And your tale will be told in the record above:
'For his country's honor he died.'
The gentle strings of the light guitar,
Waking soft echoes from memory's chords,
And tender dreams of home—
The noise, and the pomp, and the glitter of war;
The furious charge, and the clashing swords;
The song of the rolling drum.
How many a young heart has, in these later days, been turned from soft guitar-tones of idleness, to the brave, rattling measures of drum-life! It will do good, this war of ours; and many a brave fellow will, in after years, look back upon it as the school in which he first learned to be a thoroughly practical and sensible MAN.
We are indebted to a gossiping and ever most welcome New Haven friend for the following anecdote of one of the men who, clothed in a little brief authority, 'go about 'restin' people:'