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of the rarest-the next a famine of the sorest. To ride on, hour after hour, through the gloom of night, until the frame is weary unto death, and the cavalry-man totters in the saddle for very exhaustion and sleeplessness-that is not pleasant. But then sleep is magical when he halts at last; food is ambrosial when he broils his chance slice of bacon on the end of a stick in the blaze of the camp-fire!

To the cavalry-man belongs the fresh life of the forest-the wandering existence which brings back the days of old romance. Do you wish to form some conception of the life of that model cavalry-man and gentleman, Don Quixote? To do so, you have only to "join the cavalry." Like the Don, your cavalry-man goes through the land in search of adventures, and finds many. He penetrates retired localities—odd, unknown nooks-meeting with curious characters and out-of-the-way experiences, which would make the fortune of a romance writer. Here, far away from the rushing world and the clash of arms, he finds bright faces, and is welcomed by "heaven's last best gift"—for woman is ever the guardian angel of the soldier. She smiles upon him when he is gloomy; feeds him when he is hungry; and it is often the musical laughter of a girl which the cavalry-man hears as he rides on musing-not the rattle of his miserable sabre ! Thus romance, sentiment, and poetry meet him everywhere. And is he fond of the grotesque? That meets him, too, in a thousand places. Of the pathetic? Ah! that salutes him often on the fierce arena of war! Thus, living a fresh life, full of vivid emotions, he passes his days and nights, till the fatal bullet comes-laughing, fighting, feasting, starving, to the end.

His life is better than a collegiate education, for it teaches him the mysteries of human nature. He does not pass his days amid social circles, marked by respectable uniformity and maddening common-place, but is thrown in contact with every species of "moving accident," every variety of the human species; scouts, "guerillas," secret agents, prisoners, night-hawks, spies, friends in blue coats, enemies in gray-all that the highways and the byways, the fields, the forests, and the day and the night contain, pass before the eyes of the cavalry-man. He sees the

adventurous life of the ranger and partisan, hears the ring of the sabre, the crack of sharpshooters, the roar of cannon, and the shouts of the squadrons as they charge. His is the existence of the rover the sudden peril, the narrow escape, and the fun and frolic of the bivouac. When he summons his recollections, it is not so much the "great events" of war as its pictures and incidents of which he discourses. He revives its romantic scenes and gay adventures, only-remembering its smiles, sighs, laughter, tears, its gloom or sunlight, as it actually lowered or shone. The writer of this eulogy has carried a musket, albeit he never did hard work with it; has served in the artillery, and loves it, as he honours the great arm which thundered upon every battle-field, and held the rear, all along the Valley, against Sheridan, and fired the last gun of the war at Appomatox. It is simply not possible that he could utter a word against those heroes of the infantry and artillery whom he is proud to call his comrades; but he remembers with most interest and pleasure the gay days when he "followed the feather" of Stuart, that fleur des chevaliers. In the saddle, near that good knight of the nineteenth century, war became a splendid drama, rather than mere bloody work; a great stage, whereon the scenes were ever shifting, and the "exits" were all made to the sound of the bugle! That sound was stirring; and recalling now his various experiences, the writer of this page hears the ring of the bugle, not the roll of the drum; remembers the life of the cavalry rather than that of the infantry or the artillery.

Some of these memories are here recorded. The narratives are necessarily egotistical in appearance, since the writer was compelled to speak of what he saw in person, not by others' eyes, to give any value to his recollections. The reader is solicited, however, to regard this circumstance as unavoidable, and further to believe that a fondness for making himself conspicuous is not a trait of the writer's character. For the rest, the pictures he has drawn are accurate, as far as his ability has enabled him to present figures and events in their real colours. If the record is dull, it is the dulness of truth, not the stupidity of a bad romance.

STUART'S

"RIDE AROUND M'CLELLAN" IN JUNE, 1862.

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WHO that went with Stuart on his famous "Ride around McClellan" in the summer of 1862, just before the bloody battles of the Chickahominy, will ever forget the fun, the frolic, the romance and the peril too-of that fine journey? Thinking of the gay ride now, when a century seems to have swept between that epoch and the present, I recall every particular, live over every emotion. Once more I hear the ringing laugh of Stuart, and see the keen flash of the blue eyes under the black feather of the prince of cavaliers!

