salute, and looking at me with his clear eyes, he said in a grave, friendly voice: "I suppose that is a letter from your wife, is it not, my friend?" It was a proud moment for Corporal Shabrach, I assure you, my children, to be called "my friend" by old Uncle Robert. But somehow, he didn't make me feel as if he was condescending. It was just as if he had said: "Shabrach, my friend, we are both good patriots, fighting for our country, and because I am Commander-in-Chief that is no reason why I should not respect an honest Fifth Corporal, and take an interest in him and his domestic matters." His voice seemed to say all that, and thinking he was in no hurry that morning, I replied: "No, General; I have no wife now, although I have had two in my time, the last one having been a great trial to me, owing to her temper, which was a hard thing to stand." The General smiled at this, and said with a sort of grave humour that made his eyes twinkle: Well, my friend, you appear to be too well advanced in life to have a sweetheart, although" (I saw him look at the chevrons on my sleeve) "all the Corporals I ever knew have been gallant." "It is not from a sweetheart, General," I replied; "after Mrs. Shabrach the Second died, I determined to remain unmarried. My little boy, Willie, wrote it; he is only six years old, but is anxious to grow up and be one of General Lee's soldiers." "That is a brave boy," returned the General; "but I hope the war will not last so long. You must give him my love, and tell him to fight for his country if he is ever called upon. Good day, my friend." And saluting me, the General rode on. He often stops to speak to the soldiers in that way; and I mention this little incident, my children, to show you how kindly he is in his temper, and how much he loves a quiet joke, with all his grave air, and the anxieties that must rest on him as Commander-in-Chief of the army. I have always despised people that looked up with a mean worship to great men, but I see nothing wrong or unmanly in regarding with a sort of veneration-a mixture of affection and respect this noble old cavalier, who seems to have stepped out of the past into the present, to show us what sort of men Virginia can still produce. As for myself, I never look at him without thinking: "It is good for you to be alive to let the youths of 1863 see what their fathers and grandfathers were in the great old days." The sight of the erect form, the iron-gray hair and beard, the honest eyes, and the stately figure, takes me back to the days when Washington, and Randolph, and Pendleton, used to figure on the stage, and which my father told me all about in my youth. Long may the old hero live to lead us, and let no base hand ever dare to sully the glories of our well beloved General-the "noblest Roman of them all," the pink of chivalry and honour. May health and happiness attend him! Your affectionate father, SOLOMON SHABRACH, 5th Corporal, Army Northern Virginia. II. HIS DESCRIPTION OF THE PASSPORT OFFICE. CAMP QUATTLEBUM RIFLES, A. N. V., When you come out of Richmond, my dear boys, you have to get a passport. As you have never yet travelled from home, I will explain what a passport is. It is a paper (always brown) which is signed by somebody or his clerk, and which induces a melancholy-looking soldier at the cars, with a musket and fixed bayonet, to let you go back from the horrors of Richmond to the delights of camp. As without this brown paper (for unless the paper is brown the passport is not good) you cannot get back home-that is to camp, the soldier's home-there is, of course, a great crowd of applicants always at the office where the papers are delivered. I was recently in Richmond, having been sent there on business connected with the Quartermaster's Department of our regiment, and I will describe for your instruction the passport office, and the way you get a passport. I thought at first I would not need one, because my orders were approved by several high officers, and last by Major Taylor, Adjutant-General of the army, "by command of General Lee," and nobody had demanded any other evidence of my right to travel before I reached Richmond. "Uncle Robert " will not allow his provost-marshals at Orange or Gordonsville to deny his sign-manual, and I was under the mistaken impression that I could enjoy the luxury of taking back a lot of shoes and blankets to the Quattlebum Rifles, without getting a permit on brown. paper from some Major or Captain in Richmond. I accordingly went to the cars, and on presenting my orders to the melancholy young man with the musket and bayonet, posted there, found his musket drop across the door. When I asked him what that meant, he shook his head and said I had "no passport." I called his attention again to my orders, but he remained immovable, muttering in a dreary sort