and if there was any aristocracy in the country, it was in the circles
of army life.

Those were pleasant days,--pleasant for the old soldiers who were
resting after Mexico,--pleasant for young soldiers destined to die on
the plains of Gettysburg or the cloudy heights of Lookout Mountain.
There was an esprit de corps in the little band, a dignity of
bearing, and a ceremonious state, lost in the great struggle which
came afterward. That great struggle now lies ten years back; yet,
to-day, when the silver-haired veterans meet, they pass it over as a
thing of the present, and go back to the times of the 'old army.'

Up in the northern straits, between blue Lake Huron, with its clear
air, and gray Lake Michigan, with its silver fogs, lies the bold
island of Mackinac. Clustered along the beach, which runs around its
half-moon harbor, are the houses of the old French village, nestling
at the foot of the cliff rising behind, crowned with the little white
fort, the stars and stripes floating above it against the deep blue
sky. Beyond, on all sides, the forest stretches away, cliffs finishing
it abruptly, save one slope at the far end of the island, three miles
distant, where the British landed in 1812. That is the whole of
Mackinac.

The island has a strange sufficiency of its own; it satisfies; all
who have lived there feel it. The island has a wild beauty of its own;
it fascinates; all who have lived there love it. Among its aromatic
cedars, along the aisles of its pine trees, in the gay company of its
maples, there is companionship. On its bald northern cliffs, bathed in
sunshine and swept by the pure breeze, there is exhilaration. Many
there are, bearing the burden and heat of the day, who look back to