The only minister who came into the Stockade was a Catholic priest, middle-aged, tall, slender, and unmistakably devout.  He was unwearied in his attention to the sick, and the whole day could be seen moving around through the prison, attending to those who needed spiritual consolation.  It was interesting to see him administer the extreme unction to a dying man.  Placing a long purple scarf about his own neck and a small brazen crucifix in the hands of the dying one, he would kneel by the latter’s side and anoint him upon the eyes, ears, nostrils; lips, hands, feet and breast, with sacred oil; from a little brass vessel, repeating the while, in an impressive voice, the solemn offices of the Church.

His unwearying devotion gained the admiration of all, no matter how little inclined one might be to view priestliness generally with favor.  He was evidently of such stuff as Christian heros have ever been made of, and would have faced stake and fagot, at the call of duty, with unquailing eye.  His name was Father Hamilton, and he was stationed at Macon.  The world should know more of a man whose services were so creditable to humanity and his Church: 

The good father had the wisdom of the serpent, with the harmlessness of the dove.  Though full of commiseration for the unhappy lot of the prisoners, nothing could betray him into the slightest expression of opinion regarding the war or those who were the authors of all this misery.  In our impatience at our treatment, and hunger for news, we forgot his sacerdotal character, and importuned him for tidings of the exchange.  His invariable reply was that he lived apart from these things and kept himself ignorant of them.

“But, father,” said I one day, with an impatience that I could not wholly repress, “you must certainly hear or read something of this, while you are outside among the Rebel officers.”  Like many other people, I supposed that the whole world was excited over that in which I felt a deep interest.

“No, my son,” replied he, in his usual calm, measured tones.  “I go not among them, nor do I hear anything from them.  When I leave the prison in the evening, full of sorrow at what I have seen here, I find that the best use I can make of my time is in studying the Word of God, and especially the Psalms of David.”

We were not any longer good company for each other.  We had heard over and over again all each other’s stories and jokes, and each knew as much about the other’s previous history as we chose to communicate.  The story of every individual’s past life, relations, friends, regiment, and soldier experience had been told again and again, until the repetition was wearisome.  The cool nights following the hot days were favorable to little gossiping seances like the yarn-spinning watches of sailors on pleasant nights.  Our squad, though its stock of stories was worn threadbare, was fortunate enough to have a sweet singer in Israel “Nosey” Payne—­of whose tunefulness we never tired.  He had a large repertoire of patriotic songs, which he sang with feeling and correctness, and which helped much to make the calm Summer nights pass agreeably.  Among the best of these was “Brave Boys are They,” which I always thought was the finest ballad, both in poetry and music, produced by the War.