On the Rappahannock, when I saw him first, Mohun had been cynical,
bitter, full of gloomy misanthropy. Something seemed to have hardened
him, and made him hate his species. In the bloom of early manhood, when
his life was yet in the flower, and should have prompted him to all
kind and sweet emotions, he was a stranger to all--to charity,
good-will, friendship, all that makes life endurable. The tree was
young and lusty; the spring was not over; freshness and verdure should
have clothed it; and yet it appeared to have been blasted. What had
dried up its sap, I asked myself--withering and destroying it? What
thunder-bolt had struck this sturdy young oak? I could not answer--but
from the first moment of our acquaintance, Mohun became for me a
problem.
Then the second phase presented itself. When I met him in the
Wilderness, in May, 1864, a great change had come over him. He was no
longer bitter and cynical. The cloud had plainly swept away, leaving
the skies of his life brighter. Gayety had succeeded gloom. The
rollicking enjoyment of the true cavalryman had replaced the
recklessness of the man-hater. Again I looked at him with
attention--for his courage had made me admire him, and his hidden grief
had aroused my sympathy. A great weight had plainly been lifted from
his shoulders; he breathed freer; the sap long dried up had begun to
flow again; and the buds told that the leaves of youth and hope were
about to reappear.
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