And the morning of that day, now lined upon the page of history with letters of blood, that never to be forgotten 24th of May, re-awoke the enthusiasm and stern resolve of Sumter—caused the finest strings of a nation’s heart to vibrate with sorrow, and hosts that never before unsheathed a sabre, shouldered a gun or helmeted their brows, had never marched beneath a banner, or given a thought to the glories of war, leaped forth, Minerva-like, fully armed for the strife. Swift vengeance, indeed, followed the death of Ellsworth, but what was that compared to the iron hate of such hearts? Not here, truly, is the proper place to write the life-history of EPHRAIM ELMER ELLSWORTH, but this much it is fitting—necessary almost to recapitulate. Born in the little village of Mechanicsville, on the banks of the Hudson, on the 23d of April, A.D. 1837, he, after passing through trials that would have utterly discouraged a less ambitious and sanguine man, rendered himself famous by the inauguration, drill, and _marche de triomphe_ of the _Chicago Zouaves_. All the country remembers the bloodless march of those young men—the “crimson phantoms” that blazed comet-like before their eyes and secured the championship, without a struggle. When the war broke out, when the knell of Sumter’s fall shook the very corner-stone of the nation, Ellsworth sought a place in the army. Jealousy and fear of the youthful aspirant impeded him, and turning his back upon Washington, he hastened to New York, organized the Fire Zouaves, and rushed to his fate. One who knew him well, and has written a glorious prose-poem to his memory, thus briefly described him. “His person was strikingly prepossessing. His form, though slight, exactly the Napoleonic size, was very compact and commanding: the head statuesquely poised and crowned with a luxuriance of curling black hair; a hazel eye, bright though serene, the eye of a gentleman as well as a soldier; a nose such as you see on Roman medals; a light moustache, just shading the lips, that were continually curving into the sunniest smiles. His voice, deep and musical, instantly attracted attention, and his address, though not without soldierly brusqueness, was sincere and courteous.” And thus, in the very prime of manhood and vigor, with one of the military insignia he sometimes wore—a golden circle, inscribed with the legend “NON NOBIS, SED PRO PATRIA,” driven into his heart by the bullet of his assassin, perished a brave spirit—an ambitious follower after the “pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war”—a soul devoted to his country and his country’s honor—an eagle struck in its high soaring, down—a spirit of fire, fretting at causeless delay, burning against useless restraints, and rushing on to snatch success even from the cannon’s mouth.