to speak, and, in a measure, they had my sympathy; yet such interest was mystery rather than fact, theoretical rather than practical.  I could fill these pages with pathetic and humorous sayings heard in the camps, for my memory peculiarly exerted itself to retain—­or rather, I should say, spontaneously retained—­what I saw and heard; saw and heard with the least emotion, perhaps, ever experienced by a soldier.  Absorbed in reflections on what I heard, and in fancies of a world of which I knew so little, it is not to be doubted that I constructed ideals far beyond the humdrum reality of home life, impracticable ideals that tended only to separate me more from other men.  Their world was not my world; this I knew full well, and I sometimes thought they knew it; for while no rude treatment marked their intercourse with me, yet few sought me as a friend.  My weak attempts to become companionable had failed and had left me more morose.  But for the Captain and for Joe Bellot, I should have been hopeless.

Such had been my feelings before I had willed; now, in a degree, everything was changed; indifference, at least, was gone, and although I was yet subject to the strange experience which ruled my mind and hindered it, yet I knew that I had large power over myself, and I hoped that I should always determine to live the life of a healthy human being, that I should be able to accept the relationships which, through Company H, bound me to all men and all things, and that my interest henceforth would be diversified—­touching the world and what is in it rather than myself alone.  But this was mere hope; the only certain change was in the banishment of my former indifference.

* * * * *

The morning of Thursday, the 26th of June, passed away, and we yet held our place in the line.  At two o’clock the long roll was heard in every regiment.  Our knapsacks had been piled, to be stored in Richmond.

“Fall in, Company H!  Fall in, men!  Fall in promptly!" shouted Orderly-sergeant Mackay.

By fours we went to rear and left, then northward at a rapid stride.  Some of the men tried to jest, and failed.

At three o’clock we were crossing Meadow Bridge; we could see before us and behind us long lines of infantry—­Lee’s left wing in motion.

Beyond the bridge the column filed right; A.P.  Hill came riding back along the line of the Light Division.

Suddenly, from over the hills a mile and more away, comes the roar of cannon.  We leave the road and march through fields and meadows; the passing of the troops ahead has cleared the way; we go through gaps in rail fences.

And now we hear the crash of small arms, and smoke is rising from our left oblique.  We are yet under the hill.  We halt and wait.  The noise of battle grows.  Sunset comes—­we move.  The next company on our right is passing through a gap in a fence.  A shell strikes the topmost rail at the left and hurls it clear over their heads.  Then I see men pale, and I know that my own face is white.