"CAMP OFF FREDERICKSBURG, November 28. "We had a quiet Thanksgiving, without any extra dinner except an old goose and four very diminutively small chickens. I thought of home as I sat at the head of the mess-table (made, by the way, of cracker-boxes, and clothless), and wished that I could fill my place, for a short time at least, at home. But I have the consolation of knowing that, as I came because I ought, that same 'ought' will keep me up fairly to the mark.”

He writes to his father under date of December 2d, same camp:

I hardly think I can make you a fitting return for all your affectionate and Christian care of me, or all your patient and loving waiting during my slow struggle to work my way in life and gain a place among men. I hope, if my life is spared to return, and with increased knowledge of men, with an experience in rough, practical life of the greatest value to me, and habit of prompt decision, with the attrition of a life as open and public as my former one was secluded and fastidious, to make my fortunes more rapidly than earlier years foreboded."

My

"OPPOSITE THE LOWER Suburbs of Fredericksburg, December 7. "Night; quiet till one, A. M.; then I stump over the crusty snow in company with the officer of the day, whose duties also cover the night, unless the Rebels cross and stir up my camp. . . . It is freezing in true New England style, and the weather is as genuine an importation from Massachusetts as is our regiment. . . tramp to-night is to visit my pickets and guards. I have guards stationed at each of the guns, which peer watchfully through the embrasures of the half-moon in which they are placed. A cold time the sentinels have of it, and the greatest vigilance is needful; for a rat-tail file and a tap with a hammer would render useless in a moment a superb piece of ordnance. I don't object to the trip a bit, though it will take me nearly two hours; but for my shoes, which are in sympathy with the shoes of more than two thirds of the regiment."

His last letter, a very hurried and brief one in pencil, written on Friday, December 12th, was affectionate as usual. Amongst other things, he says:—

"We shelled and half burnt Fredericksburg yesterday. My regiment and brigade was ordered to be in readiness, and was

marched and countermarched, as I will tell at some future time, when I have pen, ink, and opportunity. The whole of Frank

lin's grand corps is passing in the rear of our camp, crossing the river on the left, — artillery, infantry, and cavalry, by the thousands. My men are pretty much used up by want of shoes, and consequent colds. I had, by actual count, yesterday, a force of only three hundred and fifty-three men and seventeen officers with which to go into battle. I hope to write in a few days more fully."

This was either the last letter he wrote, or else the next to the last. It bears the same date with the last letter to his wife. On Saturday, before he fell, his thought must have been upon the impending battle.

The sad duty remains of speaking of the last hours of the Christian soldier; of the man (as truly and tersely described by a friend) "who never raised his arm or his voice in anger or pride; the self-controlled, highly moral, and exemplary man, whom even the follies of youth never seemed to touch."

On Sunday evening, December 14th, a telegram was received from Falmouth, Virginia, without date, saying that "Major Willard died this afternoon, at half past one"; and soon after, in the same evening, a second telegram was received, also without date, that "Major Willard lies in Fredericksburg, wounded, shot through the body," and containing a request to his wife "to come immediately." Nothing further was heard until Monday evening, December 15th. Meanwhile the family had been in an agony of suspense, buoyed up with hope against hope. In the confusion of the day, there might have been a mistake in the first telegram received; the son, husband, and brother might be, and perhaps was, living. Several plausible theories were suggested; but Monday evening (when several members of the family, who had left Boston in the morning, were on their way to Washington) brought with it a confirmation of the intelligence.

The regiment left the city of Fredericksburg at half past eleven o'clock on Saturday morning, and was advancing against the Rebels; the Major being in front of Color-company B,

when he led the regiment to the charge. Captain Lathrop was in the rear, acting as Major. Efforts were made to persuade the Major to order the charge and take his station in the rear, but without success. Waving his sword, and leading on the charge, he was seen to fall; and the cry went forth, "The Major is down!" A lad in the regiment, by the name of Krill, seems to have been the first to go to his assistance, having seen him at the moment he was shot; but he was not strong enough to lift him. Private Estes then started to his support, and was helping him through the lines to the rear, when Captain Lathrop came up on the other side, and the two attempted to take him from the field. They had proceeded but a rod or two, when he said, "You must let me lie down I can't go any farther."

