There was a young man in my squadron whom I shall call Frank Gillham. He was the son of a Wisconsin farmer, and had enlisted in the ranks as a patriotic duty. Frank was young and handsome, a fine horseman, and rode one of the handsomest horses in the squadron. He was just the person whom one would suppose sure to rise from the ranks and perform many a gallant feat during the war. A few weeks ago the horse was reported sick. It had but a cold, and we thought that a few days would find it well again. But the cold grew worse and changed to pneumonia, a disease of the lungs fearfully prevalent here among both men and horses.

Frank nursed and watched his horse day and night, counting the beatings of its pulse, consulting the farrier, administering the medicine as though the horse were his best friend. It was fruitless labor; for the poor animal stood hour after hour panting with drooping head, occasionally looking sadly up as if to say, "you can do me no good," until at last it died. We all felt sorry for the poor horse, but did not think his death was the forerunner of a greater loss.

In the middle of December, the surgeon reported Frank sick with measles. The cold draughts through the barracks are peculiarly dangerous to this disease, and it is also contagious; and hence it is an inflexible rule to send patients at once to the hospital. The ambulance came, Frank was helped in, and I bid him good bye, expecting (for it was but a slight attack) that he would return soon.

A fortnight passed, and he was reported convalescent; the measles had gone, but there was a cough remaining; he had better wait awhile till quite restored.

Once or twice I tried to go to the hospital, which was a mile distant from camp; but there is a rule forbidding officers to leave the camp except with a pass, and the passes are limited in number and dealt out in turn—my turn had not come. My last application for a pass was made on Sunday; unhappily it was refused. On Monday, I sent some letters which had come for Frank down to the hospital. An hour or two afterwards the letters came back. I took them—they were unopened—there was a message: "Frank Gillham is dead."

During the two or three preceding days, the cough had run into pneumonia. The surgeons had not sent word—they had no one to send—there were so many such cases. I had not been there, because it was contrary to camp regulations; and thus, with a family within the telegraph's call and some old friends within the neighboring barracks, poor Frank had died alone in the cheerless wards of a public hospital.

When it was too late to receive a last message or soothe a dying hour, a pass could be obtained. I took with me a corporal, an old friend of Frank's. As we rode along, I made some inquiries and learned that Frank was the eldest child, and the pride of his family. There had doubtless been anxious forebodings when he enlisted, and tears when he departed. "It will break his father's heart when he hears of this," said the corporal.

Ordinarily it would have been a great relief to ride beyond the camp enclosure; for the sense of confinement and the constant sight of straight rows of men going through their endless angular movements become very irksome after a while, and awaken a strong desire to be unrestrained yourself and to see people in their natural, every day life. But now we felt too depressed for enjoying our unexpected liberty, and except when I was asking the questions I have spoken of, we rode in dreary silence, thinking of the painful duty before us, and of the distant family soon to be startled by the fatal message, and informed that they had given a victim to the guilty rebellion.

At length we reached the "Hospital of the Good Samaritan." It is situated on the outskirts of the city, and has been taken by the Government for soldiers sick with contagious diseases. The building is large and not unpleasant, the ceilings high, and the rooms cheerfully lighted. There seemed to be such comforts as can be bought and sold, and the attendants appeared kind and diligent. But here I must stop on the favorable side. As I looked around, I learned why soldiers dread the hospital. The cots were close together, with just room enough to pass between, and on every cot lay a sick man. At the sound of the opening door, some looked eagerly toward us—others turned their eyes languidly—and others again did not change their vacant gaze, too weak to care who came or went away. There were faces flushed with fever, others pale and thin, and others with the pallor of death settling upon them, the lips muttering unconsciously in delirium, and the fingers nervously picking the bed clothes. Here was a man who had just arrived, timid and anxious; and on the next cot was one who would soon depart on the last march.

I went into the room where my lost soldier had taken his farewell, hoping to gather from the other occupants some last words or message for the dear ones of his home. The cot was still empty. I went up to the next patient and whispered my question, "Did you know the young man who died this morning?" The man shook his head and said, "No, I was too sick;" and he glanced nervously at the empty cot so close beside him. I passed round and asked the next. He half opened his closed eyes, but made no reply. It was too plain he could not. I had not observed how soon he would follow Frank. I went to the night attendant, who had come round about midnight, and had spoken to Frank of the coming change. He had been resigned and had expressed regrets only for his family and country, and a wish to live for them. "He said this with great energy," said the attendant, "and I wondered how a dying man could feel so much. But after that he became flighty; and as there were only three of us to over one hundred patients, I had to go and leave him. He died about sunrise." Did he continue delirious? or was he conscious through those last lonely hours? and did he wish for some fond hand to support his head, some kind ear to receive his parting words? I hoped the former. A crowded hospital is a lonely place wherein to die.

