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FEW days of hard travel, and I was back at my starting-point, Memphis, having made the circuit of the entire Confederacy east of the Mississippi. I was wiser by a good deal of valuable practical knowledge than I was when I set out on my Arkansas recruiting expedition, and I had passed through scenes that made it seem years, in stead of a few short months, since I had made my first important attempt at practising essentially characteristic masculine manners with the damsel in yellow calico down there at Hurlburt Station. The mere school-girl romance had been pretty well knocked out of me by the rough experiences of actual warfare. I thought very little just then about Joan of Arc, or indeed, about any of the dead and gone heroes and heroines; but my mind was considerably occupied with my own fortunes, and with those of the cause to which I had pledged myself.

My experiences—I do not allude to the mere hardships of a soldier's life—had not all been of the most pleasurable kind. I had learned much concerning some of the very weak points of human nature; that all men are not heroes who wish to be considered as such; that self-seeking was more common than patriotism; that mere courage sufficient to face the enemy in battle is not a very rare quality, and is frequently associated with meanness of spirit; that it is easier to meet the enemy Rh