friends, and whose sole question in the hour of doubt was, ‘What is it right for me to do?’ When conscience answered, he hesitated not, but braced his soul to the work. The sweet steadfastness and patience with which he bore his sorrows endeared him to his enemies, and when overborne by the agonies of the surgical operations, he strangled the utterances of his pain. This memoir has purposely omitted a reference to the loving relations of home, which are so beautifully suggested in the letters which have furnished much of this short sketch. To those who knew him well, he was inexpressibly dear, and we have seen how his comrades felt in his death the loss not merely of a friend, but something of that holier and more delicate affection which marks the love and friendship between man and woman. This extended to the men under his command, as the following letter well illustrates. It was written by one of his men while in hospital.
One of the agents of the Sanitary Commission, the Rev. Francis Tiffany of Springfield, while pursuing his duties in this connection, accidentally fell into conversation with a soldier. ‘Well,’ said the man, ‘of all the officers ever I saw, Major Savage was the noblest Christian gentleman.’ A brother officer thus sums up his character:—
To an almost feminine gentleness, refinement, and amiability he joined the indomitable pluck, energy, and resolution which become the man. When, before the regiment had yet been in action, officers around their camp or picket fires at night would discuss its