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the army of the Potomac are now obliged to sign their communications with their real name. This general order is of course intended to check the freedom of criticism, which has of late become rather too plain-spoken to be agreeable to the irascible Chief. But it is difficult to gag an undaunted "special;" so every morning the last intelligence streams forth--fresh, strong, and rather coarsely flavored--like new whisky from a still. The sobriety of the weekly journals contrasts refreshingly with the license of their diurnal brethren. Sporting papers are nearly the same all the world over; but, in the rest of these placid periodicals, there is little of violence or virulence to be found. They are enthusiastic about the war, of course, and occasionally querulous about the Copperheads; but they never quarrel among themselves, and are seldom thoroughly savage with any one or anything. They generally contain a chapter or two borrowed, with or without permission, from some English story in progress--"Eleanor's Victory" is the favorite now--the rest of the non-illustrated pages are filled with the very mildest little tales that, I think, ever were penned. These simple romancers in nowise resemble the vitriolic melo-dramatists--scarcely caricatured by _Punch_ in "Mokeanna,"--who try to drug, in default of intoxicating their audience; the liquor they proffer in their pretty flimsy cups, if not exciting, is far from deleterious; not unfrequently you catch glimpses of an under-current of honest pathos, soon smothered by garish flowers of language; and sometimes the style sparkles into mild effervescence, redeeming itself from utter vapidity; these ephemerals, indeed, belong rather to the lemonade than the milk-and-water class; but, throughout, there is a woeful want of _verve_ and virility. It was inexpressibly refreshing, after loitering through twenty such pages, to revert to the "History of the Crimean War:" the curt, nervous periods were a powerful mental tonic; and few of his many readers owe so practical a debt to Mr. Kinglake as the writer of these words. CHAPTER X. DARK DAYS. So--heavier with each link--the chain of days dragged on. My room mate soon thawed into a stolid sociability, and was quite disposed to be communicative; but his narrative riches about matched those of the knife-grinder, and his military experience of one year only embraced one battle--that of Manassas. His ideas of English societ
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