LIST OF CHAPTERS
[PREFACE AND DEDICATION.]
My dear Friend,—
Indignation at my dedicating this book to you will be useless, since I am at present three thousand miles out of your reach. Moreover, this dedication is not intended as a public monument to our friendship;—I know too much for that. If that were the case, we should manage to quarrel even at this distance, I am quite confident, before the proof-sheets had left the press. But I can dedicate it to you alone of all my college friends, because you and I were brought so especially into the atmosphere of the man who inspired me to undertake it,—the man to whom, under God, I shall owe most of what grace and culture I may ever acquire. You and I know his wonderful unselfishness, his tender sympathy, his exquisite delicacy of thought and life, as well as others know his wit and his scholarship. It was while I was writing the opening pages of this story that the news of his death came. It was while my work was but half finished, that I was called away to the most remote and wildest portions of this great country of ours, and thus has my story become a sketch,—a bare outline of what I intended.
But, such as it is, you and a few others will know what I mean by it; and that point gained, the rest matters little. If by it one single heart is made to throb, even for an instant, with love of this country, of which we can never be too mindful nor too proud, my object will be gained. And now I commend to you this book.
Ever your friend,
FRED. W. LORING.
To Mr. Wm. W. Chamberlin.
“At dawn,” he said, “I bid them all farewell,
To go where bugles blow and rifles gleam.”
And with the waking thought asleep he fell,
And wandered into dream.
A great hot plain from lake to ocean spread,
Through it a level river slowly drawn:
He moved with a vast crowd, and at its head
Streamed banners like the dawn.
Then came a blinding flash, a deafening roar,
And dissonant cries of terror and dismay;
Blood trickled down the river’s reedy shore,
And with the dead he lay.
The morn broke in upon his solemn dream,
And still with steady pulse and deepening eye,
“Where bugles call,” he said, “and rifles gleam,
I follow, though I die.”
TWO COLLEGE FRIENDS.
“‘At dawn,’ he said, ‘I bid them all farewell,
To go where bugles blow and rifles gleam;’
And with the waking thought asleep he fell,
And wandered into dream.”
[I.]
THE LECTURE ON DOMESTIC ARTS.
It was quarter after two in the afternoon, and the Professor was sitting at his desk, engaged in arranging the notes of his lecture, when there came a knock on the door.
“Come in,” said the Professor. “Ah, Ned! is it you?” This to a graceful boy of twenty, who entered the room.
“Yes, it is Ned,” said the boy; “and he particularly wishes to see you for a few minutes.”
“Every moment is precious,” said the Professor, “until my lecture is in order. What is the matter? Are you in trouble?”
“Yes,” said Ned, “I am in trouble.”
“Then let me read to you,” said the Professor, “the concluding paragraph of my lecture on Domestic Arts.”
“Oh, don’t!” said Ned; “I really am in trouble.”
“Are you the insulter or the insulted, this time?” asked the Professor.
“Neither,” said Ned, shortly; “and I’m not in trouble on my own account.”
“Ah!” said the Professor; “then you have got into some difficulty in your explorations in low life; or you have spent more than your income; or it’s the perpetual Tom.”
“It’s the perpetual Tom,” said Ned.
“I supposed so,” observed the Professor. “What has that youth been doing now? Drinking, swearing, gambling, bad company, theft, murder?—out with it! I am prepared for anything, from the expression of your face; for anything, that is to say, except my lecture on Domestic Arts, which comes at three.”
“Well, if you choose to make fun of me,” said Ned, “I can go; but I thought you would advise me.”
“And so I will, you ridiculous creature, when you need it,” said the Professor; “only at such times you generally act for yourself. But, come; my advice and sympathy are yours; so what has Tom done?”
“He has fallen in love,” said Ned.
“Oh, no!” said the Professor.
“Yes, sir,” repeated Ned, more firmly, “he has fallen in love.”
“’Tis the way of all flesh,” said the Professor; “but I don’t think Tom can fall in love. He never even dislikes any one without a cause.”
“That’s all very well, sir,” said Ned; “but when a fellow has a girl’s picture, and looks at it when he thinks he isn’t watched; and when he receives notes, and keeps them, instead of throwing them around, as usual; and when he takes to being blue,—what do you say?”
“Please state your propositions separately,” said the Professor, “and I will endeavor to form an opinion. When a fellow has a girl’s picture,—what was the rest?”
“I wish you wouldn’t make fun of me,” said Ned.
“Well, in Heaven’s name, what is there to trouble you, if Tom is in love?” asked the Professor.