of way, "You must get a passport." Why, here are the names of a Brigadier and Major-General." "You must get a passport." "Here is Major Taylor's signature, by command of General Lee." "You must get a passport." "From whom?" แ Captain," I forget who, "at the passport office." This appeared to be such a good joke that I began to laugh, at which the sentinel looked very much astonished, and evidently had his doubts of my sanity. I went back and at once looked up the "passport office." I found that it was in a long wooden building, on a broad street, in the upper part of the city, and when I reached the place I found a large crowd assembled. at the door. This door was about two feet wide, and one at a time only could enter-the way being barred by a fierce-looking sentinel who kept his musket with fixed bayonet. I observed that everything was "fixed bayonet" in Richmond, directly across the door. This ferocious individual let in one at a time, and as each one entered the crowd behind him, which was as tightly packed together as a parcel of herrings in a barrel, surged forward with a sort of rush, only to be driven back by the sentinel, who scowled at them pretty much as a farmer does at a parcel of lazy negroes who have neglected their work and incurred the penalty of the lash. As fast as the passports were granted, those who got them passed out at another door; a second sentinel, with musket and fixed bayonet also, bade defiance to the crowd. Well, after working my way through the mass, and remaining jammed in it for over an hour, my turn came, and with a slow and reluctant motion, the sentinel, who had been eyeing me for some time with a sullen and insolent look, raised his musket and allowed me to enter. His eye continued to be fixed on me, as if I had come to pick some one's pocket, but I did not heed him, my curiosity being too much excited by the scene before me. A row of applicants were separated from a row of clerks in black coats, by a tall railing with a sort of counter on top, and the clerks were bullying the applicants. That is the only word I can use to describe it. I am not mistaken about this. Here were very respectable looking citizens, officers of the army, fine looking private soldiers, and all were being bullied. "Why do they bully people at the passport office?" you will probably ask, boys. I don't know, but I have always observed that small “official" people always treat the world at large with a sort of air of defiance, as if "outsiders" had no right to be coming there to demand anything of them; and the strange thing is, that everybody submits to it as a matter of course. A Well, there were a large number of persons who wanted passports, and only a few clerks were ready to wait on them. considerable number of well dressed young men who would make excellent privates-they were so stout and well fed-sat around the warm stove reading newspapers and chatting. I wondered that they did not help, but was afterwards informed that this was not "their hour," and they had nothing to do with the establishment until "their hour" arrived. At last my turn came round, and I presented my orders to a clerk, who looked first at the paper, then at me, pretty much as a cashier in a bank would do if he suspected that a draft presented to him was a forgery. Then the official again studied the paper, and said in the tone of a Lieutenant-General commanding: "What is your name?" "It is on my orders," I said. "I asked your name," snapped the official. "Solomon Shabrach." "What rank?" "Fifth Corporal." "What regiment?" "Quattlebum Rifles." "Hum! don't know any such regiment. What army?" "General Lee's." "What did you visit Richmond for?" "On public business." "I asked you what you came to Richmond for!" growled the clerk, with the air of a man who is going to say next, "Sentinel, arrest this man, and bear him off to the deepest dungeon of Castle Thunder." "My friend," I said mildly, for I am growing too old to have my temper ruffled by every youngster, "the paper you hold in your hand is my orders, endorsed by my various military superiors. That paper will show you that I am Corporal Shabrach, of the Quattlebum Rifles, Virginia regiment, 's brigade, 's division, -'s corps, Army of Northern Virginia. 'You will also see from it that I am in Richmond to take charge of Quartermaster's stores, and return with them to camp 'without unnecessary delay.' I have obtained the stores, which are shoes and blankets, and I want to obey my order and take them to the company. If you are unwilling to give me the necessary passport to do so, give me back my orders, and I will go to General Winder, who is the commanding officer here, I believe, and ask him if there is any objection to my returning with my shoes and blankets to the army." At the name of General Winder a growl ran along the table, |