of common sense. Four cardinal questions, I think, will exhaust the qualifications for a chaplaincy. Is he religiously fit? Is he physically fit? Is he acquainted with the animal "man?" Does he possess honest horse sense? Let me give two or three illustrative pictures from life:-Chaplain A. has a puttering demon; he is forever not letting things alone. Passing a group of boys he hears one oath, stops short in his boots, hurls a commandment at the author, hears another and reproves it, receives a whole volley, and retreats pained and discomfited. Now, Mr. A. is a good man, anxious to do duty, but that habit of his, that darting about camp like a “devil's darning needle" with a stereotype reproof in his eye and a pellet of rebuke on the tip of his tongue, bolts every heart against him. Chaplain B. preaches a sermon-regular army fare, too-on Sunday, buttons his coat up snuggly under his chin all the other days of the week, draws a thousand dollars, and is content. Chaplain C. never forgets that he is C. "with the rank of captain," perfumes like a civet cat, never saw the inside of a dog's tent, never quite considered the rank and file. fellow-beings. Of the three, the boys hate the first, despise the second, and d-arn the third.

The rebel forces from the East fought with a gallantry allied to desperation, and I do not wonder that our boys were proud to say, when asked to whom they were opposed, “Longstreet's men." The rebel fashion of coming out to battle is peculiar. Had you seen them streaming out of the woods in long, gray lines to the open field, you could have likened them to nothing better than to streams of turbid water pouring through a sieve. And writing of valor, let me say that the difference among regiments consists not more in the material of the rank and file than it does in the coolness, judgment and bravery of the officers, and the faith the soldiers repose in them. That faith has a magic in it that tones men up and

makes more and nobler men of them than there was before. It is the principle recognized by the great Frederick when he addressed his general:-"I send you against the enemy with sixty thousand men." "But, sire," said the officer, "there are only fifty thousand." "Ah, I counted you as ten thousand," was the monarch's wise and quick reply. I have a splendid illustration of this in an incident which occurred on Sunday, at Chickamauga. It was near four o'clock on that blazing afternoon, when a part of General Steedman's division of the Reserve Corps bowed their heads to the hurtling storm of lead, as if it had been rain, and betrayed signs of breaking. ` The line wavered like a great flag in a breath of wind. They were as splendid material as ever shouldered a musket, but then what could they do in such a blinding tempest? General Steedman rode up. A great, hearty man, broad-breasted, broad-shouldered, a face written all over with sturdy sense and courage; no lady's man to make bouquets for snowy. fingers, and sing: "Meet me by moonlight alone,” like some generals I could name, but realizing the ideal of my boyhood when I read of the stout old Morgan of the Revolution. Well, up rode Steedman, took the flag from the color bearer, glanced along the wavering front, and with that voice of his that could talk against a small rattle of musketry, cried out, "Go back, boys, go back, but the flag can't go with you!"grasped the staff, wheeled his horse and rode on. Must I tell you that the column closed up and grew firm, and moved resistlessly on like a great strong river, and swept down upon the foe and made a record that shall live when their graves are as empty as the cave of Macpelah!

HOW CHATTANOOGA LOOKS.

Chattanooga must have been a pleasant little town "in the piping times of peace." Nestled among the mountains, beside a loop in the Tennessee, embayed in the grandest of scenery, the battlements of "Lookout," its gray masonry

alternating with the green of its oaks and the deeper shadows of its cedars, lifting majestically almost within long rifle range; Missionary Ridge, less ambitious but not less picturesque, within three flights of the shafts of Robin Hood and his merry men; the truant Tennessee, loitering along, flowing south, flowing west, flowing north; the genial air, the generous earth; all must have rendered it a all must have rendered it a delightful nook in this noisy world. From the summit of Lookout Mountain a glorious landscape unrolls; you can look upon Tennessee, Georgia, Alabama; you can see the dim looming of the Blue Ridge and Bald Peak, and the smoky ranges of the “Old North State," the shadow of whose King's Mountain is sacred for all time, since out of it came the first whisper for independence, which, deepening and strengthening, at last broke out aloud around the British throne; I am not sure you cannot see the misty hills of the "Palmetto State" from that lofty look-out.