“Because he hasn’t told me,” said Ned.
“Oh! you are jealous then,” rejoined the Professor. “You are the most selfish person, for one who is so generous, that I have ever seen. You are morbid upon the subject of Tom, I believe.”
“Well, look here,” said Ned; “I have neither father nor mother; I have no one except Tom. I care more for him than for any one else in the world, as you know; but you never will know how much I care for him; and it does seem hard that he should shut me out of his confidence when I have done nothing to forfeit it. There’s some girl at the bottom of all this. He and that big Western friend of his, the Blush Rose, whom I never liked, have been off together two or three times; and, as I say, Tom has got this picture; and the Blush Rose knows it, and knows who she is. I’ve seen them looking at it, and admiring it. I’m afraid, from Tom’s not telling me about it, that he’s doing something out of the way.”
“In that case,” said the Professor, “you had better let me read you the closing paragraph of my lecture on Domestic Arts.”
“No, I thank you,” said Ned; “I shall have to hear it, any way, this afternoon.”
“So you will,” said the Professor; “and, by the way, I shall give you a private if you behave to-day as you did in my last lecture. I have told your class-tutor to warn you.”
“Well, that is pleasant,” said Ned.
“I meant it to be,” replied the Professor. “Good-by. I may call at your room to-night,—to see Tom.”
And, as Ned was heard going down the stairs, the Professor, seeing that he had still twenty-five minutes to spare, took his lecture, and sat down before the fire, which flickered slightly, and just served to destroy the dampness of that April day.
[II.]
THE PICTURE OVER THE FIREPLACE.
Whether the Professor would have made any alterations or amendments in his lecture, it is difficult to say; that he did not is due to the fact that his eye fell upon a little photograph, which hung over his fireplace. As he sits there, thinking over what Ned has told him, and laughing at the idea of Tom’s being really in love, he gazes on this little photograph, and smiles. The Professor has one or two real art treasures, but nothing that he values quite as much as this fading picture. This is the only copy in existence; and this hangs there, and will hang there until the Professor dies. How well he remembers the morning when the two boys, whom he loves so well, rushed into his room, and left it there! As he looks at it now, there is an expression of tenderness on his plain but strongly cut features that would greatly astonish those of his pupils who only know him as a crusty instructor.
The Professor is somewhat crusty, it must be owned. It is, however, an acquired and not a natural crustiness. Cause, the fact that at thirty years of age he discovered that he cared more for a certain Miss Spencer than for all the world beside. On intimating this fact to her, she told him that she should always value his friendship; and that she hoped soon to introduce to him her cousin Hugh, “who is,” she added quietly, “to become my husband.” After this the Professor withdrew almost entirely from society, and plunged deeper and deeper into study. Before many years his reputation was cosmopolitan, his head bald, and his life a matter of routine. Boys came and went; and at intervals he repeated before them much of what he knew. It is to these two boys, of whom he thinks now, as he gazes on the picture over the mantel, that he owes his rescue from this lethargic life.
What does he see in the picture? He sees behind a chair, in which a boy is sitting, another boy with soft, curling brown hair, deep blue eyes, and dazzling complexion. His features are delicately cut; but the especial beauty of his face is the brilliancy of color in his hair, eyes, and complexion. There is the freshness of youth on his features; and his whole attitude, as he leans over his companion, is full of that quaint grace of boyish tenderness so indefinable and so transitory. The boy in the chair has a face full of strength and weakness. The photograph makes him appear the more striking of the two, though the less handsome. The sunny sweetness of the first face, though it never alters, never becomes wearisome; but the second face is now all love, now disfigured by scorn and hatred, now full of intellect, and glowing with animation, now sullen and morose. The complexion is olive, the eyes brown, the lips strongly cut, yet so mobile as to be capable of every variety of earnest and sneering expression. The face is always, in all its varying phases, the face of one who is not dissatisfied but unsatisfied. This is what the Professor sees, as the firelight throws its glimmer over the room, making grotesque shadows waver fitfully on the pictures and books around him, as well as on the heavy curtains that hide the rays of afternoon light which struggle through the leafy boughs of the old elms in the yard without.
As the Professor sits there thinking, he seems to recall again the first visit of Tom and Ned to his room. Tom is a lovely boy,—the original of the standing figure in the photograph; and the Professor had been attracted by his face once or twice when he had met him in the yard, soon after his entrance into college. Still he is surprised, one evening, when he hears a knock at his door, and this Freshman enters half shyly. The Professor asks him to be seated, and then looks at him inquiringly.
