It has been said that man is essentially a "fighting animal,"--that in this "world's broad field of battle" his life, from the cradle to the grave, is one continued struggle against want and its attendant circumstances,--and that he is the greatest who, be his position what it may, acts well his part. If this be true--and I think it is--then the man who goes to the war only exchanges one mode of strife for another--"the whips and scorns of time," for interminable drilling, "hard tack and salt horse,"--"the oppressor's wrong," for the hardships of the march and the dangers of the battle,--"the proud man's contumely," for the murmurings at home that he does not "clean out" the rebels in a week or two,--"the law's delay," for the tedium of garrison and camp life,--"the insolence of office," for the rule (not always gentle or humane) of men placed over him,--and the "bare bodkin," for the sword and the bayonet. And yet--and yet-- "Ah me! what perils do environ The man that meddles with cold iron! What plaguy mischiefs and mishaps Do dog him still with after claps!" The severe checks and disasters experienced by the Union arms in the Spring campaign of 1862, culminating in the "seven days' fight" before Richmond, and the retreat of McClellan's noble but suffering and crippled army to James river, while it spread sorrow and mourning throughout the land, had the effect of awakening those in power to a full sense of the nation's peril. When the President called for more men, thereby giving effect to the wishes of the loyal people, I was one of those who helped to swell the volume of that mighty response which echoed back from the hills and prairies, cities and villages, towns and hamlets: "We are coming, father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!" Like others, I had to mourn the loss of a friend,--a brave young fellow, who was killed in the second of the "seven days' fight," and determined to fill his place, if I could.