mas'rs dey hab lib under de flag, dey got dere
wealth under it, and ebryting beautiful for dere chilen. Under it dey
hab grind us up, and put us in dere pocket for money. But de fus' minute
dey tink dat ole flag mean freedom for we colored people, dey pull it
right down, and run up de rag ob dere own." (Immense applause). "But
we'll neber desert de ole flag, boys, neber; we hab lib under it for
eighteen hundred sixty-two years, and we'll die for it now." With which
overpowering discharge of chronology-at-long-range, this most effective
of stump-speeches closed. I see already with relief that there will be
small demand in this regiment for harangues from the officers; give the
men an empty barrel for a stump, and they will do their own exhortation.

December 11, 1862.

Haroun Alraschid, wandering in disguise through his imperial streets,
scarcely happened upon a greater variety of groups than I, in my evening
strolls among our own camp-fires.

Beside some of these fires the men are cleaning their guns or rehearsing
their drill,--beside others, smoking in silence their very scanty supply
of the beloved tobacco,--beside others, telling stories and shouting
with laughter over the broadest mimicry, in which they excel, and in
which the officers come in for a full share. The everlasting "shout"
is always within hearing, with its mixture of piety and polka, and
its castanet-like clapping of the hands. Then there are quieter
prayer-meetings, with pious invocations and slow psalms, "deaconed out"
from memory by the leader, two lines at a time, in a sort of wailing
chant. Elsewhere, there are _conversazioni_ around fires, with a woman
for queen of the circle,--her Nubian face, gay headdress, gilt necklace,
and white teeth, all resplendent in the glowing light. Sometimes the
woman is spelling slow monosyllables out of a primer, a feat which
always commands all ears,--they rightly recognizing a mighty spell,
equal to the overthrowing of monarchs, in the magic assonance of _cat,
hat, pat, bat_, and the rest of it. Elsewhere, it is some solitary old
cook, some aged Uncle Tiff, with enormous spectacles, who is perusing a
hymn-book by the light of a pine splinter, in his deserted cooking booth
of palmetto leaves. By another fire there is an actual dance, red-legged
soldiers doing right-and-left, and "now-lead-de-lady-ober," to the music
of a violin which is rather artistically played, and which may have
guided the steps, in other