The following extract shows the approval and confidence which the institution.

In reference to the Practising Schools, Mr. Dixon enumerates his wants. A separate room for the Superintendent. At present he has no place for transacting business in, but the porch. The following table shews the number of persons admitted to and appointed from St. We have often been asked, What are Local Committees and their duties! The whole duty of quarterly examinations, school visitations, and correspondence, devolves upon the local Clergyman, if there be one, or the lay Manager.

It was undertaken by the committee with a view of proving to the clergyman. The master offers to conduct the examination under the direction of the committee. The committee prefer examining, themselves. The farmer approves, and. The farmer prevails, the Argus is produced and handed round. It exemplifies the main features of them all. So far as Ave have seen, local committees are a failure.

There are a few, their number is insignificant—AA 7 ho exercise their functions with moderation and wisdom. On Athletic Sports and Games, and their use in Education. To some minds, all this seems very foolish. To others, this love of athletic sports, seems worse than foolish. Our business in this paper is not to advise those who have to train the mind and conscience. Hockey has given him a help upward. He yet. It would be easy to expand what has been said. And of course,. In the same letter,. But on the whole the cultivation of athletic and gymnastic exercises may be safely left to the boys themselves.

Neither of these forms is admissible under the above heading, and both imply an incorrect apprehension of the term. Simplicity op Troth to be Inculcated. So first impressions on the mind are deep. Would you a lesson upon truth impart? Trace not the mazes of a lie, that youth May learn thereby the majesty of truth ;.

But teach them virtue; they who virtue learn, Yice from the contrast will at once discern. The above scarcely needs explanation. Section 1. What has caused the change? Section 2. Method of Teaching. Section 3. If it disappears as quickly in winter? Why not? Section 4. Notice the effects of dew upon vegetation. Question as to where most dew is found. Section 5. Individual questioning upon the whole. It is the largest land animal. How they know it is a quadruped? Is there one in the sea? Name it?

Show me where. Section 8. What heavy burdens they can carry? What substance are the tusks formed of? This negligence, where it exists, will suggest itself as a cause of failure far from rare. Still nothing more is required than what punctual and diligent extra instruction during apprenticeship will have rendered familiar to them. A pupil teacher in the Third Class should possess some books of his own. These Books enjoy the sanction of general use in the principal public schools, which we think they deserve. Less conceited, industrious pupil teachers, may secure for themselves a different result.

We trust these suggestions will be appreciated in the spirit in which they are offered. The Honor Examination we are informed is unavoidably postponed. These amounts can be remitted by Postoffice order, or in postage stamps. Contributions Received. Bamford, Tootga-rook. Rustic Schoolmaster. M—Green Leaves. Local Manager. Country Teacher. Budd, R. R , Kew. Clergymen, teachers, and others, able and willing to contribute to our. Jeffers, K. Kohry, S. Petit, M. September, to 8th October.

Bamford, J. Barry, Rev. Blanche, J. Bloomfield, —, Hamilton. Bordman, T. Carse, E. Connor, —, Carlton. Finn, Rev. Frazer, J. Little River. Grant Bros. Ogilvie, D. Pohlman, His Hon. Price, W. Russell, J. Sasse, H. Savage, W. Sircom, J. Sutherland, A. Sweetman, J. Taylor, G. Tonner, C. Walker, P. Hanna, A. Jones, W. Leslie, A. Mackrell, J. Madden, J. Malcolm, W. Matthews, D. Dean of Melbourne. McDonald, Rev. McDougall, —, Hamilton. McKenzie, —, Hamilton.

McLennan, J. McLymont, J. Nerevy, N. Nichols, E. Noble, T. B , Colac. It will he printed in sixteen pages octavo, and will be published to meet the post office regulations every three weeks. All communications are to be addressed to the Editor, at the office, 78, Collins street east. On Wednesday evening Mr. Number of Scholars. For Adults night schools have been established in various parts of the colony. And yet how rare it is to meet, even in adult life, with a really good reader. Inspectors of schools. Sir,—I am directed to inform you that complaints have been made to my Lords,.

Since this letter, the art of reading has received in England a large share of consideration and a very marked improvement is the result. A reading lesson should not extend beyond thirty or thirty-five minutes. We have recommended that the examination as to the substance of the lesson should go on sentence by sentence as read. On the subject of reading, Mr. Teachers admitted into and appointed to Schools from St. Training Institution since its Foundation.

Establishment from their Commencement. Is it? Let us first know things as they are. And what is meant by the term, public servant 1 A baker, a grocer, a wine merchant, a farmer, and an M. He is the servant of the people. Is this an overcharged picture? From this it results, that in America, comparatively few teachers continue the profession of teaching for any length of time. Speaking of the State of New York, Mr. The number of those who had previously. As w r e stated in our last number extreme accuracy is required. The following programme shews the subjects required for the First and Second Divisions of Competency, under the Denominational School Board.

For First Division. For Females. Art of Teaching. For Second Division. Constables Educational Series. Morell, A. Ihne, Ph. Edinburgh : James Gordon, Price, 2s. This is the latest book from the pen of Mr. In his preface, Mr. Noxious attribute to elements. Never since created man. A Latinism for since the creation of man. The Asphaltic pool. The Dead Sea, so called from the asphaltus or bitumen in it. Indeed, they might with great advantage have been rendered more copious. A Glossary of Scientific Terms for General. By Alexander Henry, M. London : Walton and. Division 1. Depth varies from one to eighteen hundred feet.

Division 2. In England. United States. Division 3. Can-nel coal does not soil. Division 4. It yields gas, coke, tar, and naphtha. Matter —Found in. Pilar bear. Subjoined is a sentence parsed as at present required. Saxon, hwi. Saxon, slepan. This is the interrogative form, and the nominative therefore comes after the verb. Saxon, snaca, a snake ; snigon, to creep. Coil- —Com. Saxon, withinnan. Noontide- —Abst. We publish the following additional rules of the Denominational School Board, approved by the Governor in Council.

By the Inspectors of the Denominational School Board. Master: Mr. Mistress : Mrs. The whole building in very good repair. Correctly kept. Religious infraction is compulsory in all of them. There w T as, we believe, an M S. Hall, E. Imberg, J. Morris, D. McGowan, A. Moore, Rev. Meeres, F. Potter, Rev. No application attended to unless accompanied by testimonials, or first-class references. Address to the Archdeacon, St.

