Branch sends back an indignant hoot at the invasion of his nightly prerogative.

We had charade and tableau parties too, jolly impromptus full of spirit and fun. It would be impossible to paint the wondrous characters ransacked from history, sacred and profane, till one lost his personal identity and cognomen altogether; to eulogize fairly the Peak-and-Hutchinson family, and their solos in Bingo; to praise the acting of our cook at the picnic, who was now the Proteus of theatricals. We might tell how we attempted a serenade. We waited shivering for people to go to bed. People as persistently burned the midnight oil. Then parlors darkened, and we began our quaver. Then our voices grew firmer, and we poured out sadness and jollity, anthem and negro melody, in most unmerciful medley. Then the lights flashed forth, the windows opened, and, alas! the posies stuck in the tree-top, and we captured only one. So we say no more about it, and bear gently on the fact that the fair object of our mournful gushings disappointed our sorrow, instead of departing, as she was implicitly pledged to do, by appearing on the river next day,— a fact whereof the writer was cognizant. Then we had dances of the liveliest kind, to calling both original and happy. What mattered it that three strings snapt in our fiddle, so long as our Orpheus got on as well? Then at last the ladies found their voices, and the dance went on till all were joyously tired. Where will you find such gayety with such refinement? There were drawbacks, to be sure. The nine and five o'clock observations galled us. But we weathered all that, though rallied on our drowsiness by those who made us early ten o'clock calls. A rainy day came with its pleasures, inches of water in the boats, and a stream of water in the neck. Each had peculiar trials. The row-locks of one comrade's ark perpetually sought to illustrate secession. One of our riflemen was much annoyed by the nervousness of neighbors, and described with graphic ire the apparition of a husbandman, who must needs be in a tree through which his bullet whistled. The writer was a victim in the matter of boats. His feelings on the subject are too deep for

utterance.

six

One more picture of Egg Rock, its hut, and camp-fire. Six of us camp there one night under direction of a gallant soldier of Bull Run. The last of us, coming in at eleven, find a fire of more solid dimensions than usual, glowing and crackling in a way that promised a fine bed of coals. Our host inhospitably seeks his lair, and goes off into

a mild but promising roar. A blue-jacket friend, fond of boating and camping out, coils himself away in a corner of the tent. The rest of us circulate, not eager for sleep. We try the tent and hut, we stop to have a general laugh over the oddities of our situation, and the attitudes of the sleepers; finally, we lie down on the hill-side, with our feet to the fire and the trees over us. The soldier sleeps in one of those sterling overcoats, in which the First marched through Cambridge, to the delight of the gallant Cowdin. A strapping Senior rolls himself in a buffalo robe, while the Junior lies between them in a shawl. Soon we are all asleep, with the exception of one, who keeps awake laughing at us, and tormenting the tenant of the but. We commence an opera. No. 1 begins with a firm bass, No. 2 follows with shrill tenor, while No. 3 causes variations by executing the bugle-calls. Then all unite in a deafening chorus, as if we had eaten a gluttonous ration of earthquake, with alarming results. The laughter of the volunteer sentinel awakens some of us, to find the Senior's toes protruding toward the fire. Doubting whether his partiality for roast corn will cover this case, we rub the smoking fur until he starts up with the snort of an angry bear, and we join in a laugh at our mutually grotesque apparitions. Then we must have a short jubilee of jokes and laughter, to which our drowsy comrade of the puns responds with mildly jovial "Ho, ho! Ha, ha!" While we are wooding up, he advances to the front of the shanty, exclaiming in his sleep, with maudlin majesty, "O fellers, come in, all come in!" and then collapses into his former condition. So we rouse him to join our revels, and immediately take up our chorus where we left it. After another tempestuous season, we wake to find the same rash comrade's feet in danger, to hear a like story of our host's misconduct, and to shake ourselves for the first observation, well pleased with our experiment.

The next day we are told to finish our work at noon. The writer returns his volume with useful memoranda, and a gratuitous burlesque on Excelsior. We take our farewell row and evening ride, meet our many friends, and give, as a grand finale, one of those musical soirees for which we are so justly famous. For the last time we flaunt through those streets, proud in the gorgeous paraphernalia of the Harvard Cadets. For the last time we visit the landing, from which we have so often gazed on the monument and bridge, and the cheering Egg Rock beacon gleaming over the meadow. A glorious sunset has brought again this lovely scene of deep shade on the

meadow under the hill, the sweep of quiet water, and the drooping trees reflected in it on the margin of either bend. For the last time we sit on the rude old station, in the full, rich flood of moonlight, musing of old times, while the light on the jewel-dropping point seems to shine from kindly eyes, and the joy of these few days comes gushing over us, till a cap falls in the water and wakes us from the revery, to find the night-dews falling, and the boat just floating away. Another morning finds us on our way to College, and a few days reconcile us to a life that is always pleasant. Yet, as we begin the sober work of excavation, our thoughts will sometimes turn away. We call to mind that once in a former crisis the College in a body removed to Concord, and ask, "Is the crisis less or Concord less fascinating now?" And as we call up the pleasures and tramps of vacation, the friends we have left, and all they did to please us, we murmur, with a sort of pleasant sadness,—

"So farewell

The student's wandering life! sweet serenades,
Sung under ladies' windows in the night,

And all that makes vacation beautiful!"

