CHAPTER XVII.
Preparations for Winter—Log-huts—Break Camp—Winchester—Provost Duty—Baltimore—The Stables—Visit of Rev Dr. Ware—Extracts from Letters.
Preparations for Winter—Log-huts—Break Camp—Winchester—Provost Duty—Baltimore—The Stables—Visit of Rev Dr. Ware—Extracts from Letters.
letter P
PREPARATIONS now began to be made for passing the winter at Camp Russell. The shelter-tents afforded poor protection against the snow-storms, which were becoming frequent, and boards were scarce; so, in every camp, log-villages arose, many of them far neater in appearance than the tenements in which families of poor whites had been reared on the banks of the Red River.
The regiment was putting up its last row of huts, when a sudden stop was put to all further work, by the reception, on the afternoon of the 20th, of marching orders; and before daylight the next morning, in the midst of a driving storm, the third brigade broke camp, and marched to Winchester, where the Thirty Eighth was selected to do provost duty, and quartered in deserted buildings in the vicinity of the Court House. Aportion of the duty here consisted in guarding the rebel prisoners brought in by the cavalry, and in taking squads of them to Harper’s Ferry.
The people in Winchester, and all through the Valley, were bitter foes to the Union, giving constant information to the enemy of all military movements; and many of the prominent citizens had been sent to Fort Henry, in Baltimore. The women adhered to the Confederate cause with a tenacity that could not but win respect, and daily brought baskets of food to the captured rebels. One day, it was the duty of the writer to notify the citizens to have the snow taken off their sidewalks within a certain specified time,—not a very pleasant task considering that the majority of the houses were tenanted by females. Some quietly said it should be done; others were not so tractable. One fair dame said, in a rich Virginia accent, that we had taken all the men off, and that she would see us “durn’d” before she’d shovel snow: she’d “go to the gurd-house first.” Fortunately, a “right smart rain” that night did the work, and saved the dignity of the fair ones.
The provost duty at Winchester was of short duration. Marching orders were received on the 5th of January; and before daylight the nextmorning, the regiment was groping its way through the silent streets to the outskirts of the town, where it awaited the arrival of the brigade, under command of Lieut.-Col. Richardson, who had recovered from his wound, and returned to duty a few days previously.
The railroad terminated at Stephenson’s station, five miles from Winchester, and upon reaching that place, the brigade was obliged to wait several hours in a cold rain-storm while the train was made up, when, packed close in cattle-cars and on them, the division again brought together, rode to Baltimore, reaching that city on the morning of the 7th. The journey had been an uncomfortable one, those on the outside being exposed all night to the storm, while the men were packed so close inside that holes had to be cut in the cars to let in fresh air.
Upon arriving at Baltimore, the division quartered in the cavalry stables at Camp Carroll, near the old camp, Emory, from which the regiment had departed over two years before. The weather was cold, the boards were partly off the buildings, and the only way to keep comfortable was by building large fires in the centre of the stable, the smoke from which found its way in time throughthe crevices in the roof. The Twenty Second Iowa occupied one side of the stable; and when the two regiments were frying pork over dozens of fires up and down the length of the building, it required strong lungs to stand the smoke and smell. Nevertheless, one Boston lady, Mrs. James H. Norris, an agent of the Christian Commission, learning that a Massachusetts regiment was in Baltimore, found it out, braved the unpleasant surroundings, and delivered mittens, socks, needle-books, etc., not only to those who needed them in the Thirty Eighth, but also to the Iowa boys. The regiment also had the pleasure of a visit from an old friend, the Rev. Dr. Ware, formerly of Cambridge, then pastor of a church in Baltimore, who had once made a visit to Camp Emory, and who now came loaded with packages of tobacco, stationery, and other articles acceptable to soldiers who had been months without pay. The doctor distributed his treasures not only to the Thirty Eighth, but to the Iowa boys on the opposite side of the stable. Dr. Ware repeated his visit, and gave an account of the impressions he received in two letters to the “Cambridge Chronicle,” which were perused with much pleasure by the men of the Thirty Eighth.