Sircom, Miss, Richmond. Smith, R. T , Ballarat. Vieusseux, L. Beckett, Miss, Melbourne. Farrelly, Rev. M , Duneed. Gellatly, A. Goodwin, D. Apply, stating references, and enclosing copies of Testimonials to Mr. Burn, Head Master. T HIS Establishment isconducted on a plan combining all the essentials of a useful and polite education. Prospectus forwarded on application. References kindly permitted to the Lord Bishop of Melbourne, Rev. Cairns, Rev. Chase, of St. Handheld, of St. Local Boards are useless as instruments of Education. The Position of the Instructor. What else it does, had better far be left undone.

So with the election of a master. This was a carpenter ; let him be C.

Fields of Vision 1

This parent shall be considered as D. Now for their powers of supervision. Smith, or Mr. Jones, or Mr. The daughter of Mr. It may be contended that at private schools, parents act as a board of supervision. Save and except the realizing of a proper stipend, a Local Board is useless. If that had been taken into account, if the various shades of opinion which. Not so great progress, however, but that they admit of considerable improvement still before they can be said to have arrived at any degree of perfection.

Exchange and Co. In a word, it was teaching reading phonetically. But teachers need not. A fives-court! Oh no, the case is reversed. Well it would be a pity if we had. I have strayed far enough away from cricket and fives and studies. And my remembrance of the plan is that it worked well. Granted that it did not supply a sufficient education for the youth of England. Arnold that said, usefulness seemed to remind him of goodness robbed of its nobleness. I only offer this suggestion for what it is worth, which may be very little.

The Bev. With this quotation, it is best, as it certainly is time, that this paper should close. Who loves not knowledge? Who shall rail Against her beauty? Let her work prevail. It may be said that the duty here proposed to be devolved upon the organizing master properly belongs to the inspector. Here however, is a misconception. He should be a person, moreover, of some standing in the profession, and of good address. We believe that from unavoidable circumstances the honor examination will not be held at all events for some days.

Translated from Ovid. And of all Eastern maidens, 0, she supremely fair. Her thirst assuaged, the lioness returning to her lair,. But when she recognized her love, in the youth stretched bleeding there,. Her prayers reached heaven, her parents reached, for black the ripe berries turn,. And their commingled ashes rest together in one urn. He finds the study somewhat diverting. A Subscriber—The object of your communication is beyond our comprehension. Additional Subscriptions from Oct.

Official school reports published at the uniform rate of 7s. Burbank, C. Cusack, D. Donovan, J. Guthridge, N. Hadfield, —, St. Howell, R. Hutchison, G. R , Castlemaine.

A place where prophets, apostles and poets meet in the lessons for each Sunday of the church year

Metcalf, —, Geelong. Handfield, of St. January for St. Cummings, St. In the noblest spirit of self-sacrifice, M. They had much success. Burke will live in all future time as a hero of the highest order. It is some years since we first met the subject of these reminiscences. In his house, his furniture, his mode of life, eccentricity peeped out. For both these gifts—in this somewhat mercenary age—let us honor him. The following are among some of the sentences forwarded for parsing. What —Compound relative—that which.

But apt the mind or fancy is to rove Unchecked, and of her roving is no end,. Is the prime wisdom : what is more is fume Or emptiness, or fond impertinence,. And renders us, in things that most concern, Unpractised, unprepared, and still to seek. To rove. Adjective, att. To know. See mod. To seek. The roll. The slip now stand thus :—. Lineal drawing copies 6 can be purchased in the usual way, on application at the office. To this subject Mr. With regard to the present point, Mr. But among a small neighbouring manufacturing community at James Town, Mr.

Dumont was of opinion that, from local. About twenty miles from Newport is the manufacturing town of Fall River, containing about 11, inhabitants. This city, in fact, contains, I was informed, the largest manufacturing population in the United States. In the town of Pottsville, with a population of , there were in the day-schools children. The superintendent of common schools for the county and city of New York, Mr.

This Association was formed on 13th Oct. Inspector Bon-wick and other gentlemen. In December, , an MS. In Melbourne forty-three pupil teachers presented themselves,. The latter will be valuable to teachers, as indicating the nature of the questions proposed in the various branches required.

Ansbey, J. Hayes, S. Hitching, G. Linahan, Miss, Geelong. Marrock, G. Subscribers who have not remitted their subscriptions, are requested to do so, if possible, before Christmas. McLaughlin, P. Pierce, J. Richards, —, Sandhurst. Rickarby, G. Sharkey, J. Sheehy, R. Thrum, —, Chewton. T HIS Establishment is conducted on a plan combining all the essentials of a useful and polite education. The Privy Council System.. The Infant Syste n.. The Hardening Process..


Pupil Teacher Examination.. Singing and Drawing Exhibition.. Literary Notices.. Art of Teaching.. Notice to Correspondents.. Chairman : the. Duke of Marlborough. Deputy-chairman : J. Colquhoun, Esq. Archdeacon Sinclair, the Rev.

  • Orphans of Petrarch!
  • Black Mail: Book II.
  • Orphans of Petrarch.
  • Heritage of Power (Marie LaVeaux to Mary Ellen Pleasant).

Prebendary Burgess, the Rev. Robert Hanbury, Jun. Horsfall, Esq. Kinnaird, M. Long, Esq. Giles Puller, Esq. Ker Seymer, Esq. Reynolds, Esq. Reginald Gunnery, Rev. The chief points are, in a few words, these—. What inducement, then, have. The second defect is the condition of poor parishes—a problem hard indeed, and difficult to solve. Resolve to edge in a little reading every day, if it is but a single sentence.

He observed their results closely and noted them down carefully. But the genius of Wilderspin, and the arrangements suggested by him, are still carried into effect with almost the same regularity as if he were there still. He never forgets it. But an Infant-school worthy of the name is. We learn also that one has been lately established at St. Owning up is always a pair of boxed ears. They always go together. Write down the following— a. Interesting cases in ward I; Charles Miller, bed 19, company D, 53d Pennsylvania, is only 16 years of age, very bright, courageous boy, left leg amputated below the knee; next bed to him, another young lad very sick; gave each appropriate gifts.

