seemed to be having the jolliest time imaginable. That miserable band continued to play its "patriotic airs" until everybody grew completely accustomed to it. It was even made useful by the sergeant of a company, I heard. He had no watch, and economically used the tattoo and reveillé of the enemy's drums to regulate his roll-call, and "lights out."

I thought to speak only of the good old band of the First Virginia; but have spoken too of its rival over the Potomac. A word still of the band in the pine wood yonder, which plays, and plays, with splendid and rejoiceful ardour. It is loud, inspiring, moving, but it is not gay; and I ask myself the question, Why? Alas! it is the ear that listens, not the music, which makes mirthful or the reverse these animated strains. The years bring many changes, and we-alas! we change cum illis! Once on a time the sound of music was like laughter; now it seems to sigh. Does it sigh for the good companions gone, or only for lost youth, with the flower of the pea, and the roses that will never bloom more? O martial music, in your cadences are many memories-and memory is not always gay and mirthful! So, cease your long-drawn, splendid battle anthem!—play, instead, some "passionate ballad, gallant and gay "—or better still, an old Virginia reel, such as the soldiers of the army used to hear before they lived in tents. Unlike the great Luria, we long to see some "women in the camp❞—or if not in person, at least in imagination!

Has some spirit of the air flashed to the brave musicians what I wish? Do they feel as I do? The gayest reel of all the reels since time was born, comes dancing on the wind, and every thought but mirth is banished, Gay reel, play on! Bright carnival of the years that have flown, come back-come back, with the smiling lips and the rose-red cheeks, with the braided hair and the glimmer of mischievous eyes!

VII.

THE "OLD STONEWALL BRIGADE."

IN every army there is a Corps d'Elite which bears the heaviest brunt of battle, and carries off the chief glories of the conflict. In the forces of Cæsar it was the "Tenth Legion" which that "foremost man of all this world" took personal command of, and led into action, when the moment for the last struggle came. In the royal troops of Louis XIV., fighting against Marlborough, it was the Garde Français who were called upon when "do or die" was the word, and men were needed who with hats off would call on their enemies to deliver the first fire, and then close in, resolved to conquer or leave their dead bodies on the field. In the Grand Armée of Napoleon it was the Vieux Garde which the Emperor depended upon to retrieve the fortunes of the most desperate conflicts, and carry forward the Imperial Eagles to victory.

In the Army of Northern Virginia there is a corps, which, without prejudice to their noble commander, may be said to represent the Tenth Legion of Cæsar, the French Guard of Louis, and the Old Guard of Napoleon. This is the Old Stonewall Brigade of Jackson.

The Old Stonewall Brigade! What a host of thoughts, memories, and emotions, do those simple words incite! The very mention of the famous band is like the bugle note that sounds "to arms!" These veterans have fought and bled and conquered on so many battle-fields that memory grows weary almost of recalling their achievements. Gathering around Jackson in the old days of 1861, when Patterson confronted Johnston in the Valley of the Shenandoah-when Stuart was a simple Colonel.

and Ashby only a Captain-they held in check an enemy twenty times their number, and were moulded by their great commander into that Spartan phalanx which no Federal bayonet could break. They were boys and old men; the heirs of ancient names, who had lived in luxury from childhood, and the humblest of the unlettered sons of toil; students and ploughmen, rosy-cheeked urchins and grizzled seniors, old and young, rich and poor; but all were comrades, trained, united, fighting for a common end, and looking with supreme confidence to the man in the dingy gray uniform, with the keen eyes glittering under the yellow gray cap, who at Manassas was to win for himself and them that immortal name of "Stonewall," cut now with a pen of iron on the imperishable shaft of history.

