y. About two miles brought
us to the Blue Ridge where the railroad tunnel pierces its foundations.
We toiled up and on in time to see the sun rise. An ocean of fog lay
around us. Never shall we forget how royally the King of Day scaled the
great wall that seemed to hem in on every side the wide valley, and how
the sea of mist and cloud visibly fled before the inrolling flood of
light, unveiling green and yellow fields, flocks and herds, dark
woodlands, dwellings yet asleep in peace and plenty, here and there the
silver thread of a winding stream with lakes that mirrored the sky, and
yonder the long stretches of those titanic fortifications encompassing
all. We were reminded of Shakespeare's sunrise:

Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy.

At that instant a train of cars from Charlottesville came sliding along,
and shot

Into the tunnel, like a lightning wedge
By great Thor hammers driven through the rock!

The scene startled us by its sublimity, and for a few minutes the hungry
forgot their craving, the footsore their pain, the hopeless their
despair.

That day's march, though not so long was as severe as any; we were
exhausted. Private Dolan, Co. K, 159th N. Y., was barefoot. His feet
were blistered and bleeding. I begged the commander of the provost
guard, Captain Haslett, to allow him to get into an ambulance. My
request was not granted. But we soon afterwards passed a large mansion
in front of which were several girls and women apparently making fun of
the unwashed "Yank" and evidently enjoying the spectacle. We were halted
just as Dolan came limping along supported on one side by a stronger
comrade. They saw his miserable plight, his distress, his swollen feet,
and they heard of the stern command to shoot any prisoner who fell out
or lagged behind. Their faces changed. With tears one or two implored
the Captain to let him ride in the ambulance. He yielded to their
entreaties. Southern ladies almost always seemed handsome to us, but
these in my memory have the fairest faces. I thought of Lady Clare in
_Marmion_, and the words still recur:

O Woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made;
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel t