Twenty years passed away, with their changes for good and for ill. The great war seemed like a dream, and its events were dim and shadowy. But there remained to me some substantial evidence of its reality. Upon the wall hung the good sword, with the dent in its scabbard telling of the death struggle of the brave black mare, whose name should be on Stone River’s roll of honor. In the corner stood the regimental flag, presented by my comrades when we parted in 1865, the deep scar upon its staff matching the deeper scar upon the manly breast of its bearer “in the brave days of old.” I looked at them and longed for the twin seven-shooters that should keep them company. [Illustration: “IN THE CORNER STOOD THE REGIMENTAL FLAG PRESENTED BY MY COMRADES WHEN WE PARTED IN 1865. THE DEEP SCAR UPON ITS STAFF MATCHED THE DEEPER SCAR UPON THE MANLY BREAST OF ITS BEARER IN THE BRAVE DAYS OF OLD.”] Representing my adopted State, Nebraska, in the Senate, I had reached a position that had at least given my name notoriety. It chanced that the Major of an Iowa cavalry regiment saw it in the public prints and was prompted to write me. “Are you,” said he, “the man who commanded the 19th Ohio during the war? If so, I have a pistol that must belong to you, for the fact of its presentation is engraved upon it.” I am quick to respond, and in brief time there came the pistol, as welcome to my hand and heart as an old-time friend. He wrote me its history. During the days of the period of reconstruction he was on duty in Alabama, and upon the person of a man whom he arrested was found the revolver. The Major took it from him and had held it since, hoping that some time he might meet the owner. Hearty thanks went to him, and I longed all the more for its mate, somewhere existing, but probably never to be recovered by me. Twenty-eight years elapse after the cavalry raid in the Sequatchie Valley. The Congress is in session and a dreary debate drags its weary length through the hours. My yawning presence in the Senate Chamber would only add emphasis to the dullness there, and I go to the Committee Room, to engage in the usual employment of a Congressman’s spare hours, the dictation of replies to the endless letters, from every direction, on every conceivable subject. There comes a messenger, and this his message: “The compliments of Senator Pugh of Alabama, who requests the pleasure of seeing you in the Marble Room.” I respond quickly to the call, and go to the room of simplicity and beauty that is one of the chief attractions under the great white dome. Near at hand are three men, two of them well known by me, the third a stranger. [Illustration: GENERAL JOSEPH WHEELER “The Marshal Ney of the Confederacy.”]