which, though not as heavy as usual, was nevertheless grievous, as slavery must ever be to the soul of a man made in the image of God."

The Chaplain's labors in these fearful scenes were publicly acknowledged. An army correspondent

says:

"I know but little of the theological notions of Chaplain Fuller, but I can tell you that he has got the name, in the army where he is known, of a man going about doing good.' It matters not how poor or how degraded a man is who comes in contact with Mr. Fuller, he withdraws from that contact a better man. 'None know him but to love him.'

Another writes:

"Prominent among those who are active in relieving the sufferings of the sick and wounded soldiers, I notice the Rev. Arthur B. Fuller, Chaplain of the Sixteenth Massachusetts Regiment. Mr. Fuller has been busy at the hospital from morning till night, administering medicines and words of comfort to such as were in need."

Shortly before the Sixteenth Regiment unexpectedly left Fortress Monroe, the Chaplain had obtained a furlough. On his way home the movement reached his ears, and he immediately retraced his steps, writing the following letter to his family : —

"I am sorry to disappoint you, by not meeting you this week; and it is painful to turn back to increased hardship, when my face was once set homeward. But I learned last evening, on board the boat, that my regiment had moved forward to occupy Sewall's Point, and thence to Norfolk. I cannot leave them in their hour of peril, when perhaps my prayers and counsel may be especially valuable. This is

the first really active service of the Sixteenth. Its hardships, its privations, its dangers, I too must share."

When the summons came to join the Peninsular army, he writes to his home:

"God be praised that we are permitted to do something to serve our country! May He who doeth all things for his glory and man's welfare secure for us a splendid triumph over the forces of rebellion and treason! I pray for my country's redemption, and that even through war may come that freedom for which the bondman sighs, that unity which is the strength of a nation, that righteousness which is her highest glory!"

From the battle-field he writes home:

"I am enduring much privation in the way of food, clothing, and exposure. But I do not think it manly to write particulars, as you desire; indeed, I endeavor not to think about it. Almost every day, and sometimes twice a day, I go out with the regiment in line of battle. I deem this my duty. For nine days I had no change of raiment, not even a clean shirt or handkerchief, and lived on hard crackers and sour coffee. But God blesses my labors, particularly among the sick and wounded, and I am far enough from repining. Of all places in the world, I am glad I am here now. I find no physical fear to be mine. This is a mere matter of organization, not merit. Meet me on earth, if it may be; in heaven, surely. And know that nothing will make me swerve from my fealty to God, to Christ his Son, to my family, my State, and my COUNTRY."

But the Chaplain's body was unequal to his spirit, and sank under disease caused by exposure and hardship. His sickness was so severe that the physicians pronounced it incurable in the Virginia climate. He

was urged to seek the recovery of health at home. Among others, Hon. Frank B. Fay, Mayor of Chelsea, who labored in the army on the errand of mercy and philanthropy, visited him and urged him to return. His agency had much to do on this occasion in restoring the Chaplain in life to his family, as it finally was instrumental in furnishing to them the sad consolation of weeping over his remains and paying them the mournful rite of sepulture.

HAPLAIN FULLER returned to his family broken in health and depressed in spirits. The sufferings he had witnessed were enough to overshadow a sensitive and sympathetic temperament, such as his ever was. Disease, too, contracted in the malarious swamps of Virginia, had fastened a hold upon him most difficult to be shaken off, and death seemed waiting, at a brief remove, to make the finale of sickness. But it was not these things that clouded the mind of the Chaplain. It was the disappointment worse than death which had snatched victory from the expecting army, deferred the doom of Rebellion, and cast a gloom over the loyal nation.

To share a joy or sorrow with others, we know, intensifies the sentiment, giving it a multiplied force. This almost all have experienced, when the individual heart has shared the sentiment of the circle of family or friendship, or, still more, when it has beat in concordance with the emotion of a popular assembly. But it is impossible adequately to describe, and difficult to realize without actual experience, the power of an emotion in which the hearts of a nation throb in unison. Such was the revulsion of popular feeling when it was at length understood that the enterprise against Richmond had actually been abandoned, and the grand army reduced to a remnant. The blow was broken by veiling the news under the name of "strategetic movement" and "change of base." But the shock vibrated through the loyal nation. Rebellion once more raised its vaunting crest, and loyal resolution was tried by a stern ordeal.

Previous reverses, the "three stinging bees of Bull Run, Big Bethel, and Ball's Bluff, had only roused and exasperated Union patriotism to fresh enterprise. This new and great disaster stunned the nation for a moment; it ran so counter to public expectation and to confident hopes held out to the public to the very last, and was so inexplicable, considering the advantages of recent success and of numerical superiority enjoyed by the Federals, at the outset certainly, and up to the last days, if not throughout the tedious protraction of the Union advance. Yet there was little disposition to accuse or recriminate, or even whisper of betrayal. The disappointment was deep and mute; as nature often seems to be, after some