In the bed above, also, amputation of the left leg; gave him a little jar of raspberries; bed J, this ward, gave a small sum; also to a soldier on crutches, sitting on his bed near I am more and more surprised at the very great proportion of youngsters from fifteen to twenty-one in the army. I afterwards found a still greater proportion among the southerners. Evening, same day, went to see D. Distributed in the wards a quantity of note-paper, and forty or fifty stamp'd envelopes, of which I had recruited my stock, and the men were much in need.

Here is a case of a soldier I found among the crowded cots in the Patent-office. He likes to have some one to talk to, and we will listen to him. He got badly hit in his leg and side at Fredericksburgh that eventful Saturday, 13th of December. He lay the succeeding two days and nights helpless on the field, between the city and those grim terraces of batteries; his company and regiment had been compell'd to leave him to his fate. To make matters worse, it happen'd he lay with his head slightly down hill, and could not help himself.

At the end of some fifty hours he was brought off, with other wounded, under a flag of truce. I ask him how the rebels treated him as he lay during those two days and nights within reach of them—whether they came to him—whether they abused him? He answers that several of the rebels, soldiers and others, came to him at one time and another. A couple of them, who were together, spoke roughly and sarcastically, but nothing worse. One middle-aged man, however, who seem'd to be moving around the field, among the dead and wounded, for benevolent purposes, came to him in a way he will never forget; treated our soldier kindly, bound up his wounds, cheer'd him, gave him a couple of biscuits and a drink of whiskey and water; asked him if he could eat some beef.

This good secesh, however, did not change our soldier's position, for it might have caused the blood to burst from the wounds, clotted and stagnated. Our soldier is from Pennsylvania; has had a pretty severe time; the wounds proved to be bad ones. But he retains a good heart, and is at present on the gain. It is not uncommon for the men to remain on the field this way, one, two, or even four or five days. Letter Writing. Almost as I reel off these memoranda, I write for a new patient to his wife.

He is an intelligent looking man, has a foreign accent, black-eyed and hair'd, a Hebraic appearance. Wants a telegraphic message sent to his wife, New Canaan, Conn. I agree to send the message—but to make things sure I also sit down and write the wife a letter, and despatch it to the post-office immediately, as he fears she will come on, and he does not wish her to, as he will surely get well. Saturday, January 30th. Gave J. Wednesday, February 4th. Supplied paper and envelopes to all who wish'd—as usual, found plenty of men who needed those articles.

Wrote letters. Saw and talk'd with two or three members of the Brooklyn 14th regt. A poor fellow in ward D, with a fearful wound in a fearful condition, was having some loose splinters of bone taken from the neighborhood of the wound. The operation was long, and one of great pain—yet, after it was well commenced, the soldier bore it in silence. He sat up, propp'd—was much wasted—had lain a long time quiet in one position not for days only but weeks, a bloodless, brown-skinn'd face, with eyes full of determination—belong'd to a New York regiment.

In one case, the wife sat by the side of her husband, his sickness typhoid fever, pretty bad. In another, by the side of her son, a mother—she told me she had seven children, and this was the youngest. A fine, kind, healthy, gentle mother, good-looking, not very old, with a cap on her head, and dress'd like home—what a charm it gave to the whole ward.

I liked the woman nurse in ward E—I noticed how she sat a long time by a poor fellow who just had, that morning, in addition to his other sickness, bad hemorrhage—she gently assisted him, reliev'd him of the blood, holding a cloth to his mouth, as he coughed it up—he was so weak he could only just turn his head over on the pillow. One young New York man, with a bright, handsome face, had been lying several months from a most disagreeable wound, receiv'd at Bull Run. A bullet had shot him right through the bladder, hitting him front, low in the belly, and coming out back.

He had suffer'd much—the water came out of the wound, by slow but steady quantities, for many weeks—so that he lay almost constantly in a sort of puddle—and there were other disagreeable circumstances. He was of good heart, however. At present comparatively comfortable, had a bad throat, was delighted with a stick of horehound candy I gave him, with one or two other trifles. February A few weeks ago the vast area of the second story of that noblest of Washington buildings was crowded close with rows of sick, badly wounded and dying soldiers.

They were placed in three very large apartments. I went there many times. It was a strange, solemn, and, with all its features of suffering and death, a sort of fascinating sight. I go sometimes at night to soothe and relieve particular cases. Two of the immense apartments are fill'd with high and ponderous glass cases, crowded with models in miniature of every kind of utensil, machine or invention, it ever enter'd into the mind of man to conceive; and with curiosities and foreign presents.

Between these cases are lateral openings, perhaps eight feet wide and quite deep, and in these were placed the sick, besides a great long double row of them up and down through the middle of the hall. Many of them were very bad cases, wounds and amputations. Then there was a gallery running above the hall in which there were beds also. It was, indeed, a curious scene, especially at night when lit up. The glass cases, the beds, the forms lying there, the gallery above, and the marble pavement under foot—the suffering, and the fortitude to bear it in various degrees—occasionally, from some, the groan that could not be repress'd—sometimes a poor fellow dying, with emaciated face and glassy eye, the nurse by his side, the doctor also there, but no friend, no relative—such were the sights but lately in the Patent-office.

The wounded have since been removed from there, and it is now vacant again. February 24th. I wander about a good deal, sometimes at night under the moon. Tonight took a long look at the President's house. Let me specialize a visit I made to the collection of barrack-like one-story edifices, Campbell hospital, out on the flats, at the end of the then horse railway route, on Seventh street.

There is a long building appropriated to each ward. Let us go into ward 6. It contains, to-day, I should judge, eighty or a hundred patients, half sick, half wounded. The edifice is nothing but boards, well whitewash'd inside, and the usual slender-framed iron bedsteads, narrow and plain. You walk down the central passage, with a row on either side, their feet towards you, and their heads to the wall. The view of the whole edifice and occupants can be taken at once, for there is no partition. You may hear groans or other sounds of unendurable suffering from two or three of the cots, but in the main there is quiet—almost a painful absence of demonstration; but the pallid face, the dull'd eye, and the moisture of the lip, are demonstration enough.

Most of these sick or hurt are evidently young fellows from the country, farmers' sons, and such like. Look at the fine large frames, the bright and broad countenances, and the many yet lingering proofs of strong constitution and physique. Look at the patient and mute manner of our American wounded as they lie in such a sad collection; representatives from all New England, and from New York, and New Jersey, and Pennsylvania—indeed from all the States and all the cities—largely from the west.

