The Potter journal. [volume] (Coudersport, Pa.) 1857-1872, 1864-11-16

tain and the rude Surroundings brighten
to the peak of the rough rafter with a
strange beauty; when the fire is out, and
the black and ragged masses of dull iron
lie dead upon the ground with dull and
stubborn resistance who would ever dream
that they had leaped with life and fight,
A battle and fnruace are alike. 1t is
wonderful how dull natures brighten and
grow costly in the glow Of battle how the
sterling worth and wealth there are in
them shine out and the common man
transfgured, his heart in his hand, and
his foot in tbs realm of heroic grandeur.
But, ah ! when the fire is out, and the
SCARED earth is heaped with clay, the
black mouths Of the guns speechless,
mighty hammers and no hands, the flags
furled, the wild hurrah died away, and
all the splendid action of the charge van
ished from the rugged field like blast
of sunshine, and you wander among dull
remainders, the dead embers of the in
tensest life and glow that swept your
soul out, only yesterday, and drifted you
on with the skirmish line, you begin to
know what these words mean-'after the
battle" ......
1t is days since great waves of gallant
life dashed against Mission Ridge, and
swept up and over it in surges--days that
are even now entering into history-and
yet I feel like taking up the story just
where I left it on Wednesday night at
sunset, when our flags fipped like eagles
wings, and the wild cry of triumph quiv-
cred along the mountain. Standing on
the edge of the field in the moonlight,
calm as Goods acre." stretched the rough
valley that, but an hour before, Jared
with the rush and whirl Of the battle
From away beyond the ridge, indeed,
three miles out to Chickamauga Station,
the dropping shots from Sheridan's guns
family punctuate the silence but here,
listen as you will, you can hear no sound
but the click of the ambulance wheels
slowly rolling in with their manglcd bur-
dens-no sigh, 10 groan, nothing but the
sobbing lapse of the Tennessee. | can
never tell you with what warm feeling
at the heart [ looked up and saw the
Fedral fires kindling like new constela-
ton on Mission Ridge. They were as
welcome as dawning day to eyes that
watched the night. The old baleful
glare from rebel camp and signal light
was quenched with something thicker
than water, and Chattanooga was at
peace.
1t is strange that battle almost al
ways lies between two breadths of sleep ;
the dreanless slumber into which men
fall upon its eve; the calm repose they
sink into at It's end. Night fairly held
it's breath above the camps the wings of
silence were over them all.
Then came Thursday morning, bright
and beautiful. You go out to the field,
and you keep saying over and over, "after
the battle, after the battle" Men prone
upon their faces in deaths deep abase-
ment; here one, his head pillowed upon
his folded arms; there enc, his cheek
pressed upon a stone, as was Jacobs at
Bethel; yondcr one, his fingers stiffened
around his musket. Now you have to
pass where butternut and true-blue
have gone down together, the arm of the
one thrown over the other there young
boy of fifteen lies with his face turned
upward, both hands clasped over his
heart. The sun has touched the frost
that whitened his hair as if he had grown
old in a night, and it hung like fresh
tears upon his cheeks there lieutenant
grabs bush, as if he did it vainly feel,
ing for little hold upon earth and life
where a stained trail leads you to shell
ter behind a rock, and there is dead
captain, who had crept away out of sight
and fallen asleep; where rebels and true
hearts lie in short WinnoWs, as If deaf b
had begun the harvest and had wearied
of the work.
And so through the valley and up the
ridge, in every attitude, lie the unburiod
dead lie just as they fell in the 6 low OF
battle. And those faces are not as you
think hardly ono distorted by any pas
sion almost all white and calm as Ben
Adams dream of peace; many Enlightened
with something like smile; a few,
strangely beautiful. Wounded ones, that
escaped the moonlight search, have lain
silently watching for morning, without
murmur or complaint; glad they are
alive; not grieved that they are wounded,
for "did we not take the ridge? Z? they
say. Thus did the old soldierly spirit of
one flash up like an expiring candle, and
90 right out on the field there as he spoke.
He died with the last words on his lips,
and "went up higher"
AN OLD VoTER.-Among the crafty
ing incidents of the election on Tuesday,