New York City possesses many attractions for the cosmopolitan, but not for the artist, who prefers nature’s solitudes to the artificial glamor and noisy hum of a large city; hence our stay in that city was only for such time as it required to make preparations for extending our pictorial journey through summer lands of the southeast. Instead of carrying our original plans into immediate execution, however, it was decided to visit the battle-field of Gettysburg, which our artist coming up through Virginia and Pennsylvania did not find it convenient to include in his journey. The town of Gettysburg has a population of some 3,500 souls, and is the capital of Adams county, Pennsylvania, the center of a blooming and bounteously-producing agricultural district. Our route to reach the place was by way of the Pennsylvania Railroad to Hanover, and thence by the Western Maryland Railroad, a distance of 250 miles from New York. The landscape thereabout is undulating, occasionally rising to hills of considerable size; but scenically there is nothing particularly attractive, aside from the beautiful farms and truck-gardens that clothe the knolls with prodigal harvests. Historically, the place is imperishably famous, for here was fought, on the 1st, 2d and 3d of July, 1863, the bloodiest and hottest-contested battle of the civil war. From every eminence this dreadful field, though it now smiles with plenty, still presents memorials of that ever- memorable conflict. There is Cemetery Hill, the old grave-place of the town, where thousands slept before the awakening alarms of cannon and musket enveloped the scene in battle-smoke. Here it was that the Union forces, under General Meade, pitched their quarters, because it commanded a view of the adjacent country. One mile towards the west is Seminary Ridge, the spot chosen by the Confederates, under General Lee, as their vantage-point and headquarters. Now sweep the horizon and mark the places where the battle waxed fiercest; where the dead lay thickest and the thunder of conflict was loudest. There is Willoughby Run, where the battle began and where Buford’s cavalry was hurled upon the steel of Hill, and for two hours withstood the hell of ball and bayonet until flesh could endure no more. There is Round Top, another eminence where the Union lines reformed, with the left wing thrown around the ridges to Cemetery Hill. There is where Longstreet struck Sickles with such fearless resolution, and a whole day was spent in a contention for Great and Little Round Top, without advantage to either side, but with frightful losses to both. Now on Cemetery Hill the eyes of the world must rest, for here it was, on the third day, that such fighting was done as Greek nor Roman ever knew. After a lull at midday, two hundred brazen throats were opened with boom and screaming shells; the air became filled with smoke, and the earth was choked with dead, until there came a lull, out of which broke a column three miles long, whose