In the afternoon, a resident minister of the Gospel was requested by General Burnside to attend after nightfall the funeral of the officer, whose wound unto death had signalized the beginning of the siege and thrown a dark shadow upon the spirits of his companions. They gathered together at their commander’s headquarters, and among them was the Chief Engineer of the Department, who was a personal friend of the deceased--his only class-mate at the siege--who spoke of him as a “most gallant, chivalric soldier and noble gentleman.” To Capt. Poe, Gen. Sanders had communicated the premonition he had, that death awaited him in battle on the day he fell. And with the Captain, he had left on going to the field, some personal treasures, among which were a few letters from one who he had hoped would in the future be his bride. He was yet young, his age being 28. As the party of mourners passed down the street to the hotel where the body lay, Gen. Burnside spoke of the extraordinary personal daring of the departed man. With sad emphasis he said, “I told Sanders not to expose himself, but he _would_ do it.” Upon reaching the hotel, the company’s number was increased by waiting friends, and after religious offices a procession was formed upon the silent street. There was no plumed hearse, drawn by well-fed horses, but kindly hands of brother-soldiers to bear the dead, at the end of “The path of glory that leads but to the grave.” A sort of weird solemnity invested the darkened scene. Its features were in such strong contrast with those which might be expected in the fitness of things it would wear. No funeral strains of martial music floated on the air. Its quiet was not even disturbed by the dull thumping of the solitary drum and the heavy tread of armed soldiers. It seemed as if War, disrobed of its pomp and pageantry, had taken its departure and its absence was supplied by heaven-born Peace, clothed in plain and simple attire, disdaining through profound grief all trappings of woe. An observer might fancy that the army, which with dauntless courage refused to surrender to men in superior force, had now surrendered to God, and that its chieftains, having yielded up their swords, were marching along the way into captivity. But yet, not all is peaceful. For hark! there comes the sound of booming cannon. And every little while it again peals forth upon the hushed air. From the presence of these night obsequies, War is gone, but he lingers near and bids defiance to the encroacher on his domain. Little heed, though, do the mourners give to his hoarse notes. And the heavens appear to sympathize in the grief, for their face is covered with mist as with a veil, and hanging low in the western sky, a young moon sheds her dimmed luster on the scene, and from above all, the loving eye of One looks down, without whose notice, although He rules the army of heaven, not a sparrow falls to the ground.