f the national arms.
He passed the last day of his life in hopeful discussion of the military movements which three days afterwards culminated in the victory of Gettysburg.
In the evening he retired, fell into a deep sleep, and slumbered soundly all night; awoke in the morning languid and weary, conversed a little, then turned and slumbered again, and never more awoke.
And so, on the 1st of July, 1863, emaciated, feeble, and faint, but patient and forlornly brave unto the end, died Harry Richardson.
In admiration of the fortitude of the patriot, in reverence for the fidelity of the officer, but, more than all, in love of the sterling virtues and endearing qualities of the man, this humble record of his life is placed among the memorials of his classmates and friends.
Eulogy his fair memory needs not. All who knew him know the full measure of his worth, and, knowing that, recognize the wealth of the sacrifice, expressed more eloquently to them than labored pages can portray, in h