Not long after leaving Philadelphia, we passed a solitary sentry keeping guard over a short railroad-bridge.  It was the first evidence that we were approaching the perilous borders, the marches where the North and the South mingle their angry hosts, where the extremes of our so-called civilization meet in conflict, and the fierce slave-driver of the Lower Mississippi stares into the stern eyes of the forest-feller from the banks of the Aroostook.  All the way along, the bridges were guarded more or less strongly.  In a vast country like ours, communications play a far more complex part than in Europe, where the whole territory available for strategic purposes is so comparatively limited.  Belgium, for instance, has long been the bowling-alley where kings roll cannon-balls at each other’s armies; but here we are playing the game of live ninepins without any alley.

We were obliged to stay in Baltimore over-night, as we were too late for the train to Frederick.  At the Eutaw House, where we found both comfort and courtesy, we met a number of friends, who beguiled the evening hours for us in the most agreeable manner.  We devoted some time to procuring surgical and other articles, such as might be useful to our friends, or to others, if our friends should not need them.  In the morning, I found myself seated at the breakfast-table next to General Wool.  It did not surprise me to find the General very far from expansive.  With Fort McHenry on his shoulders and Baltimore in his breeches-pocket, and the weight of a military department loading down his social safety-valves, I thought it a great deal for an officer in his trying position to select so very obliging and affable an aid as the gentleman who relieved him of the burden of attending to strangers.

We left the Eutaw House, to take the cars for Frederick.  As we stood waiting on the platform, a telegraphic message was handed in silence to my companion.  Sad news:  the lifeless body of the son he was hastening to see was even now on its way to him in Baltimore.  It was no time for empty words of consolation:  I knew what he had lost, and that now was not the time to intrude upon a grief borne as men bear it, felt as women feel it.

Colonel Wilder Dwight was first made known to me as the friend of a beloved relative of my own, who was with him during a severe illness in Switzerland, and for whom while living, and for whose memory when dead, he retained the warmest affection.  Since that, the story of his noble deeds of daring, of his capture and escape, and a brief visit home before he was able to rejoin his regiment, had made his name familiar to many among us, myself among the number.  His memory has been honored by those who had the largest opportunity of knowing his rare promise, as a man of talents and energy of nature.  His abounding vitality must have produced its impression on all who met him; there was a still fire about him which any one could see would blaze up to melt all difficulties and recast obstacles into implements in the mould of an heroic will.  These elements of his character many had the chance of knowing; but I shall always associate him with the memory of that pure and noble friendship which made me feel that I knew him before I looked upon his face, and added a personal tenderness to the sense of loss which I share with the whole community.