The following extracts from these interesting letters will give the reader a view of the regiment from the “outside”:—
“.... It was a clear, cold Sunday,—a day like the finest of our New England winter days, and a walk of some three miles brought me to the camp. What memories it awoke! Not three years ago, close by, lay encamped the Thirty Eighth, on the crest of a hill, surrounded by other regiments of the same brigade. Everything about war was new then, and I well remember how clean and neat the whole camp was, and with what pains every man rubbed his buttons, and blacked his boots, and brushed his coat, and kept his gun.“I remember, too, the admirable drills, the perfect dress-parade, in such marked contrast with all the regiments about. I remember a brigade review, in which I stood a delighted listener to the praises heaped upon the Thirty Eighth, by New York officers not on duty. The last time I saw Col. Rodman—the friend of many years, who fell before Port Hudson—was there at evening parade. I see his fine form before me now. I recall his pride in the appearance of his men,—how we lingered and chatted after the parade was over,—how we parted at the camp lines,—neither he, nor many others then there in life and hope, to come back to their homes again.“All this and more was in my mind as I walked up and down the camp of —— thousand men, asking for the Mass. Thirty Eighth in vain. Chancing to remember that regimental numbers are not apt to be known beyond the regiment, I asked for the Third brigade, and at last was told that in a certainlong barn I should find the Thirty Eighth, on the right hand side,—the left being occupied by some other regiment. I remembered the stable as belonging to the cavalry of Emory’s brigade two years and a half ago. It was made of rough boards, which probably never had matched, and the wind and wet, the cold and heat of the months since had not drawn them any more closely together. As I entered, the sight was one of which those at home can form no conception. All down the long centre of the building, at company intervals, were circular piles of logs, around which men were grouped as thick as they could sit, some chatting, some singing, some eating, some silent. On either side were others taking their supper, sitting or lying on the ground, or writing letters; while in grand promiscuousness, blankets, cups, plates, knapsacks lay about everywhere. You could scarcely keep your eyes open for the smoke, which these old campaigners did not seem to notice. And here was what was left of the Thirty Eighth,—not spruce and nice as when I last saw them, but thinned by battle and disease, four hundred and seventy out of a thousand,—and now, just from a journey of fearful exposure and cold, bearing signs of the life they had led since we parted.“.... I recognized some; more recognized me, and I hope they enjoyed the meeting as much as I did. How I wished the home folk could be there! It would have made their hearts ache a little to see how without the shadow of a comfort these men were, while they would have glowed with pride at the genuine, uncomplaining manhood before them. They had supposed themselves fixed for the winter. Orders had been sent commanders to see the men properly housed. Things were settling down into the inactivity of the coldseason. The Thirty Eighth was doing provost duty in Winchester, when Thursday evening orders came to march at six the next morning.“It was a day of cold and rain and wind. That day, that night, into the next forenoon, in baggage, on platform, in uncleaned cattle-cars—on them as well—this division journeyed. We have had no such cold hereabout this winter—some were frost-bitten, but none seriously. Saturday noon found them at ‘Camp Carroll,’—the old summer residence of Charles Carroll—weary, cold, and hungry, with bare shelter from the winds, and such straw for bed as any individual foraging would supply. And yet they spoke of the comfortable quarters! I pulled my coat about my ears as the wind whistled by,—I looked out through the chasms in the barrack sides at the clear, cold moonshine,—I looked up at the dense smoke hiding the roof,—I looked around at men’s faces as the camp-fires lighted them up,—and I wished again that the men and women at home might see and hear these men, and be glad as I was in their devotion, and learn, as I did, something from their cheerful endurance. It gave me the old feeling of shame that I was not with them in body as well as in heart, and my citizen’s dress seemed to me as a badge of disgrace, while the contrast between the scene before me and the comforts I came from, and should return to, was painful indeed. It is a good gift of God that the soldier can be so content in his lot,—as we said,—‘asking no questions of the future, but taking the present as it comes.’“I went in and out all over that camp, and I saw much the same thing repeated everywhere. A happier, more contented set of men you would not find. Bound they knew not where,—Iwished that I did not,—the one desire seemed to be to get this thing through that they might be at home again. As I threaded my way out, I heard one man, sitting by the fire, say, in half soliloquy, ‘Who would think this was Sunday night!’