calmer, and recognizing his brother and the chaplain, he seized their hands and showered loving kisses with his cold lips upon them. His physical and mental powers now sank almost beyond recall. On being told that he was dying, he said, half-conscious, chanting in measured cadence, "I've got to die—I've got to die." This he repeated many times; and then in cadence still more thrilling, "I'm—willing-to die. I'm-willing— to die. Here-I-go,-I—go. I am goinghere-there. I'm-prepared-better-prepared"— than some of his fellow-soldiers, (he meant), at the point of death like himself, who had been thoughtless and irreligious. With these broken words" better-prepared better prep"-his lips refused further utterance. The little group then bowed around the soldier's dying couch, and prayer in his behalf was breathed into the ear of the ascended Redeemer. Again we spoke to him of Jesus; and at the mention of that loved name, his pallid features glowed with seraphic radiance, and his spirit soon passed away.1 1 From Mr. Alvord, in the Tract Journal. CHAPTER IV. CHEERFUL SUBMISSION TO HARDSHIPS AND SUFFERINGS. I. HEROISM IN THE HOSPITAL. NOTHING SO reconciles men to the endurance of privations and suffering as the consciousness of a good cause and a conviction of the value of the objects for which their sacrifices are made. A chaplain in one of the Massachusetts regiments, Rev. Mr. Clark, of Swampscot, who was sent home in charge of a great number of wounded and sick soldiers, stated it as a remarkable fact that in all his intercourse with soldiers wounded in battle, he had not found one who expressed or seemed to feel the least regret for what he had suffered in his country's cause. "Oh, how brave," writes a lady who has labored for months in the hospitals of Kentucky,-"how brave and patient those men are! In all the sufferings I have seen, I have never heard the first regret at the giving up of home and health, and life itself, for the country. When I have tried to find out, the spirit of the answer has almost invariably been, 'What I have done, I would do again, even if it brought me here."" William Lowell Putnam, of Boston, a young officer of social rank and education, lost his life in the battle of Ball's Bluff. With a presentiment, it would seem, of his approaching death, he wrote a letter home, in which he said, "You know, mother, that it is easy to die in such a cause; and, after all, death is but one step onward in life." After his fall, with a self-denial worthy of Sir Philip Sidney at Zutphen, he would not even accept the service of a surgeon, knowing that he was beyond human skill or cure, and feeling that there were others around him who might need it more than he. In a hospital, crowded with the wounded from the bloody field of Antietam, was a mutilated soldier, Charles Warren, from Massachusetts, one of whose limbs required amputation. There was little hope of saving him, but as no other resource was left, it was thought advisable to make the attempt. The wound was such that the operation could not be otherwise than painful in the extreme. A clergyman, Rev. Mr. Sloane, who had been useful to the young man in spiritual things, felt that he could not bear the sight of the inevitable suffering, and was about to leave the room. "But what was our surprise," he says, as they placed him on the table beneath the surgeon's knife, "to hear him singing in a clear and cheerful voice, the familiar words: 'There'll be no more sorrow there; "I stayed, assured that Charley was calm, trusting in God. The limb was taken off, and he remained in a drowsy state for twenty-four hours, and then gently passed away. We buried him in a quiet spot, with appropriate services, and, as we left the grave, felt that we could think of him as in that heaven of which he so cheerfully sang." An agent of the Christian Commission says of others wounded in the same battle, "The patience and fortitude with which they endure their privations and sufferings are truly marvellous. Owing to painful wounds and uncomfortable positions, many of them spend sleepless nights, but they suffer in silence. You seldom hear any audible expres A FUNERAL IN THE FOREST. 97 sion from them. I found occasion several times to chide them for not making known their condition when they had an opportunity to do so." "Not long ago," said Mr. Gough, at a public meeting in Boston, "I was in a hospital, and saw a young man, twenty-six years of age, pale and emaciated, with his shattered arm resting upon an oil-silk pillow, and there he had been many long and weary weeks, waiting for sufficient strength for an amputation. I knelt by his side and said, 'Will you answer me one question?' "Yes, sir,' was his reply. "Suppose you were well, at home, in good health, and knew all this would come to you, if you enlisted, would you enlist?' "Yes, sir,' he answered, in a whisper; 'I would in a minute! What is my arm or my life compared with the safety of the country?'" That is patriotism, and an army composed of such men has claims upon us that we cannot resist. II. A FUNERAL IN THE FOREST. A visitor to the Peninsula just after one of the battles there, in the month of July, 1862, writes as follows: One of the poor sufferers, shot through the lungs, seemed near his end. He was breathing heavily, his lips were pale, his eyes glistening with the lustre which betokens approaching death. I stopped and spoke to him of Christ. "I can trust in him," he faintly replied; and the smile upon his pallid countenance showed that his faith was resting upon the Rock of ages. Never did I feel the value of the Christian hope to the dying as then. I remembered that others, too, like him, must seal their loyalty with their blood; and, oh! how earnestly should those who love the soldier pray that they all may be prepared to die as calmly as did this youthful martyr to the cause of his country! As I came in sight of the camp, a military wagon and a guard of soldiers were bearing one of their comrades to his last resting-place. It was a mournful sight. The deceased was a fine young man, from Nantucket, highly esteemed and brave, but his last battle was fought. I turned and followed the little procession. The sun had set, and twilight was fading into night. They entered a narrow glen, which led into a dark forest, and, stopping at a small open space, silently lowered the soldier into his grave. No chaplain was present (the regiment had none), nor were mothers or sisters there to drop the tears of affection over the loved form. How dreary, I thought to myself, to be buried thus without mourners. But, as the grave was filled slowly and noiselessly with the soft mould, I could hear the hard breathing and the suppressed sob, though it was so dark I could not see the faces of those present. Ah! I was mistaken. The bereaved ones on that ocean isle may be assured that mourners were there, sincere, true mourners, - for the soldier has a heart of tenderness. Comrades in war are brothers; and, ere the grave was full, there was the audible expression of a brother's grief. Then all was hushed, heads were uncovered, and the lieutenant-colonel slowly, solemnly, repeated the Lord's Prayer. I never heard it when it so impressed me as then. As I turned away, I addressed the officer in words of sympathy, telling him who I was, and why I was there. He was surprised at seeing me. "Yes," said he, in response to my remarks; "these are indeed dark days for us." The sad tone in which he uttered this, the deepening |