THE WOUNDED AFTER A BATTLE.

THE surgeon laid off the sash and the tinseled coat, and rolled up his sleeves, spread wide his cases filled up with the terrible glitter of silver steel, and makes ready for work. They begin to come in, slowly at first, one man nursing a shattered arm, another borne by his comrades, three in an ambulance, one on a stretcher-then faster and faster, lying here, lying there, each waiting his terrible turn. The silver steel grows cloudy and lurid; true right arms are lopped like slips of golden willow; feet that never turned from the foe, forever more without an owner, strew the ground. The knives are busy, the saws play; it is bloody work. Ah, the surgeon with heart and head, with hand and eye fit for such a place, is a prince among men; cool and calm, quick and tender, he feels among the arteries, and fingers the tendons as if they were

harp-strings. But the cloud thunders and the spiteful rain patters louder and fiercer, and the poor fellows come creeping up in broken ranks like corn beaten down with the flails of the storm.

"My God!” cried the surgeon, as looking up an instant from his work, he saw the mutilated crowds borne in; "my God! are all my brave boys cut down!" And yet it thundered and rained. A poor fellow writhes, and a smothered moan escapes him.

"Be quiet, Jack," says the surgeon, cheerfully; "I'll make you all right in a minute.' It was a right arm to come off at the elbow, and "Jack" slipped off a ring that clasped one of the poor, useless fingers that were to blend with the earth of Alabama, and put it in his pocket. He was making ready for the "all right.' 99 Does "Alabama" mean "here we rest?" If so, how sad yet glorious have our boys made it, who sink to

rest

"With all their country's wishes blest!"

Another sits up while the surgeon follows the bullet that had buried itself in his side; it is the work of an instant; no solemn council here-no lingering pause; the surgeon is bathed in patriot blood to his elbows, and the work goes on. An eye lies out upon a ghastly cheek, and silently the sufferer bides his time.

"Well, Charley," says the doctor, dressing a wound as he talks, "what's the matter?" "Oh, not much, doctor; only a hand off!" Not unlike was the answer made to me by a poor fellow at Bridgeport, shattered as if by lightning:

"How are you now?" I said. "Bully!" was the reply. You should have heard that word as he said it; vulgar as it used to seem, it grew manly and noble, and I shall never hear it again without a thought for the boy that uttered it, on the dusty slope of the Tennessee; the boy-must I say it?—that sleeps the soldier's sleep within a hundred rods of the spot where I found him.

So it is everywhere; not a whimper nor complaint. Once only did I hear either. An Illinois lieutenant, as brave a

fellow as ever drew a sword, had been shot through and through the thighs, fairly impaled by the bullet-the ugliest wound I ever saw. Eight days before he weighed one hundred and sixty. Then he could not have swung one hundred and twenty clear on the floor. He had just been brought over the mountains; his wounds were angry with fever; every motion was torture; they were lifting him as tenderly as they could; they let him slip, and he fell, perhaps six inches. But it was like a dash from a precipice to him, and he wailed out like a young child, tears wet his thin, pale cheeks; but he only said: "My poor child! how can they tell her?" It was but for an instant; his spirit and his frame stiffened together, and with a half-smile he said, "don't tell anybody, boys, that I made a fool of myself." The lieutenant sleeps well, and alas! for the "poor child"—how did they tell her?

up

A soldier fairly riddled with bullets, like one of those battle-flags of Illinois, lay on a blanket gasping for breath. "Jimmy," said a comrade, and a friend before this cruel war began, with one arm swung up in a sling, and who was going home on furlough, "Jemmy, what shall I tell them at home for you?" "Tell them," said he, "that there isn't hardly enough of me to say 'I,' but, hold down here a minute; say to Kate that there is enough of me left to love her till I die." Jemmy got his furlough that night, and left the ranks forever.

CHICKAMAUGA BATTLE-FIELD.

THE rebel editor of the Atlanta Intelligencer visits the battle-field of Chickamauga. He gives us this sketch :

We leave the Chattanooga road and turn to the right. We ride along the avenue, and on every side, thickly strewn, are the marks of the sharpshooters' skill, and the terrible effects of shell and grape from the masked battery. The loss was not alone, however, with us, but the foe also met his fate.