—‘Little enough like the old Sunday nights at home,’ I said in passing; and I walked out into the night, and by the challenges of the guard, and over the fields, and looked back at the camp and down upon the great city, and heard the evening bells, and knew how well-dressed, comfortable people would soon be gathered to their worship, little imagining what Sunday night was to those who suffer peril, privation, absence from home, and all civil pleasure and privilege, that they might enjoy churches and home in quiet. I doubt not there was in the camp, that night, as hearty service in many a heart as in the city cathedral, chapel, or church.“On Monday, 9th, I again made my way to their camp. If you had my eyes, you could realize better than you can with the help of my pen, how the inexorable laws of military rank showed themselves in the matter of the different head-quarters. The division commander and his staff were in the mansion-house of the ever-venerable Charles Carroll, outside the lines. The brigade commander and his staff were in a two-story building, no way near as good as my old barn; the staff and line of the regiment were in a similar building, but they seemed to have about as much room for all of them as the brigade-commander had to himself. Even in such details, in a casual camp, you are impressed with the difference that a little priority in rank makes. And now from regimental quarters, even to company quarters, from the tight walls and roof of the barrack to the gaping sides and roof of the stable, from the comfortable stove,though its nose be thrust out of a window, to the fires of logs all up and down the sitting, dining, sleeping room—all in one—of our friends of ‘the rank and file,’—the contrast is very great—yes, painful; none the less so because the men bear it so well. Speaking to the officers of the state of things, more than one said he had tried to go through the smoke, and had given it up.“Tuesday came. During the night had come up one of those rains for which this latitude is a little too famous. There is no half-way about them. I had waked, more than once, and thought of the poor fellows out there in the camp in the mud,—for this stable of theirs had no floor to it, and was on the slope of the hill. As soon as I could, I pulled on my cavalry boots, and in the old ‘Reserve Guard’ overcoat, minus the buttons of brass, made my way to the city, and filling a carpet-bag with chewing and smoking tobacco, newspapers, pictorial papers, dominoes, and various kinds of puzzles, started for camp. I found the stable more comfortable than I had feared, and distributed my treasures to eager hands and thankful lips, and, I think, hearts. It was a real pleasure to see the pipes filled, the quid rolled on the tongue, and men here and there settling themselves to their papers and games. The Twenty Second Iowa, on the other side of the stable, came in for a share, and as I heard one of them say over my shoulder, ‘That bag holds out like the widow’s cruse,’ I could not help wishing it did, and not one of those eight thousand men—the number is not contraband now—but should have had something to comfort him that comfortless day.“Crossing the camp, I met, ankle deep in mud, Lieut. Davis, whom I last saw in hospital, just from home, looking exceedinglynice, but not quite well enough for such rough weather and work. Lieut. Whitney, whom I had also seen while here wounded, I was sorry to hear had been discharged. He is well spoken of by every one, and the last thing he said to me was that he hoped to get back to his regiment before it was all over. I think government is a ‘little rough’ upon the men she can no longer use. It is a poor way, it is a mean way of reducing expenses, if that is the object. AMANis something after all, even in such a crisis as this, and a man, scarred and disabled, should be ‘tenderly cared for.’ No government can afford to be without a heart!“On Wednesday the weather was clear and cooler, and though the chances were that camp would be broken up, one brigade having marched in the rain the day previous, I again took my bag, filled with paper, envelopes, pencils, and newspapers, and found our friends still in their old quarters. From inquiry I had learned they were in need of these things, but when I had satisfied their demands, I had still ‘a few more left.’ Coming up to a squad ofIowamen, I said, ‘Any of you here would like some paper?’ Not a word in reply. Every man seemed stolid and dumb. They sat about their logs, and looked in the fire. At last one, somewhat hesitatingly, got up, and put his hand in his pocket and drew out two or three pieces of ‘fractional currency,’ and said, ‘Ishouldlike a little, but I don’t know as I have money enough to pay for it.’ ‘My friend,’ said I, ‘you haven’t money enough to pay for it. That isn’t what I am at. If you want paper, take it and welcome.’ You should have seen the change,—up sprung those stolid, dumb men: ‘I should like a sheet of paper, if you please, sir.’ ‘Can you spare me an envelope?’ ‘Thank you,sir.’ ‘I should like a pencil.’ I was the centre of eager men. You should have seen those hands stretched from all sides toward me,—hands grimed with dirt, but honest, and hearty, and loyal hands, that had been clasped in agony by dear ones far away, hands that had toiled for the dear country God has given us,—hands, dirty, indeed, but there was an expression in their fingers and palms as they eagerly waited for their turn, such as I never detected in the unsoiled, delicate hand of which some men as well as some women are foolishly vain. The same thing struck me that always does in hospital and camp,—a certain reserve and modesty. They asked for one or two sheets, or envelopes, but almost invariably replied to my inquiry, if that was really all they wanted, that they would like more if I had them to spare. Before I left, I saw many ‘writing home.’ As I finished, one man came up to me and said, ‘Have you any more of the puzzles you had yesterday?’ and I was sorry I had not. Thinking the brigade must leave before I could come out, as rations again for fifteen days had been served, I said ‘Good-by’ and ‘God bless you,’ expressing the hope that I might find out when they sailed, and give them one good, hearty Massachusetts cheer.“Sitting with the men on the knapsacks they piled for me, I felt that I came to know something of them, and in some sort as if I were a link between them and the home we all alike love. I found them a little inclined to be thoughtful, not gloomy at all, but they had been disappointed in finding themselves ordered on active duty just at the time that furloughs were being granted and they were feeling sure of reaching home. Some had not seen home since the day of that march from Camp Cameron, which none will forget. I think thatbeing here so long and inactive increased the feeling, and it would not surprise me if a little homesickness lurked underneath. Their destination was a thing of uncertainty. They hoped not Petersburg,—many desired Louisiana; but as soon as the rations were given they said, ‘You can’t long keep things from an old soldier,—this means Wilmington or Savannah.’ The leading topic seemed the coming home again in August.“One would have supposed these men would stand in need of some of that aid we are so anxious at all times to give. What was my surprise to find them packing up their superfluous baggage to send home! They looked like men in very light marching order, but I believe a soldier has always something he can do without. I was sorry to find they had not been paid recently. How unjust this seems! I was glad to hear them praise Sheridan; and glad, Mr. Editor, of another thing,—to hear them put Massachusetts first, and then Cambridge a little ahead of her! Didn’t I join hands with them there? If you at home love the old city as well as we whose various duties call us away, and will keep her up not merely to what she has been, but to what she can be, we will do all we can to prove ourselves citizens of no mean city, of whose doings she need not be ashamed.“Before this stands in type they may have again looked upon the battle glare; they may have tasted reverse; they may have won some new honor to their flag, new laurels to themselves; they may have written their names among the immortal band whose fidelity and courage shall ensure that redemption of the country to which we are ‘marching on!’”
“.... It was a clear, cold Sunday,—a day like the finest of our New England winter days, and a walk of some three miles brought me to the camp. What memories it awoke! Not three years ago, close by, lay encamped the Thirty Eighth, on the crest of a hill, surrounded by other regiments of the same brigade. Everything about war was new then, and I well remember how clean and neat the whole camp was, and with what pains every man rubbed his buttons, and blacked his boots, and brushed his coat, and kept his gun.
“I remember, too, the admirable drills, the perfect dress-parade, in such marked contrast with all the regiments about. I remember a brigade review, in which I stood a delighted listener to the praises heaped upon the Thirty Eighth, by New York officers not on duty. The last time I saw Col. Rodman—the friend of many years, who fell before Port Hudson—was there at evening parade. I see his fine form before me now. I recall his pride in the appearance of his men,—how we lingered and chatted after the parade was over,—how we parted at the camp lines,—neither he, nor many others then there in life and hope, to come back to their homes again.
“All this and more was in my mind as I walked up and down the camp of —— thousand men, asking for the Mass. Thirty Eighth in vain. Chancing to remember that regimental numbers are not apt to be known beyond the regiment, I asked for the Third brigade, and at last was told that in a certainlong barn I should find the Thirty Eighth, on the right hand side,—the left being occupied by some other regiment. I remembered the stable as belonging to the cavalry of Emory’s brigade two years and a half ago. It was made of rough boards, which probably never had matched, and the wind and wet, the cold and heat of the months since had not drawn them any more closely together. As I entered, the sight was one of which those at home can form no conception. All down the long centre of the building, at company intervals, were circular piles of logs, around which men were grouped as thick as they could sit, some chatting, some singing, some eating, some silent. On either side were others taking their supper, sitting or lying on the ground, or writing letters; while in grand promiscuousness, blankets, cups, plates, knapsacks lay about everywhere. You could scarcely keep your eyes open for the smoke, which these old campaigners did not seem to notice. And here was what was left of the Thirty Eighth,—not spruce and nice as when I last saw them, but thinned by battle and disease, four hundred and seventy out of a thousand,—and now, just from a journey of fearful exposure and cold, bearing signs of the life they had led since we parted.
“.... I recognized some; more recognized me, and I hope they enjoyed the meeting as much as I did. How I wished the home folk could be there! It would have made their hearts ache a little to see how without the shadow of a comfort these men were, while they would have glowed with pride at the genuine, uncomplaining manhood before them. They had supposed themselves fixed for the winter. Orders had been sent commanders to see the men properly housed. Things were settling down into the inactivity of the coldseason. The Thirty Eighth was doing provost duty in Winchester, when Thursday evening orders came to march at six the next morning.
“It was a day of cold and rain and wind. That day, that night, into the next forenoon, in baggage, on platform, in uncleaned cattle-cars—on them as well—this division journeyed. We have had no such cold hereabout this winter—some were frost-bitten, but none seriously. Saturday noon found them at ‘Camp Carroll,’—the old summer residence of Charles Carroll—weary, cold, and hungry, with bare shelter from the winds, and such straw for bed as any individual foraging would supply. And yet they spoke of the comfortable quarters! I pulled my coat about my ears as the wind whistled by,—I looked out through the chasms in the barrack sides at the clear, cold moonshine,—I looked up at the dense smoke hiding the roof,—I looked around at men’s faces as the camp-fires lighted them up,—and I wished again that the men and women at home might see and hear these men, and be glad as I was in their devotion, and learn, as I did, something from their cheerful endurance. It gave me the old feeling of shame that I was not with them in body as well as in heart, and my citizen’s dress seemed to me as a badge of disgrace, while the contrast between the scene before me and the comforts I came from, and should return to, was painful indeed. It is a good gift of God that the soldier can be so content in his lot,—as we said,—‘asking no questions of the future, but taking the present as it comes.’
“I went in and out all over that camp, and I saw much the same thing repeated everywhere. A happier, more contented set of men you would not find. Bound they knew not where,—Iwished that I did not,—the one desire seemed to be to get this thing through that they might be at home again. As I threaded my way out, I heard one man, sitting by the fire, say, in half soliloquy, ‘Who would think this was Sunday night!’—‘Little enough like the old Sunday nights at home,’ I said in passing; and I walked out into the night, and by the challenges of the guard, and over the fields, and looked back at the camp and down upon the great city, and heard the evening bells, and knew how well-dressed, comfortable people would soon be gathered to their worship, little imagining what Sunday night was to those who suffer peril, privation, absence from home, and all civil pleasure and privilege, that they might enjoy churches and home in quiet. I doubt not there was in the camp, that night, as hearty service in many a heart as in the city cathedral, chapel, or church.
“On Monday, 9th, I again made my way to their camp. If you had my eyes, you could realize better than you can with the help of my pen, how the inexorable laws of military rank showed themselves in the matter of the different head-quarters. The division commander and his staff were in the mansion-house of the ever-venerable Charles Carroll, outside the lines. The brigade commander and his staff were in a two-story building, no way near as good as my old barn; the staff and line of the regiment were in a similar building, but they seemed to have about as much room for all of them as the brigade-commander had to himself. Even in such details, in a casual camp, you are impressed with the difference that a little priority in rank makes. And now from regimental quarters, even to company quarters, from the tight walls and roof of the barrack to the gaping sides and roof of the stable, from the comfortable stove,though its nose be thrust out of a window, to the fires of logs all up and down the sitting, dining, sleeping room—all in one—of our friends of ‘the rank and file,’—the contrast is very great—yes, painful; none the less so because the men bear it so well. Speaking to the officers of the state of things, more than one said he had tried to go through the smoke, and had given it up.
“Tuesday came. During the night had come up one of those rains for which this latitude is a little too famous. There is no half-way about them. I had waked, more than once, and thought of the poor fellows out there in the camp in the mud,—for this stable of theirs had no floor to it, and was on the slope of the hill. As soon as I could, I pulled on my cavalry boots, and in the old ‘Reserve Guard’ overcoat, minus the buttons of brass, made my way to the city, and filling a carpet-bag with chewing and smoking tobacco, newspapers, pictorial papers, dominoes, and various kinds of puzzles, started for camp. I found the stable more comfortable than I had feared, and distributed my treasures to eager hands and thankful lips, and, I think, hearts. It was a real pleasure to see the pipes filled, the quid rolled on the tongue, and men here and there settling themselves to their papers and games. The Twenty Second Iowa, on the other side of the stable, came in for a share, and as I heard one of them say over my shoulder, ‘That bag holds out like the widow’s cruse,’ I could not help wishing it did, and not one of those eight thousand men—the number is not contraband now—but should have had something to comfort him that comfortless day.
