C. Edwards Lester, Life and public services of Charles Sumner: Born Jan. 6, 1811. Died March 11, 1874.

‘ [430] cause?—Never! Why shouldn't I stand by the old flag, as well as any other man? But if our whole army sinks into the earth, the cause is just as safe as ever. I believe in a God—my mother taught me that; and He can't afford to let this country go down.’ And as he heroically lifted his clinched fist, his wrist was so thin and white the gaslight shone through it.

‘The battle of Williamsburg was over,—the rebels driven from the field; the war-storm hushed, and the sad duty of caring for our wounded, and burying our dead remained to be performed. Groping our way through the darkness, we came upon the body of a pale, slender, beardless boy, a member of Co. I, 37th Regiment, N. Y. Volunteers—one of hundreds who had marched from their beautiful hill-girt homes in Cattaraugus County. We raised him up. He was not dead, but badly wounded. On carrying him to our improvised hospital, the surgeon pronounced his wound mortal. He heard the decision; and although suffering greatly, not a sigh, or groan, or even an exclamation of surprise, passed his lips. He was asked if he desired to send any message to his family. I shall never forget how his mild blue eye lit up. After a moment's pause he said, “Tell them that Lafayette Morrow, the boy soldier, died at his post, and sends his love.” Turning over with a deep sigh, he added wearily, “I think I will sleep now.” He did— “the sleep that knows no waking.” ’

During the desperate fight at Williamsburg, while the Color-company of the 57th New York went rushing over the bodies of the dying and dead, to take the place of a New Jersey regiment which had fallen back half slaughtered, one gallant fellow, who had been carried to the rear, was seen leaning against a tree, swinging one bleeding arm, while the other hung shattered and dangling by his side, screaming out in his death-agony, ‘There goes the old flag! Hold her up, boys,—forever ’ and fell a senseless, gory mass at the roots of the tree. In returning from the field from which the rebels had been driven, two men left the ranks to look after the dead soldier. They dug his grave where he lay, and long before now the oak ‘hath shot his roots abroad, and pierced his mould.’

I have seen many who had seldom thought about their own death—boys, who left homes of luxury, fondled by sister's caresses, and mother's love, brought from the battle-field, and laid down in a hospital to die. When the fading twilight of a joyous youth was passing into the deep eclipse of death's shadow as it moved out from the unknown land, those who had thought of the last hour so sure to come,