Most of them are entirely without friends or acquaintances here—no familiar face, and hardly a word of judicious sympathy or cheer, through their sometimes long and tedious sickness, or the pangs of aggravated wounds. This young man in bed 25 is H. His folks live at Northford, near New Haven. Though not more than twenty-one, or thereabouts, he has knock'd much around the world, on sea and land, and has seen some fighting on both.

When I first saw him he was very sick, with no appetite. He declined offers of money—said he did not need anything. As I was quite anxious to do something, he confess'd that he had a hankering for a good home-made rice pudding—thought he could relish it better than anything. At this time his stomach was very weak. The doctor, whom I consulted, said nourishment would do him more good than anything; but things in the hospital, though better than usual, revolted him.

I soon procured B. A Washington lady, Mrs. He subsequently told me he lived upon it for three or four days. This B. I took a fancy to him, and gave him a nice pipe for a keepsake. He receiv'd afterwards a box of things from home, and nothing would do but I must take dinner with him, which I did, and a very good one it was. Here in this same ward are two young men from Brooklyn, members of the 51st New York. I had known both the two as young lads at home, so they seem near to me.

One of them, J. I saw him lying on the ground at Fredericksburgh last December, all bloody, just after the arm was taken off. He was very phlegmatic about it, munching away at a cracker in the remaining hand—made no fuss. He will recover, and thinks and talks yet of meeting Johnny Rebs. The grand soldiers are not comprised in those of one side, any more than the other. Here is a sample of an unknown southerner, a lad of seventeen. At the War department, a few days ago, I witness'd a presentation of captured flags to the Secretary. Among others a soldier named Gant, of the th Ohio volunteers, presented a rebel battle-flag, which one of the officers stated to me was borne to the mouth of our cannon and planted there by a boy but seventeen years of age, who actually endeavor'd to stop the muzzle of the gun with fence-rails.

He was kill'd in the effort, and the flag-staff was sever'd by a shot from one of our men. May ' I was down among the first arrivals. The men in charge told me the bad cases were yet to come. If that is so I pity them, for these are bad enough.

Fields of Vision 1 | Poetry | Rhyme

You ought to see the scene of the wounded arriving at the landing here at the foot of Sixth street, at night. Two boat loads came about half-past seven last night. A little after eight it rain'd a long and violent shower. The pale, helpless soldiers had been debark'd, and lay around on the wharf and neighborhood anywhere. The rain was, probably, grateful to them; at any rate they were exposed to it.

The few torches light up the spectacle. The attendants are few, and at night few outsiders also—only a few hard-work'd transportation men and drivers. The wounded are getting to be common, and people grow callous. The men, whatever their condition, lie there, and patiently wait till their turn comes to be taken up.

Near by, the ambulances are now arriving in clusters, and one after another is call'd to back up and take its load. Extreme cases are sent off on stretchers. The men generally make little or no ado, whatever their sufferings. A few groans that cannot be suppress'd, and occasionally a scream of pain as they lift a man into the ambulance. To-day, as I write, hundreds more are expected, and to-morrow and the next day more, and so on for many days.

Quite often they arrive at the rate of a day. May Joe Hooker, I would like to give just a glimpse of— a moment's look in a terrible storm at sea—of which a few suggestions are enough, and full details impossible. The fighting had been very hot during the day, and after an intermission the latter part, was resumed at night, and kept up with furious energy till 3 o'clock in the morning.

That afternoon Saturday an attack sudden and strong by Stonewall Jackson had gain'd a great advantage to the southern army, and broken our lines, entering us like a wedge, and leaving things in that position at dark. But Hooker at 11 at night made a desperate push, drove the secesh forces back, restored his original lines, and resumed his plans. This night scrimmage was very exciting, and afforded countless strange and fearful pictures. The fighting had been general both at Chancellorsville and northeast at Fredericksburgh. We hear of some poor fighting, episodes, skedaddling on our part.

I think not of it. I think of the fierce bravery, the general rule. One corps, the 6th, Sedgewick's, fights four dashing and bloody battles in thirty-six hours, retreating in great jeopardy, losing largely but maintaining itself, fighting with the sternest desperation under all circumstances, getting over the Rappahannock only by the skin of its teeth, yet getting over. It lost many, many brave men, yet it took vengeance, ample vengeance. But it was the tug of Saturday evening, and through the night and Sunday morning, I wanted to make a special note of.

It was largely in the woods, and quite a general engagement. The night was very pleasant, at times the moon shining out full and clear, all Nature so calm in itself, the early summer grass so rich, and foliage of the trees—yet there the battle raging, and many good fellows lying helpless, with new accessions to them, and every minute amid the rattle of muskets and crash of cannon, for there was an artillery contest too, the red life-blood oozing out from heads or trunks or limbs upon that green and dew-cool grass.

Patches of the woods take fire, and several of the wounded, unable to move, are consumed—quite large spaces are swept over, burning the dead also—some of the men have their hair and beards singed—some, burns on their faces and hands—others holes burnt in their clothing. The flashes of fire from the cannon, the quick flaring flames and smoke, and the immense roar—the musketry so general, the light nearly bright enough for each side to see the other—the crashing, tramping of men—the yelling—close quarters—we hear the secesh yells—our men cheer loudly back, especially if Hooker is in sight—hand to hand conflicts, each side stands up to it, brave, determin'd as demons, they often charge upon us—a thousand deeds are done worth to write newer greater poems on—and still the woods on fire—still many are not only scorch'd—too many, unable to move, are burned to death.

Then the camps of the wounded—O heavens, what scene is this? There are several of them. There they lie, in the largest, in an open space in the woods, from to poor fellows—the groans and screams—the odor of blood, mixed with the fresh scent of the night, the grass, the trees—that slaughter-house! O well is it their mothers, their sisters cannot see them—cannot conceive, and never conceiv'd, these things. One man is shot by a shell, both in the arm and leg—both are amputated—there lie the rejected members.

Some have their legs blown off—some bullets through the breast—some indescribably horrid wounds in the face or head, all mutilated, sickening, torn, gouged out—some in the abdomen—some mere boys—many rebels, badly hurt—they take their regular turns with the rest, just the same as any—the surgeons use them just the same. Such is the camp of the wounded—such a fragment, a reflection afar off of the bloody scene—while all over the clear, large moon comes out at times softly, quietly shining.

