calculations; and the vivid
contrast between the ragged, shoeless and incongruous army of the South
with the sleek, spruce garrison surrendered to them, only heightened
the zest of the victory and the anticipation of those to follow.

But a sudden check was to come to this mid-career of anticipation, and
a pall of doubt and dismay was to drape the fair form of Hope, even in
her infancy.

Two days after the fall of Harper's Ferry--on the 17th of
September--Lee had massed some 35,000 men on the banks of the Antietam,
near Sharpsburg--a village ten miles north-east of Harper's Ferry.
McClellan, pressing him hard with an army four times his own
numbers--composed in part of raw levies and hastily-massed militia, and
in part of the veterans of the armies of the Potomac--seemed determined
on battle. Trusting in the valor and reliability of his troops, and
feeling the weakness of being pressed by an enemy he might chastise,
the southern chief calmly awaited the attack--sending couriers to
hasten the advance of A. P. Hill, Walker and McLaws, whose divisions
had not yet come up.

Ushered in by a heavy attack the evening before--which was heavily
repulsed--the morning of the 17th saw one of the bloodiest and most
desperate fights in all the horrid records of that war. Hurling his
immense masses against the rapidly dwindling Confederate line; only to
see them reel back shattered and broken--McClellan strove to crush his
adversary by sheer strength. No sooner would one attacking column
waver, break, retreat--leaving a writhing and ghastly wake behind
it--than a fresh host would hurl against the adamantine line that sunk
and shriveled under the resistless fire, but never wavered. In all the
fearful carnage of the war--whether resulting in gloom, like that of
Corinth, or purchasing brilliant victory with precious blood--men never
fought better than did that battle-torn, service-worn handful that had
just saved Richmond--broken the glittering, brazen vessel of
destruction; and now sent its defiant yell through hostile mountains.

All that valor and endurance could do had been done; and at
mid-afternoon the battle seemed well-nigh lost. Just then the missing
divisions--some 12,000 men--reached the field. Wearied, unfed and
footsore, they were; but the scent of battle rested and refreshed them
as they went into the thickest of the fight. But even they could not
save the day. Outnumbered and shattered, but unconquered still, the
Con