with cruel and unprovoked severity, upon Major Butt. This produced an estrangement between your father and myself, which continued unhealed until a common service and a common danger brought us once more together.
Our regiment was soon ordered to Virginia—first to Richmond, thence to Acquia creek, and afterwards to Centreville, from whence detachments were weekly sent out on distant pickets, almost within bow-shot of the Potomac, along whose lines the bones of many a gallant Southron rest. On one of these posts your father and I again were reconciled; and belonging to the same profession, with many tastes and sympathies in common, I soon became warmly and strongly attached to him, and have many reasons to know that the feeling was, in part, at least, reciprocated. I state these facts for the purpose of showing you how I happen to know what I do about the authorship of the lines in question; for your father, besides being a modest man, was never quick to give either his hand or confidence to a stranger.
We had just returned from Falls' church, near Alexandria, to Centreville. None of Longstreet's old brigade, none of the Second Georgia, I know, will ever forget the dark, cold, rainy night march on the retreat from there to Fairfax Courthouse. But though we all were drenched and shivering, there still was "life in the old land yet." I remember well, as we rested on our arms in the murky gloom, some one cried out, "Whose treat is this?" when Judge Perry, now of this county, then orderly sergeant of company "D," in the Second Georgia, utterly unable, even there, to resist his abominable penchant for punning, answered, "It is Long's-treat." But I am digressing.
We had now returned to Centreville, and one evening while in conversation with your father on law and literary subjects, as uncongenial as these may seem, I proposed to read him some lines I had written and published, "To Wilson's New York Zouaves." After I had finished, he appeared to be absorbed for a moment, then said: "Well, I have just written some lines myself, which I shall not publish, but if you will promise me secrecy, I will read them to you." I promised, and for the first time in my life, heard "All Quiet along the Potomac To-night." I shall never forget either the occasion or the circumstances. He read the lines without unusual feeling until he came to the picture of the little trundle-bed, when his voice trembled and his eyes filled with tears. That "touch of nature" was contagious, and I felt the big drops trickling down my own cheeks; and even to this day, when I recall the scene, now that he is dead and gone, I feel again something of the old emotion.
I begged him at once for a copy, but he resolutely refused. Shortly after, however, I left Virginia for Georgia and took command of a company in a regiment there being organized for the Confederate service. The day before my departure I prevailed on him to comply with my request, "upon my honor as soldier" that