Amid the woods, that scene of flitting souls—amid the crack and crash and yelling sounds—the impalpable perfume of the woods—and yet the pungent, stifling smoke—the radiance of the moon, looking from heaven at intervals so placid—the sky so heavenly the clear-obscure up there, those buoyant upper oceans—a few large placid stars beyond, coming silently and languidly out, and then disappearing—the melancholy, draperied night above, around. And there, upon the roads, the fields, and in those woods, that contest, never one more desperate in any age or land—both parties now in force—masses—no fancy battle, no semi-play, but fierce and savage demons fighting there—courage and scorn of death the rule, exceptions almost none.

What history, I say, can ever give—for who can know—the mad, determin'd tussle of the armies, in all their separate large and little squads—as this—each steep'd from crown to toe in desperate, mortal purports? Who know the conflict, hand-to-hand—the many conflicts in the dark, those shadowy-tangled, flashing moonbeam'd woods—the writhing groups and squads—the cries, the din, the cracking guns and pistols—the distant cannon—the cheers and calls and threats and awful music of the oaths—the indescribable mix—the officers' orders, persuasions, encouragements—the devils fully rous'd in human hearts—the strong shout, Charge, men, charge —the flash of the naked sword, and rolling flame and smoke?

And still the broken, clear and clouded heaven—and still again the moonlight pouring silvery soft its radiant patches over all. Who paint the scene, the sudden partial panic of the afternoon, at dusk? Who paint the irrepressible advance of the second division of the Third corps, under Hooker himself, suddenly order'd up—those rapid-filing phantoms through the woods? Who show what moves there in the shadows, fluid and firm—to save, and it did save, the army's name, perhaps the nation?

Brave Berry falls not yet—but death has mark'd him—soon he falls. Of scenes like these, I say, who writes—whoe'er can write the story? Of many a score—aye, thousands, north and south, of unwrit heroes, unknown heroisms, incredible, impromptu, first-class desperations—who tells? No history ever—no poem sings, no music sounds, those bravest men of all—those deeds.

No formal general's report, nor book in the library, norcolumn in the paper, embalms the bravest, north or south, east or west. Unnamed, unknown, remain, and still remain, the bravest soldiers. Our manliest—our boys—our hardy darlings; no picture gives them. Likely, the typic one of them standing, no doubt, for hundreds, thousands, crawls aside to some bush-clump, or ferny tuft, on receiving his death-shot—there sheltering a little while, soaking roots, grass and soil, with red blood—the battle advances, retreats, flits from the scene, sweeps by—and there, haply with pain and suffering yet less, far less, than is supposed, the last lethargy winds like a serpent round him—the eyes glaze in death——none recks—perhaps the burial-squads, in truce, a week afterwards, search not the secluded spot—and there, at last, the Bravest Soldier crumbles in mother earth, unburied and unknown.

June 18th. I saw Tom when first brought here, three days since, and didn't suppose he could live twelve hours— yet he looks well enough in the face to a casual observer. He lies there with his frame exposed above the waist, all naked, for coolness, a fine built man, the tan not yet bleach'd from his cheeks and neck. Much of the time he sleeps, or half sleeps. Sometimes I thought he knew more than he show'd.

I often come and sit by him in perfect silence; he will breathe for ten minutes as softly and evenly as a young babe asleep. Poor youth, so handsome, athletic, with profuse beautiful shining hair. One time as I sat looking at him while he lay asleep, he suddenly, without the least start, awaken'd, open'd his eyes, gave me a long steady look, turning his face very slightly to gaze easier—one long, clear, silent look—a slight sigh—then turn'd back and went into his doze again. Little he knew, poor death-stricken boy, the heart of the stranger that hover'd near. F, 2nd N. He lay sick at the wretched hospital below Aquia creek, for seven or eight days before brought here.

He was detail'd from his regiment to go there and help as nurse, but was soon taken down himself. Is an elderly, sallow-faced, rather gaunt, gray-hair'd man, a widower, with children. He express'd a great desire for good, strong green tea. An excellent lady, Mrs. The doctor said give him the tea at pleasure; it lay on the table by his side, and he used it every day. He slept a great deal; could not talk much, as he grew deaf.

Occupied bed 15, ward I, Armory. The same lady above, Mrs. I gave him a small sum of money, some tobacco, and envelopes. To a man adjoining also gave twenty-five cents; he flush'd in the face when I offer'd it—refused at first, but as I found he had not a cent, and was very fond of having the daily papers to read, I prest it on him. He was evidently very grateful, but said little.

Is very fond of tobacco. I furnish him some; also with a little money. Has gangrene of the feet; a pretty bad case; will surely have to lose three toes. Is a regular specimen of an old-fashion'd, rude, hearty, New England countryman, impressing me with his likeness to that celebrated singed cat, who was better than she look'd. Bed 3, ward E, Armory, has a great hankering for pickles, something pungent. After consulting the doctor, I gave him a small bottle of horse-radish; also some apples; also a book. Some of the nurses are excellent. The woman-nurse in this ward I like very much.

Wright—a year afterwards I found her in Mansion house hospital, Alexandria—she is a perfect nurse. In one bed a young man, Marcus Small, company K, 7th Maine—sick with dysentery and typhoid fever—pretty critical case—I talk with him often—he thinks he will die—looks like it indeed. I write a letter for him home to East Livermore, Maine—I let him talk to me a little, but not much, advise him to keep very quiet—do most of the talking myself—stay quite a while with him, as he holds on to my hand—talk to him in a cheering, but slow, low and measured manner—talk about his furlough, and going home as soon as he is able to travel.

Thomas Lindly, 1st Pennsylvania cavalry, shot very badly through the foot—poor young man, he suffers horridly, has to be constantly dosed with morphine, his face ashy and glazed, bright young eyes—I give him a large handsome apple, lay it in sight, tell him to have it roasted in the morning, as he generally feels easier then, and can eat a little breakfast. I write two letters for him. Opposite, an old Quaker lady sits by the side of her son, Amer Moore, 2d U. I speak a very few words to him every day and evening—he answers pleasantly—wants nothing— he told me soon after he came about his home affairs, his mother had been an invalid, and he fear'd to let her know his condition.

He died soon after she came. In my visits to the hospitals I found it was in the simple matter of personal presence, and emanating ordinary cheer and magnetism, that I succeeded and help'd more than by medical nursing, or delicacies, or gifts of money, or anything else. During the war I possess'd the perfection of physical health. My habit, when practicable, was to prepare for starting out on one of those daily or nightly tours of from a couple to four or five hours, by fortifying myself with previous rest, the bath, clean clothes, a good meal, and as cheerful an appearance as possible.

