to have belonged to a Rebel colonel, who was killed near the same place.  Not far off were two dead artillery horses in their harness.  Another had been attended to by a burying-party, who had thrown some earth over him but his last bed-clothes were too short, and his legs stuck out stark and stiff from beneath the gravel coverlet.  It was a great pity that we had no intelligent guide to explain to us the position of that portion of the two armies which fought over this ground.  There was a shallow trench before we came to the cornfield, too narrow for a road, as I should think, too elevated for a water-course, and which seemed to have been used as a rifle-pit.  At any rate, there had been hard fighting in and about it.  This and the cornfield may serve to identify the part of the ground we visited, if any who fought there should ever look over this paper.  The opposing tides of battle must have blended their waves at this point, for portions of gray uniform were mingled with the “garments rolled in blood” torn from our own dead and wounded soldiers.  I picked up a Rebel canteen, and one of our own,—­but there was something repulsive about the trodden and stained relics of the stale battle-field.  It was like the table of some hideous orgy left uncleared, and one turned away disgusted from its broken fragments and muddy heeltaps.  A bullet or two, a button, a brass plate from a soldier’s belt, served well enough for mementos of my visit, with a letter which I picked up, directed to Richmond, Virginia, its seal unbroken.  “N.  C. Cleveland County.  E. Wright to J. Wright.”  On the other side, “A few lines from W. L. Vaughn.” who has just been writing for the wife to her husband, and continues on his own account.  The postscript, “tell John that nancy’s folks are all well and has a verry good Little Crop of corn a growing.”  I wonder, if, by one of those strange chances of which I have seen so many, this number or leaf of the “Atlantic” will not sooner or later find its way to Cleveland County, North Carolina, and E. Wright, widow of James Wright, and Nancy’s folks, get from these sentences the last glimpse of husband and friend as he threw up his arms and fell in the bloody cornfield of Antietam?  I will keep this stained letter for them until peace comes back, if it comes in my time, and my pleasant North Carolina Rebel of the Middletown Hospital will, perhaps look these poor people up, and tell them where to send for it.

On the battle-field I parted with my two companions, the Chaplain and the Philanthropist.  They were going to the front, the one to find his regiment, the other to look for those who needed his assistance.  We exchanged cards and farewells, I mounted the wagon, the horses’ heads were turned homewards, my two companions went their way, and I saw them no more.  On my way back, I fell into talk with James Grayden.  Born in England, Lancashire; in this country since he was four years old.  Had nothing to care for