There being but three thousand of these cave-dwellers—­merely the population of a village—­would they not come to know each other, after a week or two, and familiarly; insomuch that the fortunate or unfortunate experiences of one would be of interest to all?

Those are the materials furnished by history.  From them might not almost anybody reproduce for himself the life of that time in Vicksburg?  Could you, who did not experience it, come nearer to reproducing it to the imagination of another non-participant than could a Vicksburger who did experience it?  It seems impossible; and yet there are reasons why it might not really be.  When one makes his first voyage in a ship, it is an experience which multitudinously bristles with striking novelties; novelties which are in such sharp contrast with all this person’s former experiences that they take a seemingly deathless grip upon his imagination and memory.  By tongue or pen he can make a landsman live that strange and stirring voyage over with him; make him see it all and feel it all.  But if he wait?  If he make ten voyages in succession—­what then?  Why, the thing has lost color, snap, surprise; and has become commonplace.  The man would have nothing to tell that would quicken a landsman’s pulse.

Years ago, I talked with a couple of the Vicksburg non-combatants—­a man and his wife.  Left to tell their story in their own way, those people told it without fire, almost without interest.

A week of their wonderful life there would have made their tongues eloquent for ever perhaps; but they had six weeks of it, and that wore the novelty all out; they got used to being bomb-shelled out of home and into the ground; the matter became commonplace.  After that, the possibility of their ever being startlingly interesting in their talks about it was gone.  What the man said was to this effect:—­

’It got to be Sunday all the time.  Seven Sundays in the week—­to us, anyway.  We hadn’t anything to do, and time hung heavy.  Seven Sundays, and all of them broken up at one time or another, in the day or in the night, by a few hours of the awful storm of fire and thunder and iron.  At first we used to shin for the holes a good deal faster than we did afterwards.  The first time, I forgot the children, and Maria fetched them both along.  When she was all safe in the cave she fainted.  Two or three weeks afterwards, when she was running for the holes, one morning, through a shell-shower, a big shell burst near her, and covered her all over with dirt, and a piece of the iron carried away her game-bag of false hair from the back of her head.  Well, she stopped to get that game-bag before she shoved along again!  Was getting used to things already, you see.  We all got so that we could tell a good deal about shells; and after that we didn’t always go under shelter if it was a light shower.  Us men would loaf around and talk; and a man would say, ‘There she goes!’ and name the kind