1862 came, and with it a new phase of the war. Sweat, dust, and blood had replaced the music and wreaths of roses. Faces, were not so ruddy--they began to look war-worn. The rounded cheeks had become gaunt. The bright uniforms were battle-soiled. Smoke had stained them, the bivouac dimmed them, the sun had changed the blue-gray to a sort of scorched yellow. Waving handkerchiefs still greeted the troops--as they greeted them to the end of the war. But few flowers were thrown now--their good angels looked on in silence, and prayed for them. They were no longer holiday soldiers, but were hardened in battle. They knew the work before them, and advanced to it with the measured tramp of veterans. They fought as well as soldiers have ever fought in this world. Did they not? Answer, Cold Harbor, Malvern Hill, Cedar Mountain, Manassas, Boonsboro’, Sharpsburg, and Fredericksburg! And every battle, nearly, was a victory. In the lowlands and the mountains--in Virginia and Maryland--they bore aloft the banner of the South in stalwart hands, and carried it forward with unshrinking hearts, to that baptism of blood awaiting it. That was the great year for the South. The hour was dark--a huge foe fronted us--but wherever that foe was met, he seemed to reel before the mailed hand that buffeted his front. All frippery and decoration had long been stripped from the army. The fingers of war--real war--had torn off the gaudy trappings; and the grim lips had muttered, “What I want is hard muscle, and the brave heart--not tinsel!” The bands were seldom heard--the musicians were tending the wounded. The drums had ceased their jovial rattle, and were chiefly used in the “long roll,” which said “Get ready, boys! they are coming!” So in the midst of smoke and dust,--with yells of triumph, or groans of agony, in place of the gay cheering--passed that year of battles, 1862. The South was no longer romantic and elated on the subject of the war. The soldiers no longer looked out for adventures, or for the glorious cannonball to carry off their heads, and make their names immortal. At home, the old men were arming, and the women sending words of cheer to their husbands and sons, and praying. In the camps, the old soldiers had forgotten the wreaths of roses. Their havelocks were worn out, and they no longer minded the sun. Gray flannel had replaced the “fancy” shirt bosoms; they carried tobacco in their pockets; and you saw them, seated on some log, busy sewing on buttons, the faces once so round and ruddy, now gaunt and stained with powder.