The colonel, who was not to be nonplussed by such a proposition, readily accepted the duty, the men all assenting. “Soldiers,” he said, with great gravity, “if there is any necessary swearing to be done in this regiment, call on your colonel.” Weeks passed, during which not an oath was heard in camp. The first hard camping-place was at Helena, Ark. The regiment pitched their tents on the bluff back of the town, on yellow clay, which after a rain became like putty. It was more than a mile to the steamboat-landing; and all the supplies had to be hauled through the miry streets of the town and over the corduroy road,--a road made of logs firmly fastened together,--and then up a long, steep hill, where the mud-like yellow putty gathered upon the wheels and upon the feet of men and beasts. Colonel Fisk sat in his tent one day attending to official business, when he heard one of his men, a teamster, swearing like a Hessian. He recognized his voice, and determined to reprove the man at the first opportunity. He had not long to wait. “John,” he called, “come here.” John responded with a military salute, and stood before his colonel unflinchingly. “John, did I not hear some one swearing dreadfully down the hill a little while ago?” “Yes, Colonel, that was me.” “You, John? I am surprised. Don’t you remember that I was to do the swearing for this regiment?” “Yes, Colonel, I know; but, you see, I was coming up the hill with a big load, and the breeching broke. The swearing had to be done right away, and you weren’t there to do it.” And the teamster made the military salute and retired. Many of the other privates were so full of wit that it was almost impossible for the officers to reprove them. General Fisk, years afterward, used to say laughingly, that it was little worth while to try to argue a question with John, his teamster, as he always got the best of the argument. A VISIT TO PARSON BROWNLOW. The Confederates had been driven back from Chattanooga and Knoxville, and the lines of railroad travel had been re-established. I had occasion at that time to go to Knoxville. The journey was a dangerous one; but the mission was important, and I took the chances. I was delighted to learn, after reaching Knoxville, that Parson Brownlow, the hero of East Tennessee, was at home. It was afterward arranged that I should meet him at his own house.