The Garretts, once extricated from their embarrassed position, armed with passports, one in the hands of Brig Barry, and a special card in the possession of Mr. Garrett, as guest of the Chamber of Commerce of Baltimore, had little difficulty in securing the essential indulgences for a delightful day. In a three-seated coach wagon, with a splendid team of horses, they bowled along as far as the beginning of Hancock avenue, which leads from the National Cemetery to the Round Tops. Here they alighted and surveyed the wondrous scene. It was resplendent. A sun burning with the soft brilliancy of June bathed the grand distances towards the Blue Hills in light, while the Blue Hills themselves receded with artistic forbearance behind an atmosphere that veiled them in an evanescent purple and yet seemed to magnify their height. The slopes of Cemetery Ridge were covered by people, and the lower levels where the Codori farm buildings stood; the Peach Orchard, where Sickles and Longstreet met for the mastery; the grain field beyond, over whose long stretches Pickett’s charge was made, were filled with moving groups. The distant woods, the nearer groves, the grassy fields, Little and Big Round Top, all were transfigured in the golden blaze, and the innumerable monuments that gave the park-like Ridge a sort of scenic artifice, seemed to become accordant, in the vastness of the panorama, with its natural and simple features. The farm lands, the white houses, dotting fields, or emerging with human interest from lines of shadowing trees, the peace of the distant perspective, accorded a welcome contrast to the foreground of the picture, immersed in the waves of a popular assembly. Automobiles flying like clouds rushed along the far away roads, bicycles in undulating and streaming lines, grew large with rapid approach; the gathering spots of people merged together and became irregular squares, the squares united and became tracts, and the tracts, by an incessant accretion, coincided along their edges until Cemetery Ridge, the slopes towards Little Round Top and the field below the “angle,” where Cushing and Armistead died, were unbrokenly covered with the vast congregation, pulsating ceaselessly by an interior agitation everywhere. The heterogeneous assortment of conveyances were halted near the National Cemetery, and the people made their way to the enclosure, where the President was to address them, along the triumphal monument-enfiladed boulevard of Hancock avenue.