“I was awfully homesick,” says Tom, with perfect trustfulness; “and mother told me that you were once a very dear friend of hers; so I thought I would come up and see you.” The Professor is bewildered. Still he is a gentleman; so he smiles, and says to Tom:—
“Pray be seated. Your mother is well, I trust.”
“Oh, yes!” says Tom. “Perhaps, as she hasn’t seen you since before I was born, I ought to have said who she was. Her name was Spencer.”
The Professor turns quickly. Tom proceeds with entire unconsciousness:—
“She often speaks of you, sir, and always in a way that has made me want to know you.”
“I am very glad, Tom,” said the Professor. “You must excuse my calling you by your first name; but then you are the son of—your mother.”
Any one but Tom, who never noticed anything, would have seen here that the Professor’s manner was peculiar. But Tom is always so brightly ignorant of what is before his eyes, that the Professor recovers his self-possession, and says calmly:—
“And your mother is well, I hope?”
“Oh, yes!” said Tom; “very well, but a little sad at my leaving home. She is very fond of me, sir.”
“Strange fact!” said the Professor, dryly. “And I see that you are equally fond of her. I am not given to moralizing; but I think that college life will not decay you, if you don’t forget how much you are to your mother,—how unhappy you can make her.”
“Forget her?” said Tom; “not I! When I am at home, I make love to her all the time.”
“Then,” said the Professor, “it is well that you have left home; for it will soon be time for you to make love to some one else.”
As the Professor makes this observation, there is another knock at the door, and Ned enters. Who is Ned? Ned is the original of the sitting figure in the little picture over the fireplace. He is despotic in character, and has therefore many sincere friends and enemies. He is fearless when indignant, and is indignant easily. He is not handsome as Tom is,—for Tom’s beauty charms you immediately, and the charm is never broken; but he has a curious grace and fascination of manner when he is not perverse; but then, he often is perverse.
The Professor cannot tell whether he likes Ned, or not. He has been giving Ned private tuition, to fit him for college, for nearly a year. All their acquaintance hitherto has been one of business, all their conversation confined to an occasional dry remark on either side. Now, when their contract is fulfilled, the Professor cannot imagine why Ned should take advantage of his general invitation, and visit him. Still he asks Ned to be seated, and then enters into conversation with him.
Ned talks. His keen eye has noted everything ludicrous and everything interesting among his instructors, among his classmates, among all the persons and things with which college life has brought him in contact. He is full of animation; he tells stories, all of which have a point; he sparkles with wit, which is none the less brilliant for having a certain boyish freshness about it. All this is a new revelation to the Professor. He laughs, and in his turn becomes entertaining; and, finally, going to his sideboard, produces three quaint glasses, which he fills with some of that rare and wonderful old Madeira, which many of his acquaintances have heard of, but which few have ever seen.
Tom, in the mean time, sits listening, radiant with enjoyment, with the firelight tinting his lovely face. “Such a jolly old fellow as this Professor is!” he says to himself; “and such a being as Ned!” He is happier than he has been since he left home; and he wishes his mother could look in upon them now; and he drains his glass to her health. He is puzzled because Ned will address his remarks only to the Professor, and seems shy whenever he speaks. Finally, conscious that it is growing late, he bids the Professor farewell, and Ned rises to accompany him. The Professor says then, with a courteous and quiet dignity:—
“Tom, you must give my regards to your mother, when you write. Tell her that her boy will be always an object of especial interest to her old friend.” Then, turning to Ned, the Professor adds, as Tom disappears in the entry:—
“I have to thank you for a very pleasant evening. You will come again, my boy, will you not? Why have you never before shown me what you really are?”
“It wasn’t for you, sir,” said Ned, with a certain frankness that was not discourteous. “It was for Tom, sir; though I like you, and hope we shall be friends. But the moment I saw Tom, I felt drawn towards him; and, as I saw him come up here, I felt that here was a chance to get acquainted with him. Good-night, sir.”
And Ned joined Tom at the foot of the stairs, leaving the Professor in a state of complete bewilderment. The Professor laughs now, as he recalls that evening, and looks again at the picture over the fireplace.
“They are an interesting pair,—a sunbeam and a volcano,” he says; and, throwing on his cloak, just as the bell begins to ring, he starts for his lecture-room.
[III.]
HE MOVED WITH A VAST CROWD.
