and without pausing he replies: "We are trying to get into the church before the space is all taken." The house of God is the goal, and long before the appointed hour for worship the spacious Episcopal church kindly tendered for the purpose by the then rector, Rev. Dr. B. N. Randolph, now bishop of the diocese of Southern Virginia is filled to its utmost capacity, while many turn away disappointed, unable to find even standing room.
Enter and mingle with that vast congregation of worshipers. They do not spend their time while waiting for the coming of the preacher in idle gossip or a listless staring at every newcomer, but a clear voice strikes some familiar hymn, around which cluster hallowed memories of home and of the dear old church far away; the whole congregation joins in the hymn, and there arises a volume of sacred song that seems almost ready to take the roof off the house. The song ceases and one of the men leads in prayer. And he prays. He does not make "a stump speech to the Lord" on the war its causes, its progress, or its prospects. But, from the depths of a heart that feels its needs, he tells of present wants, asks for present blessings, and begs for the Holy Spirit in His convicting, converting power. After awhile the preacher comes in and the pulpit service begins. It may be Dr. J. C. Stiles, the able expounder of the Gospel, who preached very frequently in these meetings, and whose untiring labors in the army were so richly blessed; it may be that gifted pulpit orator, the lamented Dr. William J. Hoge; it may be "the golden-mouthed orator of the Virginia pulpit," Dr. James A. Duncan; it maybe the peerless Dr. J. L. Burrows, whose self-sacrificing labors for the temporal and spiritual welfare of the soldiers were so greatly blessed, and gave him so warm a place in the affections of "the boys" and of our whole Confederate people; it maybe the earnest evangelist, Carroll; it may be one of the chaplains, or it may be J. L. Pettigrew, of Mississippi, or some other private soldier. But,
