ated to carry a heavy cargo rather than to make fast
time. He must have been in politics at some time or other, for he made
orations to all the "Secesh," in which he explained to them that the
United States considered and treated them like children, and enforced
upon them the ridiculous impossibility of the Rebels attempting to do
anything against such a power as that of the National Government.

Much as his discourse edified them and enlightened me, it interfered
somewhat with my little plans of entering into frank and friendly talk
with some of these poor fellows, for whom I could not help feeling a kind
of human sympathy, though I am as venomous a hater of the Rebellion as
one is like to find under the stars and stripes. It is fair to take a
man prisoner. It is fair to make speeches to a man. But to take a man
prisoner and then make speeches to him while in durance is not fair.

I began a few pleasant conversations, which would have come to something
but for the reason assigned.

One old fellow had a long beard, a drooping eyelid, and a black clay pipe
in his mouth. He was a Scotchman from Ayr, dour enough, and little
disposed to be communicative, though I tried him with the "Twa Briggs,"
and, like all Scotchmen, he was a reader of "Burrns." He professed to
feel no interest in the cause for which he was fighting, and was in the
army, I judged, only from compulsion. There was a wild-haired, unsoaped
boy, with pretty, foolish features enough, who looked as if he might be
about seventeen, as he said he was. I give my questions and his answers
literally.

"What State do you come from?"

"Georgy."

"What part of Georgia?"

"Midway."

--[How odd that is! My father was settled for seven years as pastor over
the church at Midway, Georgia, and this youth is very probably a grandson
or great grandson of one of his parishioners.]

"Where did you go to church when you were at home?"

"Never went inside 'f a church b't once in m' life."

"What did you do before you became a soldier?"

"Nothin'."

"What do you mean to do when you get back?"

"Nothin'."

Who could have any other feeling than pity for this poor human weed, this
dwarfed and etiolated soul, doomed by neglect to an existence but one
degree above that of the idiot?

With the group was a lieutenant, buttoned close in his gray coat,--one
button gone, perhaps to make a breastpin for some fair traitorous bosom.
A short, stocky man, undistinguis