It was the Shenandoah Valley which more than all other regions gave the corps its distinctive character and material; that lovely land which these boys fought over so often afterwards, charging upon many battle-fields with that fire and resolution which come only to the hearts of men fighting within sight of their homes. Jackson called to them; they came from around Winchester, and Millwood, and Charlestown; from valley and mountain; they fell into line, their leader took command, and then commenced their long career of toil and glory; their wonderful marches over thousands of miles; their incessant combats against odds that seemed overpowering; their contempt of all that makes the soldier faint-hearted, of snow and rain, and cold and heat, and hunger and thirst, and marching that wears down the strongest frames, making the most determined energies yield. Many dropped by the way, but few failed Jackson. The soul of their leader seemed to have entered every breast; and thus in thorough rapport with that will of iron, they seemed to have discovered the secret of achieving impossibilities. To meet the enemy was to drive him before them, it seemed-so obstinately did the eagles of victory continue to perch upon the old battle flag. The men of the Old Stonewall Brigade marched on, and fought, and triumphed, like war machines which felt no need of rest, food, or sleep. On the advance to Romney they marched-many of them without shoes-over roads so slippery

with ice that men were falling and guns going off all along the line, and at night lay down without blankets or food upon the snow, to be up and moving again at dawn. When Shields and Fremont were closing in on Jackson's rear, they marched in one day from Harper's Ferry to Strasburg, nearly fifty miles. On the advance in August, 1862, to the Second Manassas, they passed over nearly forty miles, almost without a moment's rest; and as Jackson rode along the line which was still moving on "briskly and without stragglers," no orders could prevent them from bursting forth into tumultuous cheers at the sight of him. He had marched them nearly to death, to reach a position where they were to sustain the whole weight of Pope's army hurled against them-they were weary unto death, and staggering—but they made the forests of Fauquier resound with that electric shout which said, "We are ready!"

Such has been the work of the Old Brigade-not their glory; that is scarcely here alluded to-but their hard, unknown toil to carry out their chief's orders. "March!" has been the order of their going. The very rapidity of their marches separates them from all soldier comforts-often from their very blankets, however cold the weather; and any other troops but these and their Southern comrades would long since have mutinied, and demanded bread and rest. But the shadow of disaffection never flitted over forehead in that command. Whatever discontent may be felt at times at the want of attention on the part of subordinate officers to their necessities, the "long roll" has only to be beaten-they have only to see the man in the old faded uniform appear, and hunger, cold, fatigue, are forgotten. The Old Brigade is ready-"Here!" is the answer to the roll-call, all along the line and though the eye is dull from want of food and rest, the arm is strong and the bayonet is sharp and bright.

That leader in the faded uniform is their idol. Anecdote, song, story-in all he is sung or celebrated. The verses professing to have been "found upon the body of a serjeant of the Old Stonewall Brigade at Winchester," are known to all-the picture they contain of the men around the camp fire-the Shenandoah flowing near, the "burly Blue Ridge" echoing to

their strains and the appearance of the "Blue Light Elder" calling on his men to pray with him:

"Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!

Attention! 'tis his way

Appealing from his native sod

In forma pauperis to God,

'Lay bare thine arm, stretch forth thy rod!

Amen!'-that's Stonewall's way."

Here is the rough music of the singer as he proceeds with his strain, and recalls the hard conflict of the second Manassas, when Longstreet was at Thoroughfare, Jackson at Groveton:

"The sun's bright lances rout the mists
Of morning, and, by George,
There's Longstreet struggling in the lists,
Hemmed in an ugly gorge.

Pope and his Yankees whipped before-
'Bay'net and Grape!' hear Stonewall roar,
'Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score!'
That's 'Stonewall Jackson's way!'"

Lastly, hear how the singer at the camp fire, in sight of the firs of the Blue Ridge and the waters of the Shenandoah, indulges in a wild outburst in honour of his chief:

"Ah, maiden! wait and watch and yearn

For news of Stonewall's band;

Ah, widow! read, with eyes that burn,

That ring upon thy hand!

Ah, wife! sew on, pray on, hope on:

Thy life shall not be all forlorn

The foe had better ne'er been born
Than get in Stonewall's way!"