the court-martial were read. A short but impressive
prayer was then offered by the minister, at the conclusion of which the
condemned man, unaccompanied, mounted the scaffold.

"In a few moments Detective Capehart followed, and commenced to adjust
the rope over the neck of the condemned, in which he assisted, all the
while talking with the officer. On taking off his hat, to admit the
noose over his head, he threw it one side, and falling off the scaffold,
it struck a gentleman beneath, when the prisoner turned quickly, and
bowing, said: 'Excuse me, sir!'

"A negro next came on the scaffold with a ladder, and proceeded to
fasten the rope to the upper beam, the prisoner meanwhile regarding him
with the greatest composure. The rope being fastened, the negro was in
the act of coming down, when the prisoner, looking up at the rope,
remarked: 'This will not break my neck! It is not more than a foot fall!
Doctor, I wish you would come up and arrange this thing!' The rope was
then rearranged to his satisfaction, and the cloth cap placed over his
head.

"The condemned man then bowed his head, and engaged a few seconds in
prayer, at the conclusion of which he raised himself, and standing
perfectly erect, pronounced in a clear voice: 'All ready!'

"The drop fell, and the condemned man was launched into eternity!"

Kellogg is said by his captors to have died with the conviction that he
had furnished more valuable information, in the character of a spy, to
the Federal government than any other ten men in the service. But this
has been denied by his friends at the North, who assert that he was
innocent of the charge.

With baseless rumors of a soon-to-be-effected cartel of exchange; the
drawing of lots for the selection of hostages, upon whom the Confederacy
proposed to retaliate for the punishment inflicted upon three
Confederates by the Federal authorities who had sentenced them to
imprisonment in the Illinois State Prison; listening to yarns spun by
real or pretended veterans; playing games of chance; holding spirited
debates; reading letters from home; occasionally poring over the
newspaper procured by stealth; or meditating plans of escape--the
balance of the year 1863 wore on to its close, and still Willard Glazier
was a prisoner of war, with no prospect whatever of a speedy release.
Then came New-Year's Day, 1864, and some little attempt was made to get
up a New-Year's dinner--though no extra rations had been issued. The