It is interesting to look over the sea and get a glimpse of the impressions of our English _friends_ regarding the “wandering host.” The organ of the army and navy said: “It is clear that, so long as he roams about with his army inside the Confederate States, he is more deadly than twenty Grants, and that _he must be destroyed if Richmond or any thing is to be saved_. Lee will probably be forced by this condition of affairs to assume the offensive, because he cannot afford to let Grant hold his hands whilst Sherman is committing burglary in the Southern mansion. If Sherman has really left his army in the air, and started off without a base to march from Georgia into South Carolina, he has done either one of the most brilliant or one of the most foolish things ever performed by a military leader.” The great leader and his intelligent troops must have enjoyed the mystery in which both friends and foes were living; knowing well that in public and private circles, in the periodical press and the national councils, the speculations and theories about him, the fears and hopes, were manifold and often ludicrous, while his battalions were having a triumphal march over the proudest portion of the Confederacy. “The great army, over the lands and into the dwellings of the poor and rich alike, through towns and cities, like a roaring wave, swept, and paused, revelled and surged on. In the day-time, the splendor, the toil, the desolation of the march; in the night-time, the brilliance, the gloom, the music, the joy and the slumber of the camp. Memorable the music ‘that mocked the moon’ of November of the soil of Georgia; sometimes a triumphant march, sometimes a glorious waltz, again an old air stirring the heart alike to recollection and to hope. Floating out from throats of brass to the ears of soldiers in their blankets and generals within their tents, these tunes hallowed the eves to all who listened. “Sitting before his tent in the glow of a camp fire one evening, General Sherman let his cigar go out to listen to an air that a distant band was playing. The musicians ceased at last. The general turned to one of his officers; ‘Send an orderly to ask that band to play that tune again.’ “A little while, and the band received the word. The tune was ‘The Blue Juniata,’ with exquisite variations. The band played it again, even more beautifully than before. Again it ceased, and then, off to the right, nearly a quarter of a mile away, the voices of some soldiers took it up with words. The band, and still another band, played a low accompaniment; camp after camp began singing; the music of ‘The Blue Juniata’ became, for a few minutes, the oratorio of half an army. “Back along the whole wide pathway of this grand march from border to coast, the eye catches glimpses of scenes whose savage and poetic images an American, five years ago, would have thought never could have been revived from the romantic past.”