There was the gallant figure of General Fitz Lee, at the head of his horsemen, advancing to charge what he supposed to be the enemy’s artillery near Bristoe, and singing as he went, in the gayest voice:-- “Rest in peace! rest in peace! Slumb’ring lady love of mine; Rest in peace! rest in peace! Sleep on!” There was the charge over the barricade near Yates’s Ford, where a strange figure mingled just at dusk with the staff, and when arrested as he was edging away in the dark, coolly announced that he belonged to the “First Maine Cavalry.” There was the march toward Chantilly, amid the drenching storm, when Stuart rode along laughing and shouting his camp songs, with the rain descending in torrents from his heavy brown beard. There was the splendid advance on the day succeeding, through the rich autumn forest, of all the colors of the rainbow. Then the fight at Frying-Pan; arousing the hornets’ nest there, and the feat performed by Colonel Surry, in carrying off through the fire of the sharp-shooters, on the pommel of his saddle, a beautiful girl who declared that she was “not at all afraid!” These and many other scenes come back to memory as I sit here at Eagle’s Nest. But were I to describe all I witnessed during the war, I should never cease writing. All these must be passed over--my canvas is limited, and I have so many figures to draw, so many pictures to paint, that every square inch is valuable. That is the vice of “memoirs,” reader. The memory is an immense receptacle--it holds every thing, and often trifles take the prominent place, instead of great events. You are interested in those trifles, when they are part of your own experience; but perhaps, they bore your listener and make him yawn--a terrible catastrophe! So I pass to some real and _bona fide_ “events.” Sabres are going to clash now, and some figures whom the reader I hope has not forgotten are going to ride for the prize in the famous Buckland Races. X. I FALL A VICTIM TO TOM’S ILL-LUCK. Stuart had fallen back, and had reached the vicinity of Buckland. There was a bright light in his blue eyes, a meaning smile on his mustached lip, which in due time I was going to understand. Kilpatrick was following him. From the rear guard came the crack of skirmishers. It seemed hard to understand, but the fact was perfectly evident, that Stuart was retreating. I had fallen out of the column, and was riding with Tom Herbert. Have you forgotten that worthy, my dear reader? Has the roar of Gettysburg driven him quite from your memory? I hope not. I have not mentioned him for a long time, so many things have diverted me--but we had ridden together, slept together, fought together, and starved together! Tom had come to be one of my best friends, in fact, and his charming good humor beguiled many a weary march. To hear him laugh was real enjoyment; and when he would suddenly burst forth with, “Oh look at the riggings On Billy Barlo--o--o--ow!”