XXIII. DO YOU REMEMBER ECKINGTON?

Passing through the hospital one day, a young man was pointed out to me who the nurse said was near his end. I approached, and kneeling by the side of his cot, took his hand in mine. As he opened his eyes and looked up into mine, a smile of recognition passed over his features.

66 I know you, I know you," said he. "Do you remember Eckington Hospital? Not long since, you and a good lady were there. Under a grove of trees in front of the building, you preached to us about the Great Physician. Then the lady sang to us some sweet songs of Zion, and reading matter furnished by the Christian Commission was distributed among the men. Yes, chaplain, I was then a convalescent soldier, and a wicked young man. When I was a boy, my mother used to kneel with me at the bedside and teach me the little prayer,

'Now I lay me down to sleep,'

and till I left home I was instructed how to live, but for all that, I never became a Christian.

"Well, sir, as I listened to the preaching, and the singing of those sweet songs, I began to feel that at last I ought to give my heart to God. I saw how good he had been to me all my life, and I felt that I had done nothing but sin against him while my heart was at enmity with him. I resolved to go to Jesus, and through him seek salvation. That night, I began to pray; and though for a time it seemed very dark, yet it was not long before I felt that Jesus was my Saviour. No sooner did I trust in Him, and commit my soul to God with all its interests, than I felt, yea, I knew, I was accepted and saved. Oh, the love that sprang up in my heart to Jesus in that moment! How I

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love him now!" he said, as floods of tears flowed from his "and how I long to be with him! I did not expect to die so soon.

eyes,

this hope; but,

A few days only have passed since I had thank God, I have improved the time."

I spoke of his mother.

"Mother I am sure will be happy," said he. "I had just as lief die as not, for I shall see her in heaven. Father has already gone there."

He was so much affected that I feared his tears and emotions would hasten his death, and said to him, – "Be as calm as you can, my brother."

He only whispered back, "Jesus wept."

I left him with the light of heaven beaming through his pale features. I was told he dwelt upon the name of Jesus in faint whispers, with indescribable tenderness till his lips ceased to move.

XXIV. THE BOOK WILL TELL.

The brother of a sick soldier travelled two thousand miles to find him, watch over him, and, if it might be, restore him to his friends. But he arrived too late. Before the long journey was accomplished, the hand of death was laid upon the invalid, and had borne him beyond the reach of human care and sympathy. The brother, wishing to secure the few effects of the departed one as keepsakes, went to the camp where his regiment was stationed. A fellow-soldier (says one of the party) led us to a tent that was only large enough to contain two bunks and a small table. Beneath one of the bunks were two or three soiled and dusty knapsacks. The weeping brother proceeded to open one of these, and to examine its contents. Every little article of the scanty wardrobe was scrutinized as well

as blinding tear-drops would permit. The brother was not certain, but thought he could recognize some of the articles as those of the loved one, of whom the most trifling token would be so dear to surviving friends.

At the bottom of the knapsack lay a Bible. The thought which seized me at this discovery (says the relator) was that also of our guide, who cried out instantly, “The book will tell."

The trembling hands of the bereaved brother grasped the Bible, and, unclasping it, we read, "Presented to

by his brother,

N. Y.,

1862."

The doubt was solved. Here, indeed, were the effects that we had taken such pains to recover, and they were known by the testimony of the Bible, in which the hand of affection had written the owner's name. That exclamation, "The book will tell," is full of meaning. The Bible has been given as a keepsake to thousands and thousands of our soldiers, as they have gone forth to the dangers of the war, and has not been given in vain. Many of them, it is impossible to doubt, will be indebted to that gift for having their names enrolled in the Lamb's book of life. During this war, how often has the sacred volume, put into the knapsack of the departing soldier by mother or sister, been sent back to the lonely home as the only relic of the son and brother who has fallen in battle, or pined away in the camp or hospital. But one anxiety is left now, and respecting that they say to themselves, "The book will tell." With blinded eyes, with hope and fear, they open the returned Bible to see what evidence of its perusal they can find — what passages were marked, at what verse the last leaf was turned down.

The saying has a lesson for us all. The revelations of this book are to decide each one's destiny. The tests of character are prescribed there, to which all must be

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brought, in the presence of the Judge at last; and from that book in effect will issue the sentence, "Come" or ‘Depart”—which awaits every probationer.

ct

XXV. A SOLDIER'S POCKET DIARY.

It is very suggestive and very touching to look over the pocket diary, in which a brave soldier, in short, abrupt, terse sentences, with long omissions, gives hints of what is passing around and within him. Such glimpses of military life give us our best views of its hardships, and of the spirit of the men who endure them so cheerfully.

Oliver S. Currier1 was a native of Maine, who enlisted, in the summer of 1862, in the Thirty-Fifth Massachusetts, Company K, of Roxbury. He was a disciple of Christ, and thoroughly conscientious in all that he did. He was unable at first to gratify his patriotic desires, as claims rested on him which he felt he was not at liberty to disregard. That obstacle at length was removed.

One night in July, a friend entered the chamber where he was sleeping, and awoke him to say that the way was now open for him to enlist as a soldier. There was no more sleep for him that night; he left his bed, went out at midnight, and signed the roll. He had been troubled about a mortgage, and was anxious to provide that his parents should not be turned out of their home in case he should fall in battle. A friend having assumed that responsibility for him, he started for Maine the next morning, and placed a deed of the little cottage and garden in the hands of his father; and on the fourth day returned, entered the ranks, and went with his company to camp.

1 He was a grandson of the late Rev. Jotham Sewall, of Maine, "whose praise is in all the churches" as an eloquent and apostolic servant of Jesus Christ.

Under date of September fourteenth, he writes, at South Mountain, "I have been in my first battle. One man out of the company killed." This was three weeks after they

left home.

Three days later, at Antietam: "We went in at about four o'clock. Our company lost thirteen killed and thirtyone wounded. Have seen hard work to-day. After we withdrew, I only found four of our company. Our regiment was second across the bridge. I feel sad, sad, sad.”

Well might he feel sad. The beloved commander1 of his company was borne off the field with three severe wounds, and marks of twenty others, and every officer was wounded. The dear friend who called him to arms at midnight was among the dead, with so many others who had been accustomed to sing the songs of Zion with him in that strange land.2

But this sadness had no despondency in it. "Our rollcall has only thirty-nine names," he writes, a few days after. “We are small in number, but strong in determination to do all we can to help put down this great REBELLION.”

We pass over references to long and exhausting marches, and come to the record of scenes just before the fatal battle at Fredericksburg.

"Nov. 22. Still lying opposite Fredericksburg; weather cold. We occupy a poor camp-ground. I am not very well; a poor appetite. I wish I had a good potato to eat."

"Sunday, 23d. Very cold. Listened to reading of the proclamation [for Thanksgiving] of the Governor of Massachusetts. I do not feel very well; have not any overcoat."

1 Captain King of Roxbury, now a lieutenant colonel and military commandant of Lexington, Ky.

2 It may not be obtrusive for the writer to say that a dear relative, a nephew and namesake, was one of these brave and Christian young men who fell in this battle at Antietam.