The Valley of Pennsylvania, through which my command marched from Gettysburg, awakened

the most conflicting emotions.

It was delightful to look upon such a scene of universal thrift and plenty.

Its broad grain fields, clad in golden garb, were waving their welcome to the reapers and

binders.

Some fields were already dotted over with harvested shocks.

The huge barns on the highest grounds meant to my sore footed marchers, a mount, a ride,

and a rest on a broad-backed horse.

On every side as far as our alert vision could reach, all aspects and conditions conspired

to make this fertile and carefully tilled region, a panorama both interesting and enchanting.

It was a type of the fair and fertile valley of Virginia at its best before it became

the highway of armies, and the ravages of war had left it wasted and bare.

The melancholy contrast between these charming districts, so similar in other respects,

brought to our southern sensibilities a touch of sadness.

We entered York on Sunday morning, June 28th.

A committee composed of the mayor and prominent citizens met my command on the main pike

before we reached the corporate limits.

Their object being to make a peaceable surrender and ask for protection to life and property.

They returned, I think, with the feeling of assured safety.

The church bells were ringing and the streets were filled with well-dressed people.

The appearance of these church-going men, women, and children in their Sunday attire

strangely contrasted with that of my marching soldiers.

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