It is well that I formed the habit of keeping a note-book some time ago. How interesting what I am now writing will be to my wife and children in years to come, when I sit before my own fire, in my own house! The college chronicle of funny adventures and curious stories that my note-book has previously contained is suspended for a time; and I am thinking of matters of life and death now. Well, it is splendid to have a life to lose; and the thought of death, in this cause, has a grand, awful thrill in it, that drives away all the former terror death has possessed for me. These remarks are intended as an opening of my war note-book. Here am I, just twenty-one, and a captain,—a whole captain. It is absurd; no, it isn’t. Col. Burke is raising a regiment. He has as much superfluity about him as an iron nail has, and no more. He was introduced to me about a week ago, and was told about my visits to the people around Crescent Court. People will make me out a philanthropist, which I am not; for I despise most people I know, though the lower classes are quite interesting, but dirty. I never talked religion to any of those creatures in my life. I have given them very little in charity; but I have listened to what they say as I would to my own classmates; and, having talked with them at the North End, I have bowed to them at the West End. In a word, I have carried les convenances into Richmond Street, and have not electioneered. Result, I have some influence, which is useless, except in keeping me clear of pickpockets. So the colonel would have me raise a company. I laughed at the idea, but consented to try; and here are over fifty recruits already. I told them that I had about as much to learn as any of them, and agreed to have the captain elected by vote, myself becoming a private. I should have been very much disgusted if they had taken me at my word; but they didn’t. So I am a captain; but my lieutenants are still to be found.

Tom is full of patriotism. I never can tell how deeply a sentiment enters his mind; but he is fretting terribly about going with me. How I wish he could! but his father very sensibly advises him to wait a year longer, till he is through at Harvard; and his mother is in great distress at the idea of his leaving her. The Professor is non-committal on the subject.

This morning entered Jane Ellen Bingley to the recruiting office, where I was receiving enlistments. Jane Ellen is limp in appearance, but energetic in character. Her bonnet was wine-colored velvet; her shawl draggled green, with a habit of falling off her shoulders as she talked; and her gown was calico. By the bonnet I recognized her. She is the chief attraction at one of the North Street dance-houses, and entertains an admiration for me of which I am utterly undeserving. I have so often declined in forcible language to dance with her, that I did not suppose she could feel pleasantly toward me; but she came forward and said:—

“Here’s my man!”

Her man was a stout fellow, rather stupid-looking, with a dyed mustache. Jane Ellen herself is really very pretty, and might possibly reform, if she was sent away from here. Reformation, when possible, is only possible through removal. So Jane Ellen having presented her man, I said briefly:—

“What of it?”

Thereupon Jane Ellen explained that her man wished to enlist, and that she wished him to come under me, as she knew I’d be a good captain to the poor boy. Sensible of the compliment, I suggested to Jane Ellen the propriety of marrying him first. In that way I explained to her he would send her his salary (I could not say wages, Jane Ellen being American); he would have some object for working his way up from the ranks; and he would have a home to think of, when away, wounded, sick, or expecting to die. All these things would benefit him greatly. I regret to say that Michael appeared more affected than Jane Ellen at the pictures I drew. Jane Ellen’s answer, which only came after considerable reflection, was, to say the least, peculiar.

“I never expected to live to be a married woman,” she remarked; “and it’s a queer home I’d be able to make for anybody. However, it may do Mike good; so I’ll do it. So, Mike, I’ll marry you right off, and endeavor to be a decent woman,—until you come back from the war again;” which last clause was prudently added.

Another quarrel with Tom; and this time the Professor admits that I am right. Tom begs me to write, and solicit his parents’ consent; and I won’t do it; so Tom sulks,—that is the only word,—and will not be appeased.

He even declares that I wish to get rid of him, when it will almost break my heart to go without him. If that boy only knew what he was to me, who am without father, mother, or family of my own, and with almost no friends, except the Professor! However, for the same reason that I have never yet visited him at his house, because I did not wish to have our attachment or my character analyzed or criticised by his parents, I will not say a word now. I believe it will do him good to go; for I know the thought of going has done me good.

The Professor has a plan, he says, and wishes me to be at home to-night, so that he can tell it to me.

