wounds received at Antietam, made several journeys from his home at York, Pa., to Gettysburg, to bring me delicacies that would have been the delight of an epicure. One corner of the tent was literally packed with all sorts of canned provisions, baskets of champagne, native and foreign still wines and liquors of all kinds; and yet with the whimsical notions of a sick man, I had conceived the idea that there was nothing in the world I wanted or could eat except a roasted potato; and as it was said that there was not a potato to be had within miles of our camp, of course I wanted one more than ever. I had long since ceased asking for them, but when food was mentioned that simple vegetable was the only thing that suggested itself to my mind. My clergyman friend was located in the Second Division hospital, some distance from ours, which was the Third Division, Second Corps. But he always came to see me at least once a day, and I had my tent flaps turned back so that I could watch for his coming. One very hot Sunday morning I caught sight of him coming considerably earlier than was his usual custom. His coat was thrown across his arm, and the perspiration was rolling down his face, but when he looked up and saw me watching his approach he swung a little bundle he had tied in his handkerchief, and exclaimed, with all the enthusiasm of a boy: "I've got them, captain, I've got them!" Sure enough, he soon laid before me a dozen potatoes, two of which he immediately washed with his own hands and roasted in the ashes.

I saw Tiffany's collection of diamonds at the Centennial of 1876, and also the most notable display of jewels ever made by one person in this country, when the wife of a distinguished New York millionaire wore her gorgeous collection at a Presidential reception in the White House, not many years ago; and yet I have never seen any diamonds, rubies, sapphires, or pearls that were at all comparable with the exquisite beauty of that cluster of Irish potatoes, brought to me at Gettysburg, on Sunday morning, so many years ago, by the Rev. J. E. Adams, of New Sharon, Me. He had walked in the

broiling sun over ten miles to gratify an invalid's whim.

Up to this time he had never held any religious services in my tent. So, while he was preparing another potato for one of my fellow-soldiers, I told the attendant that he might give my compliments to him and say that, as it was Sunday morning, I should be very glad, if he could spare the time, to have him offer a prayer.

66

Certainly," he replied, when they told him, and walking over to my tent he laid aside his hat and knelt by my rude bunk. He was still without his coat, his sleeves were rolled up, and his hands were grimy with the ashes from his potato roast. His throat was bare of necktie, the collar thrown wide open, and great beads of perspiration stood on his broad forehead; but what a prayer! Like his works it was fervid, earnest, and apropos. Nothing seemed to have been forgotten, and yet it appeared to be such a short prayer. A wounded Confederate soldier was lying in one corner of my tent, and knowing what firm friends we now were, our advocate at the bar of God used that circumstance as the basis of an appeal that these two whilom enemies, between whom there subsisted no real ground for enmity, might both live to see their country at peace. It was a grand appeal, bearing malice toward none, and charity for all. When it was finished and the worthy man had gone, I felt as though I had really been with one who walked arm in arm with the Master, and knew when and how to work as well as when and how to pray.

My father had been summoned from a neighboring State, and soon after he came an incident occurred that aptly illustrates the peculiar phases of this war. He became very much interested in the Confederate soldier who was lying in my tent, and was careful to divide any luxury he got for me with him. The man, though apparently grateful, said little, and I think half suspected that my father was not aware that he belonged to the Confederate army. One day, however, the old gentleman had prepared a couple of milk-punches, and while "Johnnie was partaking of his, he suddenly asked him to what regi

ment he belonged. The patient hesitated for a moment, and then swered: "The -th Mississippi."

66

an

Theth Mississippi!" echoed the good Samaritan, as he staggered and nearly fell to the ground. "Why," said he, "you may be the very man who shot my boy!" and the tears sprang to his eyes at the thought. In a moment more he had recovered his equanimity, and taking the wounded Confederate by the hand, said: "Never mind, my boy, pardon me for having such an unwelcome thought. I am sure you believed you were doing your duty, whatever you did.”

I was quite proud that, from this time on until all the Confederates were removed from among the Union troops and placed in a camp by themselves, my father showed the man even more attention than he did me, so anxious was he to demonstrate that he made no difference because he might have "shot his boy."