If the reader will follow me he shall see what took place on this rapid ride, witness some incidents of this first and king of raids. The record will be that of an eye-witness, and the personal prominence of the writer must be excused as inseparable from the narrative. I need not dwell upon the "situation" in June, 1862. All the world knows that, at that time, McClellan had advanced with his magnificent army of 156,000 men, to the banks of the Chickahominy, and pushing across, had fought on the last day of May the bloody but indecisive battle of the Seven Pines. On the right it was a Confederate, on the left a Federal success; and General McClellan drew back, marshalled his great lines, darkening both the northern and southern banks of the Chickahominy, and prepared for a more decisive blow at the Confederate capital, whose spires were in sight. Before him,

however, lay the Southern army, commanded now by Lee, who had succeeded Johnston, wounded in the fight of "Seven Pines." The moment was favourable for a heavy attack by Lee. Jackson had just driven before him the combined forces of Shields and Fremont, and on the bloody field of Port Republic ended the great campaign of the Valley at one blow. The veterans of his command could now be concentrated on the banks of the Chickahominy against McClellan; a combined advance of the forces under Lee and Jackson might save the capital. But how should the attack be made? In council of war, General Stuart told me he proposed an assault upon General McClellan's left wing from the direction of James River, to cut him off from that base. But this suggestion was not adopted; the defences were regarded as too strong. It was considered a better plan to attack the Federal army on the north bank of the Chickahominy, drive it from its works, and try the issue in the fields around Cold Harbour. The great point was to ascertain if this was practicable, and especially to find what defences, if any, the enemy had to guard the approach to their right wing. If these were slight, the attack could be made with fair prospects of success. Jackson could sweep around while Lee assailed the lines near Mechanicsville; then one combined assault would probably defeat the Federal force. To find the character of the enemy's works beyond the stream-his positions and movements-General Stuart was directed to take a portion of his cavalry, advance as far as Old Church, if practicable, and then be guided by circumstances. Such were the orders with which Stuart set out about moonrise on the night, I think, of June 12, upon this dangerous expedition.

horse on that moonlight The gray coat buttoned

As the young cavalier mounted his night he was a gallant figure to look at. to the chin; the light French sabre balanced by the pistol in its black holster; the cavalry boots above the knee, and the brown hat with its black plume floating above the bearded features, the brilliant eyes, and the huge moustache, which curled with laughter at the slightest provocation-these made Stuart the perfect picture of a gay cavalier, and the spirited horse he rode

seemed to feel that he carried one whose motto was to "do or die." I chanced to be his sole companion as he galloped over the broad field near his headquarters, and the glance of the blue eyes of Stuart at that moment was as brilliant as the lightning itself.

Catching up with his column of about 1500 horsemen, and two pieces of horse-artillery under Colonels William H. F. Lee, Fitz Lee, and Will. T. Martin, of Mississippi-cavalier as brave as ever drew sabre-Stuart pushed on northward as if going to join Jackson, and reaching the vicinity of Taylorsville, near Hanover Junction, went that night into bivouac. He embraced the opportunity, after midnight, of riding with Colonel W. H. F. Lee to "Hickory Hill," the residence of Colonel Williams Wickham-afterward General Wickham-who had been recently wounded and paroled. Here he went to sleep in his chair after talking with Colonel Wickham, narrowly escaped capture from the enemy near, and returning before daylight, advanced with his column straight upon Hanover Court-House. Have you ever visited this picturesque spot, reader? We looked upon it on that day of June-upon its old brick court-house, where Patrick Henry made his famous speech against the parsons, its ancient tavern, its modest roofs, the whole surrounded by the fertile fields waving with golden grain-all this we looked at with unusual interest. For in this little bird's nest, lost as it were in a sea of rippling wheat and waving foliage, some "Yankee cavalry" had taken up their abode; their horses stood ready saddled in the street, and this dark mass we now gazed at furtively from behind a wooden knoll, in rear of which Stuart's column was drawn up ready to move at the word. Before he gave the signal, the General dispatched Colonel Fitz Lee round to the right, to flank and cut off the party. But all at once the scouts in front were descried by the enemy; shots resounded; and seeing that his presence was discovered, Stuart gave the word, and swept at a thundering gallop down the hill. The startled "blue birds," as we used to call our Northern friends, did not wait; the squadron on picket at the court-house, numbering some one hundred and fifty men, hastily got to horse

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