"Will you see the body?" said the superintendent. We all have a natural repugnance to death, but in addition to this repugnance I remember the face of a friend with such distinctness that it is painful for me to impress on the living picture in my memory the marred and broken image of the dead. I therefore seldom join in the usual custom of viewing the corpse at funerals—never, if I can avoid it without giving pain to those who do not understand my motives. It consequently was with more than usual reluctance that I discharged this duty of ascertaining that no terrible mistake had occurred among the number coming and going, and dying in the hospital. We went down-stairs to the basement. Hitherto my experience with death had been only that of funerals, in the calm and quiet of peaceful life, where all that is most painful is softened or hidden, and death made to take the semblance of sleep. I can hardly say that I expected to see, as usual, the solitary coffin and its slumbering tenant, yet I certainly anticipated nothing different. "This is the dead-room," said the superintendent, as he unlocked and threw open a door. The name was the first intimation of something different. It was a narrow, gloomy room, and on the stone pavement, lay four white figures. They were decently attired in the hospital shroud, but the accustomed concealments of the undertaker's art were wanting. The staring eyes, the open mouth, the contracted face left little of the usual sleep-like repose of death. It was a ghastly sight. I felt like shrinking back to the outer air, but had to enter the room. The superintendent did not know Frank, so I was obliged to look at each. I glanced at the first. He was a young man with fair hair, and what had been bright blue eyes. They seemed to return my look so consciously that for a moment I could not avert my gaze. The look seemed to say, "You do not know me: we are strangers who have never met before, will never meet again." I glanced at the second, at the third. All were strangers, and all were young. The fourth I recognized. The room was so narrow that the figures reached from wall to wall, and as we went forward we had to step over each prostrate form. The corporal followed me, and looked long and earnestly at his friend. There had been no mistake. As we went out my eyes involuntarily turned to the others. It was probably the only look of pity they received. "Did they die during the night?" I inquired. "Yes!" "And has no officer or friend been with them?" "No!" "When will they be buried?" "In the afternoon." This, I fear, was all their funeral service. "Did they anticipate such a death and such a burial when they came from distant pleasant homes to serve in the great army?" I asked myself. And as I looked on them, thus neglected and deserted, I thought of the families and friends who would give much to stand as I stood beside them, to weep over their coffins, and to go with them to the grave.

The remains of my soldier it was determined should be sent to his family. He was dressed in his uniform, and on the following day the railroad swiftly carried him back to his old home.

When all was over, I gathered together his few effects. This the law makes the duty of an officer. There were also some unanswered letters to be returned—pleasant letters, beginning, "Dear Frank, we wish you merry Christmas!" and hoping he would have happy holidays in camp. And there was one touch of melancholy romance added; for hidden in the recesses of his pocket-book was a tress of hair, and on the wrapper a name; a letter, too, with the same signature. I determined that no curious eyes should run over these, and that they should not be the subject for careless tongues; so I carefully placed them in a separate package and sent them to one who perhaps will grieve the most.

And since I commenced this addition to my letter, there has been another interruption—a second victim of an unhealthy camp and crowded barracks. His death, poor boy, possessed fewer circumstances of interest. He was a German, with no family circle to be broken; a sister here, a brother there, and parents in a distant land. When told of Frank's death he seemed anxious, and whispered me that there were many dying in the hospital. The surgeon said there was no danger, but I saw it did not reassure him. On Sunday I got leave to send down one of my men, who was his friend, to the hospital, to be with him as a night nurse. On Monday I rode down. "How is Leonard?" was the first question to the surgeon. "He is very low," was the answer. I went up to his room. His friend sat by the cot, holding his hand. But the eyes were glazed, the pulse had stopped, and all was over. He had just died.

You may wish to know something of a soldier's funeral, not such as we have in Broadway, with music and processions, but such as are occurring here.

I asked leave for the squadron to attend the funeral, and the colonel said certainly, all who wished should go. At the appointed time we mounted and rode slowly to the hospital, accompanied by the chaplain of the regiment. We reached it soon, and the men were drawn up in line. Even in such scenes military discipline enables us to move more easily and rapidly than in ordinary life. A few commands in an unusually subdued voice were given. "Prepare to dismount." "Dismount!" "Ones and threes hold horses, twos and fours forward." Half of the squadron then passed by the coffin, and then relieved the others in holding the horses. All was done so quietly and quickly that it formed a contrast to a similar scene at an ordinary funeral. The ambulance came to the door. The ambulance carries the sick to the hospital, and the dead to the grave: it is the soldier's litter and his hearse.

About a mile from the hospital is the Wesleyan cemetery. I had ridden by it during the soft summer weather of the fall, and remarked how prettily it is situated upon the brow of a hill, with the city in view upon one side and the quiet country on the other, while large trees and mournful evergreens give an air of sadness and seclusion. It was a relief when the ambulance turned toward this peaceful resting place; though I wish that a soldiers' cemetery had been laid out where the numbers who die in St. Louis and the country around it, might rest together. We entered, and I quickly remarked a change since last I had passed that way. On one side, where had been a smooth, green lawn, there were straight rows and ranks of mounds, so regular and close that the ground looked as though it had been trenched by some thrifty gardener. These were the soldiers' graves. There were many—many of them. Two grave diggers were at work—constant work for them. A grave was always ready prepared, and one was ready for us. Our ceremonies were few and simple—the squadron drew up in line—the coffin was lifted out—the chaplain made a prayer—and we returned.

But in the same ambulance were two other coffins. No companion had been with them at the hospital, and no friends followed them to the grave. Unknown and, save by us chance strangers, unnoticed, they were laid to rest. This loneliness of their burial was very sad. We gave them all we could—a sigh, and paid them such respect as the circumstances allowed. We did not know them—who they were, or whence they came—only this, that they were American soldiers, fallen for their country.

I have heard it said that this war will make us a very warlike people. It is a mistake. Those who are engaged in it, while they will be ready again to rise in a just cause, will never wish for another war. I understand now why officers of real experience—be they ever so brave—always dread a war. There are too many such scenes as I have described. Yet do not think that any waver in their determination—and, while you pity, do not waver yourselves. We may blame mismanagement and neglect; and we must try to alleviate suffering and prevent needless disease and death, and only in the restoration of our Union hope for peace.