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The soldiers of the Civil War are ever ready to recite reminiscences of camp and field. They forgive, but they cannot forget. Fresh in memory are scenes of life and light, of courage and death, of rollicking gayety and abject despair, of music and dancing, of the piteous cry of the wounded, the exultant shout of the victor and the imprecation of the vanquished.

A mere boy, I left my old Kentucky home to follow the plume of General John H. Morgan, the beau sabreur who rode far into the enemy's country, greeting the sons of the morning with a strange new flag.

In person General Morgan was notably graceful and handsome. Six feet in height, his form was perfect, a rare combination of grace, activity and strength. The prince of Kentucky cavaliers, Morgan was the peer of the immortals Stuart and Hampton, Forrest and Wheeler. Associated with him, always second in command, was Basil W. Duke, the Baron Henry of the youthful cavalrymen–the flower of "old Kentucky."

While Morgan was bold in thought and action, he neglected no precaution that would insure success or avert disaster. His rapidly formed plans, promptly and brilliantly executed, surprised his friends and confounded his foes. He was the