A cadet from Annapolis was the first object that met my eye when I got out.

“’S death! a Virginian in that hated uniform?”

I said no such thing, felt no such thing, but was inwardly pleased that Uncle Sam’s money (he gets ten millions a year out of Virginia tobacco, and then brags about what he does for our children, the sly old dog!) was educating some of our boys who otherwise might not be educated half so well, if at all.  Moreover, the broad shoulders, the trim flanks, the aquiline nose, brown hair and ruddy cheeks of the young fellow recalled the best specimens of British lads whom I had seen in Canada and elsewhere.  In truth, I could hardly persuade myself that he was not English.

Albion was in the air, for on the other side of the depot there was a lot of trunks and other baggage, the make of which could not be mistaken.  I soon learned that one of the best estates in the neighborhood had been sold to an Englishman, who had arrived that very day.

“Furies! the sacred soil of Virginia again passing into the hands of the blarsted Hinglish, from whom it was wrested a century ago by the blood and treasure of George Washington’s hatchet!  A Federal cadet on one side and an Englishman on the other of Blank Depot, away off here in Bedford!  What are we coming to?”

I did not say or think this either, but was delighted to find John Bull pervading the Old Dominion.

Another and a bitterer pill, had I been as disloyal as I was five years ago, and ought to be now, awaited me, as you shall hear.

But where is that ambulance?  The blessed vehicle was there, and, after so long and painful a separation, we should have met face to face if it had not been backed up to the platform to receive—­whom? me?  No, a parcel of ladies, who filled every seat.  My inflammable Southside soul would have burst into a high blaze at this if a gentleman had not immediately stepped forward with a snug jug of whisky.  Whisky in any vessel I love, but whisky in a jug not too big to handle easily I adore.  My viznomy relaxed, a beam of joy began to irradiate my features, when to my extreme surprise the benevolent jug-gentleman said, “Take a glass of claret punch”—­he had the glass as well as the jug—­“won’t you, sir?”

Amazement! claret punch in a jug at a depot in the heart, or at any rate the pericardium, of Bedford county!  Where was I? who was I? what was my name? and where was I going to?  In my life I was never more nonplussed.

The ambulance drove off, and I was consigned to a spring wagon with a white boy for a driver.

“How far is it to the general’s?” I ventured to ask as I stepped in.

“Eight miles.”

“Whew!”

“Never mind, sir:  we shall be there in an hour and a half.”

And off we went like the wind.  He drove very boldly and at the same time very cautiously, avoiding the numerous stumps, stones and ruts with admirable dexterity.  I began to suspect that the boy was not a Virginia boy.  When at length we reached the smooth stage-road I began to question him:  “Are you the general’s son?”