stranger studying the face would hear with incredulity the story of
the responsibilities and dangers which that face had confronted. He
laughed it all off lightly, and that was his way when occasionally in
his later years he came to our meetings.

I recall a reunion in 1865, ten years after our graduation. We sat in
full numbers about a sumptuous banquet at the Parker House in
Boston, and naturally in that year the returned soldiers were in the
foreground. In our class were two major-generals, four colonels, a
distinguished surgeon, and many more of lower rank. Barlow was the
central figure. Theodore Lyman, who presided, introduced him with a
glowing tribute, recounting his achievements, a long list from
the time he had entered as a private to his culmination as a full
Major-General. He called at last for nine cheers for the man who had
captured the Spottsylvania salient, and we gave them with a roar that
shook the building. Barlow was the only man in the room who showed not
the slightest emotion. He stood impassive, his face wearing his queer
smile. Other men might have been abashed at the tumultuous warmth of
such a reception from his old mates; a natural utterance at such a
time would have been an expression of joy that the war was over and
that the country had been saved, coupled with modest satisfaction
that he had borne some part in the great vindication, but that was
not Barlow's way. He laughed it off lightly, as if it had been a huge
joke. My classmate, the late Joseph Willard of Boston, told me of a
reunion of the class at a time much later. The men were discussing
the stained-glass window which it had been decided should be put in
Memorial Hall. Since the class had a distinguished military record it
was felt that there should be martial suggestion in the window and the
question was what classic warrior should be portrayed. The face, it
was thought, should have the lineaments of our most famous soldier.