It was just after supper; and the Professor, with his thoughts still occupied by Tom and Ned, walked slowly toward his room through the dimly-lighted yard, where the twilight was half dispelled by the gleams of gas-light that stole from the windows around. He sauntered along, enjoying the sweet spring air of the evening, and touching his hat to one boy after another until he came by Ned’s entry, when he turned, and took his way to the room of his boys. He had stopped, as he passed through the square, for his paper, and had noticed that a crowd seemed to be eagerly and excitedly discussing the news of the evening around the post-office. Pausing an instant in the entry to look at his paper, before ascending the stairs, his eye fell on an announcement which caused him to utter an exclamation of surprise; and he rushed eagerly into the room, with the words:—
“Boys, have you heard the news?”
Ned turned from the glass, where he was tying his cravat, and Tom raised himself from his lounge; but before either of them had an opportunity to answer, the Professor said:—
“There has been a quarrel here. Now, boys, I must know all about it. See, I’m going to spring the lock, and have you clear your minds at once.”
“There’s nothing to clear,” said Tom.
“Speak for yourself, if you please,” said the Professor. “You may not have a mind at all; but I know that Ned has, to a limited extent. Doubtless you are both wrong; so let me see which will be gentleman enough to apologize first. Come, boys, this matter must be set right. ‘Let not the sun go down upon your wrath’ is one of the best pieces of advice ever given.”
“It is after sunset now,” said Ned; “and we are not both wrong. I am right.”
“Cheerful self-confidence,” said the Professor. “Please let me understand the cause of wrath.”
“Simply because I object to the Blush Rose,” said Ned. “I say that he has come between us.”
“And I say”—broke in Tom.
“Hush, Tom!” said the Professor, “until Ned has finished.”
“I have nothing more to say,” said Ned, “except that Tom must, once for all, choose between us.”
“Very well,” said Tom; “as you please; only, while I don’t care for any fellow as I do for you, I’m not going to submit to dictation.”
“You’re entangled with some woman, through Blodgett,” said Ned. “He’s a nice associate for a gentleman, he is.”
“I entangled with a woman!” repeated Tom. “Why, Ned! you’re crazy.”
“Whose picture is it that you are carrying?” asked Ned.
“Oh, thunder!” said Tom; “is that what all this row is about?”
“I suppose you’ve fallen in love, and in Junior year too!” continued Ned, wrathfully and contemptuously.
“Juniors have done such things before,” observed the Professor.
“Fallen in love!” said Tom; “as if I’d do that! Look here, old fellow, if you knew about that picture, you’d ask my pardon.”
“Well, as I don’t, I shan’t,” said Ned.
“Come, boys,” said the Professor, “this ridiculous quarrel, worthy only of a couple of little children, has gone quite far enough. Ned, I think you are petulant and absurd; but if you will go out for a few minutes, and take a short walk, Tom will unbosom himself to me, I am sure.”
“Well, I call that cheek, to turn a man out of his own room,” said Ned.
“Correct that sentence, please, Ned,” said the Professor. “You would call it cheek if it were not done by a member of the Faculty. There, be off with you. And now, Tom, tell your story.”
“I haven’t any,” said Tom; “only Ned is in one of his moods.”
“Then you are not in love,” said the Professor.
“Why, no!” said Tom, “how could I be?”
“I don’t know,” replied the Professor; “but people are sometimes. And have you a secret connected with that fat, red-faced brute, Blodgett, whom you call the Blush Rose?”
“Well, yes,” said Tom: “it’s about a photograph.”
“Let us see this photograph,” said the Professor. “Explain!”
“Why, it’s a surprise for Ned, don’t you see?” said Tom. “It’s the proof picture of me in the last theatricals. See, there I am as Marton, the Pride of the Market.”
“What a mistake nature made about your sex, Tom!” said the Professor. “You dear little peasant girl, put yourself away directly; and now take my advice: show it to Ned; it will make him ashamed of his folly, and will prevent any further angry words between you. It is hard to quarrel, and so you will think some day, though now you find it so easy. There, put it away; for I hear Ned’s footsteps on the stairs! Come in, Ned! Why! what has happened?”
For Ned, standing in the open door-way, his perverse moodiness all gone, wore an expression the Professor had never seen before.
“Happened!” said Ned. “Something to live for, something to die for. We know now that we have a country. Haven’t you heard the news?”
“Dear me!” said the Professor, “that’s what I came to tell you; but your quarrel drove it out of my head.”
“How could anything else come into your head?” said Ned.
“Tell me what it is,” asked Tom, impatiently.
“The President has called the people to arms, to aid him in saving the country,” said Ned, fairly glowing as he spoke.
“Yes,” said the Professor, “is it not grand to think that we are aroused at last?”
“Well,” said Ned, “I have still more to tell you. I have enlisted.”
There was a pause of a few moments; then the Professor grasped Ned’s hand, and said simply:—
“My noble boy!”
“What do you say, Tom?” asked Ned.
“I’m going with you, old fellow,” said Tom; and he threw his arm over Ned’s shoulder, and smiled at the Professor.
[IV.]
NED’S NOTE-BOOK.
It is well that I formed the habit of keeping a note-book some time ago. How interesting what I am now writing will be to my wife and children in years to come, when I sit before my own fire, in my own house! The college chronicle of funny adventures and curious stories that my note-book has previously contained is suspended for a time; and I am thinking of matters of life and death now. Well, it is splendid to have a life to lose; and the thought of death, in this cause, has a grand, awful thrill in it, that drives away all the former terror death has possessed for me. These remarks are intended as an opening of my war note-book. Here am I, just twenty-one, and a captain,—a whole captain. It is absurd; no, it isn’t. Col. Burke is raising a regiment. He has as much superfluity about him as an iron nail has, and no more. He was introduced to me about a week ago, and was told about my visits to the people around Crescent Court. People will make me out a philanthropist, which I am not; for I despise most people I know, though the lower classes are quite interesting, but dirty. I never talked religion to any of those creatures in my life. I have given them very little in charity; but I have listened to what they say as I would to my own classmates; and, having talked with them at the North End, I have bowed to them at the West End. In a word, I have carried les convenances into Richmond Street, and have not electioneered. Result, I have some influence, which is useless, except in keeping me clear of pickpockets. So the colonel would have me raise a company. I laughed at the idea, but consented to try; and here are over fifty recruits already. I told them that I had about as much to learn as any of them, and agreed to have the captain elected by vote, myself becoming a private. I should have been very much disgusted if they had taken me at my word; but they didn’t. So I am a captain; but my lieutenants are still to be found.
Tom is full of patriotism. I never can tell how deeply a sentiment enters his mind; but he is fretting terribly about going with me. How I wish he could! but his father very sensibly advises him to wait a year longer, till he is through at Harvard; and his mother is in great distress at the idea of his leaving her. The Professor is non-committal on the subject.
This morning entered Jane Ellen Bingley to the recruiting office, where I was receiving enlistments. Jane Ellen is limp in appearance, but energetic in character. Her bonnet was wine-colored velvet; her shawl draggled green, with a habit of falling off her shoulders as she talked; and her gown was calico. By the bonnet I recognized her. She is the chief attraction at one of the North Street dance-houses, and entertains an admiration for me of which I am utterly undeserving. I have so often declined in forcible language to dance with her, that I did not suppose she could feel pleasantly toward me; but she came forward and said:—
“Here’s my man!”
Her man was a stout fellow, rather stupid-looking, with a dyed mustache. Jane Ellen herself is really very pretty, and might possibly reform, if she was sent away from here. Reformation, when possible, is only possible through removal. So Jane Ellen having presented her man, I said briefly:—
“What of it?”
Thereupon Jane Ellen explained that her man wished to enlist, and that she wished him to come under me, as she knew I’d be a good captain to the poor boy. Sensible of the compliment, I suggested to Jane Ellen the propriety of marrying him first. In that way I explained to her he would send her his salary (I could not say wages, Jane Ellen being American); he would have some object for working his way up from the ranks; and he would have a home to think of, when away, wounded, sick, or expecting to die. All these things would benefit him greatly. I regret to say that Michael appeared more affected than Jane Ellen at the pictures I drew. Jane Ellen’s answer, which only came after considerable reflection, was, to say the least, peculiar.
“I never expected to live to be a married woman,” she remarked; “and it’s a queer home I’d be able to make for anybody. However, it may do Mike good; so I’ll do it. So, Mike, I’ll marry you right off, and endeavor to be a decent woman,—until you come back from the war again;” which last clause was prudently added.
Another quarrel with Tom; and this time the Professor admits that I am right. Tom begs me to write, and solicit his parents’ consent; and I won’t do it; so Tom sulks,—that is the only word,—and will not be appeased.
He even declares that I wish to get rid of him, when it will almost break my heart to go without him. If that boy only knew what he was to me, who am without father, mother, or family of my own, and with almost no friends, except the Professor! However, for the same reason that I have never yet visited him at his house, because I did not wish to have our attachment or my character analyzed or criticised by his parents, I will not say a word now. I believe it will do him good to go; for I know the thought of going has done me good.
