At intervals, a dead horse lay by the roadside, or in the fields, unburied, not grateful to gods or men.  I saw no bird of prey, no ill-omened fowl, on my way to the carnival of death, or at the place where it had been held.  The vulture of story, the crow of Talavera, the “twa corbies” of the ghastly ballad, are all from Nature, doubtless; but no black wing was spread over these animal ruins, and no call to the banquet pierced through the heavy-laden and sickening air.

Full in the middle of the road, caring little for whom or what they met, came long strings of army wagons, returning empty from the front after supplies.  James Grayden stated it as his conviction that they had a little rather run into a fellow than not.  I liked the looks of these equipages and their drivers; they meant business.  Drawn by mules mostly, six, I think, to a wagon, powdered well with dust, wagon, beast, and driver, they came jogging along the road, turning neither to right nor left,—­some driven by bearded, solemn white men, some by careless, saucy-looking negroes, of a blackness like that of anthracite or obsidian.  There seemed to be nothing about them, dead or alive, that was not serviceable.  Sometimes a mule would give out on the road; then he was left where he lay, until by and by he would think better of it, and get up, when the first public wagon that came along would hitch him on, and restore him to the sphere of duty.

It was evening when we got to Middletown.  The gentle lady who had graced our homely conveyance with her company here left us.  She found her husband, the gallant Colonel, in very comfortable quarters, well cared for, very weak from the effects of the fearful operation he had been compelled to undergo, but showing calm courage to endure as he had shown manly energy to act.  It was a meeting full of heroism and tenderness, of which I heard more than there is need to tell.  Health to the brave soldier, and peace to the household over which so fair a spirit presides!

Dr. Thompson, the very active and intelligent surgical director of the hospitals of the place, took me in charge.  He carried me to the house of a worthy and benevolent clergyman of the German Reformed Church, where I was to take tea and pass the night.  What became of the Moravian chaplain I did not know; but my friend the Philanthropist had evidently made up his mind to adhere to my fortunes.  He followed me, therefore, to the house of the “Dominie.” as a newspaper correspondent calls my kind host, and partook of the fare there furnished me.  He withdrew with me to the apartment assigned for my slumbers, and slept sweetly on the same pillow where I waked and tossed.  Nay, I do affirm that he did, unconsciously, I believe, encroach on that moiety of the couch which I had flattered myself was to be my own through the watches of the night, and that I was in serious doubt at one time whether I should not be gradually, but irresistibly, expelled from the bed which I had supposed