not strange that, in the bronzed, roughened, hungry soldier, she could with difficulty find a trace of the gay companion of many a well-remembered gala-day of old. Alas, for the ravages of death! Both have passed away, to meet in that beautiful city whose streets are “like a jasper stone, clear as crystal.” The hurry and confusion, the fearful rapidity with which event trod upon the heels of event, in those after-crowded weeks, prevent us from knowing much of the closing scenes of this fair and well-wrought life, which did not quite reach twenty-eight years. On the fatal morning of July 3, 1863, William Cocke stood facing the enemy's guns before Gettysburg, ready for that terrible onset which was to send a wail of agony through the entire land. “Never,” writes Captain Cocke, “do I remember to have seen William more calm, quiet or collected, than he was on that morning, as I had my last sight of him standing within seventy or eighty feet of the enemy's breastworks.” He had looked death too often and too steadily in the eye to quail now; and we may feel well assured that if it had been announced to him then and there that the next volley was to be the messenger to summon him from the ghastly awfulness of the battle-field into the pure presence of God, not a muscle of that genial and pleasant countenance would have quivered, not a pulsation of that steadfast heart quickened. He knew “in whom he had believed.” We feel sure that the “little Greek Testament” was turned to for strength and solace in that hour of fearful crisis. “Let not your heart be troubled;” “where I am, there shall my servant be.” “Whosoever believeth in me shall never die.” And thus comforted and fortified, would he not hide in his bosom again the dear and well-used volume, and with a supreme faith, unconscious of fear, step gloriously forth to his doom? All we can know is, that when the deadly onset was made, Lieutenant Cocke rushed upon the batteries: clouds of smoke veiled the carnage that followed; cannon belched their fire, the earth shook with the tread of contending armies, the grass grew sodden with blood; and when the rage of battle ceased, and the broken bands fell back exhausted, William Cocke was not among them. No one had seen him fall, none could give any tidings of him. All who had closely surrounded him had doubtless sunk beneath the same charge; and the silence that came back upon the souls of those who questioned of his fate was the only
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