be shut up together for five months without loving or hating each other.

For weeks the duty went on, the command devolving upon Captain Stephenson, and the warm spring weather and longer days were improved to the utmost in keeping away the possibility of rust.

The official acceptance of the Major’s resignation had been received at the Post, but had not been promulgated, when on the night following Sunday, May 25th, at an hour or more past midnight, a steam tug landed him at the Post, and a half hour later everybody was awake, and the fort was alive with the news that since the last sundown the 1st Battalion had become the 32d Massachusetts Infantry—that Major Parker was promoted to the Lieutenant Colonelcy—that marching orders had been received—that Banks had been driven down the Shenandoah Valley—that Washington was menaced by the forces under Stonewall Jackson—that the country had again been summoned to the defence of the capital—that at last our time had come.

Whoever may read these sketches will pardon so much digression as will be required to describe one of the critical scenes of those exciting days. Sunday evening, after ten o’clock, this writer was sitting in his library, having just finished the last cigar before bed-time, when there came a ring at the doorbell—one of those rings that tell a story of haste and excitement.

At the door was a messenger, who informed the Major that the Governor desired to see him without delay, and that a carriage waited his convenience.

There was a word to say to the wife above stairs—there were boots and overcoat to be donned, but in two or three minutes the carriage was whirling through the empty streets, and soon pulled up at the rear entrance to the Capitol.

In the office of the Adjutant-General was Governor Andrew, busily writing at his desk and alone. His Excellency had remembered a parting request upon the occasion of the review, that the 1st Battalion should not be allowed to go to the front under a stranger’s command. The Major was shown the dispatches of the night, and in them read a story of frantic terror at Washington and earnest pleading for speedy succor. By them the Governor was, within the limits of Massachusetts, invested with all of the President’s power to command the United States forces, to raise troops, to transfer garrisons, to provide supplies and transportation, and through them all ran the tones of extremest panic and most earnest entreaty for help—speedy help.

The Governor stated his intention under this authority to order away the six hundred men of the 1st Battalion and offered to reappoint the commander. The offer was of course accepted and an hour quickly passed in drawing orders and requisitions, and completing arrangements for the earliest possible departure of the command. The company of heavy artillery at Fort Independence was ordered to remove to Fort Warren, and the independent companies of Cadets were ordered there for garrison duty. There were orders, too, for levy en masse of the state militia for active service, and provision made for their equipment, subsistence, and rapid transportation.

Officers of the Governor’s and of the army staff came and went. Red tape broke at every order, and during this hour, as also for one nearer morning, while everybody strove to do his utmost to accomplish results which seemed almost impossible, Governor Andrew was the busiest of the workers, radiant with the joy of one who possesses great powers, and who knows that he is wielding them effectually. All through the night came over the wires appeals for help and for haste, and always the Governor was cheery and full of faith, that, although the end might be farther away than we had hoped, that end would be our success.

It was a night, too, of hard work at Fort Warren—there were rations to be issued and cooked for the march; there were equipments to be supplied, knapsacks to be packed, property to be turned over, unnecessaries to be rid away, and last letters to be written; but all was done before the relief garrison reported. At noon on Monday the regiment was relieved, and for the last time passed out of the sally-port and was on the march—glad to be out of jail, some said—glad to be moving to the front; all desiring to see that actual war for which they had passed through long and careful training, and anxious as new troops can be, for a share in the realities of the campaign.

And so, embarking on the ferry-boat Daniel Webster, we left Fort Warren, our cradle, with cheers for the good old Colonel, and with all the verses of the John Brown chorus ringing from six hundred throats to the accompaniment of our own drum corps.

II.
ON OUR OWN HOOK.

SUNDAY, May 25th, 1862, the sun went down on a people rejoicing in the confident expectation of coming victory and an early peace. That sun next rose on a population deeply agitated with news of military disaster, but more warlike and more determined than ever. The appeals of the War Office at Washington, and the summons of our own Governor, met with an enthusiastic response; the militia flocked to the rendezvous in Boston, and the city scenes were almost a repetition of the Lexington Day of the previous year.

Not knowing that the Regiment was expected to appear on the Common, but knowing that our orders were urgent, the 32d marched by the most direct route through the city and to the railway, its wide platoons occupying the full space in the widest streets, bearing no flag, marching to its own field music, everywhere cheered by the excited populace, and drawing attention and applause by its unpretentious but soldierly appearance.

At the Old Colony station, where a train was waiting, we stacked for the last time our smooth-bore muskets, and turned them over to Quartermaster McKim. A long delay, occasioned by the unexpected celerity of our movements, gave officers and men an opportunity to exchange greetings with and take leave of their friends, of whom the vast crowd seemed chiefly to be composed.

There were meetings and partings between parents and children, husbands and wives, brothers and sisters; there were friends of the men who desired to enlist and to go with them, and others who asked brief furloughs for those they loved, that the suddenness of departure might be a little softened to those at home; but on the part of the soldiers there were no such applications. There were messages from many a quivering lip, sent to those who had not heard of the marching orders; there was grasping of hands, man with man, which meant more than tongues could say; and wives were folded by husband’s arms so tenderly as may never be but either in days of early love or at the approach of final separation.

And yet there was no cloud of sadness in the scene; on every side were words of cheer and encouragement—of loving hope and patriotic devotion; and when a light-hearted soldier, whose home was so far away that none of his kin were there to say good-bye, asked if there was nobody there to kiss him, he came near being smothered by a crowd of volunteers ready to officiate, not only for his mother, but for all the rest of his female ancestry.

At last came the regimental stores, for which we had waited, and with the call for “all aboard,” the last ties were broken, the last cheers were given, and the train drew slowly out from the station and from the city. But not away from tokens of good will. The country, too, was alive. Flags were streaming from every flag-staff, waving from the windows of the houses, and drooping from