quick as a flash, turned to give the contents of the other barrel to Brownell; but the zouave was too quick for him, sending a bullet through his head, at which he staggered backward, Brownell thrusting the bayonet through his body, the force of which sent him down the first half of the next flight of stairs to the landing, where he fell, face to the floor, his weapon beneath him. This man proved to be James P. Jackson, the proprietor of the hotel, the same person met at the entrance who claimed to be only a boarder. Bewildered at first by the suddenness of the assault, it took the little party some time to recover from the shock. The firing had aroused the sleeping guests of the house, many of whom emerged from their rooms into the passageways diverging from the place where the shooting occurred. Not knowing what was in store for them, the zouaves (seven in all) gathered together defensively, and, with their weapons at a "ready," threatened immediate death to any who attempted to approach. Finally, the inmates of the house were gathered into a room, and a guard placed over them. Turning their attention to the Colonel, they lifted his body gently from the floor and laid it on a bed in a room near by, the Rebel flag thrown over his feet. Meanwhile Company A arrived and halted in front of the house, the captain entering to ascertain why he was summoned. He shortly returned, and in a low tone, inaudible to the men, told me what had happened, and at his suggestion I ascended the stairs. Stepping over the body of Jackson, who still lay where he had fallen, I entered the room where all that was mortal of my beloved friend and commander lay silent in death. I will not attempt to describe my emotions while gazing upon that sad scene. I could scarcely credit my own senses. There lay one whom I had seen only a few minutes before full of life and the vigor of early manhood, cut down without a moment's warning by the hand of the assassin. His face wore a very natural expression, and, excepting its pallor, his coun tenance looked the same as in life. Soon after, the body was taken to the navy-yard, where it lay in state and was visited by thousands of people. The day following, the remains were removed to the White House at Washington, where funeral services were held, and thence, under proper military escort, they were conveyed to the railroad depot, where a train awaited, which took the body. with its guard of honor to Mechanicsville, N. Y., for burial. On the night preceding his death, Ellsworth wrote to his parents words so full of affection and patriotism that I should fail in doing justice to his memory if I withheld them. The letter reads as follows: MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER, The regiment is ordered to move across the river to-night. We have no means of knowing what reception we are to meet with. I am inclined to the opinion that our entrance to the city of Alexandria will be hotly contested, as I am just informed that a large force has arrived there to-day. Should this happen, my dear parents, it may be my lot to be injured in some manner. Whatever may happen, cherish the consolation that I was engaged in the performance of a sacred duty; and to-night, thinking over the probabilities of to-morrow and the occurrences of the past, I am perfectly content to accept whatever my fortune may be, confident that He who noteth even the fall of a sparrow will have some purpose even in the fate of one like me. My darling and ever-loved parents, good-bye. God bless, protect, and care for you. ELMER. During the political campaign of 1860, Ellsworth made many speeches through the southern part of Illinois, and in the fall and winter he finished his law studies in Mr. Lincoln's office in Springfield, and was admitted to the bar. He was one of the party accompanying the President-elect on his journey to Washington, and had charge of the arrangements for the journey. On the day after his death, Mr. Lincoln wrote the following letter of condolence: TO THE FATHER AND MOTHER OF COLONEL ELMER E. ELLSWORTH: MY DEAR SIR AND MADAM, — In the untimely loss of your noble son, our affliction here is scarcely less than that of your own. So much of promised usefulness to one's country, and of bright hopes for one's self and friends, have never been so suddenly darkened as in his fall. In size, in years, in youthful appearance a boy only, his power to command men was surprisingly great. This power, combined with fine intellect and indomitable energy, and a taste altogether military, constituted in him, as seemed to me, the best matured talent in that department I ever knew; and yet he was singularly modest and deferential in his social intercourse. My acquaintance with him began less than two years ago; yet through the latter half of the intervening period it was as intimate as the disparity of our ages and my engrossing engagements would permit. To me he appeared to have no indulgences or pastimes, and I never heard him utter an intemperate or profane word. What was conclusive of his good heart, he never forgot his parents. The honors he labored for so laudably, and in the sad end gallantly gave up his life, he meant for them no less than for himself. In the hope that it may be no intrusion upon the sacredness of your sorrow, I have ventured to address this tribute to the memory of my young friend and your brave and early-fallen child. May God give you the consolation that is beyond all earthly power. Sincerely your friend in common affliction, A. LINCOLN. Ellsworth was scarcely twenty-four years of age at the time of his death. He was impetuous and headstrong, uneasy under restraint; yet, with a few months' service under the guidance of older and cooler heads, and his indomitable will and determination to succeed in anything he attempted, there seems good reason to believe that had his life been spared he would have achieved a brilliant career. As an instructor and disciplinarian he had few equals. This he demonstrated with his company of Chicago Zouaves, which became so famous in its tour through the country the year previous. His death was the subject of general comment and universal sorrow, from the Chief Executive of the nation to the humblest citizen of the land. Some considered him rash, while others blamed him for leaving his command and doing that which should have been delegated to a sergeant. But let us consider for a moment some of the circumstances at that early period of the Rebellion. At that time we were all novices in the art of war. It seemed to be the popular idea that fighting the Secessionists meant generally a hand-to-hand conflict (many of the troops, in addition to the musket, were armed with revolvers and bowie-knives), and that the colonels should go in front of their regiments in the thickest of the fight and lead them on. This, too, seemed to be Ellsworth's idea; for had he not repeatedly, and only a few hours before, told his men that he would never order one of them to go where he feared to lead? Perhaps it occurred to him that the time had arrived to put this into practice. I will not undertake to say what thoughts were passing through his mind when he left the regiment and ascended the hotel roof to tear down the Rebel flag. Our war experience has taught us that his act was foolhardy and unmilitary. But supposing he had returned to the regiment uninjured, displaying the captured flag, who can doubt its good effect upon the men, and the confidence it would have inspired in them for their commander? Who, aside from experienced officers, would have thought to criticise his conduct? But fate decreed otherwise. He was the first officer to fall in the War of the Rebellion. His last resting-place- in the village graveyard of Mechanicsville, the home of his aged parents — is marked by a granite column erected to his memory by the State of New York and his comrades in arms. At the unveil ing of the monument in May, 1874, a poem written for the occasion was read, concluding as follows: "Rest here amid the flowers of May, Thou to fell treason fateful; We plant this shaft, and thus would say, O more than flower of Sparta; |