slowly and stubbornly,
it came from that well-fought field, leaving many of its members, "who
never shall fight again," dead upon it. On the Friday following that
bloody Wednesday, they were "in at the death," in the triumphant
charge of our left. Its commander, Colonel Moody, is "the fighting
Parson" of the Cumberland Army. Calmly and steadily he led his men
into the seven-times heated furnace of battle, and,

"As the battle din,
Came rolling in,

his voice of cheer and encouragement was heard above its roar. Just
before they came into the whizzing storm, he said: "Say your prayers,
my boys, and give them your bullets as fast as you can." A conspicuous
mark, he was struck by balls in three places, and his horse shot from
under him; but he took no notice of the hits. Once, during the
thickest of the fight, he rode along the line, and was cheered by his
men even in the roar of battle.

Side by side with Colonel Moody rode, during both battles, the gallant
Major Bell, the new field-officer of this regiment. Ohio's 74th is
justly proud that she has the experience of a gray-headed Colonel
united with the "dash" of a young Major. This regiment has won for
itself a place among the "crack" regiments of our army; and General
Rosecrans told it to-day that he would have to call it "the fighting
regiment."

COLONEL MOODY ON THE BATTLE-FIELD.

The Ohio _Statesman_, speaking of Colonel Moody at the late battle at
Murfreesboro, has the following:

"Colonel Moody has been so long accustomed to 'charge home' upon the
rebellious 'hosts of sin,' from the pulpit, that he finds himself in
no uncongenial position in charging bayonet upon the rebellious hosts
of Davis and the Devil upon the battle-field. And, as in the former
position he ever acquitted himself right valiantly, so, in this
latter position, he is equally heroic and unconquerable.

"His escape from death in the late fight was so wonderful as to seem
clearly Providential. His friends and members of his church in
Cincinnati had presented him with a pair of handsome revolvers. One of
these he wore in the breast of his coat during the fight. A
partially-spent Minie-ball had struck him on the breast, pierced his
coat, and, striking the butt of his pistol, splintered it to pieces
directly over his heart, _but went no further_. The stroke was so
violent as to hurl him from his horse by the concussion, and he lay,
for a moment, insensible. Consciousness soon returned, an