"Woffor Mr.Chapman made a preacher for ?" said one of them, as usual transforming his title into a patronymic.

"He's _de fightingest more Yankee_ I eber see in all my days." And the criticism was very natural, though they could not deny that, when the hour for Sunday service came, Mr.F.commanded the respect and attention of all.

That hour never came, however, on our first Sunday in Jacksonville; we were too busy and the men too scattered; so the chaplain made his accustomed foray beyond the lines instead.
"Is it not Sunday ?" slyly asked an unregenerate lieutenant.

"Nay," quoth his Reverence, waxing fervid; "it is the Day of Judgment" This reminds me of a raid up the river, conducted by one of our senior captains, an enthusiast whose gray beard and prophetic manner always took me back to the Fifth-Monarchy men.

He was most successful that day, bringing back horses, cattle, provisions, and prisoners; and one of the latter complained bitterly to me of being held, stating that Captain R.
had promised him speedy liberty.