What history, I say, can ever give--for who can know--the mad, determin'd tussle of the armies, in all their separate large and little squads--as this--each steep'd from crown to toe in desperate, mortal purports? Who know the conflict, hand-to-hand--the many conflicts in the dark, those shadowy-tangled, flashing moonbeam'd woods--the writhing groups and squads--the cries, the din, the cracking guns and pistols--the distant cannon--the cheers and calls and threats and awful music of the oaths--the indescribable mix--the officers' orders, persuasions, encouragements--the devils fully rous'd in human hearts--the strong shout, _Charge, men, charge_--the flash of the naked sword, and rolling flame and smoke? And still the broken, clear and clouded heaven--and still again the moonlight pouring silvery soft its radiant patches over all. Who paint the scene, the sudden partial panic of the afternoon, at dusk? Who paint the irrepressible advance of the second division of the Third corps, under Hooker himself, suddenly order'd up--those rapid-filing phantoms through the woods? Who show what moves there in the shadows, fluid and firm--to save, (and it did save,) the army's name, perhaps the nation? as there the veterans hold the field. (Brave Berry falls not yet--but death has mark'd him--soon he falls.) UNNAMED REMAINS THE BRAVEST SOLDIER Of scenes like these, I say, who writes--whoe'er can write the story? Of many a score--aye, thousands, north and south, of unwrit heroes, unknown heroisms, incredible, impromptu, first-class desperations--who tells? No history ever--no poem sings, no music sounds, those bravest men of all--those deeds. No formal general's report, nor book in the library, norcolumn in the paper, embalms the bravest, north or south, east or west. Unnamed, unknown, remain, and still remain, the bravest soldiers. Our manliest--our boys--our hardy darlings; no picture gives them. Likely, the typic one of them (standing, no doubt, for hundreds, thousands,) crawls aside to some bush-clump, or ferny tuft, on receiving his death-shot--there sheltering a little while, soaking roots, grass and soil, with red blood--the battle advances, retreats, flits from the scene, sweeps by--and there, haply with pain and suffering (yet less, far less, than is supposed,) the last lethargy winds like a serpent round him--the eyes glaze in death----none recks--perhaps the burial-squads, in truce, a week afterwards, search not the secluded spot--and there, at last, the Bravest Soldier crumbles in mother earth, unburied and unknown. SOME SPECIMEN CASES