“Crossing the camp, I met, ankle deep in mud, Lieut. Davis, whom I last saw in hospital, just from home, looking exceedinglynice, but not quite well enough for such rough weather and work. Lieut. Whitney, whom I had also seen while here wounded, I was sorry to hear had been discharged. He is well spoken of by every one, and the last thing he said to me was that he hoped to get back to his regiment before it was all over. I think government is a ‘little rough’ upon the men she can no longer use. It is a poor way, it is a mean way of reducing expenses, if that is the object. AMANis something after all, even in such a crisis as this, and a man, scarred and disabled, should be ‘tenderly cared for.’ No government can afford to be without a heart!
“On Wednesday the weather was clear and cooler, and though the chances were that camp would be broken up, one brigade having marched in the rain the day previous, I again took my bag, filled with paper, envelopes, pencils, and newspapers, and found our friends still in their old quarters. From inquiry I had learned they were in need of these things, but when I had satisfied their demands, I had still ‘a few more left.’ Coming up to a squad ofIowamen, I said, ‘Any of you here would like some paper?’ Not a word in reply. Every man seemed stolid and dumb. They sat about their logs, and looked in the fire. At last one, somewhat hesitatingly, got up, and put his hand in his pocket and drew out two or three pieces of ‘fractional currency,’ and said, ‘Ishouldlike a little, but I don’t know as I have money enough to pay for it.’ ‘My friend,’ said I, ‘you haven’t money enough to pay for it. That isn’t what I am at. If you want paper, take it and welcome.’ You should have seen the change,—up sprung those stolid, dumb men: ‘I should like a sheet of paper, if you please, sir.’ ‘Can you spare me an envelope?’ ‘Thank you,sir.’ ‘I should like a pencil.’ I was the centre of eager men. You should have seen those hands stretched from all sides toward me,—hands grimed with dirt, but honest, and hearty, and loyal hands, that had been clasped in agony by dear ones far away, hands that had toiled for the dear country God has given us,—hands, dirty, indeed, but there was an expression in their fingers and palms as they eagerly waited for their turn, such as I never detected in the unsoiled, delicate hand of which some men as well as some women are foolishly vain. The same thing struck me that always does in hospital and camp,—a certain reserve and modesty. They asked for one or two sheets, or envelopes, but almost invariably replied to my inquiry, if that was really all they wanted, that they would like more if I had them to spare. Before I left, I saw many ‘writing home.’ As I finished, one man came up to me and said, ‘Have you any more of the puzzles you had yesterday?’ and I was sorry I had not. Thinking the brigade must leave before I could come out, as rations again for fifteen days had been served, I said ‘Good-by’ and ‘God bless you,’ expressing the hope that I might find out when they sailed, and give them one good, hearty Massachusetts cheer.
“Sitting with the men on the knapsacks they piled for me, I felt that I came to know something of them, and in some sort as if I were a link between them and the home we all alike love. I found them a little inclined to be thoughtful, not gloomy at all, but they had been disappointed in finding themselves ordered on active duty just at the time that furloughs were being granted and they were feeling sure of reaching home. Some had not seen home since the day of that march from Camp Cameron, which none will forget. I think thatbeing here so long and inactive increased the feeling, and it would not surprise me if a little homesickness lurked underneath. Their destination was a thing of uncertainty. They hoped not Petersburg,—many desired Louisiana; but as soon as the rations were given they said, ‘You can’t long keep things from an old soldier,—this means Wilmington or Savannah.’ The leading topic seemed the coming home again in August.
“One would have supposed these men would stand in need of some of that aid we are so anxious at all times to give. What was my surprise to find them packing up their superfluous baggage to send home! They looked like men in very light marching order, but I believe a soldier has always something he can do without. I was sorry to find they had not been paid recently. How unjust this seems! I was glad to hear them praise Sheridan; and glad, Mr. Editor, of another thing,—to hear them put Massachusetts first, and then Cambridge a little ahead of her! Didn’t I join hands with them there? If you at home love the old city as well as we whose various duties call us away, and will keep her up not merely to what she has been, but to what she can be, we will do all we can to prove ourselves citizens of no mean city, of whose doings she need not be ashamed.
“Before this stands in type they may have again looked upon the battle glare; they may have tasted reverse; they may have won some new honor to their flag, new laurels to themselves; they may have written their names among the immortal band whose fidelity and courage shall ensure that redemption of the country to which we are ‘marching on!’”