It was a gala-day in Springfield.  The Stars and Stripes were flying from windows and house-tops, and ladies and children, with little flags in their hands, stood on the door-steps to welcome us.  This is the prettiest town I have found in Missouri, and we can see the remains of former thrift and comfort worthy a village in the Valley of the Merrimack or Genesee.  It has suffered severely from the war.  From its position it is the key to Southern Missouri, and all decisive battles for the possession of that region must be fought near Springfield.  This is the third Union army which has been here, and the Confederate armies have already occupied the place twice.  When the Federals came, the leading Secessionists fled; and when the Rebels came, the most prominent Union men ran away.  Thus by the working of events the town has lost its chief citizens, and their residences are either deserted or have been sacked.  War’s dreary record is written upon the dismantled houses, the wasted gardens, the empty storehouses, and the deserted taverns.  The market, which stood in the centre of the Plaza, was last night fired by a crazy old man, well known here, and previously thought to be harmless:  it now stands a black ruin, a type of the desolation which broods over the once happy and prosperous town.

Near the market is a substantial brick edifice, newly built,—­the county courthouse.  It is used as a hospital, and we were told that the dead Guardsmen were lying in the basement.  Colonel Eaton and myself dismounted, and entered a long, narrow room in which lay sixteen ghastly figures in open coffins of unpainted pine, ranged along the walls.  All were shot to death except one.  They seemed to have died easily, and many wore smiles upon their faces.  Death had come so suddenly that the color still lingered in their boyish cheeks, giving them the appearance of wax-figures.  Near the door was the manly form of the sergeant of the first company, who, while on the march, rode immediately in front of the General.  We all knew him well.  He was a model soldier:  his dress always neat, his horse well groomed, the trappings clean, and his sabre-scabbard bright.  He lay as calm and placid as if asleep; and a small blue mark between his nose and left eye told the story of his death.  Opposite him was a terrible spectacle,—­the bruised, mangled, and distorted shape of a bright-eyed lad belonging to the Kentucky company.  I had often remarked his arch, mirthful, Irish-like face; and the evening the Guard left camp he brought me a letter to send to his mother, and talked of the fun he was going to have at Springfield.  His body was found seven miles from the battle-field, stripped naked.  There was neither bullet—­nor sabre-wound upon him, but his skull had been beaten in by a score of blows.  The cowards had taken him prisoner, carried him with them in their flight, and then robbed and murdered him.

After leaving the hospital we met Major White, whom we supposed to be a prisoner.  He is quite ill from the effects of exposure and anxiety.  With his little band of twenty-four men he held the town, protecting and caring for the wounded, until Sigel came in yesterday noon.