While I was on duty in the Shenandoah Valley and in the Peninsula campaign, I had become much attached to the adjutant of an Indiana regiment that belonged to our brigade. About the time we left the Peninsula, in August, 1862, he had resigned in a miff about some real or imagined slight in the way of promotion, and I had lost sight of him. On the evening of the second day's battle, as I was about to take charge of my detachment for the skirmish line, an officer rode up and tapped me on the shoulder. I turned, and there was my old friend in the uniform of an assistant adjutant-general. We had little time for exchange of greetings, but he told me he had been assigned to the staff of the general commanding a brigade in the division of my corps next on our left. Just then the adjutant announced that my companies were ready, my friend and I shook hands; he returned to his division, and I went down to the skirmish line. One day, when the Reverend Adams was visiting me, he casually remarked upon the similarity of my case with that of another officer in the Second Division hospital, in whom he was also greatly interested, and he mentioned B's name. I then found

that my friend was also so badly wounded that it was not thought possible for him to recover. Mr. Adams said he was so anxious to live, at least until his widowed mother, who had been telegraphed for, came. I then sent a message to B, that if I was alive at ten the next morning, I would join him in a glass of wine, at least, we could each take one at the same moment. We continued this long-distance greeting for several mornings, until one day, just before the time for my glass with B- a message came to my father. Instead of opening the bottle of wine for me as had been his custom, he came over by my bunk, laid his hand gently on my forehead, and looking sadly out across the green fields toward the hospital of the Second Division, he said: "Poor Captain Bcan't drink with you this morning; he is dead."

When I entered upon the third week of my enforced detention I began to have a great longing to be removed to my native State. The surgeons held a consultation and concluded that the change could not materially hasten or delay what appeared to them to be the inevitable. So they promised me that if, at the end of the next week, I was still alive, they would give their consent to my removal.

The agents of the Christian Commission had hung upon the wall of the tent facing me a calendar, or scroll, underneath each date of which were inscribed in large type numbers of texts or passages of the Scriptures supposed to be suited to the reader, the time, and place. Immediately on the doctors giving me the above-mentioned promise, this calendar assumed an interest which no other calendar, before or since, has ever attained. From ten to twelve o'clock each night I do not think that five minutes were allowed to pass without my asking whoever was attending me, the hour; and before the words announcing the departure of the old day were fairly out of his mouth I begged him to "please turn down that date."

Finally, on the last of the month, two attendants placed me on a stretcher, and while my father held an umbrella over me to keep off the rays of the mid

summer sun, they carried me to the village. On entering the town we passed a large brick house that stood flush with the sidewalk, along which was a row of beautiful maples. Under the shade of the thick foliage the stretcher bearers set me down for a few minutes' rest. The little procession attracted the attention of the occupants of the house, and a young lady, accosting my father from one of the upper windows, asked if I would not like a luncheon. The offer was made in such sympathetic tones that I felt a refusal would cause actual pain to the lady tendering the hospitality, so I accepted.

While the dainty little spread was being prepared, the windows of the lower story, or parlor, were thrown open, another exceedingly attractive young lady appeared, and I had the first chat with a lady, in a real house, I had been privileged to enjoy for many a weary month. When I had finished so much of the delicious repast as I was able to do, we exchanged visiting cards, and the young ladies presented me with an exquisite national flag about two inches in length by half an inch in width. I still retain this little emblem among the most cherished mementos of my first visit to Gettysburg.

THE SECOND VISIT.

In the November succeeding my first visit to Gettysburg, I was in the National capital, partly convalescent but still not permitted to rejoin my regiment. While awaiting a decision of the surgeons in my case, the ceremonies that were to take place on the occasion of the dedication of the proposed monument were announced, and I resolved to be present. On my way over, a friend of mine serving on the staff of General Tyler, at Baltimore, Lieutenant McDowell, joined me, and just at dusk we reached Hanover Junction, the station where we were to change for the train that would take us to Gettysburg. When our train stopped we immediately boarded another that was standing on the Gettysburg track. We had barely gotten inside when a guard was placed at the entrance to each car to

prevent outsiders from crowding into it, as it was a special train carrying the governors of the several States who were the guests of Governor Curtin, of Pennsylvania. Being locked in, as it were, we concluded not to try to break out, and proceeded to find the delegation from our native State, Ohio. McDowell went toward the head of the train and I toward the rear. In the first car I entered I saw Governor Todd, while near him were ex-Governor Dennison and the Governor-elect, Brough. Thinking, perhaps, I might know some of his staff or retinue, I asked where the other members of the delegation were. He pointed to a group on the opposite side of the car, which upon joining, I found to contain several old acquaintances and one general officer, whom I had known as colonel of the Fourth Ohio, and who, when promoted, had afterward commanded our brigade, General John S. Mason, now a retired officer of the regular army. He knew the circumstances attending my former visit to Gettysburg, and insisted upon presenting me to the governor, although I said I had just spoken with him.

In introducing me, the general told the governor that I had a better right to be there than any of them, with many other equally flattering things which a soldier most likes to hear of himself. The governor then told me that he would like to arrange it so that I could see and hear everything that transpired at the dedication ceremonies, and that he could best insure that if I and my friend were to accept the positions of aides-de-camp on his staff, which he then tendered. Of course we gratefully accepted the proffered honor. The governor further informed us that although he had sent an agent ahead to secure accommodations for himself and staff, the latter had so increased in numbers since he started that he did not know whether all would have "downy pillows" to rest upon, but as we were soldiers he presumed we would not be troubled on that score.