June 23, Sundown. This is the way the men come in now, seldom in small numbers, but almost always in these long, sad processions. Through the past winter, while our army lay opposite Fredericksburg, the like strings of ambulances were of frequent occurrence along Seventh street, passing slowly up from the steamboat wharf, with loads from Aquia creek. The soldiers are nearly all young men, and far more American than is generally supposed—I should say nine-tenths are native-born. Among the arrivals from Chancellorsville I find a large proportion of Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois men.

As usual, there are all sorts of wounds. Some of the men fearfully burnt from the explosions of artillery caissons. One ward has a long row of officers, some with ugly hurts. Yesterday was perhaps worse than usual. Amputations are going on—the attendants are dressing wounds. As you pass by, you must be on your guard where you look.

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I saw the other day a gentlemen, a visitor apparently from curiosity, in one of the wards, stop and turn a moment to look at an awful wound they were probing. He turn'd pale, and in a moment more he had fainted away and fallen to the floor. June The men evidently had seen service. First came a mounted band of sixteen bugles, drums and cymbals, playing wild martial tunes—made my heart jump. Then the principal officers, then company after company, with their officers at their heads, making of course the main part of the cavalcade; then a long train of men with led horses, lots of mounted negroes with special horses—and a long string of baggage-wagons, each drawn by four horses—and then a motley rear guard.

It was a pronouncedly warlike and gay show; the sabres clank'd, the men look'd young and healthy and strong; the electric tramping of so many horses on the hard road, and the gallant bearing, fine seat, and bright faced appearance of a thousand and more handsome young American men, were so good to see. An hour later another troop went by, smaller in numbers, perhaps three hundred men. They too look'd like serviceable men, campaigners used to field and fight.

July 3. I saw them in Fourteenth street, coming in town from north. Several hundred extra horses, some of the mares with colts, trotting along. Appear'd to be a number of prisoners too. How inspiriting always the cavalry regiments. Our men are generally well mounted, feel good, are young, gay on the saddle, their blankets in a roll behind them, their sabres clanking at their sides.

This noise and movement and the tramp of many horses' hoofs has a curious effect upon one. The bugles play—presently you hear them afar off, deaden'd, mix'd with other noises. Then just as they had all pass'd, a string of ambulances commenc'd from the other way, moving up Fourteenth street north, slowly wending along, bearing a large lot of wounded to the hospitals.

July 4th. I saw the parade about noon, Pennsylvania avenue, from Fifteenth street down toward the capitol. There were three regiments of infantry, I suppose the ones doing patrol duty here, two or three societies of Odd Fellows, a lot of children in barouches, and a squad of policemen. A useless imposition upon the soldiers—they have work enough on their backs without piling the like of this.

As I went down the Avenue, saw a big flaring placard on the bulletin board of a newspaper office, announcing "Glorious Victory for the Union Army! I afterwards saw Meade's despatch, very modest, and a sort of order of the day from the President himself, quite religious, giving thanks to the Supreme, and calling on the people to do the same. I walk'd on to Armory hospital—took along with me several bottles of blackberry and cherry syrup, good and strong, but innocent. Went through several of the wards, announc'd to the soldiers the news from Meade, and gave them all a good drink of the syrups with ice water, quite refreshing—prepar'd it all myself, and serv'd it around.

Meanwhile the Washington bells are ringing their sun-down peals for Fourth of July, and the usual fusilades of boys' pistols, crackers, and guns. I am writing this, nearly sundown, watching a cavalry company acting Signal service, just come in through a shower, making their night's camp ready on some broad, vacant ground, a sort of hill, in full view opposite my window. There are the men in their yellow-striped jackets.

All are dismounted; the freed horses stand with drooping heads and wet sides; they are to be led off presently in groups, to water. The little wall-tents and shelter tents spring up quickly. I see the fires already blazing, and pots and kettles over them. Some among the men are driving in tent-poles, wielding their axes with strong, slow blows. The smoke streams upward, additional men arrive and dismount—some drive in stakes, and tie their horses to them; some go with buckets for water, some are chopping wood, and so on.

July 6th. A train of six-mule wagons has just pass'd bearing pontoons, great square-end flatboats, and the heavy planking for overlaying them.

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We hear that the Potomac above here is flooded, and are wondering whether Lee will be able to get back across again, or whether Meade will indeed break him to pieces. The cavalry camp on the hill is a ceaseless field of observation for me. This forenoon there stand the horses, tether'd together, dripping, steaming, chewing their hay.

The men emerge from their tents, dripping also. The fires are half quench'd. July 10th. Some of the men are cleaning their sabres pleasant to-day, some brushing boots, some laying off, reading, writing—some cooking, some sleeping. On long temporary cross-sticks back of the tents are cavalry accoutrements—blankets and overcoats are hung out to air—there are the squads of horses tether'd, feeding, continually stamping and whisking their tails to keep off flies. I sit long in my third story window and look at the scene—a hundred little things going on—peculiar objects connected with the camp that could not be described, any one of them justly, without much minute drawing and coloring in words.

This afternoon, July 22d, I have spent a long time with Oscar F. Wilber, company G, th New York, low with chronic diarrhoea, and a bad wound also. He asked me to read him a chapter in the New Testament. I complied, and ask'd him what I should read. He said, "Make your own choice.

The poor, wasted young man ask'd me to read the following chapter also, how Christ rose again. I read very slowly, for Oscar was feeble. It pleased him very much, yet the tears were in his eyes. He ask'd me if I enjoy'd religion. I said, "Perhaps not, my dear, in the way you mean, and yet, may-be, it is the same thing. I said, "Why, Oscar, don't you think you will get well? The wound was very bad, it discharg'd much. Then the diarrhoea had prostrated him, and I felt that he was even then the same as dying.

He behaved very manly and affectionate. The kiss I gave him as I was about leaving he return'd fourfold. He gave me his mother's address, Mrs. Sally D. Wilber, Alleghany pest-office, Cattaraugus county, N. I had several such interviews with him. He died a few days after the one just described. August 8th. As my soldier was asleep, I left him, and entering the ward where the music was, I walk'd halfway down and took a seat by the cot of a young Brooklyn friend, S. He had turn'd over on his left side to get a better view of the singers, but the mosquito-curtains of the adjoining cots obstructed the sight.

