The busy marts of trade may shut them out for a while, but ever and anon, in the crowded thoroughfare and in the rush and throng of men, a face meets us that brings to the mind, like a sudden flash of light in the darkness, scenes where that face met your gaze in the storm of battle, the eye all ablaze in the excitement of the hour. A voice comes to your ears out of the noise and turmoil of the crowded city. That voice arrests your steps and causes the heart to leap and throb as it has not done for years. There is a veil over the picture, or it has grown dim from the dust and heat and rush of the great metropolis. But there is something in the tones of that voice that sets you to brushing away the dust from the picture; for you know there is a picture somewhere obscured, and at last it stands out with wondrous vividness on the canvas of your memory, and you see, back through more than a score of years that have passed since that picture was painted, him whose voice you have just heard as he cheered on his men to victory, or rallied his brave comrades for another daring effort to stem the tide of battle that was going against us. And with that voice and face in mind, you see, not the comrades, the companions that gather about us to-night, with beard and hair grizzled and gray, with steps that are halting and lame, but the boys and associates of our boyhood days, with elastic step, and eyes bright with the vigor of young manhood. If these pictures do not come to you with the sun at meridian, they come to you at "low twelve," as in your dreams you see the columns move out with flying flags and waving banners. You see the dusty roads over which you marched, the streams at which you slacked your thirst; mountain and plain, river and forest, come and go. The scene changes, and you see the lines set in battle array, and follow in your dream from the first shot of the skirmishers on through the various figures of that wondrously faithful battle picture, on and on, until in a shout of victory, or a command for a charge in the heat of the contest, you suddenly waken and realize that you were viewing the pictures you helped to paint on the great canvas of our Nation's history. It is said that no two persons see the same rainbow, and it is especially true that each officer or soldier sees a different picture of the same battle. Each had his special duty to perform, each was to know nothing except as conveyed to him in brief but forcible orders. Theirs only to meet duty and perform it intelligently and bravely; theirs to see nothing except such matters as might come within their observation in the narrow compass of their duties with company, regiment, or command. Each, according to his nature, painted or had painted on his mind each varying, shifting scene through those battles--scenes of battles lost and battles won.