They laid him down, put him in a blanket, and endeavored to place him out of the range of the fire; but the Rebels enfilading the road, they removed him just below the bank. Here there was a shelter from the front fire; and by a little bend in the road, from the cross-fire also. Captain Lathrop lay down by his side. Here, with the consciousness of death upon him, after sending the tenderest message to the loved ones at home, and in submission saying, "But God's will be done," he added, "Tell them I tried to do my duty to my country and to the regiment"; and also expressed his desire to be buried at Mount Auburn.

Within a half-hour or an hour two soldiers appeared with a stretcher, and bore him upon it to the hospital of a Connecticut regiment. He was in pain, but never moaned nor exclaimed.

Towards night the surgeon gave him whiskey and morphine; but he doubted whether to take it, saying that he had never drunk whiskey. However, he was induced to consent, and soon became easier. He was thirsty, and wanted water, which was brought; but from self-control, says the Captain, he would not drink, but only rinsed his mouth.

About nine o'clock on Sunday morning, Captain Lathrop was obliged to be absent to attend to the regiment, now re

duced to less than one third of its original number. He left the Major calm, quiet, and apparently comfortable, and did not apprehend any early change in his condition. Estes and another private remained in attendance, and the former was absent some fifteen minutes, between one and two o'clock, to take some food. Major Willard had been induced to go to sleep; and he was asleep, lying on his left side, when Estes returned. A motion of the right shoulder was noticed; presently his lips were seen to move; his eyes were open, and cast upward. Estes felt his pulse, and found none; he felt his hands, they were cold. He called the surgeon, who confirmed his fears that all was over. Sidney Willard had entered into his rest.

As he lay in the repose of death in the home of his youth, his expression was natural and life-like, as of one who had returned wearied with conflict, and had sunk into a calm but thoughtful and semi-conscious slumber.

On the 17th of December the mortal remains of Major Willard were brought home, with loving care, to the city he had left but four short months before, in the pride of manly beauty and the fulness of his strength. On Saturday, December 20th, in accordance with his almost last uttered wish, he was laid to rest in Mount Auburn, where a simple cross of granite marks the spot.

1853.

WILDER DWIGHT..

Major 2d Mass. Vols. (Infantry), May 24, 1861; Lieutenant-Colonel, June 13, 1862; died September 19, 1862, of wounds received at Antietam, September 17.

WILDER

WILDER DWIGHT, second son of William and Elizabeth Amelia (White) Dwight, was born in Springfield, Massachusetts, on the 23d of April, 1833. His paternal ancestor was John Dwight of Oxfordshire, England, who settled in Dedham, Massachusetts, in 1636. His mother was descended from William White of Norfolk County, England, who settled in Ipswich, Massachusetts, in 1635. His family has belonged to New England for more than two centuries, and during that whole period has been identified with its history, its industry, its enterprises, and its institutions.

In childhood he gave promise of all that he afterwards became, — manly, courageous, self-possessed, acute, original, frank, affectionate, generous, reliable; he was, in boyhood, not less than in manhood, one in whom to "place an absolute trust." Yet, in less vital points, he was no pattern boy. He had a quick and irritable temper, which was a source of trouble to himself and to his friends in early life, and which, early and late in life, it was his effort to control. Full of fun, and ever ready with comical suggestions, his drollery was irresistible. Many a reproof did he ward off by it in childhood; many a dark hour did he brighten by it in after years. When not six years old, it was said of him: "He has a sincere love of right, and aversion to wrong, though he does not desire to hear preaching on the subject." Before he was seven, he was pronounced uncommonly clear-headed and strong in intellect. At the age of seven and a half he began to study industriously; and from that time he was a faithful student.

At the age of thirteen he left home for the first time, to fit