Sunday, 9th.-—How little like Sunday the day has been; marching, whooping, hollering. Few even know it is Sunday. From present appearances, one would judge that—
“The sound of the church going bells,
These valleys and rocks never heard.”
March to-day with all teams in advance. What does it mean? Are we again retreating with our two hundred thousand of the best troops the world ever saw? I will not believe it yet, though McClellan’s friends claim that he is the best retreater known in modern warfare. We are encamped to-night near New Baltimore, a Virginia town, which once boasted a blacksmith shop and two houses.