I stept round and loop'd them all up, so that he had a clear show, and then sat down again by him, and look'd and listen'd. The principal singer was a young lady-nurse of one of the wards, accompanying on a melodeon, and join'd by the lady-nurses of other wards. Of course it was not such a performance as the great soloists at the New York opera house take a hand in, yet I am not sure but I receiv'd as much pleasure under the circumstances, sitting there, as I have had from the best Italian compositions, express'd by world-famous performers. The men lying up and down the hospital, in their cots, some badly wounded—some never to rise thence, the cots themselves, with their drapery of white curtains, and the shadows down the lower and upper parts of the ward; then the silence of the men, and the attitudes they took—the whole was a sight to look around upon again and again.

And there sweetly rose those voices up to the high, whitewash'd wooden roof, and pleasantly the roof sent it all back again. They sang very well, mostly quaint old songs and declamatory hymns, to fitting tunes. Here, for instance:. August 12th. He never sleeps at the White House during the hot season, but has quarters at a healthy location some three miles north of the city, the Soldiers' home, a United States military establishment. He always has a company of twenty-five or thirty cavalry, with sabres drawn and held upright over their shoulders. They say this guard was against his personal wish, but he let his counselors have their way.

The party makes no great show in uniform or horses. A lieutenant, with yellow straps, rides at his left, and following behind, two by two, come the cavalry men, in their yellow-striped jackets. They are generally going at a slow trot, as that is the pace set them by the one they wait upon.

We have got so that we exchange bows, and very cordial ones. Sometimes the President goes and comes in an open barouche. The cavalry always accompany him, with drawn sabres. Often I notice as he goes out evenings—and sometimes in the morning, when he returns early—he turns off and halts at the large and handsome residence of the Secretary of War, on K street, and holds conference there. If in his barouche, I can see from my window he does not alight, but sits in his vehicle, and Mr.

Stanton comes out to attend him. Sometimes one of his sons, a boy of ten or twelve, accompanies him, riding at his right on a pony. Earlier in the summer I occasionally saw the President and his wife, toward the latter part of the afternoon, out in a barouche, on a pleasure ride through the city. Lincoln was dress'd in complete black, with a long crape veil. The equipage is of the plainest kind, only two horses, and they nothing extra.

They pass'd me once very close, and I saw the President in the face fully, as they were moving slowly, and his look, though abstracted, happen'd to be directed steadily in my eye. He bow'd and smiled, but far beneath his smile I noticed well the expression I have alluded to. None of the artists or pictures has caught the deep, though subtle and indirect expression of this man's face. There is something else there. One of the great portrait painters of two or three centuries ago is needed. There has lately been much suffering here from heat; we have had it upon us now eleven days.

I go around with an umbrella and a fan. I saw two cases of sun-stroke yesterday, one in Pennsylvania avenue, and another in Seventh street. The City railroad company loses some horses every day. Yet Washington is having a livelier August, and is probably putting in a more energetic and satisfactory summer, than ever before during its existence. There is probably more human electricity, more population to make it, more business, more light-heartedness, than ever before.

The armies that swiftly circumambiated from Fredericksburgh—march'd, struggled, fought, had out their mighty clinch and hurl at Gettysburg—wheel'd, circumambiated again, return'd to their ways, touching us not, either at their going or coming. And Washington feels that she has pass'd the worst; perhaps feels that she is henceforth mistress. So here she sits with her surrounding hills spotted with guns, and is conscious of a character and identity different from what it was five or six short weeks ago, and very considerably pleasanter and prouder.

Soldiers, soldiers, soldiers, you meet everywhere about the city, often superb-looking men, though invalids dress'd in worn uniforms, and carrying canes or crutches. I often have talks with them, occasionally quite long and interesting. One, for instance, will have been all through the peninsula under McClellan—narrates to me the fights, the marches, the strange, quick changes of that eventful campaign, and gives glimpses of many things untold in any official reports or books or journals. These, indeed, are the things that are genuine and precious. The man was there, has been out two years, has been through a dozen fights, the superfluous flesh of talking is long work'd off him, and he gives me little but the hard meat and sinew.

I find it refreshing, these hardy, bright, intuitive, American young men, experienc'd soldiers with all their youth. The vocal play and significance moves one more than books. Then there hangs something majestic about a man who has borne his part in battles, especially if he is very quiet regarding it when you desire him to unbosom.

I am continually lost at the absence of blowing and blowers among these old-young American militaires. I have found some man or other who has been in every battle since the war began, and have talk'd with them about each one in every part of the United States, and many of the engagements on the rivers and harbors too. I find men here from every State in the Union, without exception.

There are more Southerners, especially border State men, in the Union army than is generally supposed. Another characteristic scene of that dark and bloody , from notes of my visit to Armory-square hospital, one hot but pleasant summer day. In ward H we approach the cot of a young lieutenant of one of the Wisconsin regiments. Tread the bare board floor lightly here, for the pain and panting of death are in this cot. I saw the lieutenant when he was first brought here from Chancellorsville, and have been with him occasionally from day to day and night to night.

He had been getting along pretty well till night before last, when a sudden hemorrhage that could not be stopt came upon him, and to-day it still continues at intervals. Notice that water-pail by the side of the bed, with a quantity of blood and bloody pieces of muslin, nearly full; that tells the story. The poor young man is struggling painfully for breath, his great dark eyes with a glaze already upon them, and the choking faint but audible in his throat. An attendant sits by him, and will not leave him till the last; yet little or nothing can be done. He will die here in an hour or two, without the presence of kith or kin.

I have noticed through most of the hospitals that as long as there is any chance for a man, no matter how bad he may be, the surgeon and nurses work hard, sometimes with curious tenacity, for his life, doing everything, and keeping somebody by him to execute the doctor's orders, and minister to him every minute night and day. See that screen there. As you advance through the dusk of early candle-light, a nurse will step forth on tip-toe, and silently but imperiously forbid you to make any noise, or perhaps to come near at all.

Some soldier's life is flickering there, suspended between recovery and death. Perhaps at this moment the exhausted frame has just fallen into a light sleep that a step might shake. You must retire. The neighboring patients must move in their stocking feet. I have been several times struck with such mark'd efforts—everything bent to save a life from the very grip of the destroyer.

