heart of the coward. No Paradise waits for his successive ghosts,—the hell of despair yawns at his feet, and blindly he stumbles into its depths, while the land of Beulah awaits the soul of the dying brave.
We heard the boom of the far-away cannons, when the feet of hostile forces paused on the sacred hill at Gettysburg. The vibrations were plainly felt like the tremblings of an earthquake, and we knew that men were being cut down like ripened grain. The silence of days was broken, and men talked of the dreadful heat on the dusty highway, where soldiers fell prostrate by hundreds, stricken down by sun-stroke.
Eager eyes sought every scrap of information from the daily journals,—and waited, hoping for the best.
Lee's army, laden with spoils, went back into Virginia, uncaptured, and no one knew why,—so sure they were if a conflict was risked every rebel gray-back would be taken prisoner of war.
Hundreds came from the North to visit the field for relics—dead bodies were stripped, and the harness taken from bloated horses lying rotting where they were killed,—it was safe to indulge curiosity and acquisitiveness then, with Gen. Lee miles and miles away, and only the boys in blue with their loyal guns to guard the field.
Two visitors came to our hospital thence. It was whispered about that their eagerness for relics had caused them to indulge in undue freedom with proscribed things, and in consequence they were obliged
