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XXXIII. BROUGHT BACK TO THE FOLD.

On the evening of the battle of Rappahannock Station, my friend, Dr. R, of the Third Division of our corps, came to me, saying a man in their hospital wished to see a chaplain. Accompanying him, I found a young man about twenty years old, a member of the Tenth Massachusetts, with his leg crushed and mangled by a piece of shell. The shock had been so severe that amputation was useless, and he was sinking rapidly.

Expressing himself glad to see me, I inquired his religious history. It was the same old story, a bright hope -active church-membership-army life army irregularities, and the abandonment of his profession.

"And now," said he, "if there can be forgiveness for such a wanderer, pray for me."

I confess I felt more backwardness than was right. A circle of coarse soldiers stood there, surveying the solemn scene with mere morbid curiosity. Another group stood there, more educated and refined, a knot of surgeons, some of whom, I knew, had no belief in God or eternity, and considered my interview with the dying man as at best but amiable officiousness. But there lay the sinking sufferer, and I wore the uniform of a minister of Christ, and bending over the table where he lay, I asked the Good Shepherd to give assurance of pardon to the wandering sheep. I dared not remind the boy that he was dying the noblest death that mortal man can die, but held up his case merely as that of a lost sinner, whose redemption must come, not from that horrid shell-wound, or the blood that, for his country's sake, was trickling from that mangled limb, but from the blood shed upon Calvary, and the wounds of a

slain Redeemer. Throughout the prayer, his murmured responses and fervent ejaculations disclosed his own earnestness in the petition, and the smothered hope revived again; and, faint at first, but growing brighter and brighter, there finally beamed in full radiance on his soul that faith which supports in the stern hour.

Meanwhile, there stood beside the table a noble-looking young fellow, a little older than the dying soldier, moistening his lips, and affectionately smoothing the hair from his brow, but so perfectly calm and collected, I supposed he was merely one of the hospital attendants. A remark of some one present started my suspicion, and I asked,

"Is this a friend of yours?"

Said he, "It is my younger brother."

So calm was his voice, and so composed his manner throughout the whole, that the thing seemed impossible, except that often those who feel most deeply manifest it the least.

He said to his brother, "S-, what shall I tell mother for you?"

"Tell her I died for my country," was the prompt and noble reply.

"Give me a kiss for her," said the other; and the bronzed face bowed down to the pale lips as tenderly as if they had been those of an infant. More than one in the tent turned to hide his tears, and the two brothers seemed most moved of all.

The dying boy sank rapidly, but the clouds vanished from his mind, and his faith grew bright and strong. I repeated, "I know that my Redeemer liveth;" "The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want;" "In my Father's house are many mansions;" and still other passages. I recited, also, the beautiful hymn:

"Rock of ages, cleft for me,"

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and those lines, especially dear when the couch of dissolution was a rough board table in a dark, cold tent, with merely a knapsack to rest the head upon,

"Jesus can make a dying bed

Feel soft as downy pillows are."

The hymns of Zion had been familiar to him at home, and he tried to repeat,

"Jesus, lover of my soul."

That was always a favorite hymn of mine, and I repeated it to him entire. It seemed to give him a great deal of comfort, and to strengthen him even more than the rest had done.

But his voice was already beginning to fail. Said he, "There's-a-silver-pencil-in-pocket.”

He evidently wished to send it to some one for a keepsake, and it was with the deepest sorrow we saw he was unable to speak friendship's last message. There was but one friend of whom he had power to speak now. He had lain for some minutes perfectly motionless. I thought all But all at once he roused up and said,

was over.

"Jesus, lover of my soul. Oh, repeat that again!" My voice choked up so that I could hardly speak. With broken utterances I once more went through with the beautiful stanzas. But I know not if he heard me, for I could not have got to the last verse before "the storm of life" was over; "the haven" was reached, and "the billows" had died away in eternal peace.1

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1 From the N. Y. Examiner.

XXXV. THE CURRENT BETWEEN HOME AND CAMP.

Some of the marks fastened on the blankets, shirts, and other gifts sent to the Sanitary Commission for the soldiers, show the thought and feeling at home. Thus, on a homespun blanket, worn, but washed as clean as snow, was pinned a bit of paper, which said, "This blanket was carried by Milly Aldrich (who is ninety-three years old), down hill and up hill, one and a half miles, to be given to some soldier."

On a bed-quilt was pinned a card, saying, "My son is in the army. Whoever is made warm by this quilt, which I have worked on for six days and the greater part of six nights, let him remember his own mother's love."

On another blanket was this: "This blanket was used by a soldier in the war of 1812; may it keep some soldier warm in this war against traitors."

On a pillow was written: "This pillow belonged to my little boy, who died resting on it; it is a precious treasure to me, but I give it for the soldiers."

On a pair of woollen. socks was written: "These stockings were knit by a little girl five years old, and she is going to knit some more, for mother says it will help some poor soldier."

On a box of beautiful lint was this mark: "Made in a sick-room, where the sunlight has not entered for nine years, but where God has entered, and where two sons have bid their mother good-by, as they have gone out to the war."

On a bundle containing bandages was written: "This is a poor gift, but it is all I had; I have given my husband and my boy, and only wish I had more to give; but I have not."

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On some eye-shades was marked: "Made by one who is blind. Oh, how I long to see the dear old flag that you are all fighting under!"

XXXVI. HOME-LINKS OF THE WAR.

The Rev. Robert J. Parvin, a laborer for the Christian Commission, related the following history, at a recent meeting of that Association, in the Hall of Representatives at Washington.

At Gettysburg (said he), in the Fifth Corps Hospital, of which I had charge in the Christian Commission's work for a few weeks, I had occasion to see how many home-links there are between our work and the last hours of dying soldiers. I remember well a captain from the State of Maine, of the 20th Maine Volunteers, who was brought into that old barn, where were sixty-five of the worst cases in the whole corps. Oh, they were all sadly wounded! The brave fellow had some of his own men lying on the floor not far from him. He loved them with a father's love. As one after another they died around him, it worked so upon his mind that he became a raving maniac, until it took four or five to hold him. With great difficulty we got him away from his men who were dying, - in a room by himself, and he rallied. The surgeon went in to see him. He came out and I passed in. The surgeon had told me he could not live. If he had had a primary amputation an amputation, that is, on the field-he might have recovered, but he could not now.

I took him by the hand. His first words were, "Chaplain (for such they call us), what did the surgeon say?"

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Why, captain, you are in a critical case."

"I know that, chaplain; but does the surgeon think I can live?"