advancing brigade was more than a quarter of a mile from where the guns were captured.  It is very doubtful whether the history of the war will record a similar capture of artillery supported by infantry, disclosed suddenly by an advance-line of skirmishers who unhesitatingly charged, took possession of, and carried to the rear the guns.  One would have supposed that Lieutenant Pierce, having suffered amputation of a leg, might have rested upon laurels won so gloriously.  Ah, no! his gallant soul was yet undismayed.  At the earliest possible moment he returned to his command, there receiving a rich recompense for past suffering.  Imagine his great pride and satisfaction when, following his comrades to the quarters of the gallant Major Ned Austin, he was shown the battalion flag with its “honored and honorable” cross-cannon liberally displayed.

The survivors of the Continental Guards, returning to New Orleans after the war, have clung together like true brothers, retaining their military organization and the name they bore so gallantly.  Of the veterans, not many remain; these are known and revered by all.  Captain Pierce is fondly beloved and highly respected by his former command, as well as by the younger members of the company, who, having “fallen in” to fill up the ranks which time and death have decimated, are striving nobly to uphold the name and fame of the Continentals.  Under the command of a gallant gentleman and excellent executive officer, the new Continentals have guarded and kept ever fresh the laurels won by their predecessors, adding an exceptional record of their own, both military and civic.  Upon all patriotic occasions the veterans appear and march with the company.  Our veteran companies are the pride and glory of New Orleans.  Citizens never tire of viewing the beautiful uniform and the martial step of the Continental Guards.  And who can look upon Captain Pierce, bearing his trusty sword, keeping step equally well, whether he wears a finely-formed cork leg or stumps along on his favorite wooden one,—­his bearing as proud as the proudest, his heroic soul looking gloriously forth from its undimmed windows,—­and fail to remember proudly the young lieutenant who fell under the enemy’s gun at Chickamauga?  Or who can listen unmoved to the music of the cannon which so often woke the morning echoes upon the bloodiest battle-field of the war?  A parade of the Washington Artillery is, indeed, a glorious and inspiriting sight.  Here they come, gayly caparisoned, perfect in every detail of military equipment, led by elegant officers who may well ride proudly, for each is a true soldier and a hero.  Scarcely less distinguished, save for the plainer uniform, are the rank and file that follow.  Can these be the same men whom history delights to honor,—­the heroes of a hundred battlefields,—­both in the army of Virginia and Tennessee, who, stripped to the waist, blackened with powder and smoke, bloody with streaming wounds,