The Professor has told me a great deal more than he has actually said. I know now why he cares so much for Tom; and I should like to see Tom’s mother. I wonder if a woman will ever change my life; and I wonder if I shall ever care for any woman as much as I do for Tom. The Professor says that Tom must go; that he is fretting himself sick now, and that it will develop his manliness of character. He thinks I am right in not interfering, however, and says that he is going to try what he can do. Dear old fellow! His face flushed, and he gave a curious sort of gulp, as he said:—

“She always respected me; and I think she would let Tom go, if I advised her to do so.”

“Then shall you write to her?” I asked.

“No, Ned,” he said; “I shall go and visit her, and start to-morrow. The first time in twenty years,—dear me, the first time in twenty years! How old I am getting to be!”

I knew what he meant; and I honored his pluck. I should sort of like to be in love myself; but I am half afraid to think about it. Oh, well! there will be plenty of time when the war is over. The Professor is to start to-morrow; and Tom is not to know about it.

My first lieutenant is a treasure. His name is Murphy; and he is a retired rough, by profession, but he has splendid stuff in him. Our acquaintance had a peculiar beginning. I was drilling a squad of men, and not succeeding very well in what I was about, when this giant loafed in, and began to make a disturbance. I looked at him, and saw that remonstrance would be in vain; so I knocked him down, seeing my opportunity to do so effectively. My men laughed. The giant raised himself in astonishment.

“You can’t do that again,” said he. Another laugh from the chorus.

“I know it,” said I. Still another laugh.

“I could just walk through you in two minutes,” he growled, with an oath.

“I believe you,” said I; “and I shall give you a chance to, if you don’t keep quiet.”

He kept quiet for a time. Then, while I was trying some manoeuvre, he came up and said, quite politely:—

“Perhaps I can help you.”

“Thanks,” said I; “do you know anything about it?” Then Murphy informed me that he had been in several places where there had been fighting; and I saw he was far my superior in many respects. So, when I got him to enlist, and found that he was thoroughly interested, and that the men liked him with a feeling of fellowship that they will never have for me, I hope, I talked with the colonel about making him my first lieutenant; and it is now a fait accompli. Murphy’s delight and gratitude at receiving his commission knew no bounds; and several of his cousins enlisted immediately. He has now a sense of personal devotion to me that will help me greatly. Dear me, how old and mature and self-reliant I am growing! and, three weeks ago, I was such a baby! Murphy is the second largest and second strongest man of us all. The largest is a large-eyed, half-crazy clairvoyant, gentle as a dove, and strong as an ox. I found him weeping the other day; and, somewhat disgusted, as well as astonished, asked the cause. Result was, that he said he wept about me. I was not to die in battle, nor in sickness, but was to meet with a dishonorable death for a dishonorable action. Tom and Murphy were furious; but I couldn’t be before the two or three men who heard it; so I treated the affair as a good joke. The boys call this fellow Mooney; which name is appropriate certainly. Tom has been in two or three times to drill. He studies Hardee incessantly; practises by himself all that he can, and would form himself into a whole squad, and drill himself, if it were possible. He is even getting into the way of planning battles and movements, and is perfectly wild at each report in the newspapers. I never saw him in such a state before, over anything. His lessons must be suffering in consequence; and I don’t dare to think of the number of times he has cut prayers.

Hurrah! I wish pencil and paper could yell with joy; and then a fearful noise would issue from this note-book!

The Professor has sent me by telegraph the announcement that Tom is to go with me. It is brief; but I have read it with delight a dozen times:—

I know of nothing which has ever given me more pleasure than those seven words. Tom has gone off in the most remarkably vague state of mind; and I am going to see my colonel this evening, to find out whether his youth (though, as he is not quite two years younger than myself, perhaps I should say our youth) will unfit him for the position of second lieutenant. Any way, he’s going; and that’s enough to make me happy for the rest of the war. The only thing that troubles me is Mooney’s prediction, which keeps ringing in my ears. I am not to die in battle, nor by sickness, but to receive a dishonorable death for a dishonorable action. I don’t care for the death so much; but I do pray to God, that, while I am in my country’s holy service at least, I may not soil my soul. What a sentence! Well, I’m safe in knowing that no one but myself will ever see this note-book.