But when that grip is once firmly fix'd, leaving no hope or chance at all, the surgeon abandons the patient. If it is a case where stimulus is any relief, the nurse gives milk-punch or brandy, or whatever is wanted, ad libitum. There is no fuss made. Not a bit of sentimentalism or whining have I seen about a single death-bed in hospital or on the field, but generally impassive indifference. All is over, as far as any efforts can avail; it is useless to expend emotions or labors.

While there is a prospect they strive hard—at least most surgeons do; but death certain and evident, they yield the field. Do they know that from the single State of Kentucky more Union soldiers fought under our flag than Napoleon took into the battle of Waterloo? Do they remember that , color'd men fought under our flag against the rebellion and for the Union, and that of that number 90, were from the States which went into rebellion? The journals publish a regular directory of them—a long list.

As a specimen of almost any one of the larger of these hospitals, fancy to yourself a space of three to twenty acres of ground, on which are group'd ten or twelve very large wooden barracks, with, perhaps, a dozen or twenty, and sometimes more than that number, small buildings, capable altogether of accommodating from five hundred to a thousand or fifteen hundred persons. Sometimes these wooden barracks or wards, each of them perhaps from a hundred to a hundred and fifty feet long, are rang'd in a straight row, evenly fronting the street; others are plann'd so as to form an immense V; and others again are ranged around a hollow square.

Each has its ward surgeon and corps of nurses. Of course, there is, in the aggregate, quite a muster of employes, and over all the surgeon in charge. Here in Washington, when these army hospitals are all fill'd, as they have been already several times, they contain a population more numerous in itself than the whole of the Washington of ten or fifteen years ago. Within sight of the capitol, as I write, are some thirty or forty such collections, at times holding from fifty to seventy thousand men.

Looking from any eminence and studying the topography in my rambles, I use them as landmarks. Through the rich August verdure of the trees, see that white group of buildings off yonder in the outskirts; then another cluster half a mile to the left of the first; then another a mile to the right, and another a mile beyond, and still another between us and the first. Indeed, we can hardly look in any direction but these clusters are dotting the landscape and environs. That little town, as you might suppose it, off there on the brow of a hill, is indeed a town, but of wounds, sickness, and death.

It is Finley hospital, northeast of the city, on Kendall green, as it used to be call'd. That other is Campbell hospital. Both are large establishments. I have known these two alone to have from two thousand to twenty-five hundred inmates. Then there is Carver hospital, larger still, a wall'd and military city regularly laid out, and guarded by squads of sentries.

Again, off east, Lincoln hospital, a still larger one; and half a mile further Emory hospital. Still sweeping the eye around down the river toward Alexandria, we see, to the right, the locality where the Convalescent camp stands, with its five, eight, or sometimes ten thousand inmates. Even all these are but a portion. The Harewood, Mount Pleasant, Armory-square, Judiciary hospitals, are some of the rest, and all large collections.

October 20th. The night was sweet, very clear, sufficiently cool, a voluptuous halfmoon, slightly golden, the space near it of a transparent blue-gray tinge. I walk'd up Pennsylvania avenue, and then to Seventh street, and a long while around the Patent-office. Somehow it look'd rebukefully strong, majestic, there in the delicate moonlight. The sky, the planets, the constellations all so bright, so calm, so expressively silent, so soothing, after those hospital scenes.

I wander'd to and fro till the moist moon set, long after midnight. Every now and then, in hospital or camp, there are beings I meet—specimens of unworldliness, disinterestedness, and animal purity and heroism—perhaps some unconscious Indianian, or from Ohio or Tennessee—on whose birth the calmness of heaven seems to have descended, and whose gradual growing up, whatever the circumstances of work-life or change, or hardship, or small or no education that attended it, the power of a strange spiritual sweetness, fibre and inward health, have also attended.

Something veil'd and abstracted is often a part of the manners of these beings. I have met them, I say, not seldom in the army, in camp, and in the hospitals. The Western regiments contain many of them. They are often young men, obeying the events and occasions about them, marching, soldiering, righting, foraging, cooking, working on farms or at some trade before the war—unaware of their own nature, as to that, who is aware of his own nature?

Among other sights are immense droves of cattle with their drivers, passing through the streets of the city. Some of the men have a way of leading the cattle by a peculiar call, a wild, pensive hoot, quite musical, prolong'd, indescribable, sounding something between the cooing of a pigeon and the hoot of an owl. I like to stand and look at the sight of one of these immense droves—a little way off— as the dust is great. To add to other troubles, amid the confusion of this great army of sick, it is almost impossible for a stranger to find any friend or relative, unless he has the patient's specific address to start upon.

Besides the directory printed in the newspapers here, there are one or two general directories of the hospitals kept at provost's head-quarters, but they are nothing like complete; they are never up to date, and, as things are, with the daily streams of coming and going and changing, cannot be. I have known cases, for instance such as a farmer coming here from northern New York to find a wounded brother, faithfully hunting round for a week, and then compell'd to leave and go home without getting any trace of him.

When he got home he found a letter from the brother giving the right address. Three or four days ago General S. They went to the Rapidan; there has since been some manoeuvering and a little fighting, but nothing of consequence. The telegraphic accounts given Monday morning last, make entirely too much of it, I should say. What General S. We were somewhat excited, but not so very much either, on Sunday, during the day and night, as orders were sent out to pack up and harness, and be ready to evacuate, to fall back towards Washington.

But I was very sleepy and went to bed. Some tremendous shouts arousing me during the night, I went forth and found it was from the men above mention'd, who were returning. I talk'd with some of the men; as usual I found them full of gayety, endurance, and many fine little outshows, the signs of the most excellent good manliness of the world.

It was a curious sight to see those shadowy columns moving through the night. I stood unobserv'd in the darkness and watch'd them long. The mud was very deep. The men had their usual burdens, overcoats, knapsacks, guns and blankets. Along and along they filed by me, with often a laugh, a song, a cheerful word, but never once a murmur.

It may have been odd, but I never before so realized the majesty and reality of the American people en masse. It fell upon me like a great awe. The strong ranks moved neither fast nor slow. They had march'd seven or eight miles already through the slipping unctuous mud.

The brave First corps stopt here. The equally brave Third corps moved on to Brandy station. The famous Brooklyn 14th are here, guarding the town. You see their red legs actively moving everywhere. Then they have a theatre of their own here. They give musical performances, nearly everything done capitally.