I often wondered at the cheerfulness and fortitude with which they bore not only their great losses, but so much pain. If they were heroes amid the fierce conflict of battle, they were equally so when suffering in hospitals. On our return from this sad visit we were joined by Captain Williams, of the Seventh Michigan Infantry, who pointed out to us the battlefield of December 13th, 1862, and the very places where Michigan regiments were stationed; also the line of works charged on and carried. As I gazed upon those long lines of fortifications, “rising one above the other, tier upon tier,” upon which rebel batteries were planted that mowed our men down so fearfully as they advanced in solid phalanx, facing those unyielding guns which continually belched forth their missiles of death, I did not wonder that they were compelled to fall back. It seems like madness to have attempted to carry such works by direct attack. It was done at a fearful loss of life. The blood poured forth on that eventful day quenched the light in many a home. The battle work of thousands was that day completed, and they left sleeping upon the “green couch of our final rest.” By how many, ere the heart grew still, might not the confession and the earnest appeal expressed in the following have been made? “I’m no saint! But, boys, say a prayer--there is one that begins ‘Our Father,’ and then says, ‘Forgive us our sins;’ Don’t forget that part, say that strongly, and then I’ll try to repeat it, and you’ll say ‘Amen!’ Ah! I’m no saint!”