Remembering my hosts on the occasion of my former visit, and relying somewhat upon their hospitality, I assured the governor that we should

not only be able to take care of ourselves, but possibly, if his quarters were overcrowded, we might be able to find shelter for some of the other members of his party.

When we arrived at the station, though it was nearly eleven o'clock at night, I took McDowell and sought out the residence of my hosts of the previous July. Nearly everyone in the village was up, their houses illuminated and open in anticipation of their being called upon to entertain the immense crowds of incoming visitors. We found the house of my former hostesses open like the rest, and upon my making myself known (for it must be remembered they had never seen me except for a few minutes, as I had laid upon the stretcher in front of their house) we were most cordially received. They could accommodate us, and if we chose, two more; an offer we accept ed, and going back to the hotel we relieved the Governor of two of his party, George A. Benedict, editor and proprietor of the Cleveland Herald, and Mr. Clapp, of the Buffalo Express. Both of these gentlemen gave interesting accounts in their papers of their hostesses and their historic home, which bore the bullet marks of the strife that had raged around it.

At the dedication ceremonies on the following day, November 19, 1863, I had a seat on the platform within a few feet of the speakers, and could hear not only every word, but could mark every expression on the face of America's most polished orator, Edward Everett, as he delivered that masterly oration, and could see every lineament in the sad, earnest face of Mr. Lincoln as he pronounced his immortal "Dedication."

Mr. Everett's personality was profoundly impressive. He was as straight as an arrow, tall, portly, and faultlessly dressed. Like many others of his time he wore an evening suit, the coat of which displayed his figure to advantage. Crowning all was that massive head covered with snow-white hair, which was in striking contrast with the great dark eyes that flashed from out clear-cut, classic features that were innocent of the semblance of beard or

mustache. I have not seen nor read the oration for more than twenty years, and yet many of his periods were at that time so impressed upon my memory that I cannot forget them. In closing one of them he said: "Standing on these heights; looking on these scenes;" here he turned and looked, first at Round Top on the left and then at Wolf's and Culp's Hills on the right, at the same time raising both hands slowly and impressively as high as he could, as if reaching toward the heavens for inspiration-“I feel how utterly inadequate words are to express the emotions that are swelling in my heart! Toward the end of the sentence great tears suffused his eyes and rolled down his cheeks as his hands fell as if in utter helplessness.

It was certainly a grand oration; and when finished it seemed as though the subject had been exhausted and there was absolutely nothing more to be said. When, therefore, Mr. Lincoln arose in obedience to the announcement that the President would now pronounce the dedication, everyone felt sorry for him. To say that Mr. Lincoln arose, can only be appreciated by those who have been near him when he got up to speak; but he had never before seemed to me to be so tall as he did on this occasion. appeared to continue to arise as it were, until when he finally stood up I thought that he was the tallest and most awkward man I had ever seen.

He

There has been considerable difference of opinion among those who were present, as to whether or not he had any notes of this, undoubtedly the greatest speech of his life. My own impressions, whether correct or not, were received then, and have never since been changed by anything I have seen or heard on the subject. I think he had a card or a strip of paper the size of a visiting card in his hand. He did not, however, look at or refer to it in any way. Others, too, have differed as to the immediate effect of his remarks. In this, also, I give the impressions received at the time, which were also identical with those of all with whom I spoke. I thought then, and still think, it was the shortest,

grandest speech, oration, sermon, or what you please to call it, to which I ever listened. It was the whole matter in a nutshell, delivered distinctly and impressively, so that all in that vast concourse could hear him. My own emotions may perhaps be imagined when it is remembered that he was facing the spot where only a short time before we had had our deathgrapple with Pickett's men, and he stood almost immediately over the place where I had lain and seen my comrades torn in fragments by the enemy's cannon-balls.

Think, if you please, how these words fell upon my ears: ". We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting-place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men living and dead who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our power to add or detract.

The world will little note nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here."

If at that moment the Supreme Being had appeared with an offer to undo my past life; give back to me a sound body, free from the remembrance even of sufferings past, and the imminence of those that must necessarily embitter all the years to come, I should have indignantly spurned the offer, such was the effect upon me of this immortal "Dedication." And even now, when the deeds performed on that field are rapidly becoming traditions, the mention of which requires an apology; when the brilliant hopes of the living actors in the tragedy have become faded disappointments; their promised rewards turned to dead-sea fruits; when they have nothing to show for them but maimed and shattered bodies, meaningless titles, and empty honors, there is still comfort for them in the great Martyr's prophecy, that history will not forget to record what they did in the way of heroic achievement upon the battle-field of Gettysburg.