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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:— This forenoon, for more than an hour, again long strings of cavalry, several regiments, very fine men and horses, four or five abreast. 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. A CAVALRY CAMP

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 ketties over them. Some among the men are driving in tent-poles, wielding their axes with strong, slow blows. I see great huddles of horses, bundles of hay, groups of men (some with unbuckled sabres yet on their sides,) a few officers, piles of wood, the Aames of the fires, saddles, har

The smoke streams upward, additional men

ness, &c.

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 steady rain, dark and thick and warm. A train of six-mule wagons has just pass'd bearing pontoons, great square-end Aat-boats, and the heavy planking for overlaying them. 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 roth.- Still the camp opposite -- perhaps fifty, or sixty tents. 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 Aies. 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. SOLDIERS AND TALKS

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 preciouş. 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.) I now doubt whether one can get a fair idea of what this war practically is, or what genuine America is, and her character, without some such experience as this I am having. SPIRITUAL CHARACTERS AMONG THE SOLDIERS

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, fighting, 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 ?) their companions only understanding that they are different from the rest, more silent, “something odd about them,” and apt to go off and meditate and muse in solitude. SOME SAD CASES

June 9-10.—I have been sitting late to-night by the bedside of a wounded captain, a special friend of mine, lying with a painful fracture of left leg in one of the hospitals, in a large ward partially vacant. The lights were put out, all but a little candle, far from where I sat.

The full moon shone in through the windows, making long, slanting silvery patches on the foor. All was still, my friend too was silent, but could not sleep; so I sat there by him, slowly wafting the fan and occupied with the musings that arose out of the scene, the long shadowy ward, the beautiful ghostly moonlight on the floor, the white beds, here and there an occupant with huddled form, the bed-clothes thrown off. The hospitals have a number of cases of sun-stroke and exhaustion by heat, from the late reviews. There are many

such from the Sixth corps, from the hot parade of day before yesterday. (Some of these shows cost the lives of scores of men.) 8th September, '63.—Here, now, is a specimen army hospital case: Lorenzo Strong, Co. A, 9th United States Cavalry, shot by a shell last Sunday ; right leg amputated on the field. Sent up here Monday night, 14th. Seem’d to be doing pretty well till Wednesday noon, 16th, when he took a turn for the worse, and a strangely rapid and fatal termination ensued. Though I had much to do, I staid and saw all. It was a death-picture characteristic of these soldiers' hospitals — the perfect specimen of physique, one of the most magnificent I ever saw — the convulsive spasms and working of muscles, mouth, and throat. There are two good women nurses, one on each side. The doctor comes in and gives him a little chloroform. One of the nurses constantly fans him, for it is fearfully hot. He asks to be rais'd up, and they put him in a halfsitting posture. He calls for “Mark” repeatedly, half

deliriously, all day. Life ebbs, runs now with the speed of a mill race; his splendid neck, as it lays all open, works still, slightly; his eyes turn back. A religious person coming in offers a prayer, in subdued tones, bent at the foot of the bed; and in the space of the aisle, a crowd, including two or three doctors, several students, and many soldiers, has silently gather’d. It is very still and warm, as the struggle goes on, and dwindles, a little more, and a little more — and then welcome oblivion, painlessness, death. A pause, the crowd drops away, a white bandage is bound around and under the jaw, the propping pillows are removed, the limpsy head falls down, the arms are softly placed by the side, all composed, all still, — and the broad white sheet is thrown over everything. THE MILLION DEAD, TOO, SUMM’D UP

The dead in this war — there they lie, strewing the fields and woods and valleys and battle-fields of the south

- Virginia, the Peninsula — Malvern hill and Fair Oaks - the banks of the Chickahominy — the terraces of Fredericksburgh - Antietam bridge -- the grisly ravines of Manassas -- the bloody promenade of the Wilderness — the varieties of the strayed dead, (the estimate of the War department is 25,000 national soldiers kill'd in battle and never buried at all, 5,000 drown'd. 15,000 inhumed by strangers, or on the march in haste, in hitherto unfound localities ---- 2,000 graves cover'd by sand and mud by Mississippi freshets, 3,000 carried away by caving-in of banks, &c.,) — Gettysburgh, the West, Southwest —Vicksburgh

Chattanooga — the trenches of Petersburgh — the numberless battles, camps, hospitals everywhere — the crop reap'd by the mighty reapers, typhoid, dysentery, inflammations -- and blackest and loathsomest of all, the dead and living burial-pits, the prison-pens of Andersonville, Salisbury, Belle-Isle, &c., (not Dante's pictured hell and all its woes, its degradations, filthy torments, excell'd those prisons)

the dead, the dead, the dead — our dead — or South or North, ours all, (all, all, all, finally dear to me) — or East or West - Atlantic coast or Mississippi valley — some

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