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Fac-simile of a descriptive list belonging to Mr. Ulmer. The original is six times larger and was plowed up with other documents by an old negro on the battle field in front of Petersburg, twelve years after the war. While Mr. Ulmer was playing an engagement at the theatre in Norfolk, the negro presented himself with the document all in pieces. Mr. Ulmer gave him $100 as a reward, had the pieces put together on parchment and it is now in a good state of preservation. The document is certainly a great relic; some portions of it are almost obliterated by mildew and exposure. The supposition is that the officer who had it in his possession was killed and the papers buried with him.

Having spoken so often of my brother, some one may ask and wonder what became of him.

During the war our soldiers would often receive little useful articles, such as stockings, shirts, etc., made by the ladies who formed themselves into societies all over the country and furnished these things for distribution among the soldiers at the front. The young ladies had a great craze at that time of marking their names or initials upon whatever they made. One day my brother received a pair of hand-knit stockings with a little tag sewed on each of them, and written on the tags the letters L. A. D., Islesboro, Maine. They were so acceptable at the time that he declared that if he lived to get out of the army, he would be “gorramed” if he didn’t find the girl that built those stockings, and kiss her for them. He began writing to Islesboro, making inquiries, and received several letters signed “Tab.” He was determined not to give it up, however, and when mustered out, the first thing he did, was to go to Islesboro, Maine, to find “Tab.” He found her, she was a schoolma’m, and soon after married her, and they are now living way out in Port Angeles in the State of Washington happy as bugs in a rug, and every meal time you can find several little “Tabs” around the table, some large enough to tell the story of how Pa found Ma, and a great desire to try the same thing themselves.

The unhappy war was over. The soldier boy returned. I arrived home at the little farm, found a royal, loving welcome from my father and brothers, and more than any other, my little step-sister, who never got tired of stories of my experience. She would sit for hours, begging me to tell her more. She was always with me wherever I would go. She was full of admiration for me. I was a hero in her eyes; I could not dispel her fancy, and I didn’t try, for she seemed the sunshine of my life. She plodded with me through all my ups and downs; through the snow and ice of winter, making summer for me the year round, and she is now my little wife.

I must stop here, or I may go too far into a history of my life, which I did not intend. I know it would be uninteresting, but will simply add that myself and wife adopted the stage as a profession, and still follow it. I have just completed a play entitled, “The Volunteer” which I shall soon submit for public approval.

My recollections are finished—for they are but recollections of a time that “tried men’s souls.” In looking back o’er the path of life there is a melancholy pleasure, to me, at least, in contemplating the shattered shards of many an air built castle,—inhaling the perfumes of flowers long since faded and dead. If these reflections have served to beguile one moment of “ennui” for an idle reader—if they have recalled one incident of “derring doe” to a whilesome comrade, I am satisfied that my purpose is accomplished.