"October 17. [To his mother.] "If I'm ever taken prisoner, you'll find one fellow who won't think he's badly treated, and won't come home and make the friends of all prisoners sick with his twaddle. . . . . People must be patient: we are going quite fast enough." On the 15th of October, General Sheridan left the army, then strongly intrenched near Cedar Creek, for the purpose of visiting Front Royal and other points in the valley. The story of the 19th is well known. It will be remembered how, in the dawn of that day, the enemy succeeded in accomplishing a surprise; how the whole left of our line, suddenly exposed to a deadly fire poured into them from the rear, were driven from their position and rushed headlong down the valley, while the only hope that seemed to remain was that of saving the army from total destruction; and how, at midday, into that routed and huddled mass Sheridan came galloping from Winchester, with a speed that left most of his escort far in the rear, and, received by the troops with wild cheers and a spontaneous resolution to renew the battle, how he turned ruin into victory. Late in the evening of the 18th Colonel Lowell had orders to make a reconnoissance, as soon as the fog broke the next morning, in front of the position occupied by the cavalry, on the right of the line. He caused reveille to be sounded at four o'clock, and at half past four his brigade was in motion. Crossing the creek, he encountered the enemy in force. A sharp skirmish ensued, the beginning of the battle. Lowell held his position till half past seven, when he was relieved by infantry, and withdrew. His punctuality in making his advance had saved the right wing of the army from a disaster, possibly as great as that which befell the other end of the line. Soon after eight o'clock the whole cavalry corps passed from the right of the field to the left, a distance of three miles, with the object of obtaining an advantageous position for covering the retreat of the army. The Reserve Brigade took the lead in this movement. Passing along the fastretiring line of battle, between the infantry front and the skirmish line, they had an excellent view of the state of affairs, and were exposed sometimes to a heavy fire. "We met everywhere flying men and officers. We asked the officers why they went to the rear. They had no command.' We asked the men. 'They had no officers.'" "They moved past me, that splendid cavalry!" wrote shortly after a distinguished general. "If they reached the pike, I felt secure. Lowell got by me before I could speak, but I looked after him for a long distance. Exquisitely mounted, the picture of a soldier, -erect, confident, defiant, he moved at the head of the finest brigade of cavalry that at this day scorns the earth it treads." Striking the turnpike just north of Middletown, which was already occupied by the enemy, Lowell at once established his position at the extreme left of the line; and he maintained it almost unchanged, against great superiority of numbers, till the final advance in which he received his mortal wound. He attended in person to the disposition of his men, riding backwards and forwards along the line of skirmishers, a conspicuous mark for the sharpshooters on the roofs of the village. His last horse was shot under him early in the day. In a charge at one o'clock, he was himself struck in the side of the right breast by a spent ball, which, without breaking the skin, imbedded itself in the muscle and deprived him of voice and strength. "It is only my poor lung," he said faintly to the officers who "You would not have me urged him to go to the rear. leave the field without having shed blood!" The force of the blow was sufficient to collapse the lung and cause internal hemorrhage, and it would probably have been fatal if he had had no other hurt. For an hour and a half he lay on the ground under a temporary shelter. Presently an order came for a advance along the line at three o'clock, the advance which was destined to give us victory. "I feel well now," said he, though too weak to mount to his saddle without assistance. He sat his horse firm and erect as ever. The color had come back to his cheeks. But he could not speak above a whisper. He gave his orders through a member of his staff; and his brigade was, as usual, the first ready. Just as they were in the thickest of the fire that was poured on them from the town, a cry arose, "The Colonel is hit!" He fell from his horse into the arms of his aids, and was carried forward, in the track of his rapidly advancing brigade, to a house within the village. The ball had severed his spine at the neck; and his body was completely paralyzed below the wound. He gave no signs of suffering; his mind was perfectly clear; and he rested calm and cheerful, though he knew from the beginning that he had no chance of life. He dictated some private messages of affection. Then, from time to time. through the night, as his waning strength would allow, he gave complete directions about all the details of his command. Not the smallest thing was forgotten; no one was left in doubt. In the intervals he remained silent, with his eyes closed. Twice he directed his surgeon to leave him and look to the injuries of other officers and of some wounded prisoners whose voices he heard without. He expressed pleasure at the triumphant issue of the fight, and at Colonel Gansevoort's victory over Mosby, news of which was brought in that day. As dawn approached, it was evident that his spirit was gradually freeing itself from its vesture of decay. He had finished his "day's work"; and he lay tranquil, his mind withdrawn, it seemed, into that chamber of still thought, known so imperfectly to the nearest of his friends, wherein was the seat of his deepest life. Even in his last hour he was fully conscious, and seemed to retain his strength. But he spoke less and less often; and as day rose into full morning, he ceased to breathe the air of earth. A letter, from one whose official position under government gives his opinion authority, says, "I do not think there was any officer in all the army so much beloved as Lowell." "We all shed tears," said Custer, "when we knew we had lost him. It is the greatest loss the cavalry corps has ever suffered." "I do not think there was a quality," said Sheridan, "which I could have added to Lowell. He was the perfection of a man and a soldier." His commission as Brigadier-General of Volunteers, "determined on days before," was signed on the 19th of October, too late for him to wear the honor he had earned so well. The funeral of General Lowell took place on Friday, the 28th of October, at the College Chapel at Cambridge. It was fit that Harvard should pay the last honors to this son of hers, than whom none nobler ever left her lap. In an address, spoken in the presence of a dense assemblage, the Rev. George Putnam drew a vivid picture of the departed hero, and consecrated the occasion, with fine felicity, not to Lowell only, but also to those many dear friends of his to whom he had been as a leader, yet who before him had fallen and nearly all still rested where they fell. Then the relics of this high-minded, gallant, and gifted soldier were restored to the earth at Mount Auburn, with the honors befitting his military rank. "Not on the vulgar mass Called 'work' must sentence pass, Things done, that took the eye and had the price; The low world laid its hand, Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice: "Thoughts hardly to be packed Into a narrow act, Fancies that broke through language and escaped; All I could never be, All men ignored in me, This I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped." JAMES SAVAGE. Captain 2d Mass. Vols. (Infantry), May 24, 1861; Major, June 23, 1862; Lieutenant-Colonel, September 17, 1862; died at Charlottesville, Va., October 22, 1862, of wounds received at Cedar Mountain, August 9. AMES SAVAGE, JR., the subject of this memoir, was the only son of the Hon. James Savage of Boston, well known for his historical researches connected with the early settlers of New England, and of Elizabeth Otis (Stillman) Savage. Major Thomas Savage, the founder of the family in America, came to this country in. 1635, settled in Boston, and rendered valuable service to the Colony as commander of the Massachusetts forces in King Philip's war. His son inherited the martial instincts of the father, and was the "noble, heroic youth" spoken of by the old chronicler of that war, who, holding the rank of Ensign in Captain Moseley's company, was twice wounded. These words might be aptly quoted to describe James Savage, Jr. Born in Boston, April 21, 1832, he inherited a sensitive, earnest, and joyous nature, united with a physical constitution not equal to the enterprises which his adventurous spirit craved. His love of outdoor play was inexhaustible; and the city streets among which his childhood was spent, while depriving him of the freedom of the country, gave him equal opportunity for adventure in a different way. A favorite enjoyment was to lead a band of playmates to some distant part of the city, by cross-routes known only to boys and cats, scaling sheds and walls, climbing the leads of houses, and dropping from eaves, at imminent risk of their necks. One of his comrades says: "We knew no barrier too high nor place too difficult to enter. We were not mischievous or ill-disposed. Neither |