And here let me
Brigade will not

These words may sound extravagant, but defeat has met the enemy so persistently wherever Jackson has delivered battle at the head of the Old Brigade and their brave comrades, that the song is not so unreasonable as it may appear. beg that those "brave comrades" of the Old suppose that I am oblivious of their own glory, their undying courage, and that fame they have won, greater than Greek or Roman. They fought as the men I am writing of, did-with a nerve as splendid, and a patriotism as pure and unfaltering as ever characterized human beings. It is only that I am speaking now of my comrades of the Shenandoah Valley, who fought and fell beneath the good old flag, and thinking of those dear dead ones, and the corps in which they won their deathless names, I am led to speak of them and it only.

Of these, and the Old Brigade, I am never weary thinking, writing, or telling: of the campaigns of the Valley; the great flank movement on the Chickahominy; the advance upon Manassas in the rear of Pope; the stern, hard combat on the left wing of the army at the battle of Sharpsburg; all their toils, their sufferings, their glories. Their path has been strewed all over with battles; incredible have been the marches of the "Foot Cavalry;" incessant their conflicts. Death has mowed down whole ranks of them; the thinned line tells the story of their losses; but the war-worn veterans still confront the enemy. The comrades of those noble souls who have thus poured out their hearts' blood, hold their memory sacred. They laughed with them in the peaceful years of boyhood, by the Shenandoah, in the fields around Millwood, in Jefferson, or amid the Alleghanies; then they fought beside them, in Virginia, in Maryland, wherever the flag was borne; they loved them, mourn them, every name is written on their hearts, whether officer or private, and is ineffaceable. Their own time may come, to-day or tomorrow; but they feel, one and all, that if they fall they will give their hearts' blood to a noble cause, and that if they survive, the memory of past toils and glories will be sweet.

Those survivors may be pardoned if they tell their children, when the war is ended, that they fought under Jackson, in the

"Old Stonewall Brigade." They may be pardoned even if they boast of their exploits, their wonderful marches, their constant and desperate combats, the skill and nerve which snatched victory from the jaws of defeat, and, even when they were retiring before overwhelming numbers, made it truly better that the foe had "ne'er been born" than meet their bayonet charge.

In speaking of this veteran legion, "praise is virtue." Their history is blazoned all over with glory. They are "happy names, beloved children"-the favourites of fame, if not of fortune. In their dingy uniforms, lying stretched beneath the pines, or by the roadside, they are the mark of many eyes which see them not, the absorbing thought in the breast of beauty, and the idols of the popular heart. In line before the enemy, with their bristling bayonets, they are the life-guard of their dear old mother, Virginia.

The heart that does not thrill at sight of the worn veterans, is cold indeed. To him who writes, they present a spectacle noble and heroic; and their old tattered, ball-pierced flag is the sacred ensign of liberty.

Their history and all about them is familiar to me. I have seen them going into action-after fighting four battles in five days-with the regularity and well dressed front of holiday soldiers on parade. There was no straggling, no lagging; every man stood to his work, and advanced with the steady tramp of the true soldier. The ranks were thin, and the faces travel-worn; but the old flag floated in the winds of the Potomac as defiantly as on the banks of the Shenandoah. That bullet-torn ensign might have been written all over, on both sides, with the names of battles, and the list have then been incomplete. Manassas, Winchester, Kernstown, Front Royal, Port Republic, Cold Harbour, Malvern Hill, Slaughter Mountain, Bristow Station,Groveton-Ox Hill, Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg, were to follow. And these were but the larger names upon the roll of their glory. The numberless engagements of minor character are omitted; but in these I have mentioned they appear to the world, and sufficiently vindicate their claim to the title of heroes.

I seemed to see those names upon their flag as the old brigade

advanced that day, and my whole heart went to greet them, as it had gone forth to meet and greet the brave youth whom I spoke to just before the battle, by the roadside, where he lay faint and weak but resolute and smiling.*

Whatever be the issue of the conflict, these brave spirits will be honoured, and held dear by all who love real truth and worth and courage. Wherever they sleep-amid the Alleghaneys, or by the Potomac, in the fields of Maryland, or the valleys and lowlands of Virginia-they are holy. Those I knew the best and loved most of all, sleep now or will slumber soon beneath the weeping willow of the Old Chapel graveyard in the Valley. There let them rest amid tears, but laurel-crowned. They sleep, but are not dead, for they are immortal.

*The brave Lieutenant Robert Randolph. "Requiescat in pace !"

VIII.

ANNALS OF "THE THIRD."

I.

SAD but pleasing are the memories of the past! Gay and gro tesque as well as sorrowful and sombre, are the recollections of the "old soldiers" who, in the months of 1861, marched to the rolling drum of Beauregard!

At that time the present writer was a Sergeant of Artillery, to which high rank he had been promoted from the position of private: and the remembrance of those days when he was uniformly spoken to as "Sergeant" is by no means unpleasing. The contrary is the fact. In those "callow days" the war was a mere frolic-the dark hours were yet unborn, when all the sky was over-shadowed, the land full of desolation-in the radiant sunshine of the moment it was the amusing and grotesque phase of the situation that impressed us, not the tragic.

The post of Sergeant may not be regarded as a very lofty one, compared with that of field or general officers, but it has its advantages and its dignity. The Sergeant of Artillery is "Chief of Piece"-that is to say, he commands a gun, and gun-detachment: and from the peculiar organization of the artillery, his rank assimilates itself to that of Captain in an infantry regiment. He supervises his gun, his detachment, his horse picket, and is responsible for all. He is treated by the officer in command with due consideration and respect. A horse is supplied to him. He is, to all intents and purposes, a commissioned officer.

But the purpose of the writer is not to compose an essay upon military rank. From the Sergeant let us pass to the detachment

which he commanded. They were a gay and jovial set-those young gentlemen of the "Third Detachment"-for they were for the most part youths of gentle nurture and liberal education, who had volunteered at the first note of the bugle. They fought hard to the end of the war, but in camp they were not energetic. Guard duty and horse-grooming were abominable in their eyes; and the only pursuits to which I ever saw them apply themselves with activity and energy were visiting young ladies, and smoking pipes. From this it may be understood that they were bad material for "common soldiers," in the European acceptation of the term; and their "Chief" was accustomed to appeal rather to their sense of propriety than the fear of military punishment. The appeal was perfectly successful. When off duty, he magnanimously permitted them to do what they chose; signed all their passports without looking at them; and found them the most orderly and manageable of soldiers. They obeyed his orders when on duty, with energy and precision: were ready with the gun at any alarm before all the rest, the commanding officer was once pleased to say; and treated their Chief with a kindness and consideration mingled, which he still remembers with true pleasure.

The battery was known as the "Revolutionary Ducks." This sobriquet requires explanation, and that explanation is here given. When John Brown, the celebrated Harper's Ferry "Martyr," made his onslaught, everything throughout Virginia was in commotion. It was said that the "Martyr" and his band were only the advance guard of an army coming from Ohio. At this intelligence the battery-then being organized in Richmond by the brave George W. Randolph, afterwards General, and Secretary of War-rushed quickly to arms: that is, to some old muskets in the armory, their artillery armament not having been obtained as yet. Then commanded by the General to be, they set out joyously for Harper's Ferry, intent on heading off the army from Ohio. In due time they landed from the boat in Washington, were greeted by a curious and laughing crowd, and from the crowd was heard a voice exclaiming, "Here's your Revolutionary Ducks!" The person who had uttered this se