The Professor has a plan, he says, and wishes me to be at home to-night, so that he can tell it to me.
The Professor has told me a great deal more than he has actually said. I know now why he cares so much for Tom; and I should like to see Tom’s mother. I wonder if a woman will ever change my life; and I wonder if I shall ever care for any woman as much as I do for Tom. The Professor says that Tom must go; that he is fretting himself sick now, and that it will develop his manliness of character. He thinks I am right in not interfering, however, and says that he is going to try what he can do. Dear old fellow! His face flushed, and he gave a curious sort of gulp, as he said:—
“She always respected me; and I think she would let Tom go, if I advised her to do so.”
“Then shall you write to her?” I asked.
“No, Ned,” he said; “I shall go and visit her, and start to-morrow. The first time in twenty years,—dear me, the first time in twenty years! How old I am getting to be!”
I knew what he meant; and I honored his pluck. I should sort of like to be in love myself; but I am half afraid to think about it. Oh, well! there will be plenty of time when the war is over. The Professor is to start to-morrow; and Tom is not to know about it.
My first lieutenant is a treasure. His name is Murphy; and he is a retired rough, by profession, but he has splendid stuff in him. Our acquaintance had a peculiar beginning. I was drilling a squad of men, and not succeeding very well in what I was about, when this giant loafed in, and began to make a disturbance. I looked at him, and saw that remonstrance would be in vain; so I knocked him down, seeing my opportunity to do so effectively. My men laughed. The giant raised himself in astonishment.
“You can’t do that again,” said he. Another laugh from the chorus.
“I know it,” said I. Still another laugh.
“I could just walk through you in two minutes,” he growled, with an oath.
“I believe you,” said I; “and I shall give you a chance to, if you don’t keep quiet.”
He kept quiet for a time. Then, while I was trying some manœuvre, he came up and said, quite politely:—
“Perhaps I can help you.”
“Thanks,” said I; “do you know anything about it?” Then Murphy informed me that he had been in several places where there had been fighting; and I saw he was far my superior in many respects. So, when I got him to enlist, and found that he was thoroughly interested, and that the men liked him with a feeling of fellowship that they will never have for me, I hope, I talked with the colonel about making him my first lieutenant; and it is now a fait accompli. Murphy’s delight and gratitude at receiving his commission knew no bounds; and several of his cousins enlisted immediately. He has now a sense of personal devotion to me that will help me greatly. Dear me, how old and mature and self-reliant I am growing! and, three weeks ago, I was such a baby! Murphy is the second largest and second strongest man of us all. The largest is a large-eyed, half-crazy clairvoyant, gentle as a dove, and strong as an ox. I found him weeping the other day; and, somewhat disgusted, as well as astonished, asked the cause. Result was, that he said he wept about me. I was not to die in battle, nor in sickness, but was to meet with a dishonorable death for a dishonorable action. Tom and Murphy were furious; but I couldn’t be before the two or three men who heard it; so I treated the affair as a good joke. The boys call this fellow Mooney; which name is appropriate certainly. Tom has been in two or three times to drill. He studies Hardee incessantly; practises by himself all that he can, and would form himself into a whole squad, and drill himself, if it were possible. He is even getting into the way of planning battles and movements, and is perfectly wild at each report in the newspapers. I never saw him in such a state before, over anything. His lessons must be suffering in consequence; and I don’t dare to think of the number of times he has cut prayers.
Hurrah! I wish pencil and paper could yell with joy; and then a fearful noise would issue from this note-book!
The Professor has sent me by telegraph the announcement that Tom is to go with me. It is brief; but I have read it with delight a dozen times:—
“All right! Please send him home immediately!”
I know of nothing which has ever given me more pleasure than those seven words. Tom has gone off in the most remarkably vague state of mind; and I am going to see my colonel this evening, to find out whether his youth (though, as he is not quite two years younger than myself, perhaps I should say our youth) will unfit him for the position of second lieutenant. Any way, he’s going; and that’s enough to make me happy for the rest of the war. The only thing that troubles me is Mooney’s prediction, which keeps ringing in my ears. I am not to die in battle, nor by sickness, but to receive a dishonorable death for a dishonorable action. I don’t care for the death so much; but I do pray to God, that, while I am in my country’s holy service at least, I may not soil my soul. What a sentence! Well, I’m safe in knowing that no one but myself will ever see this note-book.