The next morning, when the men debarked to march through Baltimore, every one was on the qui vive to fasten in his memory the scene of the shameful attack upon the soldiers of Massachusetts on the 19th of April.  But, as the line marched proudly down Pratt Street, there were no signs of the hostile spirit that made Baltimore a center of doubt and suspicion in the North for many a day afterward.  It was, however, when the train dashed out from among the hills to the northwest of the sheet of water behind the capitol that the Caribees glued their eyes to the panes in awe not unmingled with delight.  No American will ever look upon that imperial dome again with the sensations that filled the breasts of those who first saw its rounded outlines in the war epoch.  What the ark of the covenant was to the armies that marched in the wilderness, or the cross of St. Peter to the pilgrims approaching Rome, that the great dome, towering cloud ward in the perpetual blue, was to the wondering eye of the soldier as his glance first fell upon it; that it was for months—­yes, ever after—­on the plains of Arlington and in the deadly exhalations of the Chickahominy.  Every one looked anxiously to see signs of war—­indeed, since leaving Baltimore, there was a delicious feeling of suspense—­as the train shot over embankments or skirted the deep pine woods.  Perhaps an adventurous rebel vanguard might attack them.  Perhaps they might have the glory of fighting their way to the beleaguered capital.  Perhaps Father Abraham might come out and smile benignantly at them for a brave deed well done.  Faces flushed and eyes sparkled in the delightful anticipation:  and some of the ardent spirits, more eager than the others, loaded their muskets to be ready!  But, beyond the Federal picket-post at the stations, no sign of war was soon, nor much sign of hostilities, such as the vivid fancies of the raw young warriors conjured.

But now the train was at rest, and the officers—­who had not been seen during the journey—­turned out in resplendent plumery.  The station—­in those days a tumble-down barrack—­was already crowded with soldiery.  The Caribees were aligned along the track, the officers so bewildered by the confusion that it was by a miracle some of the groups of moving men were not run over by the backing engines.  After an interminable delay, the band set up “We’re coming down to Washington to fight for Abraham’s daughter!” and with exuberant joy a thousand pairs of legs kept brisk step and elastic movement to the inspiriting strain.  Now the longing eyes see the circumstance and even some of the pomp of war.  The regiment debouches into Pennsylvania Avenue, under the very shadow of the Capitol, which looks sadly shabby and disproportioned to the eyes that had an hour or two before opened in such admiration at the first view.  But there is no time for architectural criticism.  They are moving down the avenue toward the White House, toward the home of that patient,