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XII. ASLEEP IN JESUS, BLESSED SLEEP!"

Sergeant John Hanson Thompson was the son of the Rev. Joseph P. Thompson, D.D., of the City of New York. He was a youth of the finest culture, large-hearted, genial in his disposition, who gave himself to his country from motives as pure and lofty as ever actuated patriot or martyr. He was a member of Yale College; but, at the time of the alarm which aroused the country, when General Banks retreated down the Shenandoah valley before the overwhelming force of Stonewall Jackson, in May, 1862, the student laid aside his books and enlisted as a private in the Twenty-second New York Regiment. On the expiration of the three months for which he went out first, he

re-enlisted for three years as sergeant in the Hundred and eleventh New York. He served in this capacity until March, 1863, when, worn out by exposure and fatigue, he died at North Mountain, in Virginia, at the age of twenty. During this brief career, he displayed not only the highest qualities of the soldier, but a social and Christian spirit which made him the darling of his regiment. Nothing can exceed the touching interest of the narrative of his death.1

In the last letter that the young soldier wrote, after speaking of the arrival of his regiment at North Mountain, he says,

a

"A hard march of ten miles, in mud and water; hard one for me at least, as I was not fully in strength; but it did me good, I am sure."

His captain and the surgeon had attempted to dissuade him from marching; but he insisted that he would go with his men. The men endeavored to relieve him of his knapsack, but he insisted that a sergeant should set a good example to privates. "I never saw,” said one of them, “such courage and energy as the sergeant showed. We all thought he was not equal to the march; but he would not be relieved. He said that he must be a soldier, and do all his duty for his country."

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He had just been advised that his promotion to a lieutenancy was determined upon by the colonel - Well," said he to his informant, "if a commission comes to me, of course, I shall not object; but I do not aspire to it." And to another he remarked, that "he had enlisted with a determination to do anything for his country; and he sometimes felt that he could serve it better as he was, than

1 It was not my intention to quote from a book so well known; but the account of this last scene in the Sergeant's Memorial, the father's beautiful tribute to his son's memory, must form an exception to the rule.

ASLEEP IN JESUS, BLESSED SLEEP.

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in some higher office, with more temptations to consult his own ease."

On the day after the weary march to North Mountain, he insisted upon taking his regular turn on picket duty, and for this purpose went out several miles from camp. A snow-storm came up in which he passed the night. The next morning, Monday, he barely dragged himself back to camp, and sank down in his tent, with severe symptoms of typhoid pneumonia. The surgeon was absent, and there was no hospital. But after two days, he was removed in an ambulance to a private house, where he lingered until the night of the following Sabbath.

The kind friends who waited on him there found him "so gentle, patient, and uncomplaining in his spirit, and so delicate and sensitive in his habits, that it was almost impossible to render him any service. And at the same time he was so composed and resolute, so cheerful and hopeful, that it was difficult to realize how sick he was."

A pious captain visited him for the sake of religious conversation, knowing nothing of him personally. "I soon perceived," he says, "that I was talking with one who was no stranger to these things; and found him entirely at peace with God."

Two of his tent-mates watched over him with brotherly fidelity, and one of them reports from written memoranda the closing scene:

"About 11 P. M., the doctor called to see him; his breathing was very irregular. The doctor shook his head, as much as to say the case was hopeless. It seemed that the sergeant for the first time fully realized his danger. He asked the doctor if he could stand under it; the doctor told him he could not. He then asked if it would not be well to telegraph to his father. He was told that the captain had already done so. He expressed his satisfaction,

adding, 'I am so glad; father will be sure to come to-morrow.' He then looked me full in the face and grasped my hand and said (calling my given and surname), 'Good-by.' A cold shudder went through my frame, as it was the first time I had ever stood face to face with death. He still held my hand and said, 'Send my love to my dear father and mother, brothers, and sisters. I hope to meet them in heaven.' He made a few requests concerning his personal effects, then prayed to God to forgive him his sins. After two or three short prayers, he asked Tanner to sing. He sang, as well as his voice would permit, a verse commencing, 'Asleep in Jesus, blessed sleep!'

"When he had finished, the Sergeant requested him to repeat it, which he did with more composure. He then asked some one to pray; but neither of us had ever made a prayer, and were silent. He made the request again, but neither of us could say a word. He then prayed again himself. The captain came in soon after and tried to revive him; but he kept gradually sinking until about a quarter past one, when he settled into a composure or ease, and breathed more regular but shorter, until his breath entirely left him at 1.30 A. M., March 16th, 1863."

THE LOWLY EXALTED.

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Soldier of Christ, well done!
Praise be thy new employ;
And while eternal ages run,
Rest in thy Saviour's joy.

XIII. THE LOWLY EXALTED.

In September, 1862 (says a missionary in the army), I visited the batttle-field of Antietam. Thousands of poor soldiers were still lying as they fell upon that field of blood. Having occasion to procure water from a farm-yard, I noticed there what seemed to be heaps of tattered garments, but beneath them were the wasted bodies of men who had crawled thither and died. Nor were they the only occupants of the place, for near them were thirteen others, still living but desperately wounded. Having relieved their wants, I heard the sounds of distress elsewhere, -they came from a stable not far off. There I found several other men, whose condition was, if possible, more deplorable still.

The one whom I approached first had his arm torn off by a shell. As I washed the wound, I spoke to him of the Good Physician, who heals forever the wounds that sin and Satan have made in the soul. Turning from him, I began to speak to another, whose face was covered by his hat, but there was no reply. The man next to him saw the mistake, and said, "You are too late there, sir. It is useless to speak to such a sleeper. The man has been dead these three days."

I uncovered his face, and found it, alas! too true. The probationer had gone beyond the reach of any ministry for soul or body which man's power can supply.

We then turned sadly to the other side of the stable, where lay a young man, twenty-three years old. His leg