FROM THE WAR.

THE following letter from Mr. Frank Bartlett, formerly of the Class of '62, now senior captain in the 20th Massachusetts regiment, will be interesting, we trust, not merely to his many personal friends in the University, but to all who may read it. A few names mentioned in the letter will be recognized as old acquaintance. Mr. Caspar Crowninshield, the second captain in the same regiment, and Mr. Abbott, of Gordon's, both graduated with '60. There are a number of our old friends with them, Mr. Schmidt, Mr. Holmes, Mr. Hallowell, and others. Nothing could be more interesting to our readers than to receive an occasional word from one and all of them. We hope they will not forget us.

66

"CAMP FOSTER, September 15, 1861.

After three days' continual marching, we have arrived at the most beautiful spot I have ever seen. To go back. My last was from Camp Burnside. On the 12th, we received orders

to move immediately across the river, to a place where heavy firing had been heard all the day before. Every one was on the qui vive. We had tents struck, baggage packed, and knapsacks slung, and had reached the foot of the hill on which our camp was pitched, when an aide-de-camp of General Lander rode up, and asked for the Colonel. I directed him, and in a moment the order came down the line, ' Column halt!' The order for crossing the river here had been countermanded, and we were ordered to start for Poolesville, up the river, towards Harper's Ferry.

"We countermarched, and started up the main road. The weather was excessively hot, and the road uneven, but fortunately there was no dust; so, on the whole, we managed to get along quite comfortably. That day we made about nine miles, and at night bivouacked under the star-lit skies. The water was deep in the hollows of our blankets in the morning, and the dew-drops on our noses and hair glistened in the rising sun. I caught no cold, and never rose more refreshed. At about half past nine o'clock we fell in for the march, which promised to be much less fatiguing than that of the day before, as the weather was much cooler, a fresh breeze having sprung up from the west. After marching a few miles through a hilly but superb country, we struck off the main road to the left for Rockville. Now, for the first time, the general appearance of the men began to look like my idea of an army on the march; at one time fording a shallow stream, at another climbing a steep and rocky hill. Being at the head of the column, I could look back as we reached the top, and see the bayonets glisten down the narrow road, until the rear was lost in a cloud of dust. We stopped two miles outside of Rockville for dinner, which consisted of hard bread and salt meat from our haversacks. The men fancy that we live better than they; but in point of fact, in many cases the reverse is true. The roll of the drum soon roused us from our short rest; each man fell into his place, and the command Forward march!' was passed down the line. At sundown we struck Muddy Branch, passing through Rockville, a town of some fifty houses, under the waving of Union flags. In talking with the natives here, they are strong Union men, but this one and that one, their neighbors, are Secession. We bivouacked at Muddy Branch, on a steep hill-side, where lying on the ground brought one almost to a perpendicular position. It was very wet before morning. The sensation is a new, and not altogether unpleasant one, of opening one's eyes and seeing the stars above him.

"Saturday morning we received orders from General Lander to take extra precautions, as the rebel cavalry had crossed the river in great numbers, and were intending to eut us off, with our large baggage and ammunition train. An advance guard of Company I was sent forward, under my command, with ten rounds of ball cartridges, and rifles loaded and capped. The rear guard, consisting of an equal number of men, was given to Captain Crowninshield. The regiment had cartridges distributed, but for obvious reasons were not allowed to cap their pieces. We left Muddy Branch with a faint hope, in my mind at least, of meeting anything like rebel cavalry. The men, however, were quite elated with the prospect of a brush. Several times we were obliged to halt, to make the streams fordable for the wagons, and, without any adventure, reached Seneca Creek, six miles from Poolesville, where we stopped for the noonday rest and meal.

"On our march, we passed within a mile of Gordon's regiment, and saw Lieutenant Morse of the same. During our halt, Captain Abbott rode up, having heard of our approach. He reported all the officers of the 2d well and in excellent spirits. He rode on with us as far as Poolesville.

“The gradual rise to this place is imperceptible, until you see before you in the distance what appear to be clouds in the western horizon. They do not seem to change their shape, and soon you recognize them as the famous Blue Ridge of Virginia. But what is more surprising, you find yourself on a mountain, and looking across a valley of some sixty or seventy miles, through which the Potomac runs. Imagine yourself on the summit of Mount Washington, or higher if you please, and then that summit stretched out into a flat table-land of fifty square miles, with nothing to obstruct the horizon, and you have a slight idea of our position and view. We were thousands of feet above the level of the sea, and still on every side it was perfectly level, until your eye stretched across the surrounding valley, and rested on the blue hills beyond. Towering above the others was the famous Sugar-loaf Mount, from whose summit the signal-fires tell the numbers and the movements of the enemy. The scenery was appreciated even by the tired men, and exclamations of surprise would occasionally be heard from the ranks.

"Our bivouac here at Poolesville has surpassed all others. We are so high that very little dew falls, our blankets being only damp in the morning; and the air is so invigorating that one is inclined to be pleased with everything.