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