rs, tender memories are awakened in our hearts — memories of men whose hearts were knit to ours in the camp, the march, the bivouac, the siege and the battle.
And as Shiloh, and Murfreesboro, and Chickamauga, and Chattanooga, and Vicksburg, and Atlanta, and Franklin, and Nashville, and Mansfield, and Pleasant Hill, pass before us, familiar forms and faces appear instinct with the life and bright with the light that was the strength and the joy of those camping and campaigning days.
And some o remember how, the day after, as their chaplain, with Scripture and prayer, I buried seventy of the best and bravest of my brigade, placed side by side in the long trenches that were their common grave.
And that fight at Peach Tree Creek, above Atlanta, where, of our 1,230 that went in, but 650 came out. Ah!
how often, as we entered those fields of slaughter, looking along our devoted ranks, the pathos and power of those lines, in which a master of words commemorates Waterloo, thrilled my sou