Who ever heard so much, so simply and so quaintly expressed?--there are at least ten volumes of good sound Orthodoxy embodied just there in that single stanza. But “Port Royal” mustn’t be eclipsed. The glories of that had been radiating through my mind, however, since its first appearance in the “Tribune” (if that were the first; it was the first I saw of it), and I thought it so beautiful that I shouldn’t be able to relish another poem for at least six weeks, and here it is, so soon bedimmed by a _rival_. Oh, the fickleness of human nature, and human loves, a beautiful pair they are, surmounted by the Godlike “Battle Hymn”[7] tossing over all. What did our poets do for subjects before the war? It’s a Godsend to them, I am certain, and they equally so to us; sometimes I think them the only bright spot in the whole drama. Well, here I am at _war_ again. I knew’t would be so when I signed that treaty on the previous page. I’m as bad as England; the fight is in me, and I will find a pretext. I have not seen our North Oxford “Regulars” for some time owing to the fact that a sea of mud has lain between me and them for the last three weeks, utterly impassable. A few weeks ago Cousin Leander called me to see a member of his “mess” who was just attacked with pleuritic fever. I went, and found him in hospital. He was cheerful (a fine young man) and thought he should be out soon. Work and storm kept me from him three days, and the fourth we bought him a grave in the Congressional Burying Ground. Poor fellow, and there he lies all alone. A _soldier’s_ grave, a sapling at the head, a rough slab at the foot, nine shots between, and all is over. He waits God’s bugle to summon him to a reënlistment in the Legion of Angels. Well, it’s no use, I’ve broken the peace again, and I _can’t_ keep it. I hope you live in a more peaceful community than I do, and are consequently more manageable and less belligerent.... CLARA The foregoing letter dealt almost wholly with national affairs. Family matters were giving her little concern during the twenty days in which this unfinished missive lay on her desk. But scarcely had she mailed it when she received this letter concerning her father: NORTH OXFORD, MASS., January 13, 1862 MY DEAR CLARA: