dead on the field. Sickness in the service carried off thirteen thousand. Thirty-seven out of every thousand men died fighting, and forty-seven out of every thousand died in hospitals.

This is the record; and it is honorable to Ohio.

CHAPTER XI.

NEW LIFE.

BRIDGE
CINCINNATI

EE had surrendered, Richmond had fallen, and the President of the defeated Confederacy had been seized and imprisoned, when a last minor yet tragic incident of the war occurred on the Walnut Hills road, Cincinnati. A number

of months before

this event, a youth named Thomas Martin, captured in Kentucky and tried at Cincinnati as a guerilla, was found guilty and sentenced to be shot. But those who passed the sentence had no intention of enforcing the penalty. They simply sought to frighten the Kentucky raiders, and the prisoner who had listened to the death sentence was given his liberty. General Willich, the

military commandant of the city, used Martin as an orderly, and formed a strong liking for him. The sentence had been all but forgotten, when General Hooker, looking over the papers on file in the department from which he was about to retire, discovered the findings of the court-martial. Learning that the lad was still alive, Hooker sent for Willich, whose explanation did not please him. The next day Hooker sent an order directing Willich to shoot the boy on the fifth of May.

Willich was in consternation at the order. It would seem like murder to deliberately take the life of a lad who had faithfully served him for nearly a year. Every effort was made by civil and military authorities to avoid the observance of so cruel a command. The boy was being carried to the place of execution when a mounted messenger dashed up with a suspension from the Secretary of War. Willich and the soldiers, not to mention poor Martin, were delighted. But the stay was only temporary. Hooker returned to the city in a rage at the interference with his plans. Judge Dickson pleaded that the war was over; that the boy was only a guerilla whose chief, Col. Jesse, had received the same terms as Lee, and was at that moment fraternizing with Union officers at Louisville. But Hooker would listen to no appeal.

When I was in command of the Army of the

Potomac," he exclaimed, "Lincoln would not let Lee killed men every day, and

me kill a man.* Lee's army was under discipline; and now, sir, Lincoln is dead, and I will kill this man. Yes, sir, I will. The order is given to shoot him tomorrow, and he will be shot."

And so Martin knelt beside a coffin in the ravine, and was killed by a squad of unwilling soldiers. He was the last victim of the war.

Cincinnati after the war was a very different city from the Cincinnati of 1860; and the difference deepened in a marked and interesting way. So long as the city's relations to the slave-holding South divided the opinions of the people and hampered political policy, it was impossible that any solid and permanent local sentiment should be developed. Once the ligament was cut, and the factions of the city were drawn together by a common danger, a cheerfully changed order of things began to govern the life of the municipality.

"There is now prevalent among the rulers of the city," remarked an observant writer two years after the close of the Rebellion, "that noblest trait of freemen, that supreme virtue of the citizen - Public Spirit; the blessed fruits of which are already

"The image of the speaker," writes Judge Dickson, "rises before me with startling distinctness. The manner as well as the words indicated that his mind was oppressed with the thought that Lincoln's humanity had thwarted his career. In some way it seemed to him a relief to sacrifice this boy."

apparent, and which is about to render the city a true metropolis to the valley of the Ohio; the fostering mother of all that aids and adorns civilization."

Cincinnati in 1867 was more suggestive of Philadelphia than of any other Eastern city, though the universal use of soft, bituminous coal gave it the dinginess almost of London. Its newer buildings were large, handsome and wellbuilt. In its mansions, its public buildings and its ceaseless traffic, the city had begun to take on the air of a great metropolis. The crowded German quarter, with its beer gardens and concert halls, lay beyond the picturesque canal to which had been given the name of the "Rhine." Under the brow of the hill had begun to gather a motley group of breweries and slaughter houses; while along the summit of the highlands stretched the parks and villas of the favored inhabitants, whose charming situation led the Duke of Newcastle's party-"doing" the States with the Prince of Wales to pronounce the suburbs of Cincinnati the most beautiful in America. Beyond the immediate suburbs of the city stretched the groves and villages that gave color and interest to the landscape. Beyond, too, lay the Buckeye vineyards, whose Catawba juice won the eulogy of Longfellow: