to cool, uninterested,
dispassionate lookers-on, decidedly nauseating.

At the time of which I am writing, the War order, recalling all
stragglers, had not been promulgated; and no one, in travelling, could
fail to be struck with the predominance of the military element among
the population. It was unpleasant to observe, at every railroad station,
at every wayside grocery store, groups of idle, lounging soldiers,
smoking and gossiping, and having, apparently, no earthly object except
to kill time; and to know that these men, wearing their country's
uniform, and drawing their pay from her exhausted exchequer, were
lingering at home on various pretexts, and basely and deliberately
shirking their duty, while rebellion still reared its horrid front, and
the Government required every arm that could be raised in its defence.
That energetic document put a stop to all this; but the question here
arises, Can the men be in earnest? Can that patriotism be genuine which
needs to be driven to the battle field?

Ah! here is one brave fellow, who, though still lame from a recent
wound, is hastening back to the scenes where duty calls him. He comes
into the cars with his sword in one hand, and his overcoat, neatly
strapped, in the other. He looks grave and serious--doubtless he is
thinking of home, and of the dear ones he has just left. Doubtless, from
that cause springs a singular restlessness, that impels him to get out
at every stopping place, and pace backward and forward with unequal
steps, till the train starts again. As he passes and repasses me, I try
to read his countenance. There is no flinching there--no shrinking from
duty in that brave soul. In the expressive language of Scripture, he has
'put his life in his hand,' and is ready to offer it at the shrine of
his country. As I mark his firm lip, his thoughtful eye, his look of
steadfast determination, there come into my mind those grand
soul-stirring lines of Percival:

'Oh! it is great for our country to die; when ranks are contending,
Bright is the wreath of our fame; glory awaits us for aye:
Glory, that never is dim, shining on with a light never ending,
Glory, that never shall fade, never, O never, away.'

At the first station beyond Rutland, a woman with a baby--there is
always a woman with a baby in the cars--got out. In addition to the
baby, she had a carpet bag, a band box, a basket, and several paper
parcels. How she managed to carry them all, I