REFERENCE
Memorial
L BRARIES
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C>ur American $oltlmps
MEMORIAL DAY
OUR AMERICAN
HOLIDAYS
EDITED BY ROBERT HAVEN
SCHAUFFLER
ARBOR DAY (April)
CHRISTMAS (December 25)
EASTER (March or April)
FLAG DAY (June 14)
INDEPENDENCE DAY
(July 4)
LINCOLN'S BIRTHDAY (Feb-
ruary 12)
MEMORIAL DAY (May JO)
MOTHER'S DAY (Second
Sunday in May)
THANKSGIVING (Last
Thursday in November)
WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY
(February 22)
£Dut American
MEMORIAL DAY
(DECORATION DAY)
ITS CELEBRATION, SPIRIT, AND SIGNIFICANCE
AS RELATED IN PROSE AND VERSE, WITH A
NON-SECTIONAL ANTHOLOGY OF THE1 CIVIL WAR
EDITED BV
ROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLER
From out our crowded calendar,
One day we pluck to give; • :
It is the day the Dying pans/
To honor those who live.
McLANDBURGH WlLSON
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NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1926
COPYRIGHT, I9II, BY
DODD, MLAD & COMPANY
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BLIC Li RY
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PRINTED IN U.S.A.
FOREWORD
MEMORIAL DAY brings with it the memory of
those who have fallen in our wars, those who gave
everything, even life itself, that the nation might
live, that right and justice might prevail.
The World War has added its hundreds of thou-
sands to that heroic band who fell serving the country
so gallantly in our earlier wars.
Those who died were the men who appreciated the
responsibility of each and every citizen for service;
those who answered the call of duty. They realized
that the nation had given them equality of privilege
and had the right in return to demand equality of
obligation for service. They served, animated by a
spirit of service and sacrifice which knew no limit.
Their memory and example will always be an inspira-
tion to our people for loyal, unselfish service — service
to the limit of our powers, mental and physical.
The issues for which raa.iy 01 them fought and
died have long been settled, but the spirit of service
and sacrifice of those true Americans is alive today.
If the nation is to endure and perform its duty in
the world it mtts-1 e^er be kept alive; it must never
be allowed to falter.
LEONARD WOOD.
Fort Sheridan, Illinois.
February Twenty-third.
Nineteen Twenty-one.
. • • > •
> > I
* » * » »
« . • •
« • > > I >
PREFACE
IN harmony with the generous non-sectional spirit
characterizing our Memorial Day celebration, no dis-
crimination has been shown in this collection between
the literature of South and North. For our secular
All Souls' Day knows neither North nor South, Blue
nor Gray.
The sole discrimination shown has been in selecting
from all sources the most beautiful poetry and the most
eloquent prose in this first attempt to reveal, from vari-
ous viewpoints, the true spirit and significance of the
festival and of the events leading thereto.
A war anthology is included.
NOTE
Ihe Editor and Publishers wish to acknowledge
their indebtedness to Houghton, Mifflin & Com-
pany; The Century Co.; J. B. Lippincott & Co.;
Bobbs-Merrill Co.; Dodd, Mead & Co.; Mr. David
McKay, John Macy, and others who have very
kindly granted permission to reprint selections from
works bearing their copyright.
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION xiii
I
CELEBRATION
FOR OUR DEAD Clinton Scollard 3
AN ODE FOR DECORATION DAY . . . Henry Peterson 4
COVER THEM OVER WITH BEAUTIFUL FLOWERS
Anonymous 7
MEMORIAL DAY Anonymous g
THE WHITE BRIGADE John Macy 10
HONOR OUR PATRIOT DEAD Anonymous 12
FOR DECORATION DAY Rupert Hughes 13
LITTLE NAN Anonymous 14
A MONUMENT FOR THE SOLDIER . James Whit comb Riley 16
DECORATION DAY Richard Watson Gilder 17
MEMORIAL DAY Louis Imogen Guiney 18
II
SPIRIT AND SIGNIFICANCE
DECORATION DAY ADDRESS .... James A. Garneld 23
MEMORIAL DAY . Wallace Bruce 27
MEMORIAL DAY MESSAGES 29
ARE DEAD HEROES PRESENT? Anonymous 30
TRIBUTE TO THE UNKNOWN
Senior Vice-Commander Burr age 31
ODE FOR MEMORIAL DAY . . . Paul Laurence Dunbar 31
THE MONUMENT'S MESSAGE . . Charles Elmer Allison 33
COMRADES KNOWN IN MARCHES MANY
Charles G. Halpine 46
vii
viii CONTENTS
PACK
THE LEGACY OF CONFLICT .... Theodore Roosevelt 47
DECORATION DAY E. P. Thwing 48
ODE FOR DECORATION DAY .... Theodore P. Cook 51
THE NATION'S DEAD Henry Watterson 53
THE GRAVES OF OUR DEAD . . . Robert G. Ingersoll 55
" BELLIGERENT NON-COMBATANTS "
William Tecumseh Sherman 56
DECORATION DAY Thomas Bailey Aldrich 57
DECORATION DAY ADDRESS Anonymous 60
III
THE WAR
BROTHER JONATHAN'S LAMENT FOR SISTER CAROLINE
Oliver Wendell Holmes 67
DIXIE Albert Pike 69
FIRST O SONGS FOR A PRELUDE . . . Walt Whitman 71
MEN OF THE NORTH John Neal 74
THE OATH OF FREEDOM .... James Barren Hope 76
BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS! Walt Whitman 78
WAR Sam Walter Foss 79
THE BRAVE AT HOME . . . Thomas Buchanan Read 81
THE NINETEENTH OF APRIL, 1861 . . . Lucy Larcom 82
MANASSAS Catherine M. Warfield 85
THE COUNTERSIGN A Confederate Soldier 86
TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP George F. Root 88
KEARNEY AT SEVEN PINES . Edmund Clarence Stedman 89
THE DEATH OF SLAVERY . . . William Cullen Bryant 91
CAVALRY CROSSING A FORD .... Walt Whitman 94
BIVOUAC ON A MOUNTAIN SIDE . . . Walt Whitman 95
FROM " THE RIVER-FIGHT " . Henry Howard Brownell 95
IN ACTION Anonymous 101
FREDERICK SB URG Thomas Bailey Aldrich 103
THE LAST FIGHT Lewis Frank Tooker 104
VICKSBURG Paul Hamilton Hayne 108
THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND MORE . . . Anonymous no
IN DAYS LIKE THESE Thomas H. Stacy 112
THE TROOP-SHIP SAILS .... Robert W. Chambers 113
CONTENTS ix
PAGE
THE BATTLE OF CHARLESTON HARBOR
Paul Hamilton Hayne 115
CANTICLE DE PROFUNDIS Lucy Larcom 118
"How ARE You, SANITARY?" . . Francis Bret Harte 121
WHAT THE BULLET SANG . . . Francis Bret Harte 122
BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC . . Julia Ward Howe 123
ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC . . Ethel Lynn Beers 125
ORDER FOR A DAY OF FASTING 127
KEENAN'S CHARGE .... George Parsons Lathrop 128
LEE TO THE REAR John R. Thompson 131
RE-ENLISTED Lucy Larcom 135
REVEILLE Michael O'Connor 138
FARRAGUT William Tuckey Meredith 140
DRIVING HOME THE Cows . . . Kate Putnam Osgood 142
SHERIDAN'S RIDE Thomas Buchanan Read 144
" HE'LL SEE IT WHEN HE WAKES "... Frank Lee 146
SPRING AT THE CAPITAL . . . Elisabeth Akers Allen 148
ARMY CORRESPONDENT'S LAST RIDE
George Alfred Townsend 150
LEE'S FINAL ADDRESS TO His SOLDIERS 154
THE CONFLICT ENDED Charles Devens 155
SECOND REVIEW OF THE GRAND ARMY
Francis Bret Harte 156
MARCHING THROUGH GEORGIA H. C. Work 159
THE SOUTHERN SOLDIER Henry W. Grady 160
FROM "THE HARVARD COMMEMORATION ODE"
James Russell Lowell 162
IV
THE HEROIC DEAD
How SLEEP THE BRAVE William Collins 167
Two VETERANS Walt Whitman 167
OUR DEAD SOLDIERS Francis A. Walker 169
THE UNKNOWN DEAD Henry Timrod 172
ONLY A SOLDIER'S GRAVE S. A. Jones 173
READING THE LIST Anonymous 174
DECORATION DAY . . . Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 176
x CONTENTS
PAGB
OUR COUNTRY'S DEFENDERS . . . William McKinley 177
HYMN FOR MEMORIAL DAY Henry Timrod 178
HEROES OF THE SOUTH .... Paul Hamilton Hayne 179
FROM " AN ODE IN TIME OF HESITATION "
William Vaughn Moody 182
AN ODE Thomas Bailey Aldrich 184
THE BATTLEFIELD William Cullen Bryant 186
UNDER THE STARS Wallace Rice 188
SHERMAN Richard Watson Gilder 190
OUR HONORED DEAD Henry Ward Beecher 191
ROLL-CALL Nathaniel Graham Shepherd 192
A SOLDIER POET Rossiter Johnson 193
A GEORGIA VOLUNTEER . . . Mary Ashley Townsend 194
THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD .... Theodore O'Hara 197
MEMORIALS Herman Melville 201
ELEGIAC James Gates Percival 201
VANQUISHED Francis Fisher Browne 203
THE NATION'S DEAD Anonymous 204
A BALLAD OF HEROES Austin Dobson 206
THE DEAD COMRADE .... Richard Watson Gilder 208
THE VOLUNTEER Frank L. Stanton 209
THE SMALLEST OF THE DRUMS . . . James Bnckham 210
THE VOLUNTEER Elbridge Jefferson Cutler 212
OUR HEROES John Albion Andrew 213
COME UP FROM THE FIELDS, FATHER . . Walt Whitman 215
THE DEATH OF GRANT Ambrose Bierce 217
THE BURIAL OF GRANT . . . Richard Watson Gilder 219
THE GRAVES OF THE PATRIOTS . . James Gates Percival 220
O CAPTAIN ! MY CAPTAIN ! . . . . Walt Whitman 222
V
REUNITED
THE BLUE AND THE GRAY . . . Francis Miles Finch 227
NORTH TO THE SOUTH .... Richard Watson Gilder 229
DEATH THE PEACEMAKER Ellen H. Flagg 229
GETTYSBURG: A MECCA FOR THE BLUE AND GRAY . . . 232
OVER THEIR GRAVES . . . Henry Jerome Stockard 233
CONTENTS xi
PAGE
THE BLUE AND THE GRAY Anonymous 234
A PATRIOTIC MESSAGE FOR MEMORIAL DAY
General James Longstreet 236
REUNITED F. L. Stanton 237
His NEW SUIT S. E. Kiser 239
ENLISTED Eliza Calvert Hall 240
AGAIN BRETHREN AND EQUALS . James Willis Patterson 241
THE EAGLE'S SONG Richard Mansfield 244
THEM YANKEE BLANKITS W. Small 245
THE WARSHIP " DIXIE " Frank L. Stanton 247
CHICKAMAUGA G. T. Ferris 249
CHICKAMAUGA— 1898 250
ALL UNDER THE SAME BANNER Now
Lawrence Sullivan Ross 251
ONE BENEATH OLD GLORY Anonymous 254
AMERICA SURVIVES THE ORDEAL OF CONFLICTING SYSTEMS
Henry B. Carrington 256
THE HIGH TIDE AT GETTYSBURG . Will Henry Thompson 260
THE NEW MEMORIAL DAY . . . Albert Bigelow Paine 263
MEMORIAL DAY 1889 .... Samuel Ellsworth Kiser 264
LET Us REJOICE TOGETHER . George Augustus Sheridan 265
VI
SELECTIONS
THE BRIGADE COMMANDER . . . . /. W. De Forrest 271
A STORY OF DECORATION DAY FOR THE LITTLE CHILDREN
OF TO-DAY Elizabeth Harrison 309
THE FIRE REKINDLED .... Claire Wallace Flynn 315
MEMORIAL DAY 1898 . . Reginald Wright Kauffman 326
INTRODUCTION
DAYS particularly set apart for ceremonies in honor
of the dead are common to mankind and are well-nigh
as old as history itself.
The Greeks performed impressive rites called Zoai,
at each new grave. These involved various libations
and offerings of olives and flowers. The head of the
departed was crowned with a floral wreath, and a
luxuriance of bloom springing from the grave of the
dead one was considered a token of his happiness.
The Romans honored their ancestors in a festival
called the Parentalia, celebrated from February I3th
to 2 1 st. During this period the temples were closed,
and the magistrates were obliged to go without the
insignia of their office. The last day was called the
Feralia. Then wine and milk, honey and oil, fruit,
bread, salt, eggs, and the blood of cattle, pigs, and
black sheep were brought to the tombs and offered up
to the shades of the departed. The tomb was deco-
rated with wreaths and flowers, especially roses and
violets, as the later Latin poets record.
Our ancestors, the Druids, were believers in the
transmigration of souls and celebrated their memorial
day about the first of November on the eve of the great
autumnal festival of thanksgiving to the sun. This was
the time when their god Saman, the Lord of Death, was
supposed to call together and pass judgment upon poor
xiii
xiv INTRODUCTION
souls who had been obliged for their sins to inhabit the
bodies of animals during the year. But, through the
priests, by means of gifts and incantations, the cruel
heart of Saman might be softened at this season.
Even in China and Japan there exists an ancient festi-
val in honor of the dead, known as The Feast of
Lanterns.
Our Memorial Day is simply a secular All Souls'
Day. Like most Christian festivals the latter is only
a pagan feast in a new form. On that day the Roman
Catholics endeavor, by prayers and charity, to soften
the suffering of the poor souls in purgatory. The
early Christians wrote the names of the dead on the
diptychs or altar lists and from these the priest read
the names of those for whom he was to pray that
God might give them " a place of refreshment, light,
and peace."
In the sixth century the Benedictine monasteries used
to hold a memorial service, at Whitsuntide, for their de-
parted brothers. In 998 Abbot Odilon of Cluny insti-
tuted in all the monasteries in his congregation the
practice of saying the Mass for the dead on the morrow
of the Feast of All Saints, and obliging the priests to
recite in private the matins and lauds from the office
of the dead.
It is fascinating to study the customs of this holiday
in different ages and nations. The account given by
Walsh1 is well worth following:
" In ancient times it was customary for criers, dressed
in black, to parade the streets, ringing a bell of mourn-
1 In " Curiosities of Popular Customs."
INTRODUCTION xv
ful sound and calling on all good Christians to remem-
ber the poor souls in purgatory and join in prayer for
their relief. In Southern Italy, notably in Salerno,
there was another ancient custom, which was put an
end to in the fifteenth century because it was thought
to savor of paganism. Every family used to spread a
table abundantly for the regalement of the souls of its
dead members on their way from purgatory. All then
spent the day in church, leaving the house open, and
if any of the food remained on the table when they
came back it was an ill omen. Curiously enough,
large numbers of thieves used to resort to the city at
this time, and there was seldom any food left to
presage evil. A story strangely like this is told in
the Apocryphal book of Bel and the Dragon.
' All Souls' Day possesses a peculiar sanctity for all
who have ever felt the poetry which underlies the
services of the Catholic Church. In the toil and moil
of life we too easily forget the dead, or remember them
only with a sense of loss instead of gratitude. Hence
it seems well that once in the year an opportunity
should be afforded for dwelling on them in a different
way, for recalling all that endeared them to us, which
often means all that has lent our past life emotional
value, for drawing close to them in the spiritual bonds
which according to the Catholic Church are not severed
by death, and for offering them that pious meed of
prayer which, the same authority guarantees, will
shorten their stay in purgatory and open out to them
the sooner the final glory and peace of paradise.
' In nothing does the strange contrast of feeling ap-
pear more strongly than in the different ways in which
xvi INTRODUCTION
this day is celebrated in countries or districts which are
equally Roman Catholic in their profession of faith.
In all, the religious services are substantially the same ;
Masses for the dead are read, the ' Dies Irse ' is sung,
and the prayer ' Eternal rest grant them, O Lord, and
let perpetual life shine upon them ' rises from thou-
sands of hearts as well as lips. But outside the church
nothing can be more unlike than the bearing of the
worshipers.
" In France the Jour des Morts, as it is generally
known, is a decorous, pathetic, and beautiful occa-
sion among all believers. For two or three weeks
before the day arrives the shop windows and the
news-venders' kiosks are laden with wreaths and gar-
lands of immortelles, some in their natural color, some
dyed blue, pink, or purple. On All Saints' the people
stream to the cemeteries. Thousands of people, thou-
sands of wreaths. The cemeteries are one mass of
brilliant color, of moving throngs, for not even the re-
motest corner of the potter's field is neglected. Above
the dust of the pauper, as well as of the prince, is
left some token of remembrance. Pains are taken that
no graves of friends and relatives are neglected, lest
their spirits should have their feelings hurt during their
visit by perceiving this neglect. The children, espe-
cially, are encouraged to delight in the thought of pleas-
ing the little dead brother, sister, or friend by making
the tiny mounds that mark their resting-places gay and
bright-looking.
" The higher classes behave with the quietude and
self-restraint of well-bred people everywhere. But
down among the common people are manifested the
INTRODUCTION xvii
emotions of the heart, sad remembrance, re-awakened
grief, love outlasting its object.
" It is true that even into the midst of this pathetic
ceremony the Parisians sometimes manage to obtrude
politics. On November 2, 1868, a strange scene was
enacted in the cemetery of Montmartre. The Empire
was then at the height of its unpopularity. A large
number of its enemies came bearing flowers to seek
for the tomb of Alphonse Baudin, the representative
of the people who had died at the barricades on De-
cember 2, 1851. For seventeen years this had been
reported lost. But thousands of eager searchers soon
located it, and it was covered with a pyramid of im-
mortelles and other flowers. Revolutionary speeches
were made, and there were some conflicts with the
police. Next morning some of the liberal journals
opened a subscription-list for a monument to Baudin.
But the movement was stopped by the Imperial Govern-
ment, and several of the editors were fined.
" Scenes of this sort, however, are infrequent, and
occur only among unbelievers. Now contrast the
Frenchman with the Southern Italian.
' Nothing can be more grewsome, incongruous, and
flippant — to the Northern mind — than the All Souls'
celebrations in Naples. The Saturday Review of
January 7, 1888, gives an account of these which is as
true to-day as it was then :
' In Naples All Souls' Day is regarded as a holiday,
and the visit of the families to the churchyard for the
purpose of decorating the graves degenerates into a
pleasure-party. Metal garlands are chiefly used for
the purpose ; and, though they are more durable, they
xviii INTRODUCTION
hardly possess the charm of real leaves and flowers.
They may, however, be regarded as symbolic of the
behavior, if not always of the feelings, of those who
offer them. On the way to the cemetery a decent
sobriety is observed, and the various families usually
remain separate ; but on the return general sociability
and mirth are the rule. The roadside is lined with
inns, which are better filled on this than any other
day in the year, and from all of them the sound of
singing and dancing may be heard. Indeed, it is by
no means uncommon for a young Neapolitan to say to
a friend, " We are going to visit our mother's grave
to-morrow, and on our way back we shall stop at such
or such an inn; " which means, "If you like to come
there, you can dance with my sister." To an English-
man no celebration of the day seems a better thing.
If we forget our dead, we do not make their memory
the excuse for a jollification.
' In the villages where the day is observed with a
certain seriousness, grotesque incidents are apt to mar,
for the stranger at least, the sense of mournful calm
which the religious services excite. In one of the
churches of Ravello, for example, a disgusting effigy is
placed before the high altar, instead of the shrouded
structure in which, during the funeral service, the coffin
is placed. The very skill with which it is made renders
it the more repulsive. The fallen cheeks and livid hue
are rendered with what seems, in the half-light, a
frightful realism ; and it is clad in the court dress of
some former century, in a suit embroidered with gold,
red stockings, and pointed shoes. Or it is perhaps a
real mummy? The writer did not pause to inquire.
INTRODUCTION xix
In fact, the South Italian seems to be utterly destitute
of the feeling which prompts us to conceal, as far as
possible even from our imaginations, all that is revolt-
ing in death.'
" In France the Jour des Morts is kept utterly dis-
tinct from La Toussaint, or All Saints' Day, which
occurs on November ist. This is also true of Italy.
But in many other European Catholic countries the
decorating of graves begins on All Saints' Day, either
because it is looked upon as the Eve of All Souls', or
from the pious and complimentary hope that the dead
in whom the celebrant is interested may have already
passed out of the penitential flames of purgatory into
the company of the blessed. In a Catholic Alpine vil-
lage, as soon as the Mass has been heard on All Saints',
the women of the family busy themselves with weaving
wreaths of evergreens, into which any flowers that are
still hardy enough to blossom are eagerly worked. In
the afternoon these are carried to the churchyard and
laid upon the graves with almost silent reverence ; and
in the evening a lamp is placed at the foot of the last
resting-place of every departed friend. At such a
time the cemetery is a strange sight, with the gar-
lands, the lights, and the groups of mourners kneel-
ing, often in the snow."
Scarcely less curious than this survey of Memorial
Day manners is Brand's x account of the very general
custom of strewing flowers upon the graves of the
departed.
" Gough, in the ' Sepulchral Monuments/ speaking cf
1 In " Popular Antiquities."
xx INTRODUCTION
the Feralia, says : ' The tombs were decked with flow-
ers, particularly roses and lilies. The Greeks used the
amaranth and polyanthus (one species of which re-
sembles the hyacinth), parsley, myrtle. The Romans
added fillets or bandeaux of wool. The primitive
Christians reprobated these as impertinent practices.'
St. Ambrose, in his Funeral Oration on the Death of
Valentinian, has these words : ' I will not sprinkle his
grave with flowers, but pour on his spirit the odor of
Christ. Let others scatter baskets of flowers: Christ
is our lily, and with this will I consecrate his relics.'
And St. Jerome, in his Epistle to Pammachius, upon
the death of his wife, tells us : ' Whilst other husbands
strewed violets, roses, lilies, and purple flowers upon
the graves of their wives, and comforted themselves
with such-like offices, Pammachius bedewed her ashes
and venerable bones with the balsam of alms.' But
in Prudentius's time they had adopted these customs,
and they obtain, in a degree, in some parts of our own
country, as the garland hung up in some village
churches in Cambridgeshire, and other counties, after
the funeral of a young woman, and the inclosure of
roses round graves in the Welsh churchyards testify.
' In Malkin's ' Scenery, Antiquities, and Biography
of South Wales,' we read : ' The bed on which the corpse
lies is always strewed with flowers, and the same cus-
tom is observed after it is laid in the coffin. They
bury much earlier than we do in England ; seldom later
than the third day, and very frequently on the second.
The habit of filling the bed, the coffin, and the room
with sweet-scented flowers, though originating probably
in delicacy as well as affection, must of course have a
INTRODUCTION xxi
strong tendency to expedite the progress of decay. It
is an t invariable practice, both by day and night, to
watch a corpse; and so firm a hold has this supposed
duty gained on their imaginations, that probably there
is no instance upon record of a family so unfeeling and
abandoned as to leave a dead body in the room by itself
for a single minute in the interval between the death
and burial. Such a violation of decency would be
remembered for generations. The hospitality of the
country is not less remarkable on melancholy than on
joyful occasions. The invitations to a funeral are very
general and extensive, and the refreshments are not
light, and taken standing, but substantial and pro-
longed. Any deficiency in the supply of ale would be
as severely censured on this occasion as at a festival.
The grave of the deceased is constantly overspread
with plucked flowers for a week or two after the funeral.
The planting of graves with flowers is confined to the
villages and the poorer people. It is perhaps a prettier
custom. It is very common to dress the graves on
Whitsunday and other festivals, when flowers are to
be procured ; and the frequency of this observance is
a good deal affected by the respect in which the de-
ceased was held. My father-in-law's grave in Cow-
bridge Church has been strewed by his surviving serv-
ants every Sunday morning for these twenty years. It
is usual for a family not to appear at church till what
is called the month's end, when they go in a body, and
then are considered as having returned to the common
offices of life.'
" In the same work, in notes on an Elegy written by
Mason, we are told again that ' it is a very ancient and
xxii INTRODUCTION
general practice in Glamorgan to plant flowers on the
graves ; so that many churchyards have something like
the splendor of a rich and various parterre. Besides
this, it is usual to strew the graves with flowers and
evergreens, within the church as well as out of it,
thrice at least every year, on the same principle of
delicate respect as the stones are whitened. No flowers
or evergreens are permitted to be planted on graves but
such as are sweet-scented: the pink and polyanthus,
sweet-williams, gilliflowers and carnations, mignon-
ette, thyme, hyssop, camomile, and rosemary, make up
the pious decoration of this consecrated garden. Turn-
soles, peonies, the African marigold, the anemone, and
many others I could mention, though beautiful, are
never planted on graves, because they are not sweet-
scented. It is to be observed, however, that this
tender custom is sometimes converted into an instru-
ment of satire; so that, where persons have been dis-
tinguished for their pride, vanity, or any other unpopu-
lar quality, the neighbors whom they may have offended
plant these also by stealth upon their graves. The
white rose is always planted on a virgin's tomb. The
red rose is appropriated to the grave of any person
distinguished for goodness, and especially benevolence
of character. In the Easter week most generally the
graves are newly dressed, and manured with fresh
earth, when such flowers or evergreens as may be
wanted or wished for are planted. In the Whitsun-
tide holidays, or rather the preceding week, the graves
are again looked after, weeded, and otherwise dressed,
or, if necessary, planted again. It is a very common
saying of such persons as employ themselves in thus
INTRODUCTION xxiii
planting and dressing the graves of their friends, that
they are cultivating their own freeholds. This work
the nearest relations of the deceased always do with
their own hands, and never by servants or hired per-
sons. Should a neighbor assist, he or she never takes,
never expects, and indeed is never insulted by the offer
of any reward, by those who are acquainted with the
ancient custom.
' Speaking of the church of Llanspyddid, on the
south side of the Uske, surrounded with large and
venerable yew-trees, Malkin observes : ' The natives of
the principality pride themselves much on these ancient
ornaments of their churchyards ; and it is nearly as gen-
eral a custom in Brecknockshire to decorate the graves
of the deceased with slips either of bay or yew, stuck in
the green turf, for an emblem of pious remembrance,
as it is in Glamorganshire to pay a tribute of similar
import in the cultivation of sweet-scented flowers on
the same spot.'
" Gough, in ' Sepulchral Monuments,' says : ' Aubrey
takes notice of a custom of planting rose-trees on the
graves of lovers by the survivors, at Oakley, Surrey,
which may be a remain of Roman manners among
us ; it being in practice among them and the Greeks to
have roses yearly strewed on their graves.
"In the Female Mentor, 1798, ii., we read: 'Inde-
pendently of the religious comfort which is imparted
in our burial service, we sometimes see certain grati-
fications which are derived from immaterial circum-
stances ; and, however trivial they may appear, are not
to be judged improper, as long as they are perfectly
innocent. Of this kind may be deemed the practice in
xxiv INTRODUCTION
some country villages of throwing flowers into the
grave ; and it is curious to trace this apparently simple
custom up to the politest periods of Greece and Rome.
Virgil, describing Anchises grieving for Marcellus,
says:
Full canisters of fragrant lilies bring,
Mix'd with the purple roses of the spring:
Let me with funeral flow'rs his body strew :
This gift, which parents to their children owe,
This unavailing gift at least I may bestow."
It is eminently fitting that this custom of decorating
the graves of our dead with flowers should play the
leading part it does in the celebration of the Western
Memorial Day. For the goddess Aphrodite was no
more truly sea-born than this day was flower-born. It
happened thus : Two years after the close of the Civil
War the New York Tribune printed a paragraph
simply stating that " the women of Columbus, Miss.,
have shown themselves impartial in their offerings
made to the memory of the dead. They strewed flow-
ers alike on the graves of the Confederate and of the
National soldiers."
Whereupon the North thrilled with tenderness and
Francis Miles Finch was inspired to write his moving
lyric " The Blue and the Gray " which has become the
credo of the festival.
In a famous address Chauncey M. Depew related
the occurrence with felicity : " When the war was over
in the South, where under warmer skies and with
more poetic temperaments symbols and emblems are
better understood than in the practical North, the
widows, mothers, and the children of the Confederate
INTRODUCTION xxv
dead went out and strewed their graves with flowers;
at many places the women scattered them impartially
also over the unknown and unmarked resting-places of
the Union soldiers. As the news of this touching
tribute flashed over the North it roused, as nothing
else could have done, national amity and love and
allayed sectional animosity and passion. Thus out of
sorrows common alike to North and South came this
beautiful custom."
The incident, however, produced no practical results
until in May, 1868, Adjutant-General N. P. Chipman
suggested to National Commander John A. Logan, of
the Grand Army of the Republic that their organization
should inaugurate the custom of spreading flowers on
the graves of the Union soldiers at some uniform
time. General Logan immediately issued an order
naming the 3oth day of May, 1868, " for the purpose
of strewing with flowers or otherwise decorating the
graves of comrades who died in defense of their coun-
try during the late rebellion, and whose bodies now lie
in almost every city, village, or hamlet churchyard in
the land. . . . It is the purpose of the commander-in-
chief to inaugurate this observance with the hope that
it will be kept up from year to year while a survivor
of the war remains to honor the memory of the
departed."
The idea spread rapidly. Legislature after legis-
lature enacted it into law until the holiday has become
a legal one x in all states except Arkansas, Missouri,
Montana, New Mexico, Texas, and West Virginia.
i According to the table in " Deems' Holy Days and Holi-
days."
xxvi INTRODUCTION
Throughout the North and West the festival is very
generally celebrated on the 3Oth of May. But April
26th is observed in Alabama, Florida, Georgia, and
Mississippi ; May loth in North and South Carolina ;
May 3Oth in Virginia ; and June 3d in Louisiana.
Decoration Day, the earlier name of the festival,
was soon felt to be too superficial to express the pro-
found ideas and emotions to which the occasion is dedi-
cated, just as we now feel that Arbor Day is a name
quite inadequate for the holiday devoted to the great
principle of conservation. But, unlike the name of the
latter, Decoration Day was felicitously changed to
Memorial Day.
This festival, says an unknown writer in the Illus-
trated American for June 21, 1890, " is not merely a
holiday in the modern acceptation of the word, it real-
izes its etymological significance as a holy day. It is our
All Saints' Day, sacred to the memory of the glorified
dead who consecrated themselves to their country, were
baptized in blood, were beatified and canonized as
martyrs for the right. It is well that, in the hurry and
press of our times, when the higher soul within us is
choked and stifled by the more sordid cares of the
hour, by the selfish struggle for place and pelf, we
should pause for a period to dwell upon the memory of
the illustrious dead who gave their lives for their coun-
try, and who typify that higher and truer Americanism
which lies within us still, dormant and latent indeed,
yet ready to spring again to the surface whenever the
needs of the country issue a new call to arms. It is
well that we should do them honor which honors our-
selves in the doing. But it is well, also, that we should
INTRODUCTION xxvii
remember what was their true mission and their higher
success : that they fought not through enmity to a
gallant and mistaken foe, but through love for the
Union, which recognized no North and no South.
That Union they have restored, and union means
peace, harmony, mutual good will. If they had merely
pinned together with bayonets the two divided sec-
tions of the country, they had fought and bled and
fallen in vain. Northern hatred for the South, South-
ern hatred for the North, is disloyalty, is treason in-
deed to the Union which they re-established. A few
political ' leaders ' — ' leaders ' who are far in the rear
of public sentiment — have sought to make political capi-
tal out of the fact that Southerners cherish the memory
of the heroes who fought on their side, and have
raised statues to commemorate them. But we who
remember with pride the achievements of our soldiers
are proud to acknowledge that they had foemen worthy
of their steel, and that a common country gave birth
to both. The arbitrament of the sword has settled
forever the questions over which no other tribunal had
jurisdiction, and the nation went through the throes
of a civil war for the benefit of North and South alike. ''
To many of us this reunion seems to symbolize the
sublime side of the Anglo-Saxon nature and yearly
to renew our faith that after our next great internecine
strife is over, when capital and labor have once and
for all locked arms in their perhaps inevitable struggle,
America may vindicate her inherent nobility then as
now in
"Love and tears for the Blue,
Tears and love for the Gray."
I
CELEBRATION
MEMORIAL DAY
FOR OUR DEAD
BY CLINTON SCOLLARD
Flowers for our dead!
The delicate wild roses, faintly red;
The valley lily beds, as purely white
As shines their honor in the vernal light;
All blooms that be
As fragrant as their fadeless memory!
By tender hands entwined and garlanded,
Flowers for our dead !
Praise for our dead !
For those that followed and for those that led,
Whether they felt death's burning accolade,
When brothers drew the fratricidal blade,
Or closed undaunted eyes
Beneath the Cuban or Philippine skies!
While waves our brave, bright banner overhead.
Praise for our dead !
Love for our dead !
O hearts that droop and mourn, be comforted !
The darksome path through the abyss of pain,
The final hour of travail not in vain !
MEMORIAL DAY
For freedom's morning smile
Broadens across the seas from isle to isle.
By reverent lips let this fond word be said:
Love for our dead!
AN ODE FOR DECORATION DAY
BY HENRY PETERSON
Bring flowers, to strew again
With fragrant purple rain
Of lilacs, and of roses white and red,
The dwellings of our dead — our glorious dead !
Let the bells ring a solemn funeral chime,
And wild war-music bring anew the time
When they who sleep beneath
Were full of vigorous breath.
And in their lusty manhood sallied forth,
Holding in strong right hand
The fortunes of the land,
The pride and power and safety of the North!
It seems but yesterday
The long and proud array —
But yesterday when e'en the solid rock
Shook as with earthquake shock —
As North and South, like two huge icebergs, ground
Against each other with convulsive bound,
And the whole world stood still
To view the mighty war,
And hear the thunderous roar,
While sheeted lightnings wrapped each plain and hill.
CELEBRATION 5
Alas ! how few came back
From battle and from wrack!
Alas ! how many lie
Beneath a Southern sky,
Who never heard the fearful fight was done,
And all they fought for, won!
Sweeter, I think, their sleep,
More peaceful and more deep,
Could they but know their wounds were not in
vain ;
Could they but hear the grand triumphal strain,
And see their homes unmarred by hostile tread.
Ah! let us trust it is so with our dead —
That they the thrilling joy of triumph feel,
And in that joy disdain the foeman's steel.
We mourn for all, but each doth think of one
More precious to the heart than aught beside —
Some father, brother, husband, or some son,
Who came not back or, coming, sank and died;
In him the whole sad list is glorified!
" He fell 'fore Richmond in the seven long days
When battle raged from morn till blood-dewed
eve,
And lies there," one pale widowed mourner says,
And knows not most to triumph or to grieve.
" My boy fell at Fair Oaks," another sighs ;
" And mine at Gettysburg," his neighbor cries,
And that great name each sad-eyed listener thrills.
I think of one who vanished when the press
Of battle surged along the Wilderness,
And mourned the North upon her thousand hills.
6 MEMORIAL DAY
0 gallant brothers of the generous South !
Foes for a day, and brothers for all time,
1 charge you by the memories of our youth,
By Yorkstown's field and Montezuma's clime,
Hold our dead sacred, let them quietly rest
In your unnumbered vales, where God thought best!
Your vines and flowers learned long since to forgive,
And o'er their graves a broidered mantle weave ;
Be you as kind as they are, and the word
Shall reach the Northland with each summer bird,
And thoughts as sweet as summer shall awake
Responsive to your kindness, and shall make
Our peace the peace of brothers once again,
And banish utterly the days of pain.
And ye, O Northmen! be ye not outdone
In generous thought and deed.
We all do need forgiveness, every one;
And they that give shall find it in their need.
Spare of your flowers to deck the stranger's grave,
Who died for a lost cause;
A soul more daring, resolute, and brave
Ne'er won a world's applause!
(A brave man's hatred pauses at the tomb.)
For him some Southern home was robed in gloom,
Some wife or mother looked, with longing eyes,
Through the sad days and nights, with tears and
sighs —
Hope slowly hardening into gaunt Despair.
Then let your foeman's grave remembrance share;
For pity a high charm to Valor lends,
And in the realms of Sorrow all are friends.
CELEBRATION 7
Yes, bring fresh flowers, and strew the soldier's grave,
Whether he proudly lies
Beneath our Northern skies,
Or where the Southern palms their branches wave.
Let the bells toll, and wild war-music swell,
And for one day the thought of all the past —
Full of those memories vast —
Come back and haunt us with its mighty spell!
Bring flowers, then, once again,
And strew with fragrant rain
Of lilacs, and of roses white and red,
The dwellings of our dead.
COVER THEM OVER WITH BEAUTIFUL
FLOWERS
Decoration Day Hymn
ANONYMOUS
Cover them over with beautiful flow'rs,
Deck them with garlands those brothers of ours,
Lying so silent by night and by day,
Sleeping the years of their manhood away.
Give them the meed they have won in the past ;
Give them the honors their future forecast;
Give them the chaplets they won in the strife ;
Give them the laurels they lost with their life.
8 MEMORIAL DAY
Chorus.
Cover them over, yes, cover them over,
Parent and husband, brother and lover,
Crown in your hearts those dead heroes of ours,
Cover them over with beautiful flow'rs.
Cover the hearts that have beaten so high.
Beaten with hopes that were doomed but to die ;
Hearts that have burned in the heat of the fray ;
Hearts that have yearned for the home far away.
Once they were glowing with friendship and love,
Now their great souls have gone soaring above ;
Bravely their blood to the nation they gave,
Then in her bosom they found them a grave.
Cho.
Cover the thousands who sleep far away,
Sleep where their friends cannot find them to-day,
They, who in mountain and hillside and dell,
Rest where they wearied, and lie where they fell.
Softly the grass blades creep round their repose;
Sweetly above them the wild flowret blows;
Zephyrs of freedom fly gently o'erhead,
Whispering prayers for the patriot dead.
Cho.
When the long years have rolled slowly away,
E'en to the dawn of earth's funeral day;
When, at the angel's loud trumpet and tread,
Rise up the faces and forms of the dead,
CELEBRATION
When the great world its last judgment awaits;
When the blue sky shall fling open its gates,
And our long columns march silently through,
Past the Great Captain for final review.
Chorus.
t
Blessings for garlands shall cover them over,
Parent and husband, brother and lover,
God will reward those dead heroes of ours,
Cover them over with beautiful flow'rs.
MEMORIAL DAY
ANONYMOUS
Memorial Day, with its sad and sacred memories,
has again come. And as each new one makes its ad-
vent, we recall anew the great and tragic events that
made the occasion for the day. Time in his rapid
flight has borne us on till we are thirty-one years from
the close of the great Civil War, in which thousands of
lives were sacrificed and billions of treasure expended
to save our country from dismemberment. The asper-
ities and alienations engendered by the great struggle
between freedom and slavery have largely passed
away; and those who participated as soldiers on both
sides, who are still living, fraternize with each other
as brothers and fellow-citizens of one common coun-
try, on whose glorious banner is inscribed forever,
io MEMORIAL DAY
E pluribus unum. It is meet that those who sacrificed
and died in the struggle, or who sacrificed and have
since died, should be remembered and honored for
the invaluable service they have rendered their coun-
try and humanity. Let the graves of the dead soldiers
be decorated with flowers and wreaths of laurel, and
the memory of their noble deeds revived anew in
oratory and song.
THE WHITE BRIGADE1
BY JOHN MACY
(On a recent Memorial Day, in New York City, while the
veterans marched in the streets, processions of children, May
parties postponed by a tardy spring, mingled with the crowds
on the walks and in the parks.)
Between the cliffs of brick and stone,
Hoarse, like a river clamoring down
A canon gorge, the quenchless moan
Of being echoes through the town.
The lurid streets with life are loud.
There is no hush of holiday
Upon the million-throated crowd
Where old men march — and children play.
For, see, the desert springs to light,
Like fragile fairies roamed away
From magic woods, all clad in white,
The children keep the feast of May.
1 From the Century Magazine.
CELEBRATION 11
Up the stern streets, through park and square,
They seek the shaded plots of green,
Dear vaporous angels of the air,
Sweet phantoms from a mythic scene.
It is not real. Such elfin youth
To blossom 'mid this barren stone!
The bleak, loud city is the truth.
The vision of a dream is flown.
And yet it stays. The people part
To let the white processions through.
Rude, slandered walls, your hidden heart
Is pure, if such were born in you.
And now with slow tap to the drag
Of aged feet, the steady drum
Sounds where a cross street cleaves the crag,
And down the park the old troops come.
Strange interweaving of old gray
With delicate child white, all designed
On the tense fabric of to-day —
To-day with elder days entwined.
These ancient remnants tottering by
Were comrades to a host of boys,
Brave young battalions thrown to die,
Now white like those new-budded joys.
Slow-footed age, time-conquered, bowed,
We march as once you marched. Through you
12 MEMORIAL DAY
We new recruits, this heedless crowd,
Are veterans, are victors, too.
White flame of childhood, we would throw
Our lives to shield you from a breath.
Pass on, old men, to peace, for, lo!
Life blooms among the ranks of death.
HONOR OUR PATRIOT DEAD
ANONYMOUS
Memorial Day is consecrated to the soldiers; it is
dedicated to patriotism ; around this sacred day cluster
precious memories of our fallen brave. Over the
silent chambers of our sleeping comrades v/e wreathe
garlands of flowers — symbols of our love and grati-
tude. These graves are the Nation's shrine, the
Mecca to which patriots journey to renew their de-
votion to the cause for which these patriots died.
The fruits of their victories are a united country.
This is a sacred heritage purchased by their valor
and sealed by their blood. History is their encomium.
Battlefields attest their courage.
"Sleep, heroes, sleep;
Your deeds shall never die."
CELEBRATION 13
FOR DECORATION DAY
BY RUPERT HUGHES
I86I-I86S
But do we truly mourn our soldier dead,
Or understand at all their precious fame —
We that were born too late to feel the flame
That leapt from lowly hearths, and grew, dispread,
And, like a pillar of fire, our armies led?
Or you that knew them — do the long years tame
The memory-anguish? Are they more than name?
Oh, let no stinted grief profane their bed!
Let tears bedew each wreath that decks the lawn
Of every grave ! and raise a solemn prayer
That their battalioned souls be joined to fare
Dim roads, beyond the trumpets of the dawn,
Yet perfumed, somehow, by our flowers that heap
The peaceful barracks where their bodies sleep.
II
1898-1899
And now the long, long lines of the Nation's graves
Grow longer; and the venerate slopes reveal
The fresh spring turf gashed thick with tombs to seal
Away another army of our braves.
So hang black garlands from the architraves
Of all the capitols. The dying peal
Of bugles wails their final Taps. So kneel
And give the dead the due their virtue craves.
14 MEMORIAL DAY
Thank God, the olden sinew still is bred;
The milk of American mothers still is sweet;
The sword of Seventy-six is sharp and bright ;
The Flag still floats unblotted with defeat!
But ah the blood that keeps its ripples red,
The starry lives that keep its field alight;
The pangs of women and the tears they've bled.
The Lord enlarge our spirits till we feel
The greatness of these spirits upward fled.
A kind of genius it has been that fed
Them strength to be, above all passions, leal.
They put aside the velvet for the steel,
Left love, and hope, and ease at home ; and sped
To the wilderness of war and every dread.
Their blood is mortar for our commonweal;
Their deeds its decoration and its boast.
So mix with dirges, triumph ; smiles, with tears.
Make sorrow perfect with exultant pride —
Our vanished armies have not truly died ;
They march to-day before the heavenly host;
And history's veterans raise a storm of cheers,
As the Yankee troops — with glory armed and shod-
In Grand Review swing past the throne of God.
LITTLE NAN
ANONYMOUS
The wide gates swung open,
The music softly sounded,
And loving hands were heaping the soldiers' graves
with flowers;
CELEBRATION 15
With pansies, pinks, and roses,
And pure gold-hearted lilies,
The fairest, sweetest blossoms that grace the spring-
time bowers ;
When down the walk came tripping
A wee, bare-headed girlie,
Her eyes were filled with wonder, her face was
grave and sweet ;
Her small brown hands were crowded
With dandelions yellow-
The gallant, merry blossoms that children love to
greet.
O, many smiled to see her,
That dimple-cheeked wee baby,
Pass by with quaint intentness, as on a mission
bound ;
And, pausing oft an instant,
Let fall from out her treasures
A yellow dandelion upon each flower-strewn mound.
The music died in silence,
A robin ceased its singing,
And in the fragrant stillness a birdlike whisper grew,
So sweet, so clear and solemn,
That smiles gave place to tear-drops :
" Nan loves 'oo, darlin' soldier ; an' here's a f 'ower
for 'oo."
16 MEMORIAL DAY
A MONUMENT FOR THE SOLDIER1
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
A monument for the Soldiers !
And what will ye build it of?
Can ye build it of marble, or brass, or bronze,
Outlasting the Soldiers' love?
Can ye glorify it with legends
As grand as their blood hath writ
From the inmost shrine of this land of thine
To the outermost verge of it?
And the answer came: We would build it
Out of our hopes made sure,
And out of our purest prayers and tears,
And out of our faith secure :
We would build it out of the great white truths
Their death hath sanctified,
And the sculptured forms of the men in arms,
And their faces ere they died.
And what heroic figures
Can the sculptor carve in stone?
Can the marble breast be made to bleed,
And the marble lips to moan?
Can the marble brow be fevered ?
And the marble eyes be graved
To look their last, as the flag floats past,
On the country they have saved?
1 From " Green Fields and Running Brooks," 1892, Bobbs-
Merrill Co.
CELEBRATION 17
And the answer came: The figures
Shall all be fair and brave,
And, as befitting, as pure and white
As the stars above their grave !
The marble lips, and breast, and brow
Whereon the laurel lies,
Bequeath us right to guard the flight
Of the o|d flag in the skies !
A monument for the Soldiers!
Built of a people's love,
And blazoned and decked and panoplied
With the hearts ye build it of !
And see that ye build it stately,
In pillar and niche and gate,
And high in pose as the souls of those
It would commemorate !
DECORATION DAY1
BY RICHARD WATSON GILDER
She saw the bayonets flashing in the sun,
The flags that proudly waved; she heard the bugles
calling ;
She saw the tattered banners falling
About the broken staffs, as one by one
The remnant of the mighty army passed ;
1 By permission of the publishers, Houghton, MiiHin & Co.
i8 MEMORIAL DAY
And at the last
Flowers for the graves of those whose fight was done.
She heard the tramping of ten thousand feet
As the long line swept round the crowded square;
She heard the incessant hum
That filled the warm and blossom-scented air, —
The shrilling fife, the roll and throb of drum,
The happy laugh, the cheer, — Oh glorious and meet
To honor thus the dead,
Who chose the better part
And for their country bled !
— The dead ! Great God ! she stood there in the street,
Living, yet dead in soul and mind and heart —
While far away
His grave was decked with flowers by strangers' hands
to-day.
MEMORIAL DAY
BY LOUIS IMOGEN GUINEY
O Jay of roses and regret,
K ssing the old graves of our own!
Not to the slain love's lovely debt
Alone ;
But jealous hearts that live and ache
Remember, and while drums are mute,
Beneath your banners' bright outbreak,
Sal Jte :
CELEBRATION 19
And say for us to lessening ranks
That keep the memory and the pride,
On whose thinned hair our tears and thanks
Abide,
Who from their saved Republic pass,
Glad with the Prince of Peace to dwell:
Hail, dearest few ! and soon, alas,
Farewell.
II
SPIRIT AND SIGNIFICANCE
DECORATION DAY ADDRESS
BY JAMES A. GARFIELD
Extract from an Oration delivered at Arlington, Va.,
May 30, 1868
I am oppressed with a sense of the impropriety of
uttering words on this occasion. If silence is ever
golden, it must be here beside the graves of fifteen
thousand men, whose lives were more significant than
speech, and whose death was a poem, the music of
which can never be sung. With words we make prom-
ises, plight faith, praise virtue. Promises may not be
kept ; plighted faith may be broken ; and vaunted virtue
be only the cunning mask of vice. We do not know
one promise these men made, one pledge they gave,
one word they spoke ; but we do know they summed
up and perfected, by one supreme act, the highest vir-
tues of men and citizens. For love of country they ac-
cepted death, and thus resolved all doubts, and made
immortal their patriotism and their virtue. For the
noblest man that lives, there still remains a conflict.
He must still withstand the assaults of time and for-
tune, must still be assailed with temptations, before
which lofty natures have fallen; but with these the
conflict ended, the victory was won, when death
stamped on them the great seal of heroic char-
23
24 MEMORIAL DAY
acter, and closed a record which years can never blot.
I know of nothing more appropriate on this occa-
sion than to inquire what brought these men here;
what high motive led them to condense life into an
hour, and to crown that hour by joyfully welcoming
death? Let us consider.
Eight years ago this was the most unwarlike na-
tion of the earth. For nearly fifty years no spot in
any of these states had been the scene of battle.
Thirty millions of people had an army of less than
ten thousand men. The faith of our people in the
stability and permanence of their institutions was like
their faith in the eternal course of nature. Peace, lib-
erty, and personal security were blessings as common
and universal as sunshine and showers and fruitful
seasons ; and all sprang from a single source, the old
American principle that all owe due submission and
obedience to the lawfully expressed will of the major-
ity. This is not one of the doctrines of our political
system — it is the system itself. It is our political
firmament, in which all other truths are set, as stars
in Heaven. It is the encasing air, the breath of the
Nation's life. Against this principle the whole weight
of the rebellion was thrown. Its overthrow would
have brought such ruin as might follow in the phys-
ical universe, if the power of gravitation were de-
stroyed, and
" Nature's concord broke,
Among the constellations war were sprung,
Two planets, rushing from aspect malign
Of fiercest opposition, in mid-sky
Should combat, and their jarring spheres confound."
SPIRIT AND SIGNIFICANCE 25
The Nation was summoned to arms by every high
motive which can inspire men. Two centuries of
freedom had made its people unfit for despotism. They
must save their Government or miserably perish.
As a flash of lightning in a midnight tempest re-
veals the abysmal horrors of the sea, so did the flash
of the first gun disclose the awful abyss into which
rebellion was ready to plunge us. In a moment the
fire was lighted in twenty million hearts. In a mo-
ment we were the most warlike Nation on the earth.
In a moment we were not merely a people with an
army — we were a people in arms. The Nation was in
column — not all at the front, but all in the array.
I love to believe that no heroic sacrifice is ever lost ;
that the characters of men are molded and inspired
by what their fathers have done; that treasured up
in American souls are all the unconscious influences
of the great deeds of the Anglo-Saxon race, from
Agincourt to Bunker Hill. It was such an influence
that led a young Greek, two thousand years ago, when
musing on the battle of Marathon, to exclaim, ' the
trophies of Miltiades will not let me sleep ! ' Could
these men be silent in 1861 ; these, whose ancestors
had felt the inspiration of battle on every field where
civilization had fought in the last thousand years?
Read their answer in this green turf. Each for him-
self gathered up the cherished purposes of life — its
aims and ambitions, its dearest affections — and flung
all, with life itself, into the scale of battle.
And now consider this silent assembly of the dead.
What does it represent? Nay, rather, what does it
not represent? It is an epitome of the war. Here
26 MEMORIAL DAY
are sheaves reaped in the harvest of death, from every
battlefield of Virginia. If each grave had a voice
to tell us what its silent tenant last saw and heard on
earth, we might stand, with uncovered heads, and hear
the whole story of the war. We should hear that one
perished when the first great drops of the crimson
shower began to fall, when the darkness of that first
disaster at Manassas fell like an eclipse on the Na-
tion; that another died of disease while wearily wait-
ing for winter to end; that this one fell on the field,
in sight of the spires of Richmond, little dreaming
that the flag must be carried through three more years
of blood before it should be planted in that citadel of
treason; and that one fell when the tide of war had
swept us back till the roar of rebel guns shook the dome
of yonder Capitol, and re-echoed in the chambers of
the Executive Mansion. We should hear mingled
voices from the Rappahannock, the Rapidan, the
Chickahominy, and the James ; solemn voices from the
Wilderness, and triumphant shouts from the Shenan-
doah, from Petersburg, and the Five Forks, mingled
with the wild acclaim of victory and the sweet chorus
of returning peace. The voices of these dead will
forever fill the land like holy benedictions.
What other spot so fitting for their last resting place
as this, under the shadow of the Capitol saved by their
valor? Here, where the grim edge of battle joined;
here, where all the hope and fear and agony of their
country centered; here let them rest, asleep on the
Nation's heart, entombed in the Nation's love!
SPIRIT AND SIGNIFICANCE 27
MEMORIAL DAY
BY WALLACE BRUCE
I come with chaplet woven new
From May-day flowers, to fade away;
You come to-night, brave boys in blue,
With record bright, to last for aye.
Yet all I have I gladly bring
With heart and voice at your command ;
I only wish the words I sing,
Were worthier of your noble band —
A living wreath of lasting fame
To match your deeds that fill the world.
Ah, lyric vain ! each hero's name
Is on your banners' folds unfurled.
Those stars are there in setting blue,
Because you answered to the call.
We bring no eulogy on you;
You honor us — you won it all.
And what avails our word of praise
To you who stand as in a dream
On guard in rugged mountain ways,
In camp by many a sluggish stream ?
Among the clouds on Lookout Height,
With Hooker down in Tennessee;
Again the boys " mit Sigel fight,"
You march with Sherman to the sea.
28 MEMORIAL DAY
Port Hudson, Vicksburg, New Orleans,
Antietam, Shiloh, Malvern Hill —
A hundred fields, a thousand scenes
The moistened lens of memory fill.
On fields with Grant, whose grave is white
With flowers from many a distant State,
Through many a long and weary night
You learned with him to toil and wait.
And there with Hancock, soldier true,
At Gettysburg you held the line;
No nobler heart beneath the blue,
For him the nation's flowers entwine.
Brave captains, noble comrades, rest!
No bugle-note or war's alarms
Disturb your sleep on Nature's breast —
That silent camp of grounded arms.
Your ranks are thinner, boys, to-day,
Than just one little year ago;
On many a brow a touch of gray
Anticipates the winter's snow.
And fewer comrades, year by year,
Shall gather summer's kindly bloom,
And fewer brothers drop the tear
Upon the soldier's sacred tomb.
The twenty years have left their trace
Since you returned the homeward route;
Twice twenty more your ranks efface ;
The boys will all be mustered out,
SPIRIT AND SIGNIFICANCE 29
Who kept the faith and fought the fight;
The glory theirs, the duty ours ;
They earned the crown, the hero's right,
The victor's wreath — a crown of flowers.
MEMORIAL DAY MESSAGES
Let no vandalism of avarice or neglect, no ravages
of time, testify to the present or to the coming gen-
erations, that we have forgotten, as a people, the cost
of a free and undivided Republic.
General John A. Logan.
We honor our heroic and patriotic dead by being
true men, as true men by faithfully fighting the bat-
tles of our day as they fought the battles of their day.
David Gregg.
The supporters of religion gave their lives for a
principle. These martyrs of patriotism gave their
lives for an idea.
Schuyler Coljax.
As a basis for permanently satisfactory results of
the war, we should recognize the claims of justice and
equal rights to all classes and sections, a fair appor-
tionment of public burdens and benefits, with special
privileges and exemptions to none. Careful and prac-
tical teachings along this line will be a patriotic work.
Judge lames W . Lapsley.
30 MEMORIAL DAY
Memorial Day, in my opinion, is one of the most
significant and beautiful occasions of the year. It
shows the sentiment of the people toward those who
gave their lives for a good cause, and it teaches a les-
son in patriotism which is without a parallel. Me-
morial Day cannot be too tenderly revered by old and
young, by those who participated in one of the Na-
tion's great struggles, or by those who simply know
of it as history. Our common country each year is
paying a greater tribute of respect to the soldiers, liv-
ing and dead, and it is my hope that this rule may be
expanded still more in the years to come.
Anonymous.
ARE DEAD HEROES PRESENT?
ANONYMOUS
Why may not the men themselves, who died be-
neath their country's flag, be now among their homes
to which their last living thoughts were turned, and
here with us to-day? We do not know, but can we
not in hope believe, with a solid, substantial, reasonable
belief and hope, that our heroes now stand about us,
unseen and unheard, as we join to do honor to their
memories ? The naked human eye is not made to dis-
close the presence of the myriad forms that exist
about us, and the human ear is not attuned to note
solemn symphonies of the music of the spheres.
SPIRIT AND SIGNIFICANCE 31
TRIBUTE TO THE UNKNOWN
BY SENIOR VICE-COMMANDER BURRAGE
We pay the tribute of respect and reverence to the
gallant men who sacrificed their lives to the perpetu-
ation of the Union, and who now lie in common graves
marked u unknown.'* It was fitting at this season of
vernal bloom, when nature is joyful with life, that our
thoughts should turn to those who gave their lives, as
dear to them as ours to us, and that their memory
should be honored and reverenced.
ODE FOR MEMORIAL DAY *
BY PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
Done are the toils and the wearisome marches,
Done is the summons of bugle and drum.
Softly and sweetly the sky overarches,
Shelt'ring a land where Rebellion is dumb.
Dark were the days of the country's derangement,
Sad were the hours when the conflict was on,
But through the gloom of fraternal estrangement
God sent his light, and we welcome the dawn.
O'er the expanse of our mighty dominions,
Sweeping away to the uttermost parts,
Peace, the wide-flying, on untiring pinions,
Bringeth her message of joy to our hearts.
1 From " Lyrics of Lowly Life," by P. L. Dunbar. Dodd,
Mead & Co., 1898.
32 MEMORIAL DAY
Ah, but this joy which our minds cannot measure
What did it cost for our fathers to gain!
Bought at the price of the heart's dearest treasure,
Born out of travail and sorrow and pain;
Born in the battle where fleet Death was flying,
Slaying with saber-stroke bloody and fell;
Born where the heroes and martyrs were dying,
Torn by the fury of bullet and shell.
Ah, but the day is past: silent the rattle,
And the confusion that followed the fight.
Peace to the heroes who died in the battle,
Martyrs to truth and the crowning of Right!
Out of the blood of a conflict fraternal,
Out of the dust and the dimness of death,
Burst into blossoms of glory eternal
Flowers that sweeten the world with their breath.
Flowers of charity, peace, and devotion
Bloom in the hearts that are empty of strife;
Love that is boundless and broad as the ocean
Leaps into beauty and fullness of life.
So, with the singing of paeans and chorals,
And with the flag flashing high in the sun,
Place on the graves of our heroes the laurels
Which their unfaltering valor has won !
SPIRIT AND SIGNIFICANCE 33
THE MONUMENT'S MESSAGE
BY CHARLES ELMER ALLISON
In front of Manor Hall, Yonkers, N. Y., in which
city this '' Message ' was delivered, stands the
Soldiers' Monument
The polished granite in front of old Manor Hall,
combines strength and grace. " The quarry has blos-
somed into the air." Stone and bronze stand out un-
der the stars, defying the storms and the seasons.
Stable and beautiful they will stand, saluting the far
future, when ours is a buried generation, sleeping " the
iron sleep." A great English poet, whose pen is a
gilded scepter, says there are sermons in stones. The
granite lips of yonder Color-Bearer are mute, yet
they speak to the spirit's finer ear. All of those
memorial stones, from pedestal to carved capital and
surmounting standard, have a voice. We bring you
the Monument's Message.
The costly column is reared on American Soil, and
America is the garden of the Lord — great in extent
and resources, great in history, great in destiny. Im-
perial Rome " policed the world." Her empire ex-
tended 3,000 miles in one direction, and 2,000 in an-
other. As to extent of territory, this Nation is a
modern Rome.
" What shall we say of a Republic of eighteen states,
each as large as Spain, or one of thirty states, each as
large as Italy, or one of sixty states, each as large as
34 MEMORIAL DAY
England and Wales? Take five of the six first-class
Powers of Europe, Great Britain and Ireland, France,
Germany, Austria, and Italy; then add Spain, Por-
tugal, Switzerland, Denmark, and Greece. Let some
greater than Napoleon weld them into one mighty em-
pire, and you could lay it all down west of the Hud-
son River once and again and again — three times."
Of the states and territories west of the Mississippi,
only three are as small as all New England. Idaho,
if laid down in the East, would touch Toronto, Can-
ada, on the north, Raleigh, N. C, on the south, while
its southern boundary line is long enough to stretch
from Washington City to Columbus, Ohio. The great-
est measurement of Texas is nearly equal to the
distance from New Orleans to Chicago, or from Chi-
cago to Boston.
Of the resources of the country the half has not
been told. We have hundreds of thousands more
square miles of arable land than China, and China
supports a population of 360,000,000. Transfer all
of the people of the United States to the one State of
Texas, and the population thus concentrated would not
be much denser, if any, than the population of Ger-
many to-day. Who shall estimate aright the value of
American fields and forests, mines and mountains,
lakes and rivers — nature's highways — orchards and
gardens, flocks and herds, and her broad prairie with
their miles and miles of waving harvests undulating
like ocean billows?
Providence hid this fair land from the old world
for many centuries. It was to be " the cradle of an
illustrious history." True, the mound builders were
SPIRIT AND SIGNIFICANCE 35
here, but they left mounds, not molding influences.
The Indians were here ; they left only arrow-heads and
musical names for our lakes, rivers, and mountains.
The Northmen came about the year 1,000; they left
only a foot-print. The tide of European emigration
was not permitted to follow the Northmen. Well it
was for humanity that the Divine Hand kept that tide
back, for then was the midnight of the dark ages.
" Sometimes the bells in the church steeples were not
heard, for the sound of trumpets and drums." Co-
lumbus embarked in 1492, but his ships carried Spanish
influences. The great navigators followed the birds
of the air in their flight. The God of Nations made
those birds pilots to guide Spanish ships away from
these shores. Spain gave form to Mexico and South
America.
God works with two hands. While He was hiding
this rich land, He was shaping the men who should
shape its institutions. Before He gave America to the
world, He gave the translated Bible and the printing
press to Europe; English, Scotch, Scotch-Irish, Dutch,
French, and other illustrious emigrants of like type
were the " Creators of Moral America." They were
seventeenth century men. Into that superb century
were providentially poured the influences of previous
centuries. For hundreds of years Europe was at
school, learning statecraft and religion. By the
translation of the Bible, " the lowly English roof was
lifted to take in heights beyond the stars." It was
from underneath that roof the Pilgrim Fathers came
to Plymouth Rock. The Indian's salutation was, not
" Welcome, Spaniard," but " Welcome, Englishman,"
36 MEMORIAL DAY
which, being interpreted, signified, although the dusky
savage did not understand it, " Welcome, the open
Bible and love of equal rights." Yes, the Monument
is reared on American soil, and America, vast in ex-
tent, rich in resources and possibilities, was provi-
dentially reserved for freemen and freedom's temple.
Firm upon its granite pedestal stands yonder shapely
shaft. For us it shall symbolize, by its graceful
strength, the American Republic, stable and healthful
among the nations of the earth. That group of war-
riors in bronze represent no holiday soldiers. They
stand for heroes in flesh and blood — for stern vet-
erans whose fortitude and valor protected the Com-
monwealth. They recall those years when a shot fired
at the old flag aroused the anger of a great people.
Who can describe those historic years?
The heavens were suddenly black. Fierce eagles of
war flew across the lurid clouds. The awful storm
rolled thunders along the sky. Reverberating, they
shook the Atlantic coast and the banks of the Mis-
sissippi. They crashed over Antietam, Vicksburg, and
Gettysburg. Forked lightnings played among the
clouds around Lookout Mountain. Fire ran along upon
the ground in Tennessee, and in Virginia swamps
and rivers were turned to blood. It was the Nation's
midnight. The death angel was abroad with un-
sheathed sword. There was a great cry in the land,
for there was not a house among half a million where
there was not one dead. Four years the storm raged.
The iron hail rattled incessantly, prostrating armed
men, and crushing woman's tender heart. It was a
deluge of blood. Then muttering thunders ceased;
SPIRIT AND SIGNIFICANCE 37
the clouds broke away, and out of the blue sky a dove
came, and lo! in her mouth was an olive leaf. More
than a quarter of a century has passed. Peace still
abides. ' Over the cannon's mouth the spider weaves
his web." But while mighty people are busied with
great enterprises, they do not forget — cannot forget —
the brave men who purchased peace by their valor
and blood.
We recall with gratitude profound and peculiarly
tender, the private soldier and sailor. Men praise
the brave commanders, and they do well; but what
could generals have accomplished without the heroes
in the ranks? With swift zeal the rank and file — a
great host — sprang to arms. They gathered from near
and far. : The earth trembled under their tread like
a floor beaten with flails." " All the avenues of our
great cities ran with rivers of burnished steel." We
can hear again their measured tramp, tramp, tramp,
and their lusty song, " We are coming, Father Abra-
ham, three hundred thousand more." Hark! Vet-
erans, hear ye not again your comrades singing around
the flickering fires which lighted up their noble faces,
" We are tenting to-night on the old camp-ground."
Listen ! Hear again the battle hymn of the Republic,
how it echoes down the corridors of the years, and will
echo until time is no more :
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call
retreat ;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment
seat.
Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet:
Our God is marching on.
38 MEMORIAL DAY
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me;
As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on.
When the war began thousands of young men, the
flower of American youth, were looking out of col-
lege halls upon a future bright with professional hon-
ors. They flung books aside and seized rifles. They
became " History's Graduates." Hundreds of thou-
sands of young Americans were anticipating a future
replete with the profits and emoluments which reward
business genius and integrity. Straightway they aban-
doned cherished life plans in order to defend free insti-
tutions.
Did the officer love his home? With an equal ten-
derness the private soldier loved his. He knew, should
a bullet prostrate him, it would shatter the strong
staff upon which the aged father had hoped to lean in
his declining years. It gave him a heart-break to see
his mother's pale face and quivering lip as he kissed
her good-by, holding in one arm his rifle, and with
the other tenderly embracing her trembling form.
There were ' ' tears in his voice ' when he said fare-
well, perhaps a final farewell, to the fair friend with
whom he had hoped to stand at the marriage altar.
Thousands of husbands and fathers realized that their
enlistment might leave wives widowed, and little chil-
dren fatherless. When the private soldier rushed into
the battle's fire and smoke, he knew that, after vic-
tories were won, the names of officers would be her-
alded over the land ; but should he fall, the type would
print after his name only one word — " missing," or
SPIRIT AND SIGNIFICANCE 39
" wounded," or ' dead." And when that one dread
word should be read in the distant Northern home,
loved faces would '' grow white instantly, as if
sprinkled with the dust of ashes by an unseen hand."
Yet for the old banner the soldier made the sacrifice.
As a lonely vidette he kept faithful watch in the dark,
ness, while death lurked near, " with foot of velvet
and hand of steel." He helped drag heavy cannon
through deep mud; he trudged weary miles on forced
marches, and endeavored to sleep, when hungry and
cold, on the wet ground. Or he tossed on a hospital
cot with a " band of pain around his brow." And
now, we twine a laurel wreath for that brow. Thou-
sands of those brave men fell, not knowing what would
be the result of the conflict. Other thousands were
permitted to return and enjoy for a period the bless-
ings they purchased for their countrymen. Then they,
too, fell by the wayside, weary with the march of life.
They fought for freedom, not for fame, yet honor
claims them as her own :
" On Fame's eternal camping ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And glory guards with solemn round
The bivouac of the dead."
Who can estimate the value of their splendid
services? The Union Army demonstrated the stabil-
ity of representative government. In the estimation
of Europe the American Republic was an experiment.
Would it go to pieces by the earthquake shock of civil
war? Jealous kings said "Yes," but when the red
lips of Grant's cannon thundered " No ! " thrones
40 MEMORIAL DAY
trembled. Should a government of and for and by
the people perish from the earth?
The army demonstrated the solidity of the Nation's
credit. At one period the war expenses aggregated
$2,000,000 a day, but victories inspired confidence, and
many of the soldiers poured their own silver and gold
into the coffers of the Nation to sustain the govern-
ment.
Soldiers of the Union, what shall a grateful people
render you in return for your priceless services?
Surely the government should care for the aged and
the crippled veteran. A wealthy nation should not
permit a soldier's deserving widow or orphan to suf-
fer want. But we are confident that your sentiments
are voiced by this declaration. The return for their
services which veterans desire is a determination on
the part of their fellow-citizens to protect faithfully
the free institutions the Grand Army fought to pre-
serve.
Underneath yonder polished pillar is a granite die
inscribed with patriotic sentences. For us that let-
tered die shall symbolize popular education, which sus-
tains the Republic. Books are better than bayonets.
Giant truths are mightier than giant powder. The
strongest fortresses are school-houses. The mightiest
standing army in the world is the great host of Amer-
ican school-children. The seal of the Board of Edu-
cation in this city is a pictured pen lying across a
broken sword. The pen is mightier than the sword.
The pens of Adams, Jefferson, Franklin, and Hamil-
ton broke the sword of tyranny in 1776. The pens of
Webster, Sumner, Phillips, Garrison, Beecher, Seward,
SPIRIT AND SIGNIFICANCE 41
and Lincoln broke the swords of secession and slavery.
The men in bronze find firm footing on yonder let-
tered block of granite. They carry thinking weapons.
No man " scoops out the brains ' of the American
civilian or soldier. He has the Bible, and thinks for
himself. He has the ballot, and governs himself. The
only scepter to which he bows is the scepter of truth.
This is a nation of readers — a nation of sovereigns.
( We live under a government of men and morning
newspapers. The talk of the sidewalk to-day is the
law of the land to-morrow." Who shapes public
thought is the uncrowned king. His pen is his scepter.
Public schools and newspapers are the people's uni-
versity. When Louis Napoleon was in this country he
expressed surprise because he saw a farmer reading a
newspaper. Germany has about 5,500 newspapers,
Great Britain about 5,000. France about 2,000, Italy
about 1,400, Asia — exclusive of Japan — about 850,
Russia about 800, and the United States more than
15,000. The enemy of the American public school
system is the enemy of the Commonwealth. If you
would realize how unstable governments are without
public schools, read the history of Mexico and of
South America. Taught by costly experience, they
have now introduced public education.
Thousands of the youth in our public schools come
from homes where they learn little or nothing about the
history and the spirit of American institutions. Let
the public schools teach them that history, and inspire
them with that spirit. Teach the public school youth,
that it is a high honor to be able to say, ' I am an
American citizen." Let them hear the shot which the
42 MEMORIAL DAY
embattled farmers fired at Lexington — " the shot that
was heard around the world." Let them catch the
peals of the old Liberty bell and the spirit of Inde-
pendence Day. Let them hear the nightwatchman in
Philadelphia calling out: '' Ten o'clock and Cornwallis
taken." Let them hear Washington's soldiers singing
on the banks of the Hudson : * No King but God."
Let them hear again and again the shining story of the
valor and the victories of the men who, uniformed in
Heaven's livery, fought with Hooker, Hancock, Mead,
Thomas, Foote, Farragut, Kilpatrick, with the chival-
rous Kitching, and Fremont, the free-hearted. Teach
them that when they arrive at manhood's estate, they
should never absent themselves from the polls, pre-
ferring private gain to the welfare of city, state, or
nation. Let them always vote — and vote for principle.
Underneath yonder carved die are four massive
granite blocks, a solid base, on which the stable struc-
ture rests, as the American Republic rests secure upon
the solid foundations of a true Christianity. Palsied
be the vandal hands which would attempt to remove
those tons of granite, and substitute as a base rotten
timber. Palsied be the hands which would attempt
to remove the Bible, the Sabbath, the Church, and the
Christian home, and substitute, as a foundation for
our Republic, infidelity, anarchy, and the rotten saloon !
Gladstone, the illustrious Englishman, said to an
eminent American : " Talk about questions of the day,
there is but one question, and that is the Gospel. It
can and will correct everything needing correction.
All men at the head of great movements are Christian
men. During the many years I was in the Cabinet I
SPIRIT AND SIGNIFICANCE 43
was brought into association with sixty master minds,
and all but five of them were Christians. My only
hope for the world is the bringing the human mind into
contact with Divine revelation." This emphasizes the
teachings of American patriots. Above all the
clamor of Castle Garden statesmen we hear the calm
voices of the fathers and preservers of the Republic.
One of these patriotic fathers, who was a member of
the convention assembled to draft the Constitution of
the United States, when moving that the proceedings
be opened with prayer, addressed the President in
these memorable words : " I have lived, sir, a long time,
and the longer I live the more convincing proofs I see
of the truth that God governs in the affairs of men;
and if a sparrow cannot fall to the ground without His
notice, is it probable that an empire can rise without
His aid?"
To a trusted friend who visited him during the dark
days of the Civil War, President Lincoln said, with
emotion : "I do not doubt, I never doubted for a mo-
ment, that our country would finally come through
safe and undivided. But do not misunderstand me.
I do not know how it can be. I do not rely on the
patriotism of our people, though no people have rallied
around their king as ours have rallied around me. I
do not trust in the bravery and devotion of the boys
in blue. God bless them! God never gave a prince
or a conqueror such an army as He has given me.
Nor yet do I rely on the loyalty and skill of our gen-
erals, though I believe we have the best generals in
the world at the head of our armies. But the God of
our fathers, who raised up this country to be a refuge
44 MEMORIAL DAY
and the asylum of the oppressed and down-trodden of
all nations, will not let it perish now. I may not live
to see it," — and he added, after a pause — " I do not
expect to see it, but God will bring us through safe."
What a noble company of our youthful citizens is
assembled here on this broad platform. That in com-
ing years, as they pass and repass the Monument,
they may be reminded of the truths here spoken,
permit me to address them a few words. Young
Americans, when you have reached mature years, and
our lips are dust, the children of the future will look
at yonder graceful granite, and will ask, " What mean
these stones ? ' You will tell them how you saw with
your own eyes the soldiers of the Union represented
by those stern bronze warriors. You will speak of
successive Memorial Days, when you saw veteran sol-
diers embroider with fragrant flowers the mounds
made sacred by the dust of their comrades. You will
not forget to strew flowers upon their graves. You
will interpret for the future generations the message
of those voiceful stones.
That you may the more distinctly remember their
message, we would have you see on the gray granite
four shining gold letters. On the solid base, which
symbolizes the foundation of our Republic, a true
Christianity, we would have you see the letter F,
standing for Faith in God. On the lettered die, which
symbolizes a solid education, we would have you see
the letter L, standing for Learning. As the polished
shaft, by its massive strength and grace, symbolizes the
Republic, stable and beautiful among the nations, we
would have you see affixed to it the letter A, standing
SPIRIT AND SIGNIFICANCE 45
for America. And as our flag is always associated
with renown, we would have you see on that granite
standard the gold letter G, reflecting the rays of the
morning, and standing for Glory. Remember to tell
the children of the future that those memorial stones
symbolize Faith, Learning, America, and Glory. It
will not be difficult for you to remember this message,
and to bear it to the future, because those initial gold
letters spell the word FLAG.
Soldiers of the Union, I have now discharged the
duty you assigned me. We bring you gratitude, and
congratulations — gratitude for arduous and illustrious
services ; congratulations that a kind Providence merci-
fully spared your lives for some good purpose. A
thousand fell at your side, and ten thousand at your
right hand, but He covered you with His feathers.
Through the iron hailstones He brought you safe to
greet your loved ones, to receive the plaudits of your
fellow-citizens, and to enjoy the prosperity of the
Commonwealth. Each of your wears the honored
title, ' A Soldier of the Union." Soon you will be
gathered to your fathers. Yonder memorial will per-
petuate your honor.
Surely we voice your sentiments when we proclaim
that the granite Standard-Bearer represents no citizen
who defends organized wrong. He represents neither
infidel nor anarchist. Nor does he stand for the
citizen who fails to distinguish between license to
do wrong, and liberty to do right — the only true lib-
erty. He does not represent the citizen who with one
hand holds up the flag, and with the other hand tears
its pure folds to tatters by defending a traffic which
46 MEMORIAL DAY
shatters the hearth-stone, smites the smile from the
happy face of a sweet child, and murders the soul
for which the Son of God shed His blood. But yon-
der Standard-Bearer does represent, in his massive
strength, the loyal American who stands firm for the
Bible, the Sabbath, the Church, the Home ; for Solid
Learning, for Union and Freedom, for the Main-
tenance of Private and Public Credit, and for Peace on
Earth. His sword symbolizes the freeman's weapons
— the pen, the pure ballot, and the keen Damascus
blade.
So long as the bed-rock principles of the fathers are
maintained, the Republic itself will continue to stand, a
monument to freedom, stable and beautiful, and seen
by the whole world. Because he realizes this, the
American citizen, while holding his Nation's ensign
in defense of it, and of the granite principles of which
it is the glorious symbol, lays his good right hand
upon the hilt of his sword.
This, sir, as we interpret it, is the Monument's Mes-
sage.
COMRADES KNOWN IN MARCHES MANY
BY CHARLES G. HALPINE
Comrades known in marches many,
Comrades tried in dangers many,
Comrades bound by memories many,
Brothers ever let us be.
SPIRIT AND SIGNIFICANCE 47
Wounds or sickness may divide us,
Marching orders may divide us,
But whatever fate betide us,
Brothers of the heart are we.
Comrades known by faith the clearest,
Tried when death was near and nearest.
Bound we are by ties the dearest,
Brothers evermore to be.
And, if spared, and growing older,
Shoulder still in line with shoulder,
And with hearts no thrill the colder,
Brothers ever we shall be.
By communion of the banner, —
Crimson, white, and starry banner, — •
By the baptism of the banner,
Children of one Church are we.
Creed nor faction can divide us,
Race nor language can divide us ;
Still, whatever fate betide us,
Children of the Flag are we.
THE LEGACY OF CONFLICT
BY THEODORE ROOSEVELT
The captains and the armies who, after long years
of dreary campaigning and bloody, stubborn righting,
brought to a close the Civil War, have left us even
48 MEMORIAL DAY
more than a reunited realm. The material effect of
what they did is shown in the fact that the same flag
flies from the Great Lakes to the Rio Grande, and all
the people of the United States are richer because they
are one people and not many, because they belong to
one great nation, and not to a contemptible knot of
struggling nationalities.
But besides this, besides the material results of the
Civil War, we are all, North and South, incalculably
richer for its memories. We are the richer for each
grim campaign, for each hard-fought battle. We are
the richer for valor displayed alike by those who
fought so valiantly for the right, and by those who, no
less valiantly, fought for what they deemed the right.
We have in us nobler capacities for what is great and
good because of the infinite woe and suffering, and be-
cause of the splendid ultimate triumph.
DECORATION DAY
BY E. P. THWING
"Wave the flag once more before my eyes!" said
a dying color-bearer as he found himself sinking into
the last sleep. " The dear old flag never touched the
ground," said another soldier sinking on the ramparts
of Wagner. To them the starry folds of the bunting
they bore were an emblem of an undivided country, a
symbol of glory and honor dearer to them than life it-
self. Such is the inspiring influence of intelligent,
SPIRIT AND SIGNIFICANCE 49
heroic loyalty. It is far nobler than mere physical
hardihood, purer than the selfish sentiment of personal
friendship, and therefore a more enduring and trans-
forming power. Keep, then, the flag of the nation
waving before our eyes; in other words, make con-
spicuous the principles of which it is the emblazonry,
fealty to truth, to honor, to liberty and law. Let par-
tisan zeal and mere personal aggrandizement be forgot-
ten in the pursuit of the highest aims. Let the spirit
of Abraham Lincoln be ours, who, in 1858 — standing
at Alton, where Love joy had fallen a martyr to free-
dom— said, " Think nothing of me ; take no thought
for the political fate of any man whatsoever, but come
back to the truths that are in the Declaration of Inde-
pendence. You may do anything with me you choose,
if you will but heed these sacred principles. You may
not only defeat me for the Senate, but you may take
me and put me to death! I am nothing. Judge Doug-
las is nothing; but do not destroy that immortal em-
blem of humanity — the Declaration of Independence."
It is with prophetic ken when, at Philadelphia, he re-
asserts his fealty to this same supreme law: "If this
country cannot be saved without giving up that prin-
ciple, I was about to say I would be assassinated on the
spot!' Then he repeated again his calm, serious, in-
telligent consecration to the cause of Liberty and
Union in these closing words : ' I have said nothing
but what I am willing to live by, and, if it be the
pleasure of the Almighty God, to die by!'
That was heroism, lofty, sublime, godlike heroism.
It was grander far than the heroism of the battlefield,
where mere brutal courage plays an important part;
50 MEMORIAL DAY
where revenge is sometimes fired by pain and sight of
blood; where there is the wild enthusiasm of numbers
massed under the lead of magnetic men; where there
are thrilling battle-songs poured forth from bearded
lips, joined with clang of cymbals, blare of trumpets,
beat of drum ; and where, amid booming cannon, ring-
ing saber, and rattling shell, the soldier forgets fatigue,
pain, even life itself, in the delirium of the hour. This
defiance of death is heroic; this valor, audacity, and
gallantry, worthy of praise; but it ranks lower than
this serene quietude of soul that is born of humble,
holy faith, which sustains one without these added sup-
ports.
Our hero-dead are lying in a thousand burial-places
from Maine to Louisiana. Peace reigns. But is there
not still an unended contest of ideas? Are not the
great tutelar forces of a Christian civilization in
earnest conflict with hostile influences ? Have we been
wholly victorious over partisan hatred, the prejudice
of caste, of color, and of clan? Can any party show
a wholly clean record? Its leaders a purely disinter-
ested and patriotic purpose? Are there no ominous
tendencies at work in the rapid growth of our material
wealth and in the importation of alien and destructive
elements ?
We have scattered our floral tributes to-day over
the graves of the patriotic dead. These frail me-
mentos of affection will soon wither, but let not the
memory of these martyrs fail to inspire in us a
purer, holier life! The roll-call brings to mind their
faces and their deeds. They were faithful to the end.
The weary march, the bivouac, the battle are still re-
SPIRIT AND SIGNIFICANCE 51
membered by the survivors. But your line, comrades,
is growing slenderer every year. One by one you will
drop out of the ranks, and other hands may ere long
strew your grave with flowers as you have done to-day
in yonder cemetery. When mustered in the last grand
review, with all the veterans and heroes of earth, may
each receive with jubilant heart the Great Com-
mander's admiring tribute "Well done!" and become
with Him partaker of a felicity that is enduring and
triumphant !
ODE FOR DECORATION DAY
BY THEODORE P. COOK
They sleep so calm and stately,
Each in his graveyard bed,
It scarcely seems that lately
They trod the fields blood-red,
With fearless tread.
They marched and never halted,
They scaled the parapet,
The triple lines assaulted,
And paid without regret
The final debt.
The debt of slow accruing
A guilty nation made,
The debt of evil-doing,
Of justice long delayed, —
'Twas this they paid.
52 MEMORIAL DAY
On fields where Strife held riot,
And Slaughter fed his hounds,
Where came no sense of quiet,
Nor any gentle sounds,
They made their rounds.
They wrought without repining,
Till, weary watches o'er,
They passed the bounds confining
Our green, familiar shore,
Forevermore.
And now they sleep so stately,
Each in his graveyard bed,
So calmly and sedately
They rest, that once I said :
" These men are dead.
( They know not what sweet duty
We come each year to pay,
Nor heed the blooms of beauty,
The garland gifts of May,
Strewn here to-day.
" The night-time and the day-time.
The rise and set of sun,
The winter and the May-time,
To them whose work is done,
Are all as one."
Then o'er mine eyes there floated
A vision of the Land
SPIRIT AND SIGNIFICANCE 53
Where their brave souls, promoted
To heaven's own armies, stand
At God's right hand.
From out the mighty distance
I seemed to see them gaze
Back on their old existence,
Back on the battle-blaze
Of war's dread days.
" The flowers shall fade and perish,"
In larger faith spake I,
' But these dear names we cherish
Are written in the sky,
And cannot die."
THE NATION'S DEAD
BY HENRY WATTERSON
From an Address delivered at the National Cemetery,
Nashville, Tenn., Decoration Day, 1877
We are assembled, my countrymen, to commemorate
the patriotism and valor of the brave men who died
to save the Union. The season brings its tribute to
the scene ; pays its homage to the dead ; inspires the
living. There are images of tranquillity all about us ;
in the calm sunshine upon the ridges ; in the tender
shadows that creep along the streams; in the waving
$4 MEMORIAL DAY
grass and grain that mark God's love and bounty; in
the flowers that bloom over the many many graves.
There is peace everywhere in this land to-day.
" Peace on the open seas,
In all our sheltered bays and ample streams,
Peace where'er our starry banner gleams,
And peace in every breeze."
The war is over. It is for us to bury its passions
with its dead ; to bury them beneath a monument raised
by the American people to American manhood and the
American system, in order that " the nation shall, un-
der God, have a new birth of freedom, and that the
government of the people, by the people, and for the
people, shall not perish from the earth."
The Union is indeed restored, when the hands that
pulled that flag down come willingly and lovingly to
put it up again. I come with a full heart and a steady
hand to salute the flag that floats above me — my flag
and your flag — the flag of the Union — the flag of the
free heart's hope and home — the star-spangled banner
of our fathers — the flag that, uplifted triumphantly
over a few brave men, has never been obscured,
destined by the God of the universe to waft on its
ample folds the eternal song of freedom to all man-
kind, emblem of the power on earth which is to ex-
ceed that on which it was said the sun never went
down.
The hundred of thousands who fell on both sides
did not die in vain. The power, the divine power,
which made for us a garden of swords, sowing the land
broadcast with sorrow, will reap thence for us, and
SPIRIT AND SIGNIFICANCE 55
for the ages, a nation truly divine; a nation of free-
dom and of free men ; where tolerance shall walk hand
in hand with religion, while civilization points out to
patriotism the many open highways to human right
and glory.
THE GRAVES OF OUR DEAD
BY ROBERT G. INGERSOLL
As we cover the graves of the heroic dead with
flowers, the past rises before us like a dream. Again
we are in the great struggle. We hear the sounds of
preparation — the music of the boisterous drums —
the silver voices of heroic bugles. We hear the ap-
peals of orators ; we see the pale cheeks of women,
and the flushed faces of men ; we see all the dead
whose dust we have covered with flowers. We
lose sight of them no more. We are with them when
they enlist in the great army of freedom. We see
them apart from those they love.
We see them as they march proudly away, under
the flaunting flags, keeping time to the wild music of
war — marching down the streets of the great cities,
through the towns, and across the prairies, to do and
to die for the eternal right. We go with them, one
and all. We are by their side on all the gory fields,
in all the hospitals of pain, on all the weary marches.
We stand guard with them in the wild storm and un-
der the quiet stars. We see them pierced with balls
and torn with shells, in the trenches by the forts, and
56 MEMORIAL DAY
in the whirlwind of the charge, where men become
iron with nerves of steel. We are at home when the
news reaches us that they are dead. We see the
maiden in the shadow of her first sorrow. We see the
silvered head of the old man bowed with the last
grief.
Those heroes are dead. They sleep under the sol-
emn pines, the sad hemlocks, the tearful willows, and
the embracing vines. They sleep beneath the shadows
of the clouds, careless alike of sunshine or of storm,
each in the windowless place of rest. Earth may run
red with other wars — they are at peace. In the midst
of battle, in the roar of the conflict, they found the
serenity of death. I have one sentiment for the sol-
diers, living and dead — cheers for the living, tears for
the dead.
' BELLIGERENT NON-COMBATANTS '
BY WILLIAM TECUMSEH SHERMAN
From Decoration Day Address, New York, May
30, 1878
It is related of General Scott that when asked, in
1861, the probable length of the then Civil War, he
answered, ' l The conflict of arms will last five years ;
but will be followed by twenty years of angry strife,
by the ' belligerent non-combatants.'
Wars are usually made by civilians, bold and de-
fiant in the forum; but when the storm comes, they
SPIRIT AND SIGNIFICANCE 57
go below, and leave their innocent comrades to catch
the " peltings of the pitiless storm." Of the half-
million of brave fellows whose graves have this day
been strewn with flowers, not one in a thousand had
the remotest connection with the causes of the war
which led to their untimely death. I now hope and
beg that all good men, North and South, will unite in
real earnest to repair the mistakes and wrongs of the
past ; will persevere in the common effort to make this
great land of ours to blossom as the garden of Eden!
I invoke all to heed well the lessons of this " Decora-
tion Day," to weave each year a fresh garland for the
grave of some beloved comrade or hero, and to rebuke
any and all who talk of civil war, save as the " last
dread tribunal of kings and peoples."
DECORATION DAY1
BY THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH
From Ponkapog Papers
How quickly Nature takes possession of a deserted
battlefield and goes to work repairing the ravages of
man! With invisible magic hand she smooths the
rough earthworks, fills the riflepits with delicate
flowers, and wraps the splintered tree-trunks with her
fluent drapery of tendrils. Soon the whole sharp out-
line of the spot is lost in unremembering grass. Where
1 By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
58 MEMORIAL DAY
the deadly rifle-ball whistled through the foliage, the
robin or the thrush pipes its tremulous note; and
where the menacing shell described its curve through
the air, a harmless crow flies in circles. Season after
season the gentle work goes on, healing the wounds
and rents made by the merciless enginery of war, un-
til at last the once hotly contested battle-ground differs
from none of its quiet surroundings, except, perhaps,
that here the flowers take a richer tint and the grasses
a deeper emerald.
It is thus the battle lines may be obliterated by Time,
but there are left other and more lasting relics of the
struggle. That dinted army saber, with a bit of
faded crepe knotted at its hilt, which hangs over the
mantelpiece of the " best room " of many a town and
country house in these States, is one; and the graven
headstone of the fallen hero is another. The old
swords will be treasured and handed down from gen-
eration to generation as priceless heirlooms, and with
them, let us trust, will be cherished the custom of
dressing with annual flowers the resting-place of those
who fell during the Civil War.
" With the tears a land hath shed
Their graves should ever be green.
"Ever their fair, true glory
Fondly should fame rehearse,—
Light of legend and story,
Flower of marble and verse."
The impulse which led us to set apart a day for dec-
orating the graves of our soldiers sprang from the
SPIRIT AND SIGNIFICANCE 59
grieved heart of the Nation, and in our time there
is little chance of the rite being neglected. But the
generations that come after us should not allow the
observance to fall into disuse. What with us is an
expression of fresh love and sorrow should be with
them an acknowledgment of an incalculable debt.
Decoration Day is the most beautiful of our na-
tional holidays. How different from those sullen bat-
teries which used to go rumbling through our streets
are the crowds of light carriages, laden with flowers
and greenery, wending their way to the neighboring
cemeteries ! The grim cannon have turned into palm
branches, and the shell and shrapnel into peach blooms.
There is no hint of war in these gay baggage trains,
except the presence of men in undress uniforms, and
perhaps here and there an empty sleeve to remind
one of what has been. Year by year that empty sleeve
is less in evidence.
The observance of Decoration Day is unmarked by
that disorder and confusion common enough with our
people in their holiday moods. The earlier sorrow
has faded out of the hour, leaving a softened solem-
nity. It quickly ceased to be simply a local commemora-
tion. While the sequestered country churchyards and
burial-places near our great Northern cities were being
hung with May garlands, the thought could not but
come to us that there were graves lying southward
above which bent a grief as tender and sacred as our
own. Invisibly we dropped unseen flowers upon these
mounds. There is a beautiful significance in the fact
that, two years after the close of the war, the women
of Columbus, Mississippi, laid their offerings alike on
60 MEMORIAL DAY
Northern and Southern graves. When all is said, the
great Nation has but one heart.
DECORATION DAY ADDRESS
ANONYMOUS
Blessed are the dead whose memory is perpetuated
by the flower service of a grateful people. How
truly immortal are those who give their lives for lib-
erty. To have lived long, purposeless, neutral years,
is nothing — to have lived a few glorious hours, to have
bravely faced the infinite, to have calmly met the
Master in humanity's cause, is sublime. Why mourn
these dead of ours? They sleep in the bosom of the
land they loved. Here where the ground once shook
beneath the tramp of contending hosts they are at
rest. The sentinels no longer patrol the banks of the
Potomac. Grant and Lee both lived to attest the
goodness of a God who preserved the Union. And
over the river, on the beauteous dome of the nation's
Capitol, serenely uplifted toward the ethereal blue,
kissed by the sun of day, wooed by the stars of night,
tranquilly floats the unconquered flag of the greatest
nation of the earth.
Why mourn for those who slumber here? Their
epitaphs are written in the grandest history of the
ages. Before them will reverently pass the procession
of the centuries. And every headstone roundabout,
even those without a name, will be given honor-
SPIRIT AND SIGNIFICANCE 6r
able place in the mighty monument that is to com-
memorate the ennobling and uplifting of the human
race.
It is a day of memories, a day when we meet in the
hallowed past and hold communion with our holy
dead. A day when we recall the glorious aspirations
which thrilled men's souls in that heroic time, when
to love one's country was to lay down one's life; a day
filled with that same spirit of freedom, patriotism,
and devotion which breathed into the common dust of
ordinary humanity the sublime inspiration of heroic
deeds; a day when we rekindle the fires of patriotism
on the altar of our liberties and once again renew the
loyal vows that these our noble dead in the years gone
by consecrated with their hearts' blood.
Glorious are the dead who die for liberty. Blessed
are they whose blood is shed for the welfare of their
fellowmen. The great conflict in which our dead
fought was, in the beginning, a contest between men,
between sections. It was the Union against the con-
federacy. But it is evident that over and above the
purposes of men was God's purpose. He would not
permit the government of the United States to remain
under a Constitution that sanctioned human slavery.
He would not give victory to the Union arms until
with it would come liberty to a race in chains. The
careful student of the war of the rebellion has no dif-
ficulty in seeing that up to the time of the emancipa-
tion proclamation the doubtful tide of battle set most
strongly against the Union shore. Disaster had fol-
lowed disaster until Lincoln himself almost despaired
of ultimate victory; until it seemed as if the exulting
62 MEMORIAL DAY
Southern hosts were about to make good their boast of
proclaiming the confederate government from the
steps of the nation's Capitol. But from the hour of
emancipation, from the hour in which the cause of the
Union became the cause of liberty, from the hour in
which the flag of the republic became the flag of
humanity, from the hour in which its stars and stripes
no longer floated over a slave; yea, from the sacred
hour of the nation's new birth that dear old banner
never faded from the sky, and the brave boys who
bore it never wavered in their onward march to vic-
tory. With the single exception of Chancellorsville,
and that stubborn doubtful day at Chickamauga, no
decisive field of battle was ever lost by the men who
sang with redoubled enthusiasm " John Brown's body
lies moldering in the grave, but his soul goes march-
ing on." Gettysburg at the east, Vicksburg at the
west, ratified the President's action and woke the
morning of our national holiday with a grand jubilee
of joy. From Chattanooga to Appomattox, from At-
lanta to the sea, the hearts of the war-worn, battle-
scarred veterans took new courage; all along the line
they touched elbows with a steadier purpose, saw in
each other's eyes a holier fire, joined with a new in-
spiration in that glorious anthem, ' Mine eyes have
seen the glory of the coming of the Lord."
I believe our service should be a love service of
prayer and praise and song, that out of the heroic
memories of the past we should draw new inspirations
of patriotism and find new ardor for the preservation
of the free institutions which came to us through the
baptism of fire and blood. But, for the first time in
SPIRIT AND SIGNIFICANCE 63
our history on Decoration Day, we are at war. Once
more upon the soil of old Virginia the federal bayonets
are agleam. From day to day the boys in blue pass
by ; the reveille, the bugle call is heard even in this city
of the silent dead. This time, thank God, the war is
not sectional. There are no brothers arrayed against
brothers ; no Americans against Americans. There is
only one uniform in all the land, one flag in all the sky,
one sentiment in the breasts of all the heroes of the re-
public.
To-day I see the surviving veterans of the old Grand
Army of the Republic, grizzled and gray, some with
empty sleeves, some stumping their way on wooden
pegs ; and I remember that in the years gone by these
old veterans were boys ; boys who left the plow, the
forge, the loom, the shop, the office, the college, the
sanctuary, to fight the battles of their country. They
too broke the clasp of loving arms to go; they too
left good-by kisses on tiny lips ; they too had mothers,
wives, sisters, sweethearts ; they too turned from home
and comfort and peace to follow the flag. God bless
them, living and dead. May there be cheers for the
living as long as the last survivor blesses the earth,
may there be tears for the dead to the end of time.
" Soldier, rest, thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more.
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil or night of waking."
Yes ! rest in peace, oh, mighty dead. The cause for
which you fought can never be assailed again. Rest
in peace, the race whose freedom you achieved will
64 MEMORIAL DAY
bless you with their latest breath. Rest in peace, the
Union you preserved remains forever, and liberty,
equal rights, and justice is the heritage of your
descendants to the judgment day. God bless the men
who followed the flag!
Ill
THE WAR
BROTHER JONATHAN'S LAMENT FOR SIS-
TER CAROLINE
BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
Written in December, 1860, when South Carolina
adopted the Ordinance of Secession
She has gone, — she had left us in passion and pride, —
Our stormy-browed sister, so long at our side !
She has torn her own star from our firmament's glow,
And turned on her brother the face of a foe !
O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun,
We can never forget that our hearts have been one, —
Our foreheads both sprinkled in Liberty's name,
From the fountain of blood with the finger of flame!
You were always too ready to fire at a touch ;
But we said: "She's a beauty, — she does not mean
much."
We have scowled when you uttered some turbulent
threat ;
But Friendship still whispered : " Forgive and forget."
Has our love all died out? Have its altars grown
cold?
Has the curse come at last which the fathers foretold ?
67
68 MEMORIAL DAY
Then Nature must teach us the strength of the chain
That her petulant children would sever in vain.
They may fight till the buzzards are gorged with their
spoil,
Till the harvest grows black as it rots in the soil,
Till the wolves and the catamounts troop from their
caves,
And the shark tracks the pirate, the lord of the waves :
In vain is the strife! When its fury is past,
Their fortunes must flow in one channel at last,
As the torrents that rush from the mountains of snow
Roll mingled in peace in the valleys below.
Our Union is river, lake, ocean, and sky;
Man breaks not the medal when God cuts the die!
Though darkened with sulphur, though cloven with
steel,
The blue arch will brighten, the waters will heal !
O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun,
There are battles with fate that can never be won !
The star-flowering banner must never be furled,
For its blossoms of light are the hope of the world!
Go, then, our rash sister, afar and aloof, —
Run wild in the sunshine away from our roof ;
But when your heart aches, and your feet have grown
sore,
Remember the pathway that leads to our door!
THE WAR 69
DIXIE
BY ALBERT PIKE
Southrons, hear your country call you!
Up, lest worse than death befall you !
To arms ! To arms ! To arms, in Dixie !
Lo! all the beacon-fires are lighted, —
Let all hearts be now united !
To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie!
Advance the flag of Dixie !
Hurrah! hurrah!
For Dixie's land we take our stand,
And live or die for Dixie !
To arms! To arms!
And conquer peace for Dixie !
To arms! To arms!
And conquer peace for Dixie !
Fear no danger! Shun no labor!
Lift up rifle, pike, and saber!
Shoulder pressing close to shoulder,
Let the odds make each heart bolder!
How the South's great heart rejoices
At your cannons' ringing voices !
For faith betrayed, and pledges broken,
Wrongs inflicted, insults spoken.
70 MEMORIAL DAY
Strong as lions, swift as eagles,
Back to their kennels hunt these beagles !
Cut the unequal bonds asunder !
Let them hence each other plunder !
Swear upon your country's altar
Never to submit or falter,
Till the spoilers are defeated,
Till the Lord's work is completed.
Halt not till our Federation
Secures among earth's powers its station !
Then at peace, and crowned with glory,
Hear your children tell the story !
If the loved ones weep in sadness,
Victory soon shall bring them gladness, —
To arms !
Exultant pride soon banish sorrow,
Smiles chase tears away to-morrow.
To arms ! To arms ! To arms, in Dixie !
Advance the flag of Dixie !
Hurrah! hurrah!
For Dixie's land we take our stand,
And live or die for Dixie !
To arms ! To arms !
And conquer peace for Dixie !
To arms! To arms!
And conquer peace for Dixie !
(Southern.)
THE WAR 71
FIRST O SONGS FOR A PRELUDE *
BY WALT WHITMAN
First O songs for a prelude,
Lightly strike on the stretch 'd tympanum pride and
joy in my city,
How she led the rest to arms, how she gave the cue,
How at once with lithe limbs unwaiting a moment she
sprang,
(O superb! O Manhattan, my own, my peerless!
O strongest you in the hour of danger, in crisis ! O
truer than steel!)
How you sprang — how you threw off the costumes
of peace with indifferent hand,
How your soft opera-music changed, and the drum
and fife were heard in their stead,
How you led to the war (that shall serve for our pre-
lude, songs of soldiers),
How Manhattan drum-taps led.
Forty years had I in my city seen soldiers parading,
Forty years as a pageant, till unawares the lady of
this teeming and turbulent city,
Sleepless amid her ships, her houses, her incalculable
wealth,
With her million children around her, suddenly,
At dead of night, at news from the south,
Incens'd struck with clinch'd hand the pavement.
1 From " Selected Poems." Published by David McKay,
Philadelphia.
72 MEMORIAL DAY
A shock electric, the night sustain'd it,
Till with ominous hum our hive at daybreak pour'd out
its myriads.
From the houses then and the workshops, and through
all the doorways,
Leapt they tumultuous, and lo ! Manhattan arming.
To the drum-taps prompt,
The young men falling in and arming,
The mechanics arming (the trowel, the jack-plane, the
blacksmith's hammer, tost aside with precipita-
tion),
The lawyer leaving his office and arming, the judge
leaving the court,
The driver deserting his wagon in the street, jumping
down, throwing the reins abruptly down on the
horses' backs,
The salesman leaving the store, the boss, book-keeper,
porter, all leaving;
Squads gather everywhere by common consent and
arm,
The new recruits, even boys, the old men show them
how to wear their accounterments, they buckle
the straps carefully,
Outdoors arming, indoors arming, the flash of the
musket-barrels,
The white tents cluster in camps, and arm'd sentries
around, the sunrise cannon and again at sunset,
Arm'd regiments arrive every day, pass through the
city, and embark from the wharves,
(How good they look as they tramp down to the river,
sweaty, with their guns on their shoulders!
THE WAR 73
How I love them! how I could hug them, with their
brown faces and their clothes and knapsacks
cover'd with dust!)
The blood of the city up — arm'd! arm'd! the cry
everywhere,
The flags flung out from the steeples of churches and
from all the public buildings and stores,
The tearful parting, the mother kisses her son, the son
kisses his mother,
(Loth is the mother to part, yet not a word does she
speak to detain him),
The tumultuous escort, the ranks of policemen preced-
ing, clearing the way,
The unpent enthusiasm, the wild cheers of the crowd
for their favorites,
The artillery, the silent cannons bright as gold, drawn
along, rumble lightly over the stones,
(Silent cannons, soon to cease your silence,
Soon unlimber'd to begin the red business) ;
All the mutter of preparation, all the determin'd
arming,
The hospital service, the lint, bandages, and medicines,
The women volunteering for nurses, the work begun
for in earnest, no mere parade now ;
War! an arm'd race is advancing! the welcome for
battle, no turning away ;
War ! be it weeks, months, or years, an arm'd race is
advancing to welcome it.
Mannahatta a-march — and it's O to sing it well!
It's O for a manly life in the camp.
74 MEMORIAL DAY
And the sturdy artillery,
The guns bright as gold, the work for giants, to serve
well the guns,
Unlimber them! (no more as the past forty years for
salutes for courtesies merely),
Put in something now besides powder and wadding.
And you, lady of ships, you Mannahatta,
Old matron of this proud, friendly, turbulent city,
Often in peace and wealth you were pensive or cov-
ertly frown'd amid all your children,
But now you smile with joy exulting, old Mannahatta.
MEN OF THE NORTH
BY JOHN NEAL
Men of the North, look up!
There's a tumult in your sky;
A troubled glory surging out,
Great shadows hurrying by.
Your strength — where is it now?
Your quivers — are they spent ?
Your arrows in the rust of death,
Your fathers' bows unbent?
Men of the North, awake!
Ye're called to from the deep;
Trumpets in every breeze —
Yet there ye lie asleep.
THE WAR 75
A stir in every tree;
A shout from every wave;
A challenging on every side ;
A moan from every grave :
A battle in the sky;
Ships thundering through the air —
Jehovah on the march —
Men of the North, to prayer!
Now, now — in all your strength ;
There's that before your way,
Above, about you, and below,
Like armies in array.
Lift up your eyes, and see
The changes overhead ;
Now hold your breath and hear
The mustering of the dead.
See how the midnight air
With bright commotion burns,
Thronging with giant shapes,
Banner and spear by turns.
The sea-fog driving in,
Solemnly and swift,
The moon afraid — stars dropping out —
The very skies adrift;
The Everlasting God,
Our Father — Lord of Love —
With cherubim and seraphim
All gathering above ;
76 MEMORIAL DAY
Their stormy plumage lighted up
As forth to war they go;
The shadow of the Universe,
Upon our haughty foe !
THE OATH OF FREEDOM
BY JAMES BARRON HOPE
Born free, thus we resolve to live:
By Heaven, we will be free !
By all the stars which burn on high —
By the green earth — the mighty sea —
By God's unshaken majesty,
We will be free or die !
Then let the drums all roll!
Let all the trumpets blow !
Mind, heart, and soul,
We spurn control
Attempted by a foe!
Born free, thus we resolve to live :
By Heaven, we will be free !
And, vainly now the Northmen try
To beat us down — in arms we stand
To strike for this our native land!
We will be free or die !
Then let the drums all roll ! etc.
Born free, thus we resolve to live:
By Heaven, we will be free !
THE WAR 77
Our wives and children look on high,
Pray God to smile upon the right!
And bid us in the deadly fight
As freemen live or die!
Then let the drums all roll! etc.
Born free, thus we resolve to live :
By Heaven, we will be free !
And ere we cease this battle-cry,
Be all our blood, our kindred's spilt,
On bayonet or saber hilt!
We will be free or die !
Then let the drums all roll! etc.
Born free, thus we resolve to live :
By Heaven, we will be free!
Defiant let the banners fly,
Shake out their glories to the air,
And kneeling, brothers, let us swear
We will be free or die !
Then let the drums all roll ! etc.
Born free, thus we resolve to live :
By Heaven, we will be free !
And to this oath the dead reply —
Our valiant fathers' sacred ghosts —
These with us, and the God of hosts,
We will be free or die !
Then let the drums all roll! etc.
(Southern.)
78 MEMORIAL DAY
BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS!1
BY WALT WHITMAN
Beat ! beat ! drums ! — blow ! bugles ! blow !
Through the windows — through doors — burst like a
ruthless force,
Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation,
Into the school where the scholar is studying;
Leave not the bridegroom quiet — no happiness must
he have now with his bride,
Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, plowing his field
or gathering his grain,
So fierce you whirr and pound you drums — so shrill
you bugles blow.
Beat ! beat ! drums ! — blow ! bugles ! blow !
Over the traffic of cities — over the rumble of wheels
in the streets ;
Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses?
no sleepers must sleep in those beds,
No bargainers' bargains by day — no brokers or spec-
ulators— would they continue?
Would the talkers be talking? would the singer at-
tempt to sing?
Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case
before the judge?
Then rattle quicker, heavier drums — you bugles wilder
blow.
1 From " Selected Poems.'- Published by David McKay.
THE WAR 79
Beat ! beat ! drums ! — blow ! bugles ! blow !
Make no parley — stop for no expostulation,
Mind not the timid — mind not the weeper or prayer,
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man,
Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's
entreaties,
Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they
lie awaiting the hearses,
So strong you thump O terrible drums — so loud you
bugles blow.
WAR
BY SAM WALTER FOSS
I am War. The upturned eyeballs of piled dead men
greet my eye,
And the sons of mothers perish — and I laugh to see
them die, —
Mine the demon lust for torture, mine the devil lust
for pain,
And there is to me no beauty like the pale brows of
the slain !
But my voice calls forth the godlike from the sluggish
souls at ease,
And the hands that toyed with ledgers scatter thunders
'round the seas;
And the lolling idler, wakening, measures up to God's
own plan,
And the puling trifler greatens to the stature of a man.
80 MEMORIAL DAY
When I speak, the centuried towers of old cities melt
in smoke,
And the fortressed ports sink reeling at my far-aimed
thunder-stroke ;
And an immemorial empire flings its last flag to the
breeze,
Sinking with its splintered navies down in the un-
pitying seas.
But the blind of sight awaken to an unimagined day,
And the mean of soul grow conscious there is great-
ness in their clay ;
Where my bugle voice goes pealing slaves grow heroes
at its breath,
And the trembling coward rushes to the welcome arms
of death.
Pagan, heathen, and inhuman, devilish as the heart of
hell;
Wild as chaos, strong for ruin, clothed in hate un-
speakable,—
So they call me, — and I care not, — still I work my
waste afar,
Heeding not your weeping mothers and your widows
— I am War!
But your soft-boned men grow heroes when my flam-
ing eyes they see,
And I teach your little people how supremely great
they be;
Yea, I tell them of the wideness of the soul's unfolded
plan
And the godlike stuff that's molded in the making of
a man.
THE WAR 81
Ah, the godlike stuff that's molded in the making of
a man!
It has stood my iron testing since this strong old world
began.
Tell me not that men are weaklings, halting tremblers,
pale and slow, —
There is stuff to shame the seraphs in the race of men
— I know.
I have tested them by fire, and I know that man is
great,
And the soul of man is stronger than is either death
or fate;
And where'er my bugle calls them, under any sun or
star,
They will leap with smiling faces to the fire test of
war.
THE BRAVE AT HOME1
BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ
The maid who binds her warrior's sash
With smile that well her pain dissembles,
The while beneath her drooping lash
One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles,
Though Heaven alone records the tear,
And Fame shall never know her story,
Her heart has shed a drop as dear
As e'er bedewed the field of glory!
1 By permission of the publishers, J. P. Lippincott & Co.,
Philadelphia.
82 MEMORIAL DAY
The wife who girds her husband's sword,
Mid little ones who weep or wonder,
And bravely speaks the cheering word,
What though her heart be rent asunder,
Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear
The bolts of death around him rattle,
Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er
Was poured upon the field of battle !
The mother who conceals her grief
While to her breast her son she presses,
Then breathes a few brave words and brief,
Kissing the patriot brow she blesses,
With no one but her secret God
To know the pain that weighs upon her,
Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod
Received on Freedom's field of honor!
THE NINETEENTH OF APRIL1
1861
BY LUCY LARCOM
This year, till late in April, the snow fell thick and
light :
Thy truce-flag, friendly Nature, in clinging drifts of
white,
1 By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
THE WAR 83
Hung over field and city : now everywhere is seen,
In place of that white quietness, a sudden glow of
green.
The verdure climbs the Common, beneath the leafless
trees,
To where the glorious Stars and Stripes are floating
on the breeze.
There, suddenly as spring awoke from winter's snow-
draped gloom,
The Passion-Flower of Seventy-Six is bursting into
bloom.
Dear is the time of roses, when earth to joy is wed,
And garden-plot and meadow wear one generous flush
of red ;
But now in dearer beauty, to her ancient colors true,
Blooms the old town of Boston in red and white and
blue.
Along the whole awakening North are those bright em-
blems spread ;
A summer noon of patriotism is burning overhead :
No party badges flaunting now, no word of clique or
clan;
But " Up for God and Union! " is the shout of every
man.
Oh, peace is dear to Northern hearts; our hard-
earned homes more dear;
But Freedom is beyond the price of any earthly cheer;
84 MEMORIAL DAY
And Freedom's flag is sacred; he who would work it
harm,
Let him, although a brother, beware our strong right
arm!
Ah brother ! ah, the sorrow, the anguish of that word !
The fratricidal strife begun, when will its end be
heard ?
Not this the boon that patriot hearts have prayed and
waited for; —
We loved them, and we longed for peace: but they
would have it war.
Yes; war! on this memorial day, the day of Lex-
ington,
A lightning-thrill along the wires from heart to heart
has run.
Brave men we gazed on yesterday, to-day for us have
bled;
Again is Massachusetts blood the first for Freedom
shed.
To war, — and with our brethren then, — if only this
can be!
Life hangs as nothing in the scale against dear Liberty !
Though hearts be torn asunder, for Freedom we will
fight:
Our blood may seal the victory, but God will shield
the Right!
THE WAR 85
MANASSAS
July 21, 1861
BY CATHERINE M. WARFIELD
They have met at last — as storm-clouds
Meet in heaven,
And the Northmen back and bleeding
Have been driven:
And their thunders have been stilled,
And their leaders crushed or killed,
And their ranks with terror thrilled,
Rent and riven !
Like the leaves of Vallombrosa
They are lying;
In the moonlight, in the midnight,
Dead and dying;
Like those leaves before the gale,
Swept their legion, wild and pale ;
While the host that made them quail
Stood, defying.
When aloft in morning sunlight
Flags were flaunted,
And " swift vengeance on the rebel '
Proudly vaunted;
Little did they think that night
Should close upon their shameful flight,
And rebels, victors in the fight,
Stand undaunted.
86 MEMORIAL DAY
But peace to those who perished
In our passes !
Light be the earth above them;
Green the grasses!
Long shall Northmen rue the day
When they met our stern array,
And shrunk from battle's wild affray
At Manassas.
(Southern.)
THE COUNTERSIGN
BY A CONFEDERATE SOLDIER
Alas ! the weary hours pass slow,
The night is very dark and still ;
And in the marshes far below
I hear the bearded whippoorwill ;
I scarce can see a yard ahead,
My ears are strained to catch each sound;
I hear the leaves about me shed,
And the spring's bubbling through the ground.
Along the beaten path I pace,
Where white rays mark my sentry's track;
In formless shrubs I seem to trace
The foeman's form with bending back,
I think I see him crouching low;
I stop and list — I stoop and peer,
Until the neighboring hillocks grow
To groups of soldiers far and near.
THE WAR 87
With ready piece I wait and watch,
Until my eyes, familiar grown,
Detect each harmless earthen notch,
And turn guerrillas into stone ;
And then, amid the lonely gloom,
Beneath the tall old chestnut trees,
My silent marches I resume,
And think of other times than these.
Sweet visions through the silent night !
The deep bay windows fringed with vine,
The room within, in softened light,
The tender, milk-white hand in mine;
The timid pressure, and the pause
That often overcame our speech —
The time when by mysterious laws
We each felt all in all to each.
And then that bitter, bitter day,
When came the final hour to part ;
When, clad in soldier's honest gray,
I pressed her weeping to my heart;
Too proud of me to bid me stay,
Too fond of me to let me go,
I had to tear myself away,
And left her, stolid in my woe.
So rose the dream, so passed the night —
When, distant in the darksome glen,
Approaching up the somber height
I heard the solid march of men ;
Till over stubble, over sward,
And fields where lay the golden sheaf,
88 MEMORIAL DAY
I saw the lantern of the guard
Advancing with the night relief.
" Halt ! Who goes there ? ' my challenge cry.
It rings along the watchful line;
' Relief ! ' I hear a voice reply ;
' Advance, and give the countersign ! '
With bayonet at the charge I wait —
The corporal gives the mystic spell;
With arms aport I charge my mate,
Then onward pass, and all is well.
But in the tent that night awake,
I ask, if in the fray I fall,
Can I the mystic answer make
When the angelic sentries call ?
And pray that Heaven may so ordain,
Whene'er I go, what fate be mine,
Whether in pleasure or in pain,
I still may have the countersign.
(Southern.)
TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP
BY GEORGE F. ROOT
In the prison cell I sit,
Thinking, mother dear, of you,
And our bright and happy home so far away,
And the tears they fill my eyes,
Spite of all that I can do,
Though I try to cheer my comrades and be gay.
THE WAR 89
Chorus.
Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching,
Oh, cheer up, comrades, they will come.
And beneath the starry flag we shall breathe the air
again,
Of freedom in our own beloved home.
In the battle front we stood
When the fiercest charge they made,
And they swept us off a hundred men or more,
But before we reached their lines
They were beaten back dismayed,
And we heard the cry of vict'ry o'er and o'er.
Cho.
So, within the prison cell
We are waiting for the day
That shall come to open wide the iron door,
And the hollow eye grows bright,
And the poor heart almost gay,
As we think of seeing friends and home once more.
Cho.
KEARNY AT SEVEN PINES *
BY EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN
So that soldierly legend is still on its journey, —
That story of Kearny who knew not to yield !
'Twas the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, and
Birney,
Against twenty thousand he rallied the field.
J By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
90 MEMORIAL DAY
Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose
highest,
Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf
oak and pine,
Where the aim from the thicket was surest and
nighest, —
No charge like Phil Kearny's along the whole line.
When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn,
Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our
ground,
He rode down the length of the withering column,
And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a bound ;
He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of the powder, —
His sword waved us on and we answered the sign :
Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the
louder,
' There's the devil's own fun, boys, along the whole
line ! "
How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his
blade brighten
In the one hand still left, — and the reins in his teeth !
He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten,
But a soldier's glance shot from his visor beneath.
Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal,
Asking where to go in, — through the clearing or
pine?
' O, anywhere ! Forward ! 'Tis all the same,
Colonel :
You'll find lovely fighting along the whole line ! '
THE WAR 91
O, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly,
That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried !
Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily,
The flower of our knighthood, the whole army's
pride !
Yet we dream that he still, — in that shadowy region
Where the dead form their ranks at the wan drum-
mer's sign, —
Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion,
And the word still is Forward ! along the whole line.
THE DEATH OF SLAVERY
BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
O thou great Wrong, that, through the slow-paced
years,
Didst hold thy millions fettered, and didst wield
The scourge that drove the laborer to the field,
And turn a stony gaze on human tears,
Thy cruel reign is o'er ;
Thy bondmen crouch no more
In terror at the menace of thine eye;
For He who marks the bounds of guilty power,
Long-suffering, hath heard the captive's cry,
And touched his shackles at the appointed hour,
And lo ! they fall, and he whose limbs they galled
Stands in his native manhood, disenthralled.
92 MEMORIAL DAY
A shout of joy from the redeemed is sent;
Ten thousand hamlets swell the hymn of thanks ;
Our rivers roll exulting, and their banks
Send up hosannas to the firmament !
Fields where the bondman's toil
No more shall trench the soil,
Seem now to bask in a serener day;
The meadow-birds sing sweeter, and the airs
Of heaven with more caressing softness play,
Welcoming man to liberty like theirs.
A glory clothes the land from sea to sea,
For the great land and all its coasts are free.
Within that land wert thou enthroned of late,
And they by whom the nation's laws were made,
And they who filled its judgment-seats, obeyed
Thy mandate, rigid as the will of Fate.
Fierce men at thy right hand,
With gesture of command,
Gave forth the word that none might dare gainsay ;
And grave and reverend ones, who loved thee not,
Shrank from thy presence, and in blank dismay
Choked down, unuttered, the rebellious thought;
While meaner cowards, mingling with thy train,
Proved, from the book of God, thy right to reign.
Great as thou wert, and feared from shore to shore,
The wrath of Heaven o'ertook thee in thy pride ;
Thou sitt'st a ghastly shadow; by thy side
Thy once strong arms hang nerveless evermore.
And they who quailed but now
Before thy lowering brow,
THE WAR 93
Devote thy memory to scorn and shame,
And scoff at the pale, powerless thing thou art.
And they who ruled in thine imperial name,
Subdued, and standing sullenly apart,
Scowl at the hands that overthrew thy reign,
And shattered at a blow the prisoner's chain.
Well was thy doom deserved ; thou didst not spare
Life's tenderest ties, but cruelly didst part
Husband and wife, and from the mother's heart
Didst wrest her children, deaf to shriek and prayer;
Thy inner lair became
The haunt of guilty shame;
Thy lash dropped blood ; the murderer, at thy side,
Showed his red hands, nor feared the vengeance
due.
Thou didst sow earth with crimes, and, far and wide,
A harvest of uncounted miseries grew,
Until the measure of thy sins at last
Was full, and then the avenging bolt was cast !
Go now, accursed of God, and take thy place
With hateful memories of the elder time,
With many a wasting plague, and nameless crime,
And bloody war that thinned the human race ;
With the Black Death, whose way
Through wailing cities lay,
Worship of Moloch, tyrannies that built
The Pyramids, and cruel creeds that taught
To avenge a fancied guilt by deeper guilt —
Death at the stake to those that held them not.
Lo! the foul phantoms, silent in the gloom
Of the flown ages, part to yield thee room.
94 MEMORIAL DAY
I see the better years that hasten by
Carry thee back into that shadowy past,
Where, in the dusty spaces, void and vast,
The graves of those whom thou hast murdered lie.
The slave-pen, through whose door
Thy victims pass no more,
Is there, and there shall the grim block remain
At which the slave was sold ; while at thy feet
Scourges and engines of restraint and pain
Molder and rust by thine eternal seat.
There, mid the symbols that proclaim thy crimes,
Dwell thou, a warning to the coming times.
CAVALRY CROSSING A FORD
BY WALT WHITMAN
A line in long array where they wind betwixt green
islands,
They take a serpentine course, their arms flash in the
sun, — hark to the musical clank,
Behold the silvery river, in it the splashing horses
loitering stop to drink,
Behold the brown-faced men, each group, each person,
a picture, the negligent rest on the saddles,
Some emerge on the opposite bank, others are just en-
tering the ford — while,
Scarlet and blue and snowy white,
The guidon flags flutter gayly in the wind.
THE WAR 95
BIVOUAC ON A MOUNTAIN SIDE
BY WALT WHITMAN
I see before me now a traveling army halting,
Below a fertile valley spread, with barns and the
orchards of summer,
Behind, the terraced sides of a mountain, abrupt, in
places rising high,
Broken, with rocks, with clinging cedars, with tall
shapes dingily seen,
The numerous camp-fires scattered near and far, some
away up on the mountain,
The shadowy forms of men and horses, looming, large-
sized, flickering,
And over all the sky — the sky ! far, far out of reach,
studded, breaking out, the eternal stars.
FROM [THE RIVER-FIGHT'
BY HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL
Would you hear of the River-Fight?
It was two of a soft spring night ; —
God's stars looked down on all,
And all was clear and bright
But the low fog's chilling breath —
Up the River of Death
Sailed the Great Admiral.
96 MEMORIAL DAY
On our high poop-deck he stood,
And round him ranged the men
Who have made their birthright good
Of manhood, once and again, —
Lords of helm and of sail,
Tried in tempest and gale,
Bronzed in battle and wreck:
Bell and Bailey grandly led
Each his Line of the Blue and Red,
Wainwright stood by our starboard rail,
Thornton fought the deck.
And I mind me of more than they,
Of the youthful, steadfast ones,
That have shown them worthy sons
Of the Seamen passed away —
Tyson conned our helm that day,
Watson stood by his guns.
What thought our Admiral then,
Looking down on his men ?
Since the terrible day,
(Day of renown and tears!)
When at anchor the Essex lay,
Holding her foes at bay,
When, a boy, by Porter's side he stood
Till deck and plank-sheer were dyed with blood,
Tis half a hundred years —
Half a hundred years to-day!
Who could fail with him?
Who reckon of life or limb?
Not a pulse but beat the higher!
THE WAR 97
There had you seen, by the starlight dim,
Five hundred faces strong and grim —
The Flag is going under fire !
Right up by the fort, with her helm hard-a-port,
The Hartford is going under fire !
The way to our work was plain,
Caldwell had broken the chain
(Two hulks swung down amain,
Soon as 'twas sundered).
Under the night's dark blue,
Steering steady and true,
Ship after ship went through,
Till, as we hove in view,
Jackson out-thundered.
Back echoed Philip ! ah, then
Could you have seen our men,
How they sprung, in the dim night haze,
To their work of toil and of clamor!
How the loaders, with sponge and rammer,
And their captains, with cord and hammer,
Kept every muscle ablaze !
How the guns, as with cheer and shout
Our tackle-men hurled them out,
Brought up on the waterways!
First, as we fired at their flash,
'Twas lightning and black eclipse,
With a bellowing roll and crash ;
But soon, upon either bow,
What with forts, and fire-rafts, and ships,
98 MEMORIAL DAY
(The whole fleet was hard at it now,
All pounding away!) and Porter
Still thundering with shell and mortar,
'Twas the mighty sound and form
Of an equatorial storm !
(Such you see in the Far South,
After long heat and drouth,
As day draws nigh to even:
Arching from North to South,
Blinding the tropic sun,
The great black bow comes on,
Till the thunder-veil is riven,
When all is crash and levin,
And the cannonade of heaven
Rolls down the Amazon!)
But, as we worked along higher,
Just where the river enlarges,
Down came a pyramid of fire —
It was one of your long coal barges
(We had often had the like before).
'Twas coming down on us to larboard,
Well in with the eastern shore,
And our pilot, to let it pass round,
(You may guess we never stopped to sound)
Giving us a rank sheer to starboard,
Ran the Flag hard and fast aground !
Twas night abreast the Upper Fort,
And straightway a rascal Ram
(She was shaped like the devil's dam)
THE WAR 99
Puffed away for us with a snort,
And shoved it with spiteful strength
Right alongside of us, to port.
(It was all of our ship's length,
A huge crackling Cradle of the Pit,
Pitch-pine knots to the brim,
Belching flame red and grim)
What a roar came up from it !
Well, for a little it looked bad;
But these things are, somehow, shorter
In the acting than the telling.
There was no singing-out nor yelling,
Nor any fussing and fretting,
No stampede, in short;
But there we were, my lad,
All afire on our port quarter,
Hammocks ablaze in the netting,
Flames spouting in at every port,
Our Fourth Cutter burning at the davit,
No chance to lower away and save it.
In a twinkling the flames had risen
Halfway to maintop and mizzen,
Darting up the shrouds like snakes.
Ah, how we clanked at the brakes !
And the deep steam-pumps throbbed unders
Sending a ceaseless flow.
Our topmen, a dauntless crowd,
Swarmed in rigging and shroud —
There ('twas a wonder!)
ioo MEMORIAL DAY
The burning ratlines and strands
They quenched with their bare hard hands;
But the great guns below
Never silenced their thunder!
At last, by backing and sounding,
When we were clear of grounding,
And under headway once more,
The whole rebel fleet came rounding
The point. If we had it hot before,
'Twas now, from shore to shore,
One long, loud thundering roar —
Such crashing, splintering, and pounding,
And smashing as you never heard before!
But that we fought foul wrong to wreck,
And to save the Land we loved so well,
You might have deemed our long gun deck
Two hundred feet of hell!
For all above was battle,
Broadside, and blaze, and rattle,
Smoke and thunder alone ;
Put, down in the sick-bay,
Where npr wounded and dying lay,
There was scarce a sob or a moan.
And at last, when the dim day broke,
And the sullen sun awoke.
Drearily blinking
O'er the haze and the cannon-smoke.
That ever such morning dulls,
There were thirteen traitor hulb
On fire and sinking!
THE WAR 101
IN ACTION
ANONYMOUS
When the blue-black waves are tipped with white, and
the balmy trade-winds blow,
When the palm-crowned coast in the offing lies, with
sands like the driven snow,
When the mighty hulls of the battleships — the nation's
strength and pride —
And the ghostlike little torpedo-boats are lying side by
side ;
When all is still save the screaming gulls, as they
circle high o'erhead,
When naught is heard on the steel-bound decks, save
the watches' measured tread,
When far to windward a tiny cloud floats up from
the grim old fort,
Then the piercing scream of a shrapnel-shot and the
ten-ton gun's report;
Then armored decks are alive with life, and the calls
to quarters below,
Then the gun crews stand beside their guns, and the
stokers sweat below,
Then the jingling bells in the engine-room clamor and
call for speed,
And the thousand tons of hardened steel shake like a
wind-tossed reed.
102 MEMORIAL DAY
Now the guns of the fort are belching flame, and the
shot and shell fall fast,
Now three are down by the forward gun, and six in
the fighting mast,
Now the ships rush on in majesty, while the gunners
hold their breath,
And pray to their God to spare them still from the
harbor's hidden death.
Now a string of fluttering signal flags from the bridge
of the flagship fly,
Now the gatlings, rapids, and twelve-inch guns with
a crashing peal reply,
Now the smoke hangs low o'er the shot-torn wave,
dark death lurks in the air,
And never a word by the guns is said while they spit
and boom and flare.
The fleet steams up in battle array, and the broadsides
crash and roar,
While the rumble and rip from the enemy's guns reply
from the smoke-hung shore ;
The once white decks run red with blood, while the
surgeons work below,
And fort and fleet, with shot and shell, pay back each
blow with blow.
At last a flag of truce is raised and gleams through the
drifting smoke,
And the havoc and wreck of a gun is seen, where a
ten-inch shrapnel broke ;
THE WAR 103
At last the guns of the fleet are still, and now from
far and near
Are heard the shouts of a victor's crew as they answer
cheer with cheer.
The shrilly call of the bo's'n's mate the crew from
quarters pipes,
And the dead are stretched on the quarter-deck,
wrapped in the stars and stripes,
While the setting sun sinks in the west, a blazing ball
of fire,
Lighting the scene of a battle fought, and the carnage
of man's desire.
FREDERICKSBURG 1
December 13, 1862
BY THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH
The increasing moonlight drifts across my bed,
And on the churchyard by the road I know
It falls as white and noiselessly as snow.
'Twas such a night two weary summers fled;
The stars, as now, were waning overhead.
Listen! Again the shrill-lipped bugles blow
Where the swift currents of the river flow
Past Fredericksburg : far off the heavens are red
With sudden conflagration : on yon height,
Linstock in hand, the gunners hold their breath :
1 By permission of the publishers, Houghton, MiMin & Co.
104 MEMORIAL DAY
A single-rocket pierces the dense night,
Flings its spent stars upon the town beneath :
Hark! — the artillery massing on the right,
Hark! — the black squadrons wheeling down to Death.
THE LAST FIGHT
BY LEWIS FRANK TOOKER
That night I think that no one slept;
No bells were struck, no whistle blew,
And when the watch was changed I crept
From man to man of all the crew
With whispered orders. Though we swept
Through roaring seas, we hushed the clock,
And muffled every clanking block.
So when one fool, unheeding, cried
Some petty order, straight I ran,
And threw him sprawling o'er the side.
All life is but a narrow span :
It little matters that one bide
A moment longer here, for all
Fare the same road, whate'er befall.
But vain my care ; for when the day
Broke gray and wet, we saw the foe
But half a stormy league away.
By noon we saw his black bows throw
Five fathoms high a wall of spray;
A little more, we heard the drum,
And knew that our last hour had come.
THE WAR 105
All day our crew had lined the side
With grim, set faces, muttering;
And once a boy (the first that died)
One of our wild songs tried to sing;
But when their first shot missed us wide,
A dozen sprang above our rail,
Shook fists, and roared a cursing hail.
Thereon, all hot for war, they bound
Their heads with cool, wet bands, and drew
Their belts close, and their keen blades ground ;
Then, at the next gun's puff of blue,
We set the grog-cup on its round,
And pledged for life or pledged for death
Our last sigh of expiring breath.
Laughing, our brown young singer fell
As their next shot crashed through our rail ;
Then 'twixt us flashed the fire of hell,
That shattered spar and riddled sail,
What ill we wrought we could not tell ;
But blood-red all their scuppers dripped
When their black hull to starboard dipped.
Nine times I saw our helmsman fall,
And nine times sent new men, who took
The whirling wheel as at death's call ;
But when I saw the last one look
From sky to deck, then, reeling, crawl
Under the shattered rail to die,
I knew where I should surely lie.
106 MEMORIAL DAY
I could not send more men to stand
And turn in idleness the wheel
Until they took death's beckoning hand,
While others, meeting steel with steel,
Flamed out their lives — an eager band,
Cheers on their lips, and in their eyes
The goal-rapt look of high emprise.
So to the wheel I went. Like bees
I heard the shot go darting by;
There came a trembling in my knees,
And black spots whirled about the sky.
I thought of things beyond the seas —
The little town where I was born,
And swallows twittering in the morn.
A wounded creature drew him where
I grasped the wheel, and begged to steer.
It mattered not how he might fare
The little time he had for fear ;
So if I left this to his care
He too might serve us yet, he said.
He died there while I shook my head.
I would not fall so like a dog,
My helpless back turned to the foe ;
So when his great hulk, like a log,
Came surging past our quarter, lo!
With helm hard down, straight through the fog
Of battle smoke, and luffing wide,
I sent our sharp bow through his side.
THE WAR 107
The willing waves came rushing in
The ragged entrance that we gave ;
Like snakes I heard their green coils spin
Up, up, around our floating grave ;
But dauntless still, amid a din
Of clashing steel and battle-shout,
We rushed to drive their boarders out.
Around me in a closing ring
My grim-faced foemen darkly drew ;
Then, sweeter than the lark in spring,
Loud rang our blades ; the red sparks flew.
Twice, thrice, I felt the sudden sting
Of some keen stroke; then, swinging fair,
My own clave more than empty air.
The fight went raging past me when
My good blade cleared a silent place;
Then in a ring of fallen men
I paused to breathe a little space.
Elsewhere the deck roared like a glen
When mountain torrents meet; the fray
A moment then seemed far away.
The barren sea swept to the sky ;
The empty sky dipped to the sea ;
Such utter waste could scarcely lie
Beyond death's starved periphery.
Only one living thing went by :
Far overhead an ominous bird
Rode down the gale with wings unstirred.
log MEMORIAL DAY
Windward I saw the billows swing
Dark crests to beckon others on
To see our end ; then, hurrying
To reach us ere we should be gone,
They came, like tigers mad to fling
Their jostling bodies on our ships,
And snarl at us with foaming lips.
There was no time to spare: a wave
E'en then broke growling at my feet;
One last look to the sky I gave,
Then sprang my eager foes to meet.
Loud rang the fray above our grave —
I felt the vessel downward reel
As my last thrust met thrusting steel.
I heard a roaring in my ears ;
A green wall pressed against my eyes ;
Down, down I passed; the vanished years
I saw in mimicry arise.
Yet even then I felt no fears,
And with my last expiring breath
My past rose up and mocked at death.
VICKSBURG
BY PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE
For sixty days and upwards,
A storm of shell and shot
Rained round us in a flaming shower,
But still we faltered not.
THE WAR 109
" If the noble city perish,"
Our grand young leader said,
" Let the only walls the foe shall scale
Be ramparts of the dead ! '
For sixty days and upwards,
The eye of heaven waxed dim ;
And even throughout God's holy morn,
O'er Christian prayer and hymn,
Arose a hissing tumult,
As if the fiends in air
Strove to engulf the voice of faith
In the shrieks of their despair.
There was wailing in the houses,
There was trembling on the marts,
While the tempest raged and thundered,
Mid the silent thrill of hearts ;
But the Lord, our shield, was with us,
And ere a month had sped,
Our very women walked the streets
With scarce one throb of dread.
And the little children gamboled,
Their faces purely raised,
Just for a wondering moment,
As the huge bombs whirled and blazed ;
Then turned with silvery laughter
To the sports which children love,
Thrice-mailed in the sweet, instinctive thought
That the good God watched above.
i io MEMORIAL DAY
Yet the hailing bolts fell faster,
From scores of flame-clad ships,
And about us, denser, darker,
Grew the conflict's wild eclipse,
Till a solid cloud closed o'er us,
Like a type of doom and ire,
Whence shot a thousand quivering tongues
Of forked and vengeful fire.
But the unseen hands of angels
Those death-shafts warned aside,
And the dove of heavenly mercy
Ruled o'er the battle tide ;
In the houses ceased the wailing,
And through the war-scarred marts
The people strode, with step of hope,
To the music in their hearts.
(Southern )
THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND MORE
ANONYMOUS
We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thou-
sand more,
From Mississippi's winding stream and from New
England's shore;
We leave our plows and workshops, our wives and
children dear,
With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent
tear;
THE WAR ill
We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before :
We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thou-
sand more !
If you look across the hill-tops that meet the northern
sky,
Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may
descry ;
And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy veil
aside,
(\nd floats aloft our spangled flag in glory and in pride,
And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave
music pour :
We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thou-
sand more !
If you look all up our valleys where the growing har-
vests shine,
You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming into
line;
And children from their mother's knees are pulling at
the weeds,
And learning how to reap and sow against their coun-
try's needs ;
And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage
door:
We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thou-
sand more !
You have called us, and we're coming, by Richmond's
bloody tide
To lay us down, for Freedom's sake, our brother's
bones beside.
112 MEMORIAL DAY
Or from foul treason's savage grasp to wrench the
murderous blade,
And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade.
Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone
before :
We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thou-
sand more !
IN DAYS LIKE THESE
BY THOMAS H. STACY
O God of hosts, whose mighty hand
Our fathers led across the seas,
We took from thee our goodly land,
To thee we look in days like these.
'Mid swelling tumult, bitter word,
'Mid clashing arms and bugles' blare,
While war-drums fret the fevered air,
In days like these, be near, O Lord.
The winds have swept our colors out,
Our polished guns the sun has kissed;
With measured step and loyal shout,
The men troop by who now are missed,
The hilltops signal far away,
The sea calls sea with beacon lips,
Where ride our far-flung battleships
To strike the foe at break of day.
THE WAR 113
Forgive, O Lord, that we forgot
To humble self and thee to please;
Our vows unkept, sins thought, unthought,
Forgive, O Lord, in days like these.
Our gift upon the altar lies,
Accept it ere thou call us hence,
Although thou saidst obedience
Is better than a sacrifice.
'Tis not for gain or vengeful spite
Our treasure and our life is poured,
But for the wronged who have no might,
Whose cry has reached the ear of God.
In days like these our motives take,
Since whom thou usest thou must trust ;
And when we strike because we must,
Help us to heal the wounds we make.
THE TROOP-SHIP SAILS
BY ROBERT W. CHAMBERS
Is it good-by,
My lad ?
No, I'll not cry.
Has the time come?
The bugle-call from the sea-wall,
The tap of drum?
My tears are dry.
114 MEMORIAL DAY
Rest your head here,
My lad,
Close to me, dear;
Why do you stare?
Have pain and care made me less fair?
Are my lips white with fear?
Hark! how they cheer
Down in the Square there!
What do they care,
My lad,
For this brown hair
That I love so?
Their drums' long roll will crush my soul-
Ah, God ! don't go ! —
I cannot bear —
There, I'll be still,
My lad,
Truly I will;
My tears are spent.
Which regiment will next be sent?
Does every bullet kill?
Hold me until
The call is urgent !
Who spoke your name,
My lad ?
The summons came
Out of the crowd!
Oh, hold me, lad ! fold me, lad !
Their flag's a shroud
To bury shame!
THE WAR 115
Have they begun,
My lad ?
See, the troops run!
Your eyes are wet;
You are so quiet ; is there time yet ?
God! It's the signal gun!
Kiss me, — just one.
Run with your musket!
THE BATTLE OF CHARLESTON HARBOR
Bombardment of Fort Sumter by the fleet, April fth,
1863
BY PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE
Two hours, or more, beyond the prime of a blithe
April day,
The Northmen's mailed " Invincibles ' steamed up
fair Charleston Bay;
They came in sullen file and slow, low-breasted on the
wave,
Black as a midnight front of storm, and silent as the
grave.
A thousand warrior-hearts beat high as those dread
monsters drew
More closely to the game of death across the breezeless
blue,
n6 MEMORIAL DAY
And twice ten thousand hearts of those who watched
the scene afar,
Thrill in the awful hush that bides the battle's broad-
ening star.
Each gunner, moveless by his gun, with rigid aspect
stands,
The ready lanyards firmly grasped in bold, untrembling
hands,
So moveless in their marbled calm, their stern heroic
guise,
They looked like forms of statued stone with burning
human eyes !
Our banners on the outmost walls, with stately rust-
ling fold,
Flash back from arch and parapet the sunlight's ruddy
gold,—
They mount to the deep roll of drums, and widely
echoing cheers,
And then — once more, dark, breathless, hushed, wait
the grim cannoneers.
Onward — in sullen file and slow, low glooming on the
wave,
Near, nearer still, the haughty fleet glides silent as the
grave,
When sudden, shivering up the calm, o'er startled flood
and shore,
Burst from the sacred Island Fort the thunder-wrath
of yore !
THE WAR 117
Ha! brutal Corsairs! though ye come thrice-cased in
iron mail,
Beware the storm that's opening now, God's vengeance
guides the hail !
Ye strive, the ruffian types of Might, 'gainst Law and
Truth and Right;
Now quail beneath a sturdier Power, and own a
mightier Might!
No empty boast! for while we speak, more furious,
wilder, higher,
Dart from the circling batteries a hundred tongues of
fire;
The waves gleam red, the lurid vault of heaven seems
rent above ;
Fight on, O knightly gentlemen ! for faith and home
and love !
There's not in all that line of flame, one soul that would
not rise
To seize the victor's wreath of blood, though death
must give the prize —
There's not in all this anxious crowd that throngs the
ancient town
A maid who does not yearn for power to strike one
despot down.
The strife grows fiercer! ship by ship the proud
armada sweeps,
Where hot from Sumter's raging breast the volleyed
lightning leaps;
ii8 MEMORIAL DAY
And ship by ship, raked, overborne, ere burned the
sunset light,
Crawls in the gloom of baffled hate beyond the field of
fight!
O glorious Empress of the Main ! from out thy storied
spires
Thou well mayst peal thy bells of joy, and light thy
festal fires, —
Since Heaven this day hath striven for thee, hath
nerved thy dauntless sons,
And thou in clear-eyed faith hast seen God's angels
near the guns !
(Southern.)
CANTICLE DE PROFUNDIS *
BY LUCY LARCOM
Glory to Thee, Father of all the Immortal,
Ever belongs;
We bring Thee from our watch by the grave's portal
Nothing but songs.
Though every wave of trouble has gone o'er us, —
Though in the fire
We have lost treasures time cannot restore us, —
Though all desire
That made life beautiful fades out in sorrow, —
Though the strange path
Winding so lonely through the bleak to-morrow,
No comfort hath, —
1 By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
THE WAR 119
Though blackness gathers round us on all faces,
And we can see
By the red war-flash but Love's empty places, —
Glory to Thee!
For, underneath the crash and roar of battle,
The deafening roll
That calls men off to butchery like cattle,
Soul after soul;
Under the horrid sound of chaos seething
In blind hot strife,
We feel the moving of Thy Spirit, breathing
A better life
Into the air of our long-sickened nation;
A muffled hymn;
The star-sung prelude of a new creation;
Suffusions dim, —
The bursting upward of a stifled glory,
That shall arise
To light new pages in the world's great story
For happier eyes.
If upon lips too close to dead lips leaning,
Songs be not found,
Yet wilt Thou know our life's unuttered meaning:
In its deep ground,
As seeds in earth, sleep sorrow-drenched praises,
Waiting to bring
Incense to Thee along thought's barren mazes
When Thou send'st spring.
Glory to Thee! we say, with shuddering wonder,
While a hushed land
120 MEMORIAL DAY
Hears the stern lesson syllabled in thunder,
That Truth is grand
As life must be; that neither man nor nation
May soil Thy throne
With a soul's life-blood — horrible oblation!
Nor quick be shown
That Thou wilt not be mocked by prayer whose nurses
Were Hate and Wrong;
That trees so vile must drop back fruit in curses
Bitter and strong.
Glory to Thee, who wilt not let us smother
Ourselves in sin ;
Sending Pain's messengers fast on each other
Us whence to win !
Praise for the scourging under which we languish,
So torn, so sore !
And save us strength, if yet uncleansed by anguish,
To welcome more.
Life were not life to us, could they be fables, —
Justice and Right:
Scathe crime with lightning, till we see the tables
Of Law burn bright!
Glory to Thee, whose glory and whose pleasure
Must be in good !
By Thee the mysteries we cannot measure
Are understood.
With the abysses of Thyself above us,
Our sins below,
That Thou dost look from Thy pure heaven and
love us,
Enough to know.
THE WAR 121
Enough to lay our praises on Thy bosom —
Praises fresh-grown
Out of our depths, dark root and open blossom,
Up to Thy throne.
When choking tears make our Hosannas falter,
The music free!
Oh, keep clear voices singing at Thy altar,
Glory to Thee !
"HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY?"1
BY FRANCIS BRET HARTE
The U. S. Sanitary Commission was organised to sup-
ply comforts to the soldiers in the field. Out of
this grew the Red Cross Associations
Down the picket-guarded lane
Rolled the comfort-laden wain,
Cheered by shouts that shook the plain,
Soldier-like and merry :
Phrases such as camps may teach,
Saber-cuts of Saxon speech,
Such as " Bully ! " " Them's the peach ! "
" Wade in, Sanitary ! "
Right and left the caissons drew
As the car went lumbering through,
1By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifftin & Co.
122 MEMORIAL DAY
Quick succeeding in review
Squadrons military;
Sunburnt men with beards like frieze,
Smooth-faced boys, and cries like these, —
" U. S. San. Com." " That's the cheese! "
" Pass in, Sanitary ! '
In such cheer it struggled on
Till the battle front was won,
Then the car, its journey done,
Lo! was stationary;
And where bullets whistling fly,
Came the sadder, fainter cry,
" Help us, brothers, ere we die, —
Save us, Sanitary ! '
Such the work. The phantom flies,
Wrapped in battle clouds that rise ;
But the brave — whose dying eyes,
Veiled and visionary,
See the jasper gates swung wide,
See the parted throng outside —
Hear the voice to those who ride:
" Pass in, Sanitary ! '
WHAT THE BULLET SANG »
BY FRANCIS BRET HARTE
O joy of creation
To be!
O rapture to fly
And be free !
1 By permission of the publishers, Houghton, MMin & Co.
THE WAR 123
Be the battle lost or won,
Though its smoke shall hide the sun,
I shall find my love,— -the. one
Born for me!
I shall know him where he stands,
All alone,
With the power in his hands
Not o'erthrown;
I shall know him by his face,
By his godlike front and grace;
I shall hold him for a space,
All my own!
It is he — O my love !
So bold !
It is I — all thy love
Foretold !
It is I. O love ! what bliss !
Dost thou answer to my kiss?
O sweetheart! what is this
Lieth there so cold?
BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC
BY JULIA WARD HOWE
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the
Lord:
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of
wrath are stored;
124 MEMORIAL DAY
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible
swift sword:
His truth is marching on.
I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred
circling camps ;
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews
and damps;
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flar-
ing lamps.
His day is marching on.
I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of
steel :
" As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my
grace shall deal ;
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with
his heel,
Since God is marching on."
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call
retreat ;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judg-
ment-seat :
Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my
feet!
Our God is marching on.
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the
sea,
With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and
me:
THE WAR 125
As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men
free,
While God is marching on.
ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC
BY ETHEL LYNN BEERS
" All quiet along the Potomac," they say,
" Except now and then a stray picket
Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro,
By a rifleman hid in the thicket.
'Tis nothing — a private or two now and then
Will not count in the news of the battle;
Not an officer lost — only one of the men,
Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle."
All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;
Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,
Or the light of the watch-fire, are gleaming.
A tremulous sigh of the gentle night-wind.
Through the forest leaves softly is creeping;
While stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
Keep guard, for the army is sleeping.
There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread,
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed
Far away in the cot on the mountain.
126 MEMORIAL DAY
His musket falls slack ; his face, dark and grim,
Grows gentle with memories tender,
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,
For their mother; may Heaven defend her!
The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,
That night, when the love yet unspoken
Leaped up to his lips — when low-murmured vows
Were pledged to be ever unbroken.
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling,
And gathers his gun closer up to its place,
As if to keep down the heart-swelling.
He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree,
The footstep is lagging and weary ;
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,
Toward the shade of the forest so dreary.
Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?
It looked like a rifle . . . " Ha ! Mary, good-by ! "
The red life-blood is ebbing and plashing.
All quiet along the Potomac to-night;
No sound save the rush of the river ;
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead —
The picket's off duty forever!
THE WAR 127
ORDER FOR A DAY OF FASTING
Headquarters, Army Northern
Virginia,
August 13, 1863.
The President of the Confederate States has, in
the name of the people, appointed August 2ist as a
day of fasting, humiliation, and prayer. A strict ob-
servance of the day is enjoined upon the officers and
soldiers of this army. All military duties, except such
as are absolutely necessary, will be suspended. The
commanding officers of brigades and regiments are re-
quested to cause divine services, suitable to the oc-
casion, to be performed in their respective commands.
Soldiers ! we have sinned against Almighty God. We
have forgotten His signal mercies, and have cultivated
a revengeful, haughty, and boastful spirit. We have
not remembered that the defenders of a just cause
should be pure in His eyes ; that " our times are in His
hands," and we have relied too much on our own arms
for the achievement of our independence. God is
our only refuge and our strength. Let us humble our-
selves before Him. Let us confess our many sins, and
beseech Him to give us a higher courage, and a purer
patriotism, and a more determined will; that He will
convert the hearts of our enemies ; that He will hasten
the time when war, with its sorrows and sufferings,
shall cease, and that He will give us a name and place
among the nations of the earth.
R. E. LEE, General.
128 MEMORIAL DAY
KEENAN'S CHARGE
N
BY GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP
I
The sun had set;
The leaves with dew were wet:
Down fell a bloody dusk
On the woods, that second of May,
Where Stonewall's corps, like a beast of prey,
Tore through, with angry tusk.
" They've trapped us, boys ! '
Rose from our flank a voice.
With a rush of steel and smoke
On came the rebels straight,
Eager as love and wild as hate;
And our line reeled and broke:
Broke and fled.
No one stayed — but the dead!
With curses, shrieks, and cries,
Horses and wagons and men
Tumbled back through the shuddering glen,
And above us the fading skies.
There's one hope still, —
Those batteries parked on the hill!
" Battery, wheel! ' (mid the roar)
" Pass pieces ; fix prolonge to fire
Retiring. Trot ! ' In the panic dire
A bugle rings " Trot ! " — and no more.
THE WAR 129
The horses plunged,
The cannon lurched and lunged,
To join the hopeless rout.
But suddenly rode a form
Calmly in front of the human storm,
With a stern, commanding shout:
' Align those guns ! '
(We knew it was Pleasanton's.)
The cannoneers bent to obey,
And worked with a will at his word :
And the black guns moved as if they had heard.
But ah the dread delay !
To wait is crime ;
O God, for ten minutes' time ! '
The General looked around.
There Keenan sat, like a stone,
With his three hundred horse alone,
Less shaken than the ground.
' Major, your men ? '
" Are soldiers, General." " Then
Charge, Major! Do your best:
Hold the enemy back, at all cost,
Till my guns are placed, — else the army is lost.
You die to save the rest ! '
ii
By the shrouded gleam of the western skies,
Brave Keenan looked into Pleasanton's eyes
For an instant, — clear, and cool, and still;
Then, with a smile, he said : " I will."
130 MEMORIAL DAY
" Cavalry, charge ! ' Not a man of them shrank.
Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank,
Rose joyously, with a willing breath, —
Rose like a greeting hail to death.
Then forward they sprang, and spurred and clashed;
Shouted the officers, crimson-sashed;
Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow,
In their faded coats of the blue and yellow ;
And above in the air, with an instinct true,
Like a bird of war their pennon flew.
With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds,
And blades that shine like sunlit reeds,
And strong brown faces bravely pale
For fear their proud attempt shall fail,
Three hundred Pennsylvanians close
On twice ten thousand gallant foes.
Line after line the troopers came
To the edge of the wood that was ringed with flame;
Rode in and sabered and shot — and fell;
Nor came one back his wounds to tell.
And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall
In the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall,
While the circle-stroke of his saber, swung
'Round his head, like a halo there, luminous hung.
Line after line — ay, whole platoons,
Struck dead in their saddles — of brave dragoons
By the maddened horses were onward borne
And into the vortex flung, trampled and torn ;
As Keenan fought with his men, side by side.
So they rode, till there were no more to ride.
THE WAR 131
But over them, lying there, shattered and mute,
What deep echo rolls? — 'Tis a death-salute
From the cannon in place; for, heroes, you braved
Your fate not in vain : the army was saved !
Over them now — year following year —
Over their graves the pine-cones fall.
And the whippoorwill chants his specter-call;
But they stir not again; they raise no cheer;
They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease,
Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace.
The rush of their charge is resounding still
That saved the army at Chancellorsville.
LEE TO THE REAR
BY JOHN R. THOMPSON
(During the battles in the Wilderness at the beginning of
the campaign of 1864, General Robert E. Lee, impressed
with the desperate necessity of carrying a certain peculiarly
difficult position, seized the colors of a Texas regiment and
undertook to lead the perilous assault in person. The troops
and their colonel remonstrated with vehemence, the colonel,
in his men's behalf, pledging the regiment to carry the posi-
tion if General Lee would retire. The troops advanced to
the charge shouting " Lee to the Rear ! " as a sort of battle
cry. — From American War Ballads and Lyrics.)
Dawn of a pleasant morning in May
Broke through the Wilderness cool and gray;
While perched in the tallest treetops, the birds
Were caroling Mendelssohn's " Songs without
Words."
132 MEMORIAL DAY
Far from the haunts of men remote,
The brook brawled on with a liquid note ;
And Nature, all tranquil and lovely, wore
The smile of the spring, as in Eden of yore.
Little by little, as daylight increased,
And deepened the roseate flush in the East —
Little by little did morning reveal
Two long glittering lines of steel ;
Where two hundred thousand bayonets gleam,
Tipped with the light of the earliest beam,
The faces are sullen and grim to see
In the hostile armies of Grant and Lee.
All of a sudden, ere rose the sun,
Pealed on the silence the opening gun —
A little white puff of smoke there came,
And anon the valley was wreathed in flame.
Down on the left of the Rebel lines,
Where a breastwork stands in a copse of pines,
Before the Rebels their ranks can form,
The Yankees have carried the place by storm.
Stars and Stripes on the salient wave,
Where many a hero has found a grave,
And the gallant Confederates strive in vain
The ground they have drenched with their blood to
regain.
Yet louder the thunder of battler roared —
Yet a deadlier fire on the columns poured;
THE WAR 133
Slaughter infernal rode with Despair,
Furies twain, through the murky air.
Not far off, in the saddle there sat
A gray-bearded man in a black slouched hat ;
Not much moved by the fire was he,
Calm and resolute Robert Lee.
Quick and watchful he kept his eye
On the bold Rebel brigades close by, —
Reserves that were standing (and dying) at ease,
While the tempest of wrath toppled over the trees.
For still with their loud, deep, bulldog bay,
The Yankee batteries blazed away,
And with every murderous second that sped
A dozen brave fellows, alas! fell dead.
The grand old graybeard rode to the space
Where Death and his victims stood face to face,
And silently waved his old slouched hat —
A world of meaning there was in that!
" Follow me ! Steady ! We'll save the day ! "
This was what he seemed to say ;
And to the light of his glorious eye
The bold brigades thus made reply :
( We'll go forward, but you must go back " —
And they moved not an inch in the perilous track;
' Go to the rear, and we'll send them to hell ! '
And the sound of the battle was lost in their yell.
134 MEMORIAL DAY
Turning his bridle, Robert Lee
Rode to the rear. Like waves of the sea,
Bursting the dykes in their overflow,
Madly his veterans dashed on the foe.
And backward in terror that foe was driven,
Their banners rent and their columns riven,
Wherever the tide of battle rolled
Over the Wilderness, wood and wold.
Sunset out of a crimson sky
Streamed o'er a field of ruddier dye,
And the brook ran on with a purple stain,
From the blood of ten thousand foemen slain.
Seasons have passed since that day and year —
Again o'er its pebbles the brook runs clear,
And the field in a richer green is drest,
Where the dead of a terrible conflict rest.
Hushed is the roll of the Rebel drum,
The sabers are sheathed, and the cannon are dumb ;
And Fate, with his pitiless hand, has furled
The flag that once challenged the gaze of the world ;
But the fame of the Wilderness fight abides ;
And down into history grandly rides,
Calm and unmoved as in battle he sat,
The gray-bearded man in the black slouched hat.
(Southern.)
THE WAR 135
RE-ENLISTED 1
May, 1864
BY LUCY LARCOM
O did you see him in the street, dressed up in army-
blue,
When drums and trumpets into town their storm of
music threw —
A louder tune than all the winds could muster in the
air,
The Rebel winds, that tried so hard our flag in strips
to tear?
You didn't mind him? Oh, you looked beyond him
then, perhaps,
To see the mounted officers, rigged out with trooper-
caps,
And shiny clothes, and sashes, and epaulets and all;
It wasn't for such things as these he heard his country
call.
She asked for men; and up he spoke, my handsome,
hearty Sam,
" I'll die for the dear old Union, if she'll take me as
I am."
And if a better man than he there's mother that can
show,
From Maine to Minnesota, then let the nation know!
1 By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
136 MEMORIAL DAY
You would not pick him from the rest by eagles or
by stars,
By straps upon his coat-sleeve, or gold or silver bars ;
Nor a corporal's strip of worsted; but there's some-
thing in his face,
And something in his even step, a-marching in his
place,
That couldn't be improved by all the badges in the
land:
A patriot, and a good, strong man ; are generals much
more grand?
We rest our pride on that big heart wrapped up in
army-blue,
The girl he loves, Mehitabel, and I, who love him too.
He's never shirked a battle yet, though frightful risks
he's run,
Since treason flooded Baltimore, the spring of Sixty-
One;
Through blood and storm he's held out firm, nor fret-
ted once, my Sam,
At swamps of Chickahominy, or fields of Antietam.
Though many a time, he's told us, when he saw them
lying dead,
The boys that came from Newburyport, and Lynn,
and Marblehead,
Stretched out upon the trampled turf, and wept on by
the sky,
It seemed to him the Commonwealth had drained her
life-blood dry.
THE WAR 137
" But then," he said, " the more's the need the coun-
try has of me:
To live and fight the war all through, what glory it
will be!
The Rebel balls don't hit me; and, mother, if they
should,
You'll know I've fallen in my place, where I have
always stood."
He's taken out his furlough, and short enough it
seemed :
I often tell Mehitabel he'll think he only dreamed
Of walking with her nights so bright you couldn't see
a star,
And hearing the swift tide come in across the harbor
bar.
The Stars that shine above the Stripes, they light him
southward now;
The tide of war has swept him back; he's made a
solemn vow
To build himself no home-nest till his country's work
is done;
God bless the vow, and speed the work, my patriot,
my son!
And yet it is a pretty place where his new house
might be;
An orchard-road that leads your eye straight out upon
the sea.
The boy not work his father's farm? it seems almost
a shame ;
But any selfish plan for him he's never let me name.
138 MEMORIAL DAY
He's re-enlisted for the war, for victory or for death !
A soldier's grave, perhaps! — the thought has half-
way stopped my breath,
And driven a cloud across the sun; — my boy, it will
not be !
The war will soon be over ; home again you'll come to
me!
He's re-enlisted: and I smiled to see him going, too!
There's nothing that becomes him half so well as
army-blue.
Only a private in the ranks ! but sure I am indeed,
If all the privates were like him, they'd scarcely cap-
tains need.
And I, and Massachusetts share the honor of his birth :
The grand old State ! to me the best in all the peopled
earth !
I cannot hold a musket, but I have a son who can ;
And I'm proud for Freedom's sake to be the mother
of a man !
REVEILLE
BY MICHAEL O'CONNOR
The morning is cheery, my boys, arouse!
The dew shines bright on the chestnut boughs,
And the sleepy mist on the river lies,
Though the east is flushing with crimson dyes,
THE WAR 139
Awake ! awake ! awake !
O'er field and wood and brake,
With glories newly born,
Comes on the blushing morn.
Awake ! awake !
You have dreamed of your homes and friends all
night ;
You have basked in your sweethearts' smiles so bright ;
Come, part with them all for a while again, —
Be lovers in dreams ; when awake, be men.
Turn out ! turn out ! turn out !
You have dreamed full long, I know.
Turn out! turn out! turn out!
The east is all aglow.
Turn out ! turn out !
From every valley and hill there come
The clamoring voices of fife and drum;
And out in the fresh, cool morning air
The soldiers are swarming everywhere.
Fall in ! fall in ! fall in !
Every man in his place,
Fall in ! fall in ! fall in !
Each with a cheerful face,
Fall in ! fall in !
140 MEMORIAL DAY
FARRAGUT
Mobile Bay, August 5, 1864
BY WILLIAM TUCKEY MEREDITH
Farragut, Farragut,
Old Heart of Oak,
Daring Dave Farragut,
Thunderbolt stroke,
Watches the hoary mist
Lift from the bay,
Till his flag, glory-kissed,
Greets the young day.
Far, by gray Morgan's walls,
Looms the black fleet.
Hark, deck to rampart calls
With the drums' beat !
Buoy your chains overboard,
While the steam hums;
Men ! to the battlement,
Farragut comes.
See, as the hurricane
Hurtles in wrath
Squadrons of clouds amain
Back from its path !
Back to the parapet,
To the guns' lips,
Thunderbolt Farragut
Hurls the black ships.
THE WAR 141
Now through the battle's roar
Clear the boy sings,
' By the mark fathoms four/'
While his lead swings.
Steady the wheelmen five
" Nor' by East keep her,"
" Steady," but two alive ;
How the shells sweep her!
Lashed to the mast that sways
Over red decks,
Over the flame that plays
Round the torn wrecks,
Over the dying lips
Framed for a cheer,
Farragut leads his ships,
Guides the line clear.
On by heights cannon-browed,
While the spars quiver;
Onward still flames the cloud
Where the hulks shiver.
See, yon fort's star is set,
Storm and fire past.
Cheer him, lads — Farragut,
Lashed to the mast!
Oh ! while Atlantic's breast
Bears a white sail,
While the Gulf's towering crest
Tops a green vale,
142 MEMORIAL DAY
Men thy bold deeds shall tell,
Old Heart of Oak,
Daring Dave Farragut,
Thunderbolt stroke !
DRIVING HOME THE COWS
BY KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD
Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass
He turned them into the river-lane;
One after another he let them pass,
Then fastened the meadow-bars again.
Under the willows, and over the hill,
He patiently followed their sober pace;
The merry whistle for once was still,
And something shadowed the sunny face.
Only a boy ! and his father had said
He never could let his youngest go:
Two already were lying dead
Under the feet of the trampling foe.
But after the evening work was done,
And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp,
Over his shoulder he slung his gun
And stealthily followed the foot-path damp.
Across the clover, and through the wheat,
With resolute heart and purpose grim,
THE WAR 143
Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet
And the blind bat's flitting startled him.
Thrice since then had the lanes been white,
And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom ;
And now, when the cows came back at night,
The feeble father drove them home.
For news had come to the lonely farm
That three were lying where two had lain ;
And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm
Could never lean on a son's again.
The summer day grew cool and late,
He went for the cows when the work was done ;
But down the lane, as he opened the gate,
He saw them coming one by one :
Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess,
Shaking their horns in the evening wind ;
Cropping the buttercups out of the grass —
But who was it following close behind?
Loosely swung in the idle air
The empty sleeve of army blue ;
And worn and pale, from the crisping hair,
Looked out a face that the father knew.
For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn,
And yield their dead unto life again ;
And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn
In golden glory at last may wane.
144 MEMORIAL DAY
The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes ;
For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb :
And under the silent evening skies
Together they followed the cattle home.
SHERIDAN'S RIDE1
October 19, 1864
BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ
Up from the South at break of day,
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,
The affrighted air with a shudder bore,
Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door,
The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar,
Telling the battle was on once more,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.
And wider still those billows of war
Thundered along the horizon's bar;
And louder yet into Winchester rolled
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled,
Making the blood of the listener cold,
As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.
But there is a road from Winchester town,
A good broad highway leading down ;
* By courtesy of J. B. Lippincott & Co.
THE WAR 145
And there, through the flash of the morning light,
A steed as black as the steeds of night
Was seen to pass as with eagle flight;
As if he knew the terrible need,
He stretched away with the utmost speed;
Hills rose and fell — but his heart was gay,
With Sheridan fifteen miles away.
Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South,
The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth ;
On the tail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster,
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster.
The heart of the steed and the heart of the master
Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls,
Impatient to be where the battlefield calls ;
Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play,
With Sheridan only ten miles away.
Under his spurning feet the road
Like a narrowy Alpine river flowed,
And the landscape flowed away behind,
Like an ocean flying before the wind ;
And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire,
Swept on with his wild eyes full of fire;
But lo ! he is nearing his heart's desire,
He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,
With Sheridan only five miles away.
The first that the General saw were the groups
Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops.
What was done ? what to do ? A glance told him both.
Then, striking his spurs, with a terrible oath,
146 MEMORIAL DAY
He dashed down the line, 'mid a storm of huzzas,
And the wave of retreat checked its course there, be-
cause
The sight of the master compelled it to pause.
With foam and with dust the black charger was gray;
By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril's play,
He seemed to the whole great army to say,
" I have brought you Sheridan all the way
From Winchester down to save the day ! '
Hurrah ! hurrah for Sheridan !
Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man!
And when their statues are placed on high
Under the dome of the Union sky,
The American soldier's Temple of Fame, —
There with the glorious General's name,
Be it said, in letters both bold and bright,
" Here is the steed that saved the day
By carrying Sheridan into the fight,
From Winchester, twenty miles away ! "
' HE'LL SEE IT WHEN HE WAKES '
BY FRANK LEE
[In " Bugle Echoes " Mr. Francis F. Browne introduces this
poem with the following note : " In one of the battles in Vir-
ginia a gallant young Mississippian had fallen, and at night,
just before burying him, there came a letter from his be-
trothed. One of the burial group took the letter and laid it
upon the breast of the dead soldier, with the words : ' Bury it
with him. He'll see it when he wakes/ "]
Amid the clouds of battle-smoke
The sun had died away,
THE WAR
147
And where the storm of battle broke
A thousand warriors lay.
A band of friends upon the field
Stood round a youthful form
Who, when the war-cloud's thunder pealed,
Had perished in the storm.
Upon his forehead, on his hair,
The coming moonlight breaks,
And each dear brother standing there
A tender farewell takes.
But ere they laid him in his home
There came a comrade near,
And gave a token that had come
From her the dead held dear.
A moment's doubt upon them pressed,
Then one the letter takes,
And lays it low upon his breast —
' He'll see it when he wakes."
O thou who dost in sorrow wait,
Whose heart with anguish breaks,
Though thy dear message came too late,
" He'll see it when he wakes."
No more amid the fiery storm
Shall his strong arm be seen ;
No more his young and manly form
Tread Mississippi's green;
And e'en thy tender words of love —
The words affection speaks —
Came all too late ; but oh ! thy love
" Will see them when he wakes."
I48 MEMORIAL DAY
No jars disturb his gentle rest,
No noise his slumber breaks,
But thy words sleep upon his breast —
" He'll see them when he wakes."
(Southern.)
SPRING AT THE CAPITAL
BY ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN
The poplar drops beside the way
Its tasseled plumes of silver gray;
The chestnut points its great brown buds, impatient
for the laggard May.
The honeysuckles lace the wall ;
The hyacinths grow fair and tall;
And mellow sun, and pleasant wind, and odorous bees
are over all.
Down-looking in this snow-white bud,
How distant seems the war's red flood!
How far remote the streaming wounds, the sickening
scent of human blood !
For Nature does not recognize
This strife that rends the earth and skies;
No war-dreams vex the winter's sleep of clover-heads
and daisy-eyes.
THE WAR 149
She holds her even way the same,
Though navies sink, or cities flame ;
A snowdrop is a snowdrop still, despite the Nation's
joy or shame.
When blood her grassy altar wets,
She sends the pitying violets
To heal the outrage with their bloom, and cover it
with soft regrets.
O crocuses with rain-wet eyes,
O tender-lipped anemones,
What do you know of agony, and death, and blood-
won victories?
No shudder breaks your sunshine trance,
Though near you rolls, with slow advance,
Clouding your shining leaves with dust, the anguish-
laden ambulance.
Yonder a white encampment hums ;
The clash of martial music comes ;
And now your startled stems are all a-tremble with the
jar of drums.
Whether it lessen or increase,
Or whether trumpets shout or cease,
Still, deep within your tranquil hearts, the happy bees
are humming, " Peace ! '
O flowers ! the soul that faints or grieves
New comfort from your lips receives;
Sweet confidence and patient faith are hidden in your
healing leaves,
150 MEMORIAL DAY
Help us to trust still on and on,
That this dark night will soon be gone,
And that these battle-stains are but the blood-red
trouble of the dawn, —
Dawn of a broader, whiter day
Then ever blessed us with its ray, —
A dawn beneath whose purer light all guilt and
wrong shall fade away.
Then shall our Nation break its bands,
And, silencing the envious lands,
Stand in the searching light unshamed, with spotless
robe, and clean, white hands.
ARMY CORRESPONDENT'S LAST RIDE
Five Forks, April i, 1865
BY GEORGE ALFRED TOWNSEND
Ho! pony. Down the lonely road
Strike now your cheeriest pace!
The woods on fire do not burn higher
Than burns my anxious face;
Far have you sped, but all this night
Must feel my nervous spur;
If we be late, the world must wait
The tidings we aver: —
THE WAR 151
To home and hamlet, town and hearth,
To thrill child, mother, man,
I carry to the waiting North
Great news from Sheridan!
The birds are dead among the pines,
Slain by the battle fright,
Prone in the road the steed reclines
That never reached the fight ;
Yet on we go, — the wreck below
Of many a tumbled wain, —
By ghastly pools where stranded mules
Die, drinking of the rain;
With but my list of killed and missed
I spur my stumbling nag,
To tell of death at many a tryst,
But victory to the flag!
' Halt ! who comes there ? The countersign !
" A friend."—" Advance ! The fight,—
How goes it, say? " — " We won the day! " —
"Huzza! Pass on ! "— " Good-night ! "—
And parts the darkness on before,
And down the mire we tramp,
And the black sky is painted o'er
With many a pulsing camp;
O'er stumps and ruts, by ruined huts,
Where ghosts look through the gloam, —
Behind my tread I hear the dead
Follow the news toward home !
The hunted souls I see behind,
In swamp and in ravine,
152 MEMORIAL DAY
Whose cry for mercy thrills the wind
Till cracks the sure carbine ;
The moving lights, which scare the dark,
And show the trampled place
Where, in his blood, some mother's bud
Turns up his young, dead face;
The captives spent, whose standards rent
The conqueror parades,
As at the Five Forks roads arrive
The General's dashing aides.
0 wondrous Youth! through this grand ruth
Runs my boy's life its thread;
The General's fame, the battle's name,
The rolls of maimed and dead
1 bear, with my thrilled soul astir,
And lonely thoughts and fears,
And am but History's courier
To bind the conquering years;
A battle-ray, through ages gray
To light to deeds sublime,
And flash the luster of this day
Down all the aisles of Time!
Ho ! pony, — 'tis the signal gun
The night-assault decreed;
On Petersburg the thunderbolts
Crash from the lines of Meade;
Fade the pale, frightened stars o'erhead,
And shrieks the bursting air;
The forest foliage, tinted red,
Grows ghastlier in the glare ;
THE WAR 153
Though in her towers, reached her last hours,
Rocks proud Rebellion's crest —
The world may sag, if but my nag
Get in before the rest!
With bloody flank, and fetlocks dank,
And goad, and lash, and shout —
Great God! as every hoof-beat falls
A hundred lives beat out!
As weary as this broken steed
Reels down the corduroys,
So, weary, fight for morning light
Our hot and grimy boys;
Through ditches wet, o'er parapet
And guns barbette, they catch
The last, lost breach; and I, — I reach
The mail with my dispatch!
Sure it shall speed, the land to read,
As sped the happiest shell!
The shot I send strike the world's end;
This tells my pony's knell ;
His long race run, the long war done,
My occupation gone, —
Above his bier, prone on the pier,
The vultures fleck the dawn.
Still, rest his bones where soldiers dwell,
Till the Long Roll they catch.
He fell the day that Richmond fell,
And took the first dispatch !
154 MEMORIAL DAY
•
LEE'S FINAL ADDRESS TO HIS SOLDIERS
Dated April 10, 1865, the Day After the Surrender at
Appomattox
After four years of arduous service, marked by
unsurpassed courage and fortitude, the Army of
Northern Virginia has been compelled to yield to
overwhelming numbers and resources. I need not
tell the survivors of so many hard-fought battles, who
have remained steadfast to the last, that I have con-
sented to this result from no distrust of them; but,
feeling that valor and devotion could accomplish
nothing that could compensate for the loss that would
have attended the continuation of the contest, I have
determined to avoid the useless sacrifice of those
whose past services have endeared them to their coun-
trymen. By the terms of the agreement, officers and
men can return to their homes and remain there until
exchanged. You will take with you the satisfaction
that proceeds from the consciousness of duty faith-
fully performed; and I earnestly pray that a merciful
God will extend to you His blessing and protection.
With an increasing admiration of your constancy and
devotion to your country, and a grateful remembrance
of your kind and generous consideration of myself,
I bid an affectionate farewell.
R. E. LEE, General.
THE WAR 155
THE CONFLICT ENDED
BY CHARLES DEVENS
From an Address Delivered at Chariest own, Mass.,
June 17, 1875
The conflict is over! Day by day the material evi-
dences of war fade from sight ; the bastions sink to the
level of the ground which surrounded them; scarp
and counterscarp meet in the ditch which divided
them. So let them pass away, forever!
To-day it is the highest duty of all, no matter on
what side they were, but, above all, of those who have
struggled for the preservation of the Union, to strive
that it become one of generous confidence, in which
all the States shall, as of old, stand shoulder to shoul-
der, if need be, against the world in arms. Towards
those with whom we were lately in conflict, and who
recognize that the results are to be kept inviolate, there
should be no feeling of resentment or bitterness. They
join with us in the wish to make of this regenerated
Union a power grander and more august than the
founders ever dared to hope.
All true men are with the South in demanding for
her, peace, order, good and honest governments, and
encouraging in her the work of rebuilding all that has
been made desolate. We need not doubt the issue.
With the fire of her ancient courage, she will gird her-
self up to the emergencies of her new situation. Stand-
ing always in generous remembrance of every sec-
156 MEMORIAL DAY
tion of the Union, neither now nor hereafter will we
distinguish between States or sections, in our anxiety
for the glory and happiness of all. Together will we
utter our solemn aspiration, in the spirit of the motto
of the city which now incloses within its limits the
battle-field and town for which the battle was fought:
" As God was to our fathers, so may He be to us."
SECOND REVIEW OF THE GRAND ARMY
BY FRANCIS BRET HARTE
I read last night of the Grand Review
In Washington's chiefest avenue —
Two Hundred Thousand men in blue,
I think they said was the number, —
Till I seemed to hear their trampling feet,
The bugle blast and the drum's quick beat,
The clatter of hoofs in the stony street,
The cheers of people who came to greet,
And the thousand details that to repeat
Would only my verse encumber, —
Till I fell in a revery, sad and sweet,
And then to a fitful slumber.
When, lo ! in a vision I seemed to stand
In the lonely Capitol. On each hand
Far stretched the portico; dim and grand
Its columns ranged, like a martial band
Of sheeted specters whom some command
Had called to a last reviewing.
THE WAR 157
And the streets of the city were white and bare,
No footfall echoed across the square;
But out of the misty midnight air
I heard in the distance a trumpet blare,
And the wandering night-winds seemed to bear
The sound of a far tattooing.
Then I held my breath with fear and dread;
For into the square, with a brazen tread,
There rode a figure whose stately head
O'erlooked the review that morning,
That never bowed from its firm-set seat
When the living column passed its feet,
Yet now rode steadily up the street
To the phantom bugle's warning:
Till it reached the Capitol square, and wheeled,
And there in the moonlight stood revealed
A well-known form that in state and field
Had led our patriot sires;
Whose face was turned to the sleeping camp,
Afar through the river's fog and damp,
That showed no flicker, nor waning lamp,
Nor wasted bivouac fires.
And I saw a phantom army come,
With never a sound of fife or drum,
But keeping time to a throbbing hum
Of wailing and lamentation :
The martyred heroes of Malvern Hill,
Of Gettysburg and Chancellorsville,
The men whose wasted figures fill
The patriot graves of the Nation.
158 MEMORIAL DAY
And there came the nameless dead, — the men
Who perished in fever-swamp and fen,
The slowly-starved of the prison-pen ;
And, marching beside the others,
Came the dusky martyrs of Pillow's fight,
With limbs enfranchised and bearing bright:
I thought — perhaps 'twas the pale moonlight-
They looked as white as their brothers !
And so all night marched the Nation's dead,
With never a banner above them spread,
Nor a badge, nor a motto brandished ;
No mark — save the bare uncovered head
Of the silent bronze Reviewer;
With never an arch save the vaulted sky;
With never a flower save those that lie
On the distant graves — for love could buy
No gift that was purer or truer.
So all night long swept the strange array;
So all night long, till the morning, gray,
I watch'd for one who had passed away,
With a reverent awe and wonder, —
Till a blue cap waved in the lengthening line,
And I knew that one who was kin of mine
Had come; and I spake — and lo! that sign
Awakened me from my slumber.
THE WAR 159
MARCHING THROUGH GEORGIA
BY H. C. WORK
Bring the good old bugle, boys; we'll sing another
song,—
Sing it with a spirit that will start the world along, —
Sing it as we used to sing it, fifty thousand strong,
While we were marching through Georgia.
Chorus.
Hurrah, hurrah! we bring the jubilee!
Hurrah, hurrah ! the flag that makes you free !
So we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the sea,
While we were marching through Georgia.
How the darkies shouted when they heard the joyful
sound !
How the turkeys gobbled which our commissary
found !
How the sweet potatoes even started from the ground,
While we were marching through Georgia!
Cho.
Yes, and there were Union men who wept with joyful
tears
When they saw the honored flag they had not seen for
years ;
Hardly could they be restrained from breaking forth
in cheers
While we were marching through Georgia!
Cho.
160 MEMORIAL DAY
' Sherman's dashing Yankee boys will never reach the
coast ! "
So the saucy rebels said, — and 'twas a handsome
boast.
Had they not forgot, alas! to reckon on a host,
While we were marching through Georgia!
Cho.
So we made a thoroughfare for Freedom and her
train,
Sixty miles in latitude, three hundred to the main ;
Treason fled before us, for resistance was in vain,
While we were marching through Georgia !
Cho.
THE SOUTHERN SOLDIER
BY HENRY W. GRADY
You of the North have had drawn for you with a
master's hand the picture of your returning armies.
You have heard how, in the pomp and circumstance of
war, they came back to you, marching with proud and
victorious tread, reading their glory in a nation's eyes.
Will you bear with me while I tell you of another
army that sought its home at the close of the late war
— an army that marched home in defeat and not in
victory, in pathos and not in splendor?
Let me picture to you the footsore Confederate sol-
dier, as, buttoning up his faded gray jacket, the
parole which was the testimony to his children of his
THE WAR 161
fidelity and faith, he turned his face southward from
Appomattox in April, 1865. Think of him as ragged,
half-starved, heavy-hearted, enfeebled by want and
wounds; having fought to exhaustion, he surrenders
his gun, wrings the hands of his comrades in silence,
and lifting his tear-stained and pallid face for the last
time to the graves that dot the old Virginia hills, pulls
his gray cap over his brow and begins the slow and
painful journey.
What does he find — let me ask you, who went to
your homes eager to find, in the welcome you had
justly earned, full payment for four years' sacrifice —
what does he find when, having followed the battle-
stained cross against overwhelming odds, dreading
death not half as much as surrender, he reaches the
home he left so prosperous and beautiful?
He finds his house in ruins, his farms devastated,
his slaves free, his stock killed, his barns empty, his
trade destroyed, his money worthless; his social sys-
tem, feudal in its magnificence, swept away; his peo-
ple without law or legal status, his comrades slain, and
the burdens of others heavy on his shoulders. Crushed
by defeat, his very traditions are gone ; without money,
credit, employment, material, or training; and, be-
sides all this, confronted with the gravest problem that
ever met human intelligence — the establishing of a
status for the vast body of his liberated slaves.
What does he do — this hero in gray with a heart of
gold? Does he sit down in sullenness and despair?
Not for a day. Surely God, who had stripped him in
his prosperity, inspired him in his adversity. As ruin
was never so overwhelming, never was restoration
162 MEMORIAL DAY
swifter. The soldier stepped from the trenches, into
the furrow ; horses that had charged Federal guns
marched before the plow, and fields that ran red with
blood in April were green with the harvest of June.
Never was nobler duty confided to human hands
than the uplifting and upbuilding of the prostrate and
bleeding South, misguided, perhaps, but beautiful in
her suffering. In the record of her social, industrial,
and political evolution, we await with confidence the
verdict of the world.
FROM "THE HARVARD COMMEMORATION
ODE " *
BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
Whither leads the path
To ampler fates that leads?
Not down through flowery meads
To reap an aftermath
Of youth's vainglorious weeds,
But up the steep, amid the wrath
And shock of deadly-hostile creeds,
Where the world's best hope and stay
By battle's flashes gropes a desperate way,
And every turf the fierce foot clings to bleeds.
Peace hath her not ignoble wreath,
Ere yet the sharp, decisive word
Light the black lips of cannon, and the sword
Dreams in its easeful sheath;
1 By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Miffiin & Co.
THE WAR 163
But some day the live coal behind the thought,
Whether from Baal's stone obscene,
Or from the shrine serene
Of God's pure altar brought,
Bursts up in flame; the war of tongue and pen
Learns with what deadly purpose it was fraught,
And, helpless in the fiery passion caught,
Shakes all the pillared state with shock of men:
Some day the soft Ideal that we wooed
Confronts us fiercely, foe-beset, pursued,
And cries reproachful : " Was it, then, my praise,
And not myself was loved? Prove now thy truth;
I claim of thee the promise of thy youth ;
Give me thy life, or cower in empty phrase,
The victim of thy genius, not its mate ! "
Life may be given in many ways,
And loyalty to Truth be sealed
As bravely in the closet as the field,
So bountiful is Fate;
But then to stand beside her,
When craven churls deride her,
To front a lie in arms and not to yield,
This shows, methinks, God's plan
And measure of a stalwart man,
Limbed like the old heroic breeds,
Who stand self-poised on manhood's solid earth,
Not forced to frame excuses for his birth,
Fed from within with all the strength he needs.
IV
THE HEROIC DEAD
HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE
BY WILLIAM COLLINS
How sleep the Brave who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mold,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay ;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there !
TWO VETERANS1
BY WALT WHITMAN
The last sunbeam
Lightly falls from the finished Sabbath,
On the pavement here, and there beyond it is looking
Down a new-made double grave.
1 By permission of the publisher, David McKay, Phila-
delphia.
167
168 MEMORIAL DAY
Lo! the moon ascending,
Up from the east the silvery round moon,
Beautiful over the house-tops, ghastly, phantom moon,
Immense and silent moon.
I see a sad procession,
And I hear the sound of coming full-keyed bugles,
All the channels of the city streets they're flooding,
As with voices and with tears.
I hear the great drums pounding,
And the small drums steady whirring,
And every blow of the great convulsive drums
Strikes me through and through.
For the son is brought with the father,
(In the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell,
Two veterans, son and father, dropt together,
And the double grave awaits them).
Now nearer blow the bugles,
And the drums strike more convulsive,
And the daylight o'er the pavement quite has faded,
And the strong dead-march enwraps me.
In the eastern sky up-buoying,
The sorrowful vast phantom moves illumined,
('Tis some mother's large transparent face
In heaven brighter growing).
O strong dead-march you please me!
O moon immense with your silvery face you soothe
me!
THE HEROIC DEAD 169
O my soldiers twain ! O my veterans passing to burial !
What I have I also give you.
The moon gives you light,
And the bugles and the drums give you music,
And my heart. O my soldiers, my veterans,
My heart gives you love.
OUR DEAD SOLDIERS
BY FRANCIS A. WALKER
We come, not to mourn our dead soldiers, but to
praise them. For one, I have never liked, even from
the first, to see, as so often is the case, the flag at
half-mast upon Memorial Day. But if ever it was
appropriate it long since ceased to be so. After so
many years, tears no longer befit the place where the
soldier lies in his last sleep. The bitter grief which
their untimely deaths brought to so many hearts,
Time, the all-healer, has mercifully soothed and soft-
ened into pathetic memories and pious veneration.
Many who then mourned in all pain and passion of
bereavement have themselves followed after, and are
now at peace where there is no more sorrow nor cry-
ing, no more war and fighting, no more absence nor
parting.
But while the reason for personal grief has been
steadily diminishing with the lapse of time and with
the passing away of those who once mourned, the
reason for praising these men and honoring them in
170 MEMORIAL DAY
the eyes of the nation has been steadily increasing, as
we have come to see more and more clearly the
vast and ever-growing significance of that which they
did. When our dead soldiers were brought home
from battlefield or hospital to be laid in quiet graves,
no man in all the land, not even he whose great
prophetic soul conducted the nation to its final deliv-
erance, could possibly rise far enough above the
clamor and the strife, the anguish and the agony of
the time, or peer far enough into the cloudy and
threatening future to see the half of what the dullest
of us now sees of the greatness of the blessings which
were to be purchased by those most pathetic sacrifices.
What they died intent on witnessing, we have lived
to see, — the nation redeemed by the blood of its loyal
sons, disenthralled from an ignoble bondage, purified
of a loathsome leprosy, healed of what seemed a fatal
breach among its members, — rise, glad, proud, free,
triumphant, jubilant, to address itself to the remaining
problems of its existence, to do its appointed work for
its own citizens and for all humanity, and to take its
rightful place among the nations of the earth with a
power not till then suspected, with a true national
purpose that before had been doubtful, hesitating, and
divided, with a real national character that had before
been unformed, inconsistent, and weak.
The nation they saved is in a high sense another na-
tion from that which they went to save, which they
died hoping to save. It has at last a definite purpose.
That purpose is resolute, considerate, peaceful,
beneficent. It has at last an established character.
That character is strong, loyal, acquisitive, enterpris-
THE HEROIC DEAD 171
ing. The nation which amid general gloom and grief
entered into that giant struggle, was at the best but in
the second rank among the powers of the earth. The
stain of human slavery defiled its flag and disfigured
its escutcheon. Its industrial system was paralyzed
along one entire side by laws which made labor dis-
honorable and defaced the image of God in man. The
shameful sweat of unrequited toil and the poisonous
blood that dripped from the lash were slowly steriliz-
ing one-half of its soil. Between the two sections, with
their antagonistic civilizations, political passions had
long been making ever deeper and deeper divisions.
The nation which emerged from that struggle free,
victorious, and forever united has already assumed
the primacy among the nations ; and its power for
good, alike to its own citizenship and to all human
kind, has scarcely yet been intimated to our feeble,
faltering faith. The glorious mission to which it is
called is to illustrate to the world the blessings of
peace and liberty and educated labor. It was to
acnieve this mighty deliverance, it was to work this
marvelous transformation that our brave soldiers died.
Honor, then, immortal honor, to their memories !
Forever green be the graves in which they shall lie
among a grateful people rejoicing in the benefits won
by their heroic sacrifices and untimely death!
172 MEMORIAL DAY
THE UNKNOWN DEAD
BY HENRY TIMROD
The rain is plashing on my sill,
But all the winds of heaven are still;
And so, it falls with that dull sound
Which thrills us in the churchyard ground,
When the first spadeful drops like lead
Upon the coffin of the dead.
Beyond my streaming window-pane
I cannot see the neighboring vane,
Yet from its old familiar tower
The bell comes, muffled, through the shower.
What strange and unsuspected link
Of feeling touched has made me think —
While with a vacant soul and eye
I watch that gray and stony sky —
Of nameless graves on battle plains,
Washed by a single winter's rains,
Where, some beneath Virginian hills,
And some by green Atlantic rills,
Some by the waters of the West,
A myriad unknown heroes rest.
Ah ! not the chiefs who, dying, see
Their flags in front of victory,
Or, at their life-blood's noblest cost
Pay for a battle nobly lost,
Claim from their monumental beds
The bitterest tears a nation sheds.
Beneath yon lonely mound — the spot,
By all save some fond few forgot —
THE HEROIC DEAD 173
Lie the true martyrs of the fight,
Which strikes for freedom and for right.
Of them, their patriot zeal and pride,
The lofty faith that with them died,
No grateful page shall further tell
Than that so many bravely fell ;
And we can only dimly guess
What worlds of all this world's distress,
What utter woe, despair, and dearth,
Their fate has brought to many a hearth.
Just such a sky as this should weep
Above them, always, where they sleep;
Yet, haply, at this very hour,
Their graves are like a lover's bower ;
And Nature's self, with eyes unwet
Oblivious of the crimson debt
To which she owes her April grace,
Laughs gayly o'er their burial place.
ONLY A SOLDIER'S GRAVE
BY S. A. JONES, OF ABERDEEN, MISS.
Only a soldier's grave! Pass by,
For soldiers, like other mortals, die.
Parents he had — they are far away;
No sister weeps o'er the soldier's clay ;
No brother comes, with a tearful eye:
It's only a soldier's grave — pass by.
174 MEMORIAL DAY
True, he was loving, and young, and brave,
Though no glowing epitaph honors his grave;
No proud recital of virtues known,
Of griefs endured, or of triumphs won ;
No tablet of marble, or obelisk high;
Only a soldier's grave — pass by.
Yet bravely he wielded his sword in fight,
And he gave his life in the cause of right!
When his hope was high, and his youthful dream
As warm as the sunlight on yonder stream;
His heart unvexed by sorrow or sigh ; —
Yet, 'tis only a soldier's grave — pass by.
Yet, should we mark it — the soldier's grave,
Some one may seek him in hope to save !
Some of the dear ones, far away,
Would bear him home to his native clay ;
'Twere sad, indeed, should they wander nigh,
Find not the hillock, and pass him by.
(Southern.)
READING THE LIST
ANONYMOUS
' Is there any news of the war ? ' she said.
" Only a list of the wounded and dead,"
Was the man's reply,
Without lifting his eye
To the face of the woman standing by.
THE HEROIC DEAD 175
" Tis the very thing I want," she said ;
" Read me a list of the wounded and dead."
He read the list — 'twas a sad array
Of the wounded and killed in the fatal fray.
In the very midst, was a pause to tell
Of a gallant youth who fought so well
That his comrades asked : " Who is he, pray ? "
" The only son of the Widow Gray,"
Was the proud reply
Of his captain nigh —
What ails the woman standing near ?
Her face has the ashen hue of fear !
" Well, well, read on ; is he wounded ? Quick !
O God! but my heart is sorrow-sick!
Is he wounded ? ' " No ; he fell, they say,
Killed outright on that fatal day ! '
But see, the woman has swooned away!
Sadly she opened her eyes to the light ;
Slowly recalled the events of the fight;
Faintly she murmured : " Killed outright !
It has cost me the life of my only son;
But the battle is fought, and the victory won ;
The will of the Lord, let it be done! "
God pity the cheerless Widow Gray,
And send from the halls of eternal day
The light of his peace to illumine her way.
(Southern.)
1 76 MEMORIAL DAY
DECORATION DAY
BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Sleep, comrades ! sleep and rest
On this field of grounded arms,
Where foes no more molest,
Nor sentry's shot alarms.
Ye have slept on the ground before,
And started to your feet
At the cannon's sudden roar,
Or the drum's redoubling beat.
But in this camp of death
No sound your slumber breaks;
Here is no fevered breath,
No wound that bleeds and aches.
All is repose and peace;
Untrampled lies the sod;
The shouts of battle cease, —
It is the truce of God.
Rest, comrades ! rest and sleep !
The thoughts of men should be
As sentinels, to keep
Your rest from dangers free.
Your silent tents of green
We deck with fragrant flowers;
Yours has the suffering been,
The memory shall be ours.
THE HEROIC DEAD 177
OUR COUNTRY'S DEFENDERS
BY WILLIAM MCKINLEY
Blessed is that country whose soldiers fight for it
and are willing to give the best they have, the best that
any man has, their own lives, to preserve it because
they love it. Such an army the United States has
always commanded in every crisis of her history.
From the War of the Revolution to the late Civil
War, the men followed that flag in battle because they
loved that flag and believed in what it represented.
That was the stuff of which the volunteer army of
'61 was made. Every one of them not only fought,
but thought. And many of them did their own think-
ing and did not always agree with their commander.
A young soldier in the late war was on the battle line
ahead with the color-guard, bearing the stars and
stripes way in front of the line, but the enemy still in
front of him. The general called out to the color-
bearer, " Bring those colors back to the line," and
quicker than any bullet that young soldier answered
back, "Bring the line up to the colors." It was the
voice of command; there was a man behind it, and
there was patriotism in his heart.
" So nigh is grandeur to our dust ;
So near to God is man,
When duty whispers low, 'Thou must/
The youth replies, ' I can.' "
And so, more than two million brave men thus re-
sponded and made up an army grander than any army
178 MEMORIAL DAY
that ever shook the earth with its tread, and engaged in
a holier cause than ever engaged soldiers before.
What defenders, my countrymen, have we now?
We have the remnant of this old, magnificent, match-
less army, of which I have been speaking, and then
as allies in any future war, we have the brave men
who fought against us on Southern battlefields. The
Army of Grant and the Army of Lee are together.
They are one now in faith, in hope, in fraternity, in
purpose, and in an invincible patriotism. And, there-
fore, the country is in no danger. In justice strong, in
peace secure, and in devotion to the flag all one.
HYMN FOR MEMORIAL DAY
Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S. C.
BY HENRY TIMROD
Sleep sweetly in your humble graves —
Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause!
Though yet no marble column craves
The pilgrim here to pause,
In seeds of laurel in the earth
The blossom of your fame is blown,
And somewhere, waiting for its birth,
The shaft is in the stone!
Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years
Which keep in trust your storied tombs,
Behold! your sisters bring their tears
And these memorial blooms.
THE HEROIC DEAD 179
Small tributes ; but your shades will smile
More proudly on these wreaths to-day
Than when some cannon-molded pile
Shall overlook this bay.
Stoop, angels, hither from the skies !
There is no holier spot of ground
Than where defeated valor lies
By mourning beauty crowned.
HEROES OF THE SOUTH
From an Ode on the Valor and Sufferings of
Confederate Soldiers
BY PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE
Four deadly years we fought,
Ringed by a girdle of unfaltering fire
That coiled and hissed in lessening circles nigher.
Blood dyed the Southern wave ;
From ocean border to calm inland river,
There was no pause, no peace, no respite ever.
Blood of our bravest brave
Drenched in a scarlet rain the western lea,
Swelled the hoarse waters of the Tennessee,
Incarnadined the gulfs, the lakes, the rills,
And from a hundred hills
Steamed in a mist of slaughter to the skies,
Shutting all hope of heaven from mortal eyes.
180 MEMORIAL DAY
The Beaufort blooms were wither'd on the stem;
The fair Gulf City in a single night
Lost her imperial diadem ;
And wheresoever men's troubled vision roamed
They viewed Might towering o'er the humbled crest of
Right !
But for a time, but for a time, O God!
The innate forces of our knightly blood
Rallied, and by the mount, the fen, the flood,
Upraised the tottering standards of our race.
O grand Virginia! though thy glittering glaive
Lies sullied, shattered in a ruthless grave,
How it flashed once !
They dug their trenches deep
(The implacable foe), they ranged their lines of wrath;
But watchful ever on the imminent path
Thy steel-clad genius stood;
North, South, East, West, — they strove to pierce thy
shield :
Thou wouldst not yield !
Until — unconquered, yea, unconquered still —
Nature's weakened forces answered not thy will,
And gored with wound on wound,
Thy fainting limbs and forehead sought the ground ;
And with thee, the young nation fell, a pall
Solemn and rayless, covering one and all!
God's ways are marvelous ; here we stand to-day
Discrown'd, and shorn in wildest disarray,
The mock of earth ! yet never shone the sun
On sterner deeds, or nobler victories won.
THE HEROIC DEAD 181
Not in the field alone; ah, come with me
To the dim bivouac by the winter's sea ;
Mark the fair sons of courtly mothers crouch
O'er flickering fires; but gallant still, and gay
As on some bright parade. Or mark the couch
In reeking hospitals, whereon is laid
The latest scion of a line perchance
Whose veins were royal. Close your blurred romance,
Blurred by the dropping of a maudlin tear,
And watch the manhood here ;
That firm but delicate countenance,
Distorted sometimes by an awful pang,
Borne in meek patience. When the trumpets rang
1 To horse! " but yester-morn, that ardent boy
Sprang to his charger, thrilled with hope and joy
To the very finger-tips ; and now he lies,
The shadows deepening in those falcon eyes,
But calm and undismayed
As if the Death that chills him, brow and breast,
Were some fond bride who whispered, " Let us rest ! "
Enough ! 'tis over ! the last gleam of hope
Hath melted from our mournful horoscope —
Of all, of all bereft;
Only to us are left
Our buried heroes and their matchless deeds.
These cannot pass ; they hold the vital seeds
Which in some far, untracked, unvisioned hour
May burst to vivid bud and glorious flower.
Meanwhile, upon the nation's broken heart
Her martyrs sleep. Oh, dearer far to her
Than if each son, a wreathed conqueror,
182 MEMORIAL DAY
Rode in triumphant state
The loftiest crest of fate;
Oh, dearer far, because outcast and low,
She yearns above them in her awful woe.
(Southern.)
FROM " AN ODE IN TIME OF HESITATION " l
1900
ROBERT GOULD SHAW
BY WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY
The wars we wage
Are noble, and our battles still are won
By justice for us, ere we lift the gage.
We have not sold our loftiest heritage.
The proud republic hath not stooped to cheat
And scramble in the market place of war;
Her forehead weareth yet its solemn star.
Here is her witness : this, her perfect son,
This delicate and proud New England soul
Who leads despised men, with just-unshackled feet,
Up the large ways where death and glory meet,
To show all peoples that our shame is done,
That once more we are clean and spirit-whole.
Crouched in the sea fog on the moaning sand
All night he lay, speaking some simple word
From hour to hour to the slow minds that heard,
Holding each poor life gently in his hand
lBy permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifftin & Co.
THE HEROIC DEAD 183
And breathing on the base rejected clay
Till each dark face shone mystical and grand
Against the breaking day;
And lo, the shard the potter cast away
Was grown a fiery chalice crystal-fine,
Fulfilled of the divine
Great wine of battle wrath by God's ring-finger stirred.
Then upward, where the shadowy bastion loomed
Huge on the mountain in the wet sea light,
Whence now, and now, infernal flowerage bloomed,
Bloomed, burst, and scattered down its deadly seed —
They swept and died like freemen on the height,
Like freemen, and like men of noble breed;
And when the battle fell away at night
By hasty and contemptuous hands were thrust
Obscurely in a common grave with him
The fair-haired keeper of their love and trust.
Now limb doth mingle with dissolved limb
In nature's busy old democracy
To flush the mountain laurel when she blows
Sweet by the southern sea,
And heart with crumbled heart climbs in the rose: —
The untaught hearts with the high heart that knew
This mountain fortress for no earthly hold
Of temporal quarrel, but the bastion old
Of spiritual wrong,
Built by an unjust nation sheer and strong,
Expugnable but by a nation's rue
And bowing down before that equal shrine
By all men held divine,
Whereof his band and he were the most holy sign.
1 84 MEMORIAL DAY
AN ODE1
On the Unveiling of the Shaw Memorial on Boston
Common, May 31, 1897
BY THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH
Not with slow, funereal sound
Come we to this sacred ground;
Not with wailing fife and solemn muffled drum,
Bringing a cypress wreath
To lay, with bended knee,
On the cold brows of Death —
Not so, dear God, we come,
But with the trumpets' blare
And shot-torn battle-banners flung to air,
As for a victory !
Hark to the measured tread of martial feet,
The music and the murmurs of the street !
No bugle breathes this day
Disaster and retreat!
Hark, how the iron lips
Of the great battleships
Salute the City from her azure Bay!
ii
Time was — time was, ah, unforgotten years! —
We paid our hero tribute of our tears.
But now let go
1 By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
THE HEROIC DEAD 185
All sounds and signs and formulas of woe:
Tis Life, not Death, we celebrate;
To Life, not Death, we dedicate
This storied bronze, whereon is wrought
The lithe immortal figure of our thought,
To show forever to men's eyes,
Our children's children's children's eyes,
How once he stood
In that heroic mood,
He and his dusky braves
So fain of glorious graves! —
One instant stood, and then
Drave through that cloud of purple steel and flame,
Which wrapt him, held him, gave him not again,
But in its trampled ashes left to Fame
An everlasting name !
in
That was indeed to live —
At one bold swoop to wrest
From darkling death the best
That death to life can give.
He fell as Roland fell
That day at Roncevaux,
With foot upon the ramparts of the foe !
A paean, not a knell,
For heroes dying so!
No need for sorrow here,
No room for sigh or tear,
Save such rich tears as happy eyelids know.
See where he rides, our Knight!
Within his eyes the light
1 86 MEMORIAL DAY
Of battle, and youth's gold about his brow;
Our Paladin, our Soldier of the Cross,
Not weighing gain with loss —
World-loser, that won all
Obeying duty's call!
Not his, at peril's frown,
A pulse of quicker beat ;
Not his to hesitate
And parley hold with Fate,
But proudly to fling down
His gauntlet at her feet.
O soul of loyal valor and white truth,
Here, by this iron gate,
Thy serried ranks about thee as of yore,
Stand thou for evermore
In thy undying youth!
The tender heart, the eagle eye !
Oh, unto him belong
The homages of Song;
Our praises and the praise
Of coming days
To him belong —
To him, to him, the dead that shall not die !
THE BATTLEFIELD
BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts and armed hands
Encountered in the battle-cloud.
THE HEROIC DEAD 187
Ah ! never shall the land forget
How gushed the life-blood of her brave —
Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,
Upon the soil they fought to save.
Now all is calm, and fresh, and still ;
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
And talk of children on the hill,
And bell of wandering kine are heard.
No solemn host goes trailing by
The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain;
Men start not at the battle-cry,
Oh, be it never heard again !
Soon rested those who fought; but thou
Who minglest in the harder strife
For truths which men receive not now,
Thy warfare only ends with life.
A friendless warfare ! lingering long
Through weary day and weary year,
A wild and many-weaponed throng
.Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.
Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,
And blench not at thy chosen lot.
The timid good may stand aloof,
The sage may frown — yet faint thou not.
Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn ;
For with thy side shall dwell, at last,
The victory of endurance born.
i88 MEMORIAL DAY
Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again ;
The eternal years of God are hers ;
But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,
And dies among his worshipers.
Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
When they who helped thee flee in fear,
Die full of hope and manly trust,
Like those who fell in battle here.
Another hand thy sword shall wield,
Another hand the standard wave,
Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.
UNDER THE STARS
BY WALLACE RICE
Tell me what sail the seas
Under the stars?
Ships, and ships' companies,
Off to the wars.
Steel are the ship's great sides,
Steel are her guns,
Backward she thrusts the tides,
Swiftly she runs;
Steel is the sailor's heart,
Stalwart his arm,
His the Republic's part
Through cloud and storm.
THE HEROIC DEAD 189
Tell me what standard rare
Streams from the spars ?
Red stripes and white they bear,
Blue, with bright stars:
Red for brave hearts that burn
With liberty,
White for the peace they earn
Making men free,
Stars for the Heaven above, —
Blue for the deep,
Where, in their country's love,
Heroes shall sleep.
Tell me why on the breeze
These banners blow?
Ships, and ships' companies,
Eagerly go
Warring, like all our line,
Freedom to friend
Under this starry sign,
True to the end.
Fair is the Flag's renown,
Sacred her scars,
Sweet the death she shall crown
Under the stars.
190 MEMORIAL DAY
SHERMAN *
BY RICHARD WATSON GILDER
Glory and honor and fame and everlasting laudation
For our captains who loved not war, but fought for
the life of the nation;
Who knew that, in all the land, one slave meant strife,
not peace;
Who fought for freedom, not glory; made war that
war might cease.
Glory and honor and fame; the beating of muffled
drums ;
The wailing funeral dirge, as the flag-wrapped coffin
comes ;
Fame and honor and glory ; and joy for a noble soul,
For a full and splendid life, and laureled rest at the
goal.
Glory and honor and fame; the pomp that a soldier
prizes ;
The league-long waving line as the marching falls and
rises ;
Rumbling of caissons and guns ; the clatter of horses'
feet,
And a million awe-struck faces far down the waiting
street.
1 By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
THE HEROIC DEAD 191
But better than martial woe, and the pageant of civic
sorrow ;
Better than praise of to-day, or the statue we build to-
morrow ;
Better than honor and glory, and history's iron pen,
Was the thought of duty done and the love of his fel-
low-men.
OUR HONORED DEAD
BY HENRY WARD BEECHER
Oh, tell me not that they are dead — that generous
host, that airy army of invisible heroes ! They hover
as a cloud of witnesses above this Nation. Are they
dead that yet speak louder than we can speak, and a
more universal language? Are they dead that yet
act? Are they dead that yet move upon society, and
inspire the people with nobler motives and more heroic
patriotism? . . .
Every mountain and hill shall have its treasured
name, every river shall keep some solemn title, every
valley and every lake shall cherish its honored register ;
and till the mountains are worn out, and the rivers for-
get to flow — till the clouds are weary of replenishing
springs, and the springs forget to gush, and the rills to
sing, shall their names be kept fresh with reverent hon-
ors which are inscribed upon the book of National Re-
membrance !
192 MEMORIAL DAY
ROLL-CALL
BY NATHANIEL GRAHAM SHEPHERD
tt
tt
Corporal Green ! ' the Orderly cried ;
Here ! " was the answer loud and clear,
From the lips of a soldier who stood near, —
And " Here! " was the word the next replied.
' Cyrus Drew ! " — then a silence fell ;
This time no answer followed the call ;
Only his rear-man had seen him fall:
Killed or wounded — he could not tell.
There they stood in the failing light,
These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,
As plain to be read as open books,
While slowly gathered the shades of night.
The fern on the hillsides was splashed with blood,
And down in the corn, where the poppies grew,
Were redder stains than the poppies knew,
And crimson-dyed was the river's flood.
For the foe had crossed from the other side,
That day, in the face of a murderous fire
That swept them down in its terrible ire ;
And their life-blood went to color the tide.
" Herbert Cline ! "—At the call there came
Two stalwart soldiers into the line,
Bearing between them this Herbert Cline,
Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.
THE HEROIC DEAD 193
" Ezra Kerr ! " — and a voice answered " Here ! '
" Hiram Kerr ! " — but no man replied.
They were brothers, these two ; the sad wind sighed,
And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.
" Ephraim Deane ! " — then a soldier spoke :
" Deane carried our regiment's colors," he said,
" When our ensign was shot ; I left him dead
Just after the enemy wavered and broke.
" Close to the roadside his body lies ;
I paused a moment and gave him to drink;
He murmured his mother's name, I think,
And Death came with it and closed his eyes."
'Twas a victory, — yes ; but it cost us dear :
For that company's roll, when called at night,
Of a hundred men who went into the fight,
Numbered but twenty that answered "Here!"
A SOLDIER POET
BY ROSSITER JOHNSON
Where swell the songs thou shouldst have sung
By peaceful rivers yet to flow?
Where bloom the smiles thy ready tongue
Would call to lips that loved thee so ?
On what far shore of being tossed,
Dost thou resume the genial stave,
And strike again the lyre we lost
By Rappahannock's troubled wave?
194 MEMORIAL DAY
If that new world hath hill and stream,
And breezy bank, and quiet dell,
If forests murmur, waters gleam,
And wayside flowers their story tell,
Thy hand ere this has plucked the reed
That wavered by the wooded shore ;
Its prisoned soul thy fingers freed
To float melodious evermore.
So seems it to my musing mood,
So runs it in my surer thought,
That much of beauty, more of good,
For thee the rounded years have wrought ;
That life will live, however blown
Like vapor on the summer air ;
That power perpetuates its own;
That silence here is music there.
A GEORGIA VOLUNTEER
BY MARY ASHLEY TOWNSEND
Far up the lonely mountain-side
My wandering footsteps led ;
The moss lay thick beneath my feet,
The pine sighed overhead.
The trace of a dismantled fort
Lay in the forest nave,
And in the shadow near my path
I saw a soldier's grave.
THE HEROIC DEAD 195
The bramble wrestled with the weed
Upon the lowly mound; —
The simple head-board, rudely writ,
Had rotted to the ground;
I raised it with a reverent hand,
From dust its words to clear,
But time had blotted all but these —
" A Georgia Volunteer ! "
I saw the toad and scaly snake
From tangled covert start,
And hide themselves among the weeds
Above the dead man's heart;
But undisturbed, in sleep profound,
Unheeding, there he lay;
His coffin but the mountain soil,
His shroud Confederate gray.
I heard the Shenandoah roll
Along the vale below,
I saw the Alleghanies rise
Towards the realms of snow.
The ; Valley Campaign ' rose to mind —
Its leader's name — and then
I knew the sleeper had been one
Of Stonewall Jackson's men.
Yet whence he came, what lip shall say —
Whose tongue will ever tell
What desolated hearths and hearts
Have been because he fell ?
I96 MEMORIAL DAY
What sad-eyed maiden braids her hair,
Her hair which he held dear?
One lock of which perchance lies with
The Georgia Volunteer!
What mother, with long watching eyes,
And white lips cold and dumb,
Waits with appalling patience for
Her darling boy to come?
Her boy ! whose mountain grave swells up
But one of many a scar,
Cut on the face of our fair land,
By gory-handed war.
What fights he fought, what wounds he wore,
Are all unknown to fame;
Remember, on his lonely grave
There is not e'en a name!
That he fought well and bravely too,
And held his country dear,
We know, else he had never been
A Georgia Volunteer.
He sleeps — what need to question now
If he were wrong or right?
He knows, ere this, whose cause was just
In God the Father's sight.
He wields no warlike weapons now,
Returns no foeman's thrust —
Who but a coward would revile
An honest soldier's dust?
THE HEROIC DEAD 197
Roll, Shenandoah, proudly roll,
Adown thy rocky glen,
Above thee lies the grave of one
Of Stonewall Jackson's men.
Beneath the cedar and the pine,
In solitude austere,
Unknown, unnamed, forgotten, lies
A Georgia Volunteer.
THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD
BY THEODORE O'HARA
The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo ;
No more on Life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On Fame's eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And Glory guards, with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.
No rumor of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wind ;
No troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;
No vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dream alarms ;
No braying horn nor screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.
198 MEMORIAL DAY
Their shivered swords are red with rust,
Their plumed heads are bowed ;
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud.
And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow,
And the proud forms, by battle gashed,
Are free from anguish now.
The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout, are past ;
Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that nevermore may feel
The rapture of the fight.
Like the fierce northern hurricane
That sweeps his great plateau,
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,
Came down the serried foe.
Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o'er the field beneath,
Knew well the watchword of that day
Was " Victory or Death."
Long had the doubtful conflict raged
O'er all that stricken plain,
For never fiercer fight had waged
The vengeful blood of Spain ;
THE HEROIC DEAD 199
And still the storm of battle blew,
Still swelled the gory tide ;
Not long, our stout old chieftain knew,
Such odds his strength could bide.
Twas in that hour his stern command
Called to a martyr's grave
The flower of his beloved land,
The nation's flag to save.
By rivers of their fathers' gore
His first-born laurels grew,
And well he deemed the sons would pour
Their lives for glory too.
Full many a norther's breath has swept
O'er Angostura's plain,
And long the pitying sky has wept
Above its moldered slain.
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,
Or shepherd's pensive lay,
Alone awakes each sullen height
That frowned o'er that dread fray.
Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground,
Ye must not slumber there,
Where stranger steps and tongues resound
Along the heedless air.
Your own proud land's heroic soil
Shall be your fitter grave :
She claims from war his richest spoil —
The ashes of her brave.
200 MEMORIAL DAY
Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the gory field,
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast
On many a bloody shield;
The sunshine of their native sky
Smiles sadly on them here,
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The heroes' sepulchre.
Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!
Dear as the blood ye gave;
No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave ;
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While Fame her record keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.
Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,
When many a vanished age hath flown,
The story how ye fell ;
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor Time's remorseless doom,
Shall dim one ray of glory's light
That gilds your deathless tomb.
THE HEROIC DEAD 201
MEMORIALS
On the Slain at Chickamauga
BY HERMAN MELVILLE
Happy are they and charmed in life
Who through long wars arrive unscarred
At peace. To such the wreath be given,
If they unfalteringly have striven —
In honor, as in limb, unmarred.
Let cheerful praise be rife,
And let them live their years at ease,
Musing on brothers who victorious died —
Loved mates whose memory shall ever please.
And yet mischance is honorable too —
Seeming defeat in conflict justified,
Whose end to closing eyes is hid from view
The will, that never can relent —
Long as the stars do gleam upon it
Shall memory come to dream upon it.
ELEGIAC
BY JAMES GATES PERCIVAL
O, it is great for our country to die, where ranks are
contending !
Bright is the wreath of our fame ; glory awaits us for
aye,—
202 MEMORIAL DAY
Glory, that never is dim, shining on with light never
ending, —
Glory that never shall fade, never, O never, away!
O, it is sweet for our country to die! How softly
reposes
Warrior youth on his bier, wet by the tears of his
love,
Wet by a mother's warm tears. They crown him with
garlands of roses,
Weep, and then joyously turn, bright where he tri-
umphs above.
Not to the shades shall the youth descend, who for
country hath perished ;
Hebe awaits him in heaven, welcomes him there
with her smile;
There, at the banquet divine, the patriot spirit is cher-
ished ;
Gods love the young who ascend pure from the
funeral pile.
Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious river ;
Not to the isles of the blest, over the blue, rolling
sea;
But on Olympian heights shall dwell the devoted for-
ever ;
There shall assemble the good, there the wise,
valiant, and free.
O, then, how great for our country to die, in the front
rank to perish,
Firm with our breast to the foe, victory's shout in
our ear!
THE HEROIC DEAD 203
Long they our statues shall crown, in songs our mem-
ory cherish ;
We shall look forth from our heaven, pleased the
sweet music to hear.
VANQUISHED
BY FRANCIS FISHER BROWNE
Not by the ball or brand
Sped by a mortal hand,
Not by the lightning stroke
When fiery tempests broke, —
Not mid the ranks of War
Fell the great Conqueror.
ii
Unmoved, undismayed,
In the crash and carnage of the cannonade, —
Eye that dimmed not, hand that failed not,
Brain that swerved not, heart that quailed not,
Steel nerve, iron form, —
The dauntless spirit that overruled the storm.
in
While the Hero peaceful slept
A foeman to his chamber crept,
Lightly to the slumberer came,
Touched his brow and breathed his name :
O'er the stricken form there passed
Suddenly an icy blast.
204 MEMORIAL DAY
IV
The Hero woke, rose undismayed,
Saluted Death, and sheathed his blade.
The Conqueror of a hundred fields
To a mightier Conqueror yields ;
No mortal foeman's blow
Laid the great Soldier low :
Victor in his latest breath —
Vanquished but by Death.
THE NATION'S DEAD
ANONYMOUS
Four hundred thousand men
The brave — the good — the true,
In tangled wood, in mountain glen,
On battle plain, in prison pen,
Lie dead for me and you!
Four hundred thousand of the brave
Have made our ransomed soil their grave,
For me and you !
Good friend, for me and you !
In many a fevered swamp,
By many a black bayou,
In many a cold and frozen camp,
The weary sentinel ceased his tramp,
And died for me and you !
THE HEROIC DEAD 205
From western plain to ocean tide
Are stretched the graves of those who died
For me and you !
Good friend, for me and you !
On many a bloody plain
Their ready swords they drew,
And poured their life-blood like the rain
A home — a heritage to gain,
To gain for me and you!
Our brothers mustered by our side ;
They marched, they fought, and bravely died
For me and you !
Good friend, for me and you!
Up many a fortress wall
They charged — those boys in blue —
'Mid surging smoke, the volley'd ball ;
The bravest were the first to fall !
To fall for me and you !
These noble men — the Nation's pride —
Four hundred thousand men have died
For me and you !
Good friend, for me and you !
In treason's prison-hold
Their martyr spirits grew
To stature like the saints of old,
While amid agonies untold,
They starved for me and you!
206 MEMORIAL DAY
The good, the patient, and the tried,
Four hundred thousand men have died
For me and you !
Good friend, for me and you !
A debt we ne'er can pay
To them is justly due,
And to the Nation's latest day
Our children's children still shall say,
" They died for me and you ! '
Four hundred thousand of the brave
Made this, our ransomed soil, their grave,
For me and you !
Good friend, for me and you !
A BALLAD OF HEROES
BY AUSTIN DOBSON
" Now all your victories are in vain."
Because you passed, and now are not—
Because in some remoter day
Your sacred dust in doubtful spot
Was blown of ancient airs away —
Because you perished — must men say
Your deeds were naught, and so profane
Your lives with that cold burden ? Nay,
The deeds you wrought are not in vain.
THE HEROIC DEAD 207
Though it may be, above the plot
That hid your once imperial clay,
No greener than o'er men forgot
The unregarding grasses sway;
Though there no sweeter is the lay
Of careless bird; though you remain
Without distinction of decay,
The deeds you wrought are not in vain.
No, for while yet in tower or cot
Your story stirs the pulse's play,
And men forget the sordid lot —
The sordid cares — of cities gray ;
While yet they grow for homelier fray
More strong from you, as reading plain
That Life may go, if Honor stay,
The deeds you wrought are not in vain.
ENVOY
Heroes of old, I humbly lay
The laurel on your graves again;
Whatever men have done, men may —
The deeds you wrought are not in vain.
208 MEMORIAL DAY
THE DEAD COMRADE *
BY RICHARD WATSON GILDER
At the Burial of Grant, a Bugler Stood Forth and
Sounded " Taps ''
Come, soldiers, arouse ye!
Another has gone ;
Let us bury our comrade,
His battles are done.
His sun it is set ;
He was true, he was brave,
He feared not the grave,
There is naught to regret.
Bring music and banners
And wreaths for his bier, —
No fault of the fighter
That Death conquered here.
Bring him home ne'er to rove,
Bear him home to his rest,
And over his breast
Fold the flag of his love.
Great Captain of battles,
We leave him with Thee!
What was wrong, O forgive it ;
His spirit make free.
1 By permission of the publishers, Houghton, MiMin & Co.
THE HEROIC DEAD 209
Sound taps, and away!
Out light, and to bed!
Farewell, soldier dead!
Farewell — for a day.
THE VOLUNTEER
BY FRANK L. STANTON
The band was playing " Dixie " when he marched,
marched away;
An' never any likelier lad stept time to it that day;
" The finest fellow of 'em all ! " I heard the town-folk
say.
The band was playin' " Dixie ' as he marched,
marched away.
How fast my wild arms held him, — my boy, who would
not stay, —
The likeliest lad that answered to the captain's call
that day !
" The finest fellow of 'em all ! " An' in the red array
Of flags that rippled over them they marched my lad
away !
But a mother's fears and prayers and tears were
nothing. War must slay,
And the draped, deep drums were muffled as they
brought him home that day !
" The finest fellow of 'em all ! " I heard the town-folk
say,
And his mother bendin' over him, — dead at her feet
that day !
(Southern.)
210 MEMORIAL DAY
THE SMALLEST OF THE DRUMS
BY JAMES BUCKHAM
When the opulence of summer unto wood and meadow
comes,
And within the tangled graveyard riot old-time spice
and bloom,
Then dear Nature brings her tribute to the " smallest
of the drums,"
Spreads the sweetest of her blossoms on the little
soldier's tomb.
In the quiet country village, still they tell you how he
died;
And the story moves you strangely, more than other
tales of war.
Thrice heroic seems the hero, if he be a child beside,
And the wound that tears his bosom is more sad
than others far.
In the ranks of Sherman's army none so young and
small as he,
With his face so soft and dimpled, and his innocent
blue eyes.
Yet of all the Union drummers he could drum most
skillfully,
With a spirit — said his colonel — fit to make the dead
arise !
THE HEROIC DEAD 211
In the charge of Chickamauga (so, beside his little
grave,
You may learn the hero's story of some villager,
perchance),
When his regiment sank, broken, from the rampart,
like a wave,
Thrice the clangor of his drum-beat rallied to a
fresh advance.
There he stood upon the hillside, capless, with his
shining hair
Blown about his childish forehead like the bright
silk of the corn;
And the men looked up and saw him standing brave
and scathless there,
As an angel on a hilltop, in the drifting mist of morn.
Thrice they rallied at his drum-beat, — then the tat-
tered flag went down !
Someone caught it, waved it skyward for a mo-
ment, and then fell.
In the dust, the gore, and drabble, all the stars of
freedom's crown,
And the soldiers beaten backward from the emblem
loved so well!
Then our drummer-boy, our hero, from his neck the
drum-cord flung
And amid the hail of bullets to the fallen banner
sped.
212 MEMORIAL DAY
Quick he raised it from dishonor; quick before them
all he sprung,
And in fearless, proud defiance, waved the old flag
o'er his head!
For a minute's space the cheering, louder than the sing-
ing balls,
And the soldiers pressing forward, closing up their
broken line,
Then the child's bright head, death-stricken, on his
throbbing bosom falls,
And the brave eyes that God lighted cease with life
and soul to shine.
In the flag he saved they wrapped him ; in that starry
shroud he lies,
And the roses, and the lilacs, and the daisies seem to
know;
For in all that peaceful acre, sleeping 'neath the sum-
mer skies,
There is neither mound nor tablet that is wreathed
and guarded so !
THE VOLUNTEER
BY ELBRIDGE JEFFERSON CUTLER
" At dawn," he said, " I bid them all farewell,
To go where bugles call and rifles gleam."
And with the restless thought asleep he fell,
And glided into dream.
THE HEROIC DEAD 213
A great hot plain from sea to mountain spread, —
Through it a level river slowly drawn;
He moved with a vast crowd, and at its head
Streamed banners like the dawn.
There came a blinding flash, a deafening roar,
And dissonant cries of triumph and dismay ;
Blood trickled down the river's reedy shore,
And with the dead he lay.
The morn broke in upon his solemn dreams,
And still with steady pulse and deepening eye,
( Where bugles call," he said, " and rifles gleam,
I follow, though I die ! "
Wise youth ! By few is glory's wreath attained ;
But death, or late or soon, awaiteth all,
To fight in Freedom's cause is something gained, —
And nothing lost to fall.
OUR HEROES
BY JOHN ALBION ANDREW
The heart swells with unwonted emotion when we
remember our sons and brothers, whose constant valor
has sustained on the field the cause of our country,
of civilization, and liberty. On the ocean, on the riv-
ers, on the land, on the heights where they thundered
down from the clouds of Lookout Mountain the de-
214 MEMORIAL DAY
fiance of the skies, they have graven with their swords
a record imperishable.
The Muse herself demands the lapse of silent years
to soften, by the influence of time, her too keen and
poignant realization of the scenes of War, — the pathos,
the heroism, the fierce joy, the grief of battle. But
during the ages to come she will brood over their
memory. Into the hearts of her consecrated priests
she will breathe the inspirations of lofty and undying
beauty, sublimity, and truth, in all the glowing forms
of speech, of literature, and plastic art. By the homely
traditions of the fireside, by the headstones in the
churchyard consecrated to those whose forms repose
far off in rude graves, or sleep beneath the sea, em-
balmed in the memories of succeeding generations of
parents and children, the heroic dead will live on in
immortal youth.
The bell which rang out the Declaration of Inde-
pendence has found at last a voice articulate, to " pro-
claim liberty throughout all the land unto all the in-
habitants thereof." It has been heard across oceans,
and has modified the sentiments of cabinets and kings.
The people of the Old World have heard it, and their
hearts stop to catch the last whisper of its echoes. The
poor slave has heard it; and with bounding joy, tem-
pered by the mystery of religion, he worships and
adores. The waiting continent has heard it, and al-
ready foresees the fulfilled prophecy, when she will sit
' redeemed, regenerated, and disenthralled by the
irresistible Genius of Universal Emancipation."
THE HEROIC DEAD 215
COME UP FROM THE FIELDS, FATHER1
BY WALT WHITMAN
Come up from the fields, father, here's a letter from
our Pete,
And come to the front door, mother, here's a letter
from thy dear son.
Lo, 'tis autumn,
Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder,
Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages with leaves flutter-
ing in the moderate wind,
Where apples ripe in the orchards hang and grapes
on the trellis'd vines,
(Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines?
Smell you the buckwheat where the bees were lately
buzzing?)
Above all, lo, the sky so calm, so transparent after
the rain, and with wondrous clouds,
Below too, all calm, all vital and beautiful and the
farm prospers well.
Down in the fields all prospers well,
But now from the fields come, father, come at the
daughter's call,
And come to the entry, mother, to the front door come
right away.
1 By permission of the publisher, David McKay, Phila-
delphia.
216 MEMORIAL DAY
Fast as she can she hurries, something ominous, her
steps trembling,
She does not tarry to smooth her hair nor adjust her
cap.
Open the envelope quickly,
O this is not our son's writing, yet his name is sign'd,
O a strange hand writes for our dear son, O stricken
mother's soul !
All swims before her eyes, flashes with black, she
catches the main words only,
Sentences broken, gunshot wound in the breast, cav-
alry skirmish, taken to hospital,
At present low, but will soon be better.
Ah now the single figure to me,
Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio with all its cities
and farms,
Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very
faint,
By the jamb of a door leans.
Grieve not so, dear mother (the just-grown daughter
speaks through her sobs,
The little sisters huddle around speechless and dis-
may'd,)
See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be
better.
Alas poor boy, he will never be better, (nor may-be
needs to be better, that brave and simple soul,)
While they stand at home at the door he is dead al-
ready,
The only son is dead.
THE HEROIC DEAD 217
But the mother needs to be better,
She with thin form presently drest in black,
By day her meals untouch'd, then at night fitfully
sleeping, often waking,
In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one
deep longing,
O that she might withdraw unnoticed, silent from
life escape and withdraw,
To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son.
THE DEATH OF GRANT
BY AMBROSE BIERCE
Father ! whose hard and cruel law
Is part of thy compassion's plan,
Thy works presumptuously we scan
For what the prophets say they saw.
Unbidden still, the awful slope
Walling us in, we climb to gain
Assurance of the shining plain
That faith has certified to hope.
In vain : beyond the circling hill
The shadow and the cloud abide ;
Subdue the doubt, our spirits guide
To trust the Record and be still ;
218 MEMORIAL DAY
To trust it loyally as he
Who, heedful of his high design,
Ne'er raised a seeking eye to thine,
But wrought thy will unconsciously,
Disputing not of chance or fate,
Nor questioning of cause or creed:
For anything but duty's deed
Too simply wise, too humbly great.
The cannon syllabled his name;
His shadow shifted o'er the land,
Portentous, as at his command
Successive cities sprang to flame !
He fringed the continent with fire,
The rivers ran in lines of light!
Thy will be done on earth — if right
Or wrong he cared not to inquire.
His was the heavy hand, and his
The service of the despot blade ;
His the soft answer that allayed
War's giant animosities.
Let us have peace : our clouded eyes
Fill, Father, with another light,
That we may see with clearer sight
Thy servant's soul in Paradise.
THE HEROIC DEAD 219
THE BURIAL OF GRANT *
New York, August 8, 1885
BY RICHARD WATSON GILDER
Ye living soldiers of the mighty war,
Once more from roaring cannon and the drums
And bugles blown at morn, the summons comes;
Forget the halting limb, each wound and scar;
Once more your Captain calls to you ;
Come to his last review !
And come ye, too, bright spirits of the dead,
Ye who went heavenward from the embattled field ;
And ye whose harder fate it was to yield
Life from the loathful prison or anguished bed:
Dear ghosts ! come join your comrades here
Beside this sacred bier.
Nor be ye absent, ye immortal band,
Warriors of ages past, and our own age, —
Who drew the sword for right, and not in rage,
Made war that peace might live in all the land,
Nor ever struck one vengeful blow,
But helped the fallen foe.
And fail not ye — but, ah, ye falter not —
To join his army of the dead and living,
Ye who once felt his might, and his forgiving :
1 By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
220 MEMORIAL DAY
Brothers, whom more in love than hate he smote.
For all his countrymen make room
By our great hero's tomb !
Come soldiers, — not to battle as of yore,
But come to weep ; ay, shed your noblest tears ;
For lo, the stubborn chief, who knew not fears,
Lies cold at last, ye shall not see him more.
How long grim Death he fought and well,
That, poor, lean frame doth tell.
All's over now; here let our Captain rest,
Silent amid the blare of praise and blame ;
Here let him rest, alone with his great fame,—
Here in the city's heart he loved the best,
And where our sons his tomb may see
To make them brave as he : —
As brave as he — he on whose iron arm
Our Greatest leaned, our gentlest and most wise, —
Leaned when all other help seemed mocking lies,
While this one soldier checked the tide of harm,
And they together saved the State,
And made it free and great.
THE GRAVES OF THE PATRIOTS
BY JAMES GATES PERCIVAL
Here rest the great and good, — here they repose
After their generous toil. A sacred band,
They take their sleep together, while the year
THE HEROIC DEAD 221
Comes with its early flowers to deck their graves,
And gather them again, as winter frowns.
Theirs is no vulgar sepulcher, — green sods
Are all their monument; and yet it tells
A nobler history than pillared piles,
Or the eternal pyramids. They need
No statue nor inscription to reveal
Their greatness. It is round them ; and the joy
With which their children tread the hallowed ground
That holds their venerated bones, the peace
That smiles on all they fought for, and the wealth
That clothes the land they rescued, — these, though
mute
As feeling ever is when deepest, — these
Are monuments more lasting than the fanes
Reared to the kings and demi-gods of old.
Touch not the ancient elms, that bend their shade
Over the lowly graves ; beneath their boughs
There is a solemn darkness, even at noon,
Suited to such as visit at the shrine
Of serious liberty. No factious voice
Called them unto the field of generous fame,
But the pure consecrated love of home.
No deeper feeling sways us, when it wakes
In all its greatness. It has told itself
To the astonished gaze of awe-struck kings,
At Marathon, at Bannockburn, and here,
Where first our patriots sent the invader back,
Broken and cowed. Let these green elms be all
To tell us where they fought, and where they lie.
Their feelings were all nature ; and they need
No art to make them known. They live in us,
222 MEMORIAL DAY
While we are like them, simple, hardy, bold,
Worshiping nothing but our own pure hearts
And the one universal Lord. They need
No column pointing to the heaven they sought
To tell us of their home. The heart itself,
Left to its own free purposes, hastens there,
And there alone reposes. Let these elms
Bend their protecting shades o'er their graves,
And build with their green roof the only fane,
Where we may gather on the hallowed day,
That rose to them in blood, and set in glory.
Here let us meet ; and while our motionless lips
Give not a sound, and all around is mute
In the deep sabbath of a heart too full
For words or tears, — here let us strew the sod
With the first flowers of spring, and make to them
An offering of the plenty Nature gives,
And they have rendered ours, — perpetually.
O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!1
BY WALT WHITMAN
O Captain ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought
is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all ex-
ulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and
daring ;
1 By permission of the publisher, David McKay, Phila-
delphia.
THE HEROIC DEAD 223
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear the bells ;
Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you the bugle
trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths — for you the
shores acrowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces
turning ;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck
You've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor
will,
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed
and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with ob-
ject won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells !
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
V
REUNITED
THE BLUE AND THE GRAY
BY FRANCIS MILES FINCH
By the flow of the inland river,
Whence the fleets of iron have fled,
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,
Asleep are the ranks of the dead:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day;
Under the one, the Blue,
Under the other, the Gray.
These in the robings of glory,
Those in the gloom of defeat,
All with the battle-blood gory,
In the dusk of eternity meet:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day;
Under the laurel, the Blue,
Under the willow, the Gray.
From the silence of sorrowful hours
The desolate mourners go,
Lovingly laden with flowers
Alike for the friend and the foe:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day;
227
228 MEMORIAL DAY
Under the roses, the Blue,
Under the lilies, the Gray.
So with an equal splendor,
The morning sun-rays fall,
With a touch impartially tender,
On the blossoms blooming for all :
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day;
Broidered with gold, the Blue,
Mellowed with gold, the Gray.
So, when the summer calleth,
On forest and field of grain,
With an equal murmur falleth
The cooling drip of the rain :
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day;
Wet with the rain, the Blue,
Wet with the rain, the Gray.
Sadly, but not with upbraiding,
The generous deed was done,
In the storm of the years that are fading
No braver battle was won :
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day;
Under the blossoms, the Blue,
Under the garlands, the Gray.
No more shall the war cry sever,
Or the winding rivers be red;
REUNITED 229
They banish our anger forever
When they laurel the graves of our dead!
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day;
Love and tears for the Blue,
Tears and love for the Gray.
NORTH TO THE SOUTH
BY RICHARD WATSON GILDER
Land of the South, whose stricken heart and brow
Bring grief to eyes that ere while only knew
For their own loss to sorrow, — spurn not thou
These tribute tears, — ah, we have suffered too.
New Orleans, 1885.
DEATH THE PEACEMAKER
The Blue and the Gray
BY ELLEN H. FLAGG
A waste of land, a sodden plain,
A lurid sunset sky,
With clouds that fled and faded fast
In ghastly phantasy;
330 MEMORIAL DAY
A field upturned by trampling feet,
A field up-piled with slain,
With horse and rider blent in death
Upon the battle-plain.
Two soldiers, lying as they fell
Upon the reddened clay,
In daytime, foes ; at night, in peace,
Breathing their lives away.
Brave hearts had stirred each manly breast ;
Fate only made them foes;
And lying, dying, side by side,
A softened feeling rose.
" Our time is short," one faint voice said.
" To-day we've done our best
On different sides. What matters now?
To-morrow we're at rest.
Life lies behind. I might not care
For only my own sake ;
But far away are other hearts
That this day's work will break.
" Among New Hampshire's snowy hills
There pray for me, to-night,
A woman, and a little girl,
With hair like golden light."
And at the thought broke forth, at last
The cry of anguish wild
That would no longer be repressed —
" O God ! my wife and child ! "
REUNITED 231
" And," said the other dying man,
" Across the Georgia plain
There watch and wait for me loved ones
I'll never see again.
A little girl with dark bright eyes
Each day waits at the door ;
The father's step, the father's kiss,
Will never meet her more.
" To-day we sought each other's lives ;
Death levels all that now,
For soon before God's mercy-seat
Together shall we bow.
Forgive each other while we may;
Life's but a weary game ;
And right or wrong, the morning sun
Will find us dead the same."
The dying lips the pardon breathe,
The dying hands entwine;
The last ray dies, and over all
The stars from heaven shine;
And the little girl with golden hair,
And one with dark eyes bright,
On Hampshire's hills and Georgia plain,
Were fatherless that night.
232 MEMORIAL DAY
GETTYSBURG: A MECCA FOR THE BLUE
AND GRAY
From an Address by General John B. Gordon, Gov-
ernor of Georgia, July 3, 1888
Of all the martial virtues, the one which is perhaps
most characteristic of the truly brave is the virtue of
magnanimity. That sentiment, immortalized by Scott
in his musical and martial verse, will associate for
all time the name of Scotland's king with those of
the great spirits of the past. How grand the exhibi-
tions of the same generous impulses that characterize
this memorable battlefield ! My fellow-countrymen of
the North, if I may be permitted to speak for those
whom I represent, let me assure you that in the pro-
foundest depths of their nature, they reciprocate that
generosity with all the manliness and sincerity of which
they are capable. In token of that sincerity they join
in consecrating, for annual patriotic pilgrimage, these
historic heights, which drank such copious draughts
of American blood, poured so freely in discharge of
duty, as each conceived it, — a Mecca for the North,
which so grandly defended, a Mecca for the South,
which so bravely and persistently stormed it. We join
you in setting apart this land as an enduring monu-
ment of peace, brotherhood, and perpetual union. I
repeat the thought with emphasis, with singleness of
heart and of purpose, in the name of a common coun-
try, and of universal liberty ; and by the blood of our
fallen brothers, we unite in the solemn consecration
REUNITED 233
of these hallowed hills, as a holy, eternal pledge of
fidelity to the life, freedom, and unity of this cher-
ished Republic.
OVER THEIR GRAVES
BY HENRY JEROME STOCKARD
Over their graves rang once the bugle's call,
The searching shrapnel and the crashing ball;
The shriek, the shock of battle, and the neigh
Of horse; the cries of anguish and dismay;
And the loud cannon's thunders that appall.
Now through the years the brown pine-needles fall,
The vines run riot by the old stone wall,
By hedge, by meadow streamlet, far away,
Over their graves.
We love our dead where'er so held in thrall.
Than they no Greek more bravely died, nor Gaul —
A love that's deathless ! — but they look to-day
With no reproaches on us when we say,
" Come, let us clasp your hands, we're brothers all,
Over their graves ! '
234 MEMORIAL DAY
THE BLUE AND THE GRAY
ANONYMOUS
Each thin hand resting on a grave,
Her lips apart in prayer,
A mother knelt, and left her tears
Upon the violets there.
O'er many a rood of vale and lawn,
Of hill and forest gloom,
The reaper Death had reveled in
His fearful harvest home.
The last unquiet summer shone
Upon a fruitless fray;
From yonder forest charged the blue-
Down yonder slope the gray.
The hush of death was on the scene,
And sunset o'er the dead,
In that oppressive stillness,
A pall of glory spread.
I know not, dare not question how
I met the ghastly glare
Of each upturned and stirless face
That shrunk and whitened there.
I knew my noble boys had stood
Through all that withering day,
I knew that Willie wore the blue,
That Harry wore the gray.
I thought of Willie's clear blue eye,
His wavy hair of gold,
REUNITED 235
That clustered on a fearless brow
Of purest Saxon mold;
Of Harry, with his raven locks
And eagle glance of pride;
Of how they clasped each other's hand
And left their mother's side ;
How hand in hand they bore my prayers
And blessings on the way —
A noble heart beneath the blue,
Another 'neath the gray.
The dead, with white and folded hands,
That hushed our village homes,
I've seen laid calmly, tenderly,
Within their darkened rooms ;
But there I saw distorted limbs,
And many an eye aglare,
In the soft purple twilight of
The thunder-smitten air.
Along the slope and on the sward
In ghastly ranks they lay,
And there was blood upon the blue
And blood upon the gray.
I looked and saw his blood, and his ;
A swift and vivid dream
Of blended years flashed o'er me, when,
Like some cold shadow, came
A blindness of the eye and brain —
The same that seizes one
When men are smitten suddenly
Who overstare the sun ;
236 MEMORIAL DAY
And while, blurred with the sudden stroke
That swept my soul, I lay,
They buried Willie in his blue,
And Harry in his gray.
The shadows fall upon their graves ;
They fall upon my heart ;
And through the twilight of this soul
Like dews the tears will start;
The starlight comes so silently
And lingers where they rest;
So hope's revealing starlight sinks
And shines within my breast.
They ask not there, where yonder heaven
Smiles with eternal day,
Why Willie wore the loyal blue,
Why Harry wore the gray.
A PATRIOTIC MESSAGE FOR MEMORIAL
DAY
BY GENERAL JAMES LONGSTREET, LIEUTENANT-GENERAL
IN THE CONFEDERATE ARMY DURING THE CIVIL WAR
The broad, deep Americanism which pulses through
the great heart of the Republic to-day will grow
broader and deeper with the passing years. I am
thankful that I have lived to see this noble result of
the war springing into vast and virile life. The pas-
sions of the titanic struggle will finally enter upon the
REUNITED 237
sleep of oblivion, and only its splendid accomplishments
for the cause of human freedom and a united nation,
stronger and richer in patriotism because of the great
strife, will be remembered.
REUNITED
BY F. L. STANTON
I've been thinkin' of it over, an* it 'pears to me to-
day
The war's the biggest blessin' that has ever come our
way;
Course, thar'll be some fightin', an' a few more
graves'll be
Whar the daisies in the medder look their purtiest at
me, —
For that's to be expected; but — the thing that makes
me feel
That the war's a heavenly blessin' is the wounds that
it'll heal!
The old wounds that's been ranklin' sence the day that
Gin'rul Lee
Said we'd rest an' think it over by that old-time apple-
tree!
I see the boys that fit us in the Union coats of blue
On the same groun', — hale an' hearty, an' a-shakin'
howdy-do !
238 MEMORIAL DAY
An' I hear the ban' play " Dixie," an' I see 'em
away,
Till I can't tell whar the blue is, an' I'm mixed up on
the gray !
The old war tunes air ringin', an' " Dixie's ' on the
rise ;
But " Yankee Doodle " follers 'fore it's half-way to the
skies !
An' the old " Star Spangled Banner ' is in ever'
steeple's chime,
An' I tell you, we're a-having of a hallelujah time!
I'm glad I've lived to see it; I'm glad the time is come
When, North an' South, we answer to the roll-call of
the drum !
When thar ain't no line divides us, but North an' South
we stan'
For jest one common country, — one freedom-lovin'
Ian'!
That's whar the war's a blessin', that's whar 'pears like
I see
A brighter mornin' breakin' on the hills for you an'
me!
It's shoulder now to shoulder, — thar ain't no blue or
gray,—
An' we're shoutin' " Hallelujah," an' we're happy on
the way!
REUNITED 239
HIS NEW SUIT
BY S. E. KISER
I remember well the way
She looked up at me that day
When I first put on the gray,
And said good-by, back there in sixty-three.
She and I were sweethearts then,
And I hear her voice again,
As she nestled up to me,
Saying, in her gentle way :
" Ah, how brave you look in gray,
And how tall and handsome, too, —
Gray's the color, dear, for you ! '
There's a ragged suit of gray
She has long had laid away, —
There are memories that cling around it, too ;
But the years have come and gone,
And at present I have on
A suit of Uncle Sam's beloved blue.
When she saw me yesterday,
She wiped a tear away
For the memory of the gray, —
That dear, old, ragged suit of sixty-three.
And she sweetly spoke again, —
Spoke more fervently than then, —
As she nestled up to me,
240 MEMORIAL DAY
Saying, in her gentle way :
" Ah, how brave you looked in gray !
But you're braver still in blue, —
Blue's the color, dear, for you ! "
ENLISTED
The Old Soldier Speaks
BY ELIZA CALVERT HALL
I fought under Lee and Stonewall,
And I hated a Yankee like sin,
But gimme my uniform, sergeant,
I'm going to fight ag'in.
I took out my old gray clothes last night,
I thought of the day they was new,
And I looked at the holes in the left-hand sleeve
Where a minie ball went through.
And I heard the band play " Dixie," — .
By God! I heard every note, —
And I thought of Manassas and Shiloh,
And a lump came up in my throat.
And I said, " Go back to that old oak chest,
There ain't no more service for you;
I'm goin' to fight on the side that's right,
And I'm going to wear the blue ! "
REUNITED 241
There's just one thought in every heart,
One word in every mouth ;
For things is all so twisted around
That there ain't no North nor South.
I never thought it would come to this;
It's strange, but I reckon it's true;
For it's jest one country and jest one flag,
And we're all a-wearin' the blue !
AGAIN BRETHREN AND EQUALS
BY JAMES WILLIS PATTERSON
The true grandeur of passing historic events is not
seen till the noise and obstruction of the factitious and
perishable are forgotten. So the relative importance
of our late war is not yet realized. Forts and trenches
have been obliterated ; harvests wave on its battlefields,
and the grass is green above the ashes of its victims.
The prejudices and passions kindled by the strife have
been laid, and we now contemplate, with serene and
undistempered vision, the causes and nature of the
sanguinary conflict. We do not forget its burdens;
but we remember its compensations. The supremacy
of the federal government, within the limitations of the
fundamental law, is the only secure and stable founda-
tion of the Union, and it must be maintained without
compromise, in peace as in war.
The sons of the South are a noble stock. We re-
242 MEMORIAL DAY
spect the honesty of their convictions, and honor the
virility with which they defended them. We would
seek the cordial and conciliatory course of kindred,
and would let the " dead past bury its dead." When
the pride of exploded opinions, and the old war-cries
of party, shall have been silenced in the graves of ante-
bellum politicians, the new generation will recognize
and maintain that sovereignty of the Union which is
essential to the development and defense of the high-
est welfare of all sections. The foreshadowed destiny
of the Nation can only be imperiled by the loss of pop-
ular intelligence and morality. Common influences
and interests will assimilate our whole population in
habits and feeling, and they will come to cherish the
same objects of pride and aspiration. This will be the
future cement of the State, and the source of its united
strength and glory. The day is not far distant when
the South, equally with the North, will perceive that
they builded better than they knew.
As an exhibition of physical prowess, the conten-
tion was magnificent! Both armies fought, for their
convictions, with a relentlessness of valor unsur-
passed. The campaigns of the war, and the subse-
quent financial achievements, have revealed to the
world a strength and integrity worthy of the ancient
mold of men. The blood of the North and the South
has mingled in a conflict of political principles. May
it nourish no root of bitterness ; but may there hence-
forth be a union of affections and labors to advance
and perpetuate the dignity and grandeur of a com-
mon country. I protest, in the name of the dead
and the peace of posterity, that the issues adjudicated
REUNITED 243
in honorable warfare shall not be raised again, like in-
quiet ghosts, into the arena of politics, to disturb the
peace and prosperity of the Nation. We honor the
valor and manliness of the South, and will respect her
rights. We demand the same, and no more. On that
platform we can stand together, and against the world.
The substantial interests of both sections are one ; and
henceforth their union shall be one and inseparable.
In the fraternal emulations of business and the health-
ful rivalries of honorable politics, we must labor for
the purity, power, and glory of the Republic. The old
hearthstone is broad enough for all, and our household
gods are worthy of our worship. We feel a special
tenderness for our native State; but there is a pro-
founder love and a more comprehensive patriotism
than this, that throbs in the heart of every loyal Amer-
ican. The State is but a unit of that organic and
august whole, our Country; in whose destiny are in-
volved the welfare and power of each member. The
bright examples and splendid achievements of the Na-
tion must remain ours to emulate. ' The whole land
is the sepulcher of illustrous men," and their hal-
lowed dust, not less than their works, and their fame,
are the common treasure of all.
The beacons which we kindle will fade, and the
chiseled rock will crumble; but the intellectual and
moral life evolved by the freedom of the State will
transmit the lineaments of the national spirit, in im-
perishable forms of thought. When the sculptured
marbles, the gorgeous temples, and the noblest monu-
ments which a proud and grateful country can raise
shall have completed their short-lived immortality,
244 MEMORIAL DAY
these will still survive, — the inextinguishable lights of
a Christian Commonwealth.
THE EAGLE'S SONG
BY RICHARD MANSFIELD
The lioness whelped, and the sturdy cub
Was seized by an eagle, and carried up,
And homed for awhile in an eagle's nest,
And slept for a while on an eagle's breast;
And the eagle taught it the eagle's song:
1 To be stanch, and valiant, and free, and strong ! '
The lion whelp sprang from the eyrie nest,
From the lofty crag where the queen birds rest;
He fought the King on the spreading plain,
And drove him back o'er the foaming main.
He held the land as a thrifty chief,
And reared his cattle, and reaped his sheaf,
Nor sought the help of a foreign hand,
Yet welcomed all to his own free land !
Two were the sons that the country bore
To the Northern lakes and the Southern shore;
And Chivalry dwelt with the Southern son,
And Industry lived with the Northern one.
Tears for the time when they broke and fought!
Tears was the price of the union wrought!
And the land was red in a sea of blood,
Where brother for brother had swelled the flood !
REUNITED 245
And now that the two are one again,
Behold on their shield the word " Refrain ! '
And the lion cubs twain sing the eagle's song:
" To be stanch, and valiant, and free, and strong ! '
For the eagle's beak, and the lion's paw,
And the lion's fangs, and the eagle's claw,
And the eagle's swoop, and the lion's might,
And the lion's leap, and the eagle's sight,
Shall guard the flag with the word " Refrain ! '
Now that the two are one again !
THEM YANKEE BLANKITS
BY W. SMALL
Yes, John, I was down thar at Memphis,
A-workin' around at the boats,
A-heavin' o' cotton with emph'sis,
An' a-loadin' her onto the floats.
I was comin' away from Ole Texas,
Whar I went, you know, arter the wah-
'Bout it now I'll make no reflexes,
But wait till I git ter long taw.
Well, while I was down thar the fever,
As yaller an' pizen as sin,
Broke out; an' ef you'll believe her,
Wharever she hit she struck in!
It didn't take long in the hatchin',
It jes' fa'rly bred in the air,
Till a hosspitel camp warn't a patchin'
An' we'd plenty o' corpses to spare.
246 MEMORIAL DAY
I volunteer'd then with the Howards, —
I thought thet my duty was clear, —
An' I didn't look back'ards, but for'ards,
An' went ter my work 'ithout fear.
One day, howsomever, she got me
As quick as the shot of a gun,
An' they toted me off ter allot me
A bunk till my life-race was run.
The doctor and nurses they wrestled,
But it didn't do me any good;
An' the drugger he poundid an' pestled,
But he didn't get up the right food.
' No blankits ner ice in the city ! " —
I hear'd 'em say that from my bed, —
An' some cried, " O God ! who'll take pity
On the dyin' that soon 'ill be dead ? "
Next day, howsomever, the doctor
Come in with a smile on his brow,
* Old boy, jest as yit we hain't knocked her,"
Said he, " but we'll do fer her now ! '
Fer, yer see, John, them folks ter the Nor'ward
Hed hear'd us afore we call'd twice,
An' they'd sent us a full cargo forward
Of them much needed blankits an' ice !
Well, brother, I've been mighty solid
Agin' Yankees, yer know, since the wah,
An' agin' reconstrucktin' was stolid,
Not kearin' fer Kongriss ner law;
REUNITED 247
But, John, I got under that kiver,
That God-blessed gift o' the Yanks,
An' it sav'd me frum fordin' " the river,"
An' I'm prayin' 'em oceans o' thanks!
I tell yer, old boy, thar's er streak in us
Old Rebels an' Yanks thet is warm;
It's er brotherly love thet'll speak in us,
An' fetch us together in storm:
We may snarl about " niggers an' francheese,"
But whenever thar's sufferin' afoot,
The two trees'll unite in the branches
The same as they do at the root !
THE WARSHIP "DIXIE'
BY FRANK L. STANTON
They've named a cruiser " Dixie," — that's whut the
papers say, —
An' I hears they're goin' to man her with the boys
that wore the gray ;
Good news! It sorter thrills me, an' makes me want
ter be
Whar the ban' is playin' " Dixie," an' the Dixie puts
ter sea!
They've named a cruiser "Dixie." An', fellers, I'll
be boun'
You're goin' ter see some fightin' when the Dixie
swings aroun'!
248 MEMORIAL DAY
Ef any o' them Spanish ships shall strike her, East
or West,
Jest let the ban' play " Dixie," an' the boys'll do the
rest!
I want to see that Dixie, — I want ter take my stan'
On the deck of her and holler : " Three cheers fer
Dixie Ian' ! "
She means we're all united, — the war hurts healed
away,
An' " 'Way Down South in Dixie " is national to-day !
I bet you she's a good 'un! I'll stake my last red
cent
Thar ain't no better timber in the whole blame settle-
ment!
An' all their shiny battleships beside that ship air
tame,
Fer, when it comes to " Dixie," thar's somethin' in a
name!
Here's three cheers an' a tiger, — as hearty as kin be;
An' let the ban' play " Dixie " when the Dixie puts ter
sea!
She'll make her way an' win the day from shinin' East
to West-
Jest let the ban' play " Dixie," an' the boys'll do the
rest.
REUNITED 249
CHICKAMAUGA
BY G. T. FERRIS
I863
From shuddering trees and painted leaves
Strew redder dyes of crimson sod;
And brave men lie in ghastly sheaves,
As whirled there by the wrath of God.
Gray vapors hum with wings of death,
Whose roll-call speeds its fierce alarms;
And life sighs, " Here! " with parting breath,
Where bleeding thousands ground their arms.
For brothers face each other's steel,
Grim suitors in the last appeal.
From laughing leas the bugles sing,
More shrill than bird to nesting mate;
O'er tented slopes the war notes ring,
And time again the tramp of fate.
Bright oriflamme of liberty,
Our bannered blazon flaunts the sky,
And hails the " sun-burst " in the sea,
A gallant people's anguished cry.
Now, brothers, touch in common weal
To right that foreign wrong with steel.
250 MEMORIAL DAY
CHICK AM AUGA— 1 898
From Baltimore News
They are camped on Chickamauga!
Once again the white tents gleam
On that field where vanished heroes
Sleep the sleep that knows no dream.
There are shadows all about them
Of the ghostly troops to-day,
But they light the common camp-fire, —
Those who wore the blue and gray.
Where the pines of Georgia tower,
Where the mountains kiss the sky,
On their arms the Nation's warriors
Wait to hear the battle-cry,
Wait together, friends and brothers,
And the heroes 'neath their feet
Sleep the long and dreamless slumber
Where the flowers are blooming sweet.
V
Sentries, pause, yon shadow challenge!
Rock-ribbed Thomas goes that way, —
He who fought the foe unyielding
In that awful battle fray.
Yonder pass the shades of heroes,
And they follow where Bragg leads
Through the meadows and the river, —
But no ghost the sentry heeds.
REUNITED 251
Field of fame, a patriot army
Treads thy sacred sod to-day !
And they'll face a common foeman,
Those who wore the blue and gray,
And they'll fight for common country,
And they'll charge to victory
'Neath the folds of one brave banner, —
Starry banner of the free !
They are camped off Chickamauga,
Where the green tents of the dead
Turn the soil into a glory
Where a Nation's heart once bled ;
But they're clasping hands together
On this storied field of strife, —
Brothers brave who meet to battle
In the freedom-war of life !
ALL UNDER THE SAME BANNER NOW
BY LAWRENCE SULLIVAN ROSS
From Address Delivered July 4, 1887, at Austin,
Tex., Bejore the Surviving Veterans of Hood's
Texas Brigade
But few of you are here to-day. The great majority
of your old comrades fill unknown graves, with naught
to mark their silent resting-places ; but their names are
embalmed in as many loving hearts as ever entwined
252 MEMORIAL DAY
around living, or lingered around the graves of de-
ceased, patriots. And to-day, as our memory recalls
face after face of this vast spectral army, of those
who have preceded us in the line of march to the
silent shores, we shed the tear of affectionate remem-
brance, as echo gives praises to their memory and
honor to their dust. Throughout the broad area of
the world there never was a field more rich in facts
which constitute the fiber of an earnest, active patri-
otism, than that found in the Southern struggle. And
the lofty admiration in which your manhood, valor, and
endurance, as well as the sublime resignation with
which you accepted disappointment after great hopes
and greater efforts, are held all over the world, shows
how much the world yet values true and brave men,
who could shake off troubles as great as these were,
and by heroic efforts, in a time of peace, make them,
to an impoverished country, but as flaxen withes bound
around a slumbering giant. What wonder the world
has stood amazed at the persistent vitality of our peo-
ple? for, under your admirable conduct, every barrier
to the flow of capital, or check to the development of
our unbounded resources, was removed.
We see here to-day a free and independent mingling
of men from every section of our broad domain, all
prejudices of the past forgotten ; and while our State
has been fortunate in acquiring thousands of those
who fought against us, and who are an honor both to
the States which gave them birth, and ours which they
have made their home, it matters not whence they
come ; they can exult in the reflection that our Country
is the same, and they find floating here the same ban-
REUNITED 253
ner that waved above them there, with its broad folds
unrent, and its bright stars unobscured; and in its
defense, if needs be, the swords of those old Confed-
erates, so recently sheathed, would leap forth with
equal alacrity with those of the North.
No nobler emotion can fill the breast of any man
than that which prompts him to utter honest praise
of an adversary whose convictions and opinions are
at war with his own ; and where is there a Confederate
soldier in our land who has not felt a thrill of gener-
ous admiration and applause for the pre-eminent hero-
ism of the gallant Federal admiral, who lashed him-
self to the mainmast, while the tattered sails and
frayed cordage of his vessel were being shot away by
piecemeal, above his head, and slowly but surely picked
his way through sunken reefs of torpedoes, whose de-
structive powers consigned many of his luckless com-
rades to watery graves? The fame of such men as
Farragut, Stanley, Hood, and Lee, and the hundreds
of private soldiers who were the true heroes of the
war, belongs to no time or section, but is the common
property of mankind. They were all cast in the same
grand mold of self-sacrificing patriotism, and I intend
to teach my children to revere their names as long
as the love of country is respected as a noble sentiment
in the human breast.
It is a remarkable fact that those who bore the
brunt of the battle were the first to forget old ani-
mosities and consign to oblivion obsolete issues. They
saw that nothing but sorrow and shame, and the loss
of the respect of the world, was to be gained by per-
petuating the bitterness of past strife ; and, impelled by
254 MEMORIAL DAY
a spirit of patriotism, they were willing, by all pos-
sible methods, to create and give utterance to a public
sentiment which would best conserve our common in-
stitutions and restore that fraternal concord in which
the war of the Revolution left us, and the Federal
Constitution found us. And I emphasize the declara-
tion that, in most instances, those whose hatred has
remained implacable, through all these years of peace,
are men who held high carnival in the rear, and, after
all danger had passed, emerged from their hiding-
places, filled with ferocious zeal and courage, blind to
every principle of wise statesmanship, to make amends
for lack of deeds of valor by pressing to their lips the
sweet cup of revenge, for whose intoxicating contents
our country has already paid a price that would have
purchased the goblet of the Egyptian queen.
ONE BENEATH OLD GLORY
ANONYMOUS
Don't you hear the tramp of soldiers?
Don't you hear the bugles play ?
Don't you see the muskets flashing
In the sunlight far away?
Don't you feel the ground all trembling
'Neath the tread of many feet ?
They are coming, tens of thousands,
To the army and the fleet.
REUNITED 255
They are Yankees, they are Johnnies,
They're for North and South no more;
They are one, and glad to follow
When Old Glory goes before.
From Atlantic to Pacific,
From the Pine Tree to Lone Star,
They are gath'ring 'round Old Glory,
And they're marching to the war.
Don't you see the harbors guarded
By those bristling dogs of war ?
Don't you hear them growling, barking,
At the fleet beyond the bar?
Don't you hear the Jack Tars cheering,
Brave as sailor lads can be?
Don't you see the water boiling
Where the squadron put to sea?
They are Yankees, they are Johnnies,
They're for North and South no more;
They are one, and glad to follow
When Old Glory goes before.
From Atlantic to Pacific,
From the Pine Tree to Lone Star,
They have gathered 'round Old Glory,
And they're sailing to the war.
Don't you hear the horses prancing?
Don't you hear the sabers clash?
Don't you hear the cannons roaring?
Don't you hear the muskets crash?
256 MEMORIAL DAY
Don't you smell the smoke of battle ?
Oh, you'll wish that you had gone,
When you hear the shouts and cheering
For the boys who whipped the Don!
There'll be Yankees, there'll be Johnnies,
There'll be North and South no more,
When the boys come marching homeward
With Old Glory borne before.
From Atlantic to Pacific,
From the Pine Tree to Lone Star,
They'll be one beneath Old Glory
After coming from the war.
AMERICA SURVIVES THE ORDEAL OF CON-
FLICTING SYSTEMS
BY HENRY B. CARRINGTON
On the fourth of July, 1888, the battlefield of Get-
tysburg was made memorial of the prediction uttered
by President Lincoln at its dedication as a national
cemetery in 1864, that " The nation shall, under God,
have a new birth of power " ; and that " government
of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not
perish from the earth."
The contest of 1861-65 removed from the national
life that serious element of danger which the fathers
left for their posterity to settle. The rights of all
sections rested upon one charter. The moral law of
REUNITED 257
abstract right did not harmonize with the possessory
rights of a well-accepted legal status, and only a char-
ity and wisdom more than human could bring a full
accord without the crucial test of arms. The more
powerful North bent its vast energies of numbers and
wealth to preserve the Union of the States. The
South, inferior in numbers and resources, affirmed with
equal spirit its right of withdrawal, unless the legal
tolerations of the Constitution should have their full-
est effect. The issue joined, satisfied all interests,
after marvelous sacrifice; and the Union is clothed
with fresh strength and more permanent beauty. Al-
ready a sense of relief from the estrangement of
brethren which harassed the original colonies, and
worried the nation to the verge of ruin, inspires poets
and orators with enlarged faith in the national future.
Already the republic, purified by fire and by blood,
looks backward, to honor with fresh enthusiasm each
recurring anniversary of the nation's birth, and then,
in the glory of a second birth, turns forward, to con-
centrate its vision as through the perspective glass of
Bunyan, upon the development of an ' indestructible
Union of indestructible States."
The ordeal of arms came to an end ! The lingering
ordeal of cooling passion has entered upon a fraternal
solution. Impartial history softens the hardness of
old-time antagonisms, and magnifies the patriotism of
a people which can conquer self to bless the many.
Mr. Curtis, the orator of Gettysburg, only voiced the
sentiment of all "good-willing men on earth" as he
said, " If there be joy in heaven this day, it is in the
heart of Abraham Lincoln as he looks down upon the
258 MEMORIAL DAY
field of Gettysburg." To General Gordon, the very
ground seemed holy, as if the union of the Blue and
the Gray, in dust, only typified a spiritual union above,
and their benediction on the survivors who gain a more
enduring fellowship through their mingled blood.
" No conflict now ! ' was the breathing of General
Devens when he welcomed the visiting soldiers of the
South at the Bunker Hill celebration in Charlestown,
Massachusetts, June 17, 1875. " The moral sentiment
of the nineteenth century has ended slavery ! ' was
the great utterance of Justice Lamar, as he unveiled
the statue of John C. Calhoun, at Charleston, South
Carolina, April 26, 1888. The heart-longing of Alex-
ander H. Stephens as he watched the unveiling of Car-
penter's picture of the Signing of the Emancipation
Proclamation, " Separate as billows, but one as the
sea ! " finds responsive prayer in every loyal American
soul. " Again brethren and equals ! ' rings out, in
the voice of ex-Senator Patterson, while he assists to
dedicate a monument to the sons of New Hampshire
who fell in the great contest. " Under the same ban-
ner now, its folds unrent, and its bright stars unob-
scured," is the sentiment through which Governor
Ross, of Texas, calls upon the veterans of Hood's
Texas Brigade, July 4, 1887, to welcome their brethren
of the North into a full identity of interest, State and
nation. " Let us rejoice together! " is the jubilant re-
frain of General George A. Sheridan in his apotheosis
to " Immortal Heroes," when, with outstretched arm,
he swings out the banner of our love, that all shall
see in its clustered constellation the full roster of all
the planets present.
REUNITED 259
Oliver Perry Morton, in his last speech made in his
own State, Indiana, on Decoration Day, 1877, thus
spoke :
We will let by-gones be by-gones. We cannot forget the
past, we ought not to forget it. True reconciliation does
not require us to forget these dead, does not require us to
forget the living soldier, and to cease to do him justice.
We say to those who were on the other side of that great
contest, that while we shall forever cherish the lessons that
were taught us by that great struggle, all we ask of them
is, that they shall hereafter stand upon these principles : the
great doctrine of equal liberty, and of equal rights to all,
and equal protection to all, and, let us go forward, hand
in hand, and as Americans and brethren, through all the
future pages of our country's history.
In like spirit, William H. Fleming, on a Memorial
Day, at Augusta, Georgia, April 28, 1885, thus spoke:
Without abating one jot or tittle of loyal devotion to the
memory of our Confederate dead, we can here, in the presence
of their graves, turn our eye to heaven and exclaim, Thank
God ! slavery, that material curse and moral incubus, has
been lifted from our sky! Yes! even though it could spend
its fury only in the lightning and thunder of war. No State
will ever again resort to secession from the Union, as a
remedy for wrongs present or prospective. Mr. Webster's
prayer is answered; for the sun will never again shine upon
"the broken and dishonored fragments of a once glorious
Union; upon States discordant, dissevered, belligerent." The
motto upon the ensign of the republic, now full high and
advanced, is, by universal consent, " Liberty and Union, now
and forever, one and inseparable."
The dream of the Massachusetts poet, Duganne, had
its marvelous realization; but the soldiers and states-
26o MEMORIAL DAY
men of all sections now sympathize with all bereaved
ones, and recognize the valor of all who passed under
the flail of discipline which his enthusiasm invoked.
THE HIGH TIDE AT GETTYSBURG
BY WILL HENRY THOMPSON
•
A cloud possessed the hollow field,
The gathering battle's smoky shield.
Athwart the gloom the lightning flashed,
And through the cloud some horsemen dashed,
And from the heights the thunder pealed.
Then at the brief command of Lee
Moved out that matchless infantry,
With Pickett leading grandly down,
To rush against the roaring crown
Of those dread heights of destiny.
Far heard above the angry guns
A cry across the tumult runs, —
The voice that rang through Shiloh's woods
And Chickamauga's solitudes,
The fierce South cheering on her sons !
Ah, how the withering tempest blew
Against the front of Pettigrew !
A Khamsin wind that scorched and singed
Like that infernal flame that fringed
The British squares at Waterloo!
REUNITED 261
A thousand fell where Kemper led ;
A thousand died where Garnett bled :
In blinding flame and strangling smoke
The remnant through the batteries broke
And crossed the works with Armistead.
" Once more in Glory's van with me ! '
Virginia cried to Tennessee;
" We two together, come what may,
Shall stand upon these works to-day ! '
(The reddest day in history.)
Brave Tennessee! In reckless way
Virginia heard her comrade say:
"Close round this rent and riddled rag!*
What time she set her battle-flag
Amid the guns of Doubleday.
But who shall break the guards that wait
Before the awful face of Fate?
The tattered standards of the South
Were shriveled at the cannon's mouth,
And all her hopes were desolate.
In vain the Tennesseean set
His breast against the bayonet !
In vain Virginia charged and raged,
A tigress in her wrath uncaged,
Till all the hill was red and wet !
Above the bayonets, mixed and crossed,
Men saw a gray, gigantic ghost
262 MEMORIAL DAY
Receding through the battle-cloud,
And heard across the tempest loud
The death-cry of a nation lost!
The brave went down ! Without disgrace
They leaped to Ruin's red embrace.
They only heard Fame's thunders wake,
And saw the dazzling sun-burst break
In smiles on Glory's bloody face !
They fell, who lifted up a hand
And bade the sun in heaven to stand!
They smote and fell, who set the bars
Against the progress of the stars,
And stayed the march of Motherland !
They stood, who saw the future come
On through the fight's delirium!
They smote and stood, who held the hope
Of nations on that slippery slope
Amid the cheers of Christendom.
God lives ! He forged the iron will
That clutched and held that trembling hill.
God lives and reigns! He built and lent
The heights for Freedom's battlement
Where floats her flag in triumph still !
Fold up the banners ! Smelt the guns !
Love rules. Her gentler purpose runs.
A mighty mother turns in tears
The pages of her battle years,
Lamenting all her fallen sons!
REUNITED 263
THE NEW MEMORIAL DAY
BY ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE
Oh, the roses we plucked for the blue
And the lilies we twined for the gray,
We have bound in a wreath,
And in silence beneath
Slumber our heroes to-day.
Over the new-turned sod
The sons of our fathers stand,
And the fierce old fight
Slips out of sight
In the clasp of a brother's hand.
For the old blood left a stain
That the new has washed away,
And the sons of those
That have faced as foes
Are marching together to-day.
Oh, the blood that our fathers gave!
Oh, the tide of our mothers' tears !
And the flow of red,
And the tears they shed,
Embittered a sea of years.
But the roses we plucked for the blue,
And the lilies we twined for the gray,
264 MEMORIAL DAY
We have bound in a wreath,
And in glory beneath
Slumber our heroes to-day.
MEMORIAL DAY 1889
BY SAMUEL ELLSWORTH RISER
Twine laurels to lay o'er the Blue and the Gray, spread
wreaths where our heroes rest ;
Let the song of the North echo back from the South
for the love that is truest and best!
Twin wreaths for the tombs of our Grant and our
Lee, one anthem for Jackson and Meade.
And the flag above you is the banner for me — one peo-
ple in name and in deed!
ii
Clasp hands o'er the graves where our laureled ones lie
— clasp hands o'er the Gray and the Blue ;
To-day we are brothers and bound by a tie that the
years shall but serve to renew ;
By the side of the Northman who peacefully sleeps
where tropical odors are shed,
A son of the South his companionship keeps — one flag
o'er the two heroes spread.
REUNITED 265
in
Weave tokens of love for the heroes in blue, weave
wreaths for the heroes in gray;
Clasp brotherly hands o'er the graves that are new —
for the love that is ours to-day ;
A trinity given to bless, to unite — three glorious rec-
ords to keep,
And a kinship that never a grievance shall sever re-
newed where the brave are asleep!
IV
Spread flowers to-day o'er the Blue and the Gray —
spread wreaths where our heroes rest;
Let the song of the North echo back from the South
for the love that is truest and best !
Twin wreaths for the tombs of our Grant and our Lee,
one hymn for your father and mine !
Oh, the flag you adore is the banner for me, and its
folds our dead brothers entwine.
LET US REJOICE TOGETHER
BY GEORGE AUGUSTUS SHERIDAN
More than twenty years have passed since the last
great battle in our civil contest was fought. The
mighty armies of the nation have long since folded
their torn banners, stacked their muskets, and doffed
their uniforms. The bugles that of old sounded the
266 MEMORIAL DAY
charge, and the drums that beat to battle, are now
silent. The blades that flashed, and the bayonets that
gleamed above their surging columns, no longer catch
the sunlight. Grass grows in the fields whereon they
struggled, and the rustle of ripened grain is heard
where, but a while ago, the ring of steel made music
that set men's blood aflame.
What was our war ? How should it be looked upon ?
It was not the result of men's ambition, North or
South. It was not a contest for territory. It could
not have been prevented, although it might have been
postponed, by the action of any political party. Our
war was simply fighting out, upon a new field, and
under more enlightened auspices, a contest that had
been waged for centuries among the people from
whose loins we sprung. It was the clash of two
civilizations, so antagonistic in their conceptions, so
antipodal in their means and methods of development,
as to make impossible harmony of action, or peaceful
growth side by side. The North and South were in
direct opposition as to the best methods of governing
and perpetuating the heritage left them by their
fathers. Their conceptions were so radically different,
that peaceful measures could not adjust or reconcile
them. One or the other must yield.
War came ! The land that had known but peace
echoed to the tread of armed men ! Up from the land
of the orange and the myrtle came mighty hosts, har-
nessed for conflict, chanting songs of battle, eager for
the fight, sweeping with as fiery courage and as daunt-
less bearing to the onset as of old the men from out
whose loins they sprung charged Saracenic hosts, or
REUNITED 267
closed in deadly grapple with the knightly sons of
France. From the land of the fir and the pine, down
from its mountains and out from its valleys, glittering
with steel, and bright with countless banners, steady
and strong, the men of the North marched to the
conflict.
A hush as of death filled the land, as the mighty
hosts confronted each other. An instant, — and the
heavens seemed rent asunder, and the solid globe to
reel. North and South had met in the shock of war !
Blood deluged the land ; the ear of pity deaf ; the
springs of love dried up ; the throb of mighty guns ;
the gleam of myriad blades ; the savage shouts of men
grappling each other in relentless clutch; Death, pale,
pitiless, tireless, thrusting his awful sickle into harvest
fields, where the grain was human life; bells from
every steeple in the land tolling out their solemn notes
of sorrow for the slain ; fathers, mothers, wives, and
little ones smiting their palms in agony together, as
they looked upon the features of their loved ones mar-
bled in the eternal sleep !
For four long bitter years the mighty tide of war
rolled through the land, engulfing in its crimson flood
the best and bravest of the North and South, bearing
their souls outwards, with resistless sweep, to that
dread sea whose shores, to human eyes, are viewless,
whose somber waves are ever chanting solemn requiems
for the dead ! In this wild storm of war the banners
of the South went down. The bells of liberty through
all the land rang out a joyous peal of welcome, and
guns from fortress, field, and citadel thundered greet-
ing to the hour that proclaimed America one and in-
268 MEMORIAL DAY
divisible. From southern gulf to northern lakes, from
northern lakes to Atlantic and Pacific coasts, we were
ONE. The Mississippi flowed not along the borders
of a dozen empires ; the blue waters fo the lakes beat
not upon the shores of rival governments; the moun-
tains of the land frowned not down upon hostile ter-
ritories ; the ocean bore not upon its bosom the fleets
of contending States; but over all the land a single
flag threw out its folds, symbol of victory, index of a
reunited people.
We recall the glories and the triumphs of the Union,
not for the purpose of humiliating the gallant souls
that battled against us. In the providence of God, the
struggle they made to rend us asunder has but strength-
ened the bonds of our union. Those who fought
against us are now of us, and enjoy the countless
blessings that have come from the triumph of the
Union, and with us they should bow their heads and
reverently acknowledge that above all the desires of
men move the majestic laws of God, evolving, alike
from victory or defeat of nations, substantial good for
all His children.
VI
SELECTIONS
THE BRIGADE COMMANDER
BY J. W. DE FORREST
The Colonel was the idol of his bragging old regi-
ment and of the bragging brigade which for the last
six months he had commanded.
He was the idol, not because he was good and
gracious, not because he spared his soldiers or treated
them as fellow-citizens, but because he had led them
to victory and made them famous. If a man will win
battles and give his brigade a right to brag loudly of
its doings, he may have its admiration, and even its
enthusiastic devotion, though he be as pitiless and as
wicked as Lucifer.
' It's nothin' to me what the Currnell is in prrivit,
so long as he shows us how to whack the rrebs," said
Major Gahogan, commandant of the " Old Tenth."
' Moses saw God in the burrnin' bussh, an' bowed
down to it, an' worrshipt it. It wasn't the bussh he
worrshipt; it was his God that was in it. An' I
worrship this villin of a Currnell (if he is a villin)
because he's almighty and gives us the vict'ry. He's
nothin' but a human burrnin' bussh, perhaps, but he's
got the god of war in um. Adjetant Wallis, it's a —
long time between dhrinks, as I think ye was sayin',
an' with rayson. See if ye can't condiscate a canteen
of whiskee somewhere in the camp. Bedad, if I can't
271
272 MEMORIAL DAY
buy it I'll stale it. We're goin' to fight to-morry, an'
it may be it's the last chance we'll have for a dhrink,
unless there's more lik'r now in the other worrld than
Dives got."
The brigade was bivouacked in some invisible region,
amid the damp, misty darkness of a September night.
The men lay in their ranks, each with his feet to the
front and his head rearward, each covered by his
overcoat and pillowed upon his haversack, each with
his loaded rifle nestled close beside him. Asleep as
they were, or dropping placidly into slumber, they
were ready to start in order to their feet and pour
out the red light and harsh roar of combat. There
were two lines of battle, each of three regiments of in-
fantry, the first some two hundred yards in advance
of the second. In the space between them lay two
four-gun batteries, one of them brass twelve-pounder
' Napoleons," and the other rifled Parrotts. To the
rear of the infantry were the recumbent troopers and
picketed horses of a regiment of cavalry. All around,
in the far, black distance, invisible and inaudible, paced
or watched stealthily the sentinels of the grand guards.
There was not a fire, nor a torch, nor a star-beam in
the whole bivouac to guide the feet of Adjutant Wal-
lis in his pilgrimage after whisky. The orders from
brigade headquarters had been strict against illumina-
tions, for the Confederates were near at hand in
force, and a surprise was purposed as well as feared.
A tired and sleepy youngster, almost dropping with
the heavy somnolence of wearied adolescence, he stum-
bled on through the trials of an undiscernible and un-
familiar footing, lifting his heavy riding boots slug-
SELECTIONS 273
gishly over imaginary obstacles, and fearing the while
lest his toil were labor misspent. It was a dry camp,
he felt dolefully certain, or there would have been
more noise in it. He fell over a sleeping Sergeant,
and said to him hastily, " Steady, man — a friend ! " as
the half-roused soldier clutched his rifle. Then he
found a Lieutenant, and shook him in vain ; further on
a Captain, and exchanged saddening murmurs with
him; further still a camp-follower of African extrac-
tion, and blasphemed him.
" It's a God-forsaken camp, and there isn't a horn
in it," said Adjutant Wallis to himself as he pursued
his groping journey. " Bet you I don't find the first
drop," he continued, for he was a betting boy, and
frequently argued by wagers, even with himself. " Bet
you two to one I don't. Bet you three to one — ten to
one.'
Then he saw, an indefinite distance beyond him,
burning like red-hot iron through the darkness, a lit-
tle scarlet or crimson gleam, as of a lighted cigar.
"That's Old Crumps, of the Bloody Fourteenth,"
he thought. " I've raided into his happy sleeping-
grounds. I'll draw on him."
But Old Crumps, otherwise Colonel Lafayette Gil-
dersleeve, had no rations — that is, no whisky.
" How do you suppose an officer is to have a drink,
Lieutenant ? ': he grumbled.
" Don't you know that our would-be Brigadier sent
all the commissary to the rear day before yesterday?
A canteenful can't last two days. Mine went empty
about five minutes ago."
" Oh, thunder ! " groaned Wallis, saddened by that
274 MEMORIAL DAY
saddest of all thoughts ; " too late ! Well, least
said soonest mended. I must wobble back to my
Major."
" He'll send you off to some other camp as dry as
this one. Wait ten minutes, and he'll be asleep. Lie
down on my blanket and light your pipe. I want \o
talk to you about official business — about our would-be
Brigadier."
" Oh, your turn will come some day," mumbled
Wallis, remembering Gildersleeve's jealousy of the
brigade commander, — a jealousy which only gave
tongue when aroused by ' commissary.' If you do
as well as usual to-morrow you can have your own
brigade."
" I suppose you think we are all going to do well
to-morrow," scoffed Old Grumps, whose utterance by
this time stumbled. " I suppose you expect to whip
and to have a good time. I suppose you brag on right-
ing and enjoy it."
' I like it well enough when it goes right ; and it gen-
erally does go right with this brigade. I should like
it better if the rebs would fire higher and break
quicker."
r That depends on the way those are commanded
whose business it is to break them," growled Old
Grumps. ' I don't say but what we are rightly com-
manded," he added, remembering his duty to superiors.
' I concede and acknowledge that our would-be Brig-
adier knows his military business. But the blessing of
God, Wallis ! I believe in Waldron as a soldier. But
as a man and a Christian, faugh ! '
Gildersleeve had clearly emptied his canteen unas-
SELECTIONS 275
sisted; he never talked about Christianity when per-
fectly sober.
" What was your last remark ? ' inquired Wallis,
taking his pipe from his mouth to grin. Even a su-
perior officer might be chaffed a little in the dark-
ness.
" I made no last remark," asserted the Colonel with
dignity. " I'm not a-dying yet. If I said anything
last it was a mere exclamation of disgust — the disgust
of an officer and gentleman. I suppose you know
something about our would-be Brigadier. I suppose
you think you know something about him."
" Bet you I know all about him," affirmed Wallis.
" He enlisted in the old Tenth as a common soldier.
Before he had been a week in camp they found that
he knew his biz, and they made him a Sergeant. Be-
fore we started for the field the Governor got his eye
on him and shoved him into a Lieutenancy. The first
battle h'isted him to a Captain. And the second —
bang! whiz! he shot up to Colonel, right over the
heads of everybody, line and field. Nobody in the
old Tenth grumbled. They saw that he knew his biz.
I know all about him. What'll you bet ? '
" I'm not a betting man, Lieutenant, except in a
friendly game of poker," sighed Old Grumps. " You
don't know anything about your Brigadier," he added
in a sepulchral murmur, the echo of an empty canteen.
' I have only been in this brigade a month, and I
know more than you do, far, very far more, sorry to
say it. He's a reformed clergyman. He's an aposta-
tized minister." The Colonel's voice as he said this
was solemn and sad enough to do credit to an under-
276 MEMORIAL DAY
taker. " It's a bad sort, Wallis," he continued, after
another deep sigh, a very highly perfumed one, the sigh
of a bar-keeper. " When a clergyman falls, he falls
for life and eternity, like a woman or an angel. I
never knew a backslidden shepherd to come to good.
Sooner or later he always goes to the devil, and takes
down whomsoever hangs to him."
" He'll take down the old Tenth, then," asserted
Wallis. " It hangs to him. Bet you two to one he
takes it along."
"You're right, Adjutant; spoken like a soldier,"
swore Gildersleeve. " And the Bloody Fourteenth,
too ! It will march into the burning pit as far as any
regiment; and the whole brigade, yes sir! But a
backslidden shepherd, my God! Have we come to
that? I often say to myself, in the solemn hours of
the night, as I remember my Sabbath-school days,
' Great Scott, have we come to that ? ' A reformed
clergyman ! An apostatized minister ! Think of it,
Wallis, think of it! Why, sir, his very wife ran
away from him. They had but just buried their first
boy," pursued Old Grumps, his hoarse voice sinking to
a whimper. " They drove home from the burial-place,
where lay the new-made grave. Arrived at their door,
he got out and extended his hand to help her out.
Instead of accepting, instead of throwing herself into
his arms and weeping there, she turned to the coach-
man and said, ' Driver, drive me to my father's house.'
That was the end of their wedded life, Wallis."
The Colonel actually wept at this point, and the
maudlin tears were not altogether insincere. His own
wife and children he heartily loved, and remembered
SELECTIONS 277
them now with honest tenderness. At home he was
not a drinker and a rough; only amid the hardships
and perils of the field.
' That was the end of it, Wallis," he repeated.
' And what was it while it lasted ? What does a
woman leave her husband for? Why does she sep-
arate from him over the grave of her innocent first-
born ? There are twenty reasons, but they must all of
them be good ones. I am sorry to give it as my de-
cided opinion, Wallis, in perfect confidence, that they
must all be whopping good ones. Well, that was the
beginning; only the beginning. After that he held
on for a while, breaking the bread of life to a ske-
daddling flock, and then he bolted. The next known
of him, three years later, he enlisted in your regiment,
a smart but seedy recruit, smelling strongly of whisky.1'
' I wish I smelt half as strong of it myself," grum-
bled Wallis. " It might keep out the swamp fever."
[ That's the true story of Colonel John James Wal-
dron," continued Old Crumps, with a groan which
was very somnolent, as if it were a twin to a snore.
" That's the true story."
" I don't believe the first word of it — that is to say,
Colonel, I think you have been misinformed — and I'll
bet you two to one on it. If he was nothing more
than a minister, how did he know drill and tactics? '
" Oh, I forgot to say, he went through West Point, —
that is, nearly through. They graduated him in his
third year by the back door, Wallis."
" Oh, that was it, was it? He was a West Pointer,
was he? Well, then, the blacksliding was natural,
oughtn't to count against him. A member of
278 MEMORIAL DAY
Benny Havens' church has a right to backslide any-
where, especially as the Colonel doesn't seem to be
any worse than some of the rest of us, who haven't
fallen from grace the least particle, but took our stand
at the start just where we are now. A fellow that
begins with a handful of trumps has a right to play a
risky game."
" I know what euchered him, Wallis. It was the
old Little Joker; and there's another of the same on
hand now."
" On hand where ? What are you driving at, Col-
onel ? "
' He looks like a boy. I mean she looks like a
boy. You know what I mean, Wallis; I mean the
boy that makes believe wait on him. And her
brother is in camp, got here to-night. There'll be
an explanation to-morrow, and there'll be blood
shed."
" Good-night, Colonel, and sleep it off," said Wallis,
rising from the side of a man whom he believed to
be sillily drunk, and altogether untrustworthy. : You
know we get after the rebs at dawn."
1 1 know it — goo-night, Adjutant — gawbless-you,"
mumbled Old Grumps. ' We'll lick those rebs, won't
we?" he chuckled. ''Goo-night, ole fellow, an' gaw-
blessyou."
Whereupon Old Grumps fell asleep, very absurdly
overcome by liquor, we extremely regret to concede,
but nobly sure to do his soldierly duty as soon as he
should awake.
Stumbling wearily blanketward, Wallis found his
Major and regimental commander, the genial and gal-
SELECTIONS 279
lant Gahogan, slumbering in a peace like that of the
just. He stretched himself a-near, put out his hand to
touch his saber and revolver, drew his caped great-coat
over him, moved once to free his back of a root or
pebble, glanced languidly at a single struggling star,
thought for an instant of his far-away mother, turned
his head with a sigh, and slept. In the morning he
was to fight, and perhaps to die; but the boyish vet-
eran was too seasoned, and also too tired, to mind
that; he could mind but one thing — nature's pleading
for rest.
In the iron-gray dawn, while the troops were falling
dimly and spectrally into line, and he was mounting
his horse to be ready for orders, he remembered Gil-
dersleeve's drunken tale concerning the commandant,
and laughed aloud. But turning his face toward
brigade headquarters (a sylvan region marked out by
the branches of a great oak), he was surprised to see
a strange officer, a fair young man in Captain's uni-
form, riding slowly toward it.
"Is that the Boy's brother?' he said to himself;
and in the next instant he had forgotten the whole
subject; it was time to form and present the regi-
ment.
Quietly and without tap of drum the small battle-
worn battalions filed out of their bivouac into the
highway, ordered arms and waited for the word to
march. With a dull rumble the field-pieces trundled
slowly after, and halted in rear of the infantry. The
cavalry trotted off circuitously through the fields,
emerged upon the road in advance, and likewise halted,
all but a single company, which pushed on for half
280 MEMORIAL DAY
a mile, spreading out as it went into a thin line of
skirmishers.
Meanwhile a strange interview took place near the
great oak which had sheltered brigade headquarters.
As the unknown officer, whom Wallis had noted, ap-
proached it, Colonel Waldron was standing by his
horse ready to mount. The commandant was a man
of medium size, fairly handsome in person and
features, and apparently about twenty-eight years of
age. Perhaps it was the singular breadth of his fore-
head which made the lower part of his face look so
unusually slight and feminine. His eyes were dark
hazel, as clear, brilliant, and tender as a girl's, and
brimming full of a pensiveness which seemed both
loving and melancholy. Few persons, at all events
few women, who looked upon him ever looked be-
yond his eyes. They were very fascinating, and in
a man's countenance very strange. They were the
kind of eyes which reveal passionate romances, and
which make them.
By his side stood a boy, a singularly interesting and
beautiful boy, fair-haired and blue-eyed, and delicate
in color. When this boy saw the stranger approach
he turned as pale as marble, slid away from the brigade
commander's side, and disappeared behind a group of
staff officers and orderlies. The newcomer also be-
came deathly white as he glanced after the retreat-
ing youth. Then he dismounted, touched his cap
slightly, and, as if mechanically, advanced a few
steps, and said hoarsely, " I believe this is Colonel
Waldron. I am Captain Fitz Hugh, of the th
Delaware."
SELECTIONS 281
Waldron put his hand to his revolver, withdrew it
instantaneously, and stood motionless.
' I am on leave of absence from my regiment, Col-
onel," continued Fitz Hugh, speaking now with an
elaborate ceremoniousness of utterance significant of
a struggle to suppress violent emotion. " I suppose
you can understand why I made use of it in seeking
you."
Waldron hesitated ; he stood gazing at the earth
with the air of one who repressed deep pain; at last,
after a profound sigh, he raised his eyes and an-
swered :
' Captain, we are on the eve of a battle. I must
attend to my public duties first. After the battle we
will settle our private affair."
1 There is but one way to settle it, Colonel."
: You shall have your way if you will. You shall
do what you will. I only ask what good will it do to
her? "
' It will do good to me, Colonel," whispered Fitz
Hugh, suddenly turning crimson. " You forget me."
Waldron's face also flushed, and an angry sparkle
shot from under his lashes in reply to this utterance
of hate, but it died out in an instant.
( I have done a wrong, and I will accept the conse-
quences," he said. " I pledge you my word that I
will be at your disposal if I survive the battle. Where
do you propose to remain meanwhile ? '
' I will take the same chance, Sir. I propose to do
my share in the fighting if you will use me."
' I am short of staff officers. Will you act as my
aid?"
282 MEMORIAL DAY
" I will, Colonel," bowed Fitz Hugh, with a glance
which expressed surprise, and perhaps admiration, at
this confidence.
Waldron turned, beckoned his staff officers to ap-
proach, and said, " Gentlemen, this is Captain Fitz
Hugh of the th Delaware. He has volunteered to
join us for the day, and will act as my aid. And
now, Captain, will you ride to the head of the column
and order it forward? There will be no drum-beat
and no noise. When you have given your order and
seen it executed, you will wait for me."
Fitz Hugh saluted, sprang into his saddle, and gal-
loped away. A few minutes later the whole column
was plodding on silently toward its bloody goal. To a
civilian, unaccustomed to scenes of war, the tran-
quillity of these men would have seemed very wonder-
ful. Many of the soldiers were still munching the
hard bread and raw pork of their meager breakfasts,
or drinking the cold coffee with which they had filled
their canteens the day previous. Many more were
chatting in an undertone, grumbling over their sore
feet and other discomfits, chaffing each other, and
laughing. The general bearing, however, was grave,
patient, quietly enduring, and one might almost say
stolid. You would have said, to judge by their ex-
pressions, that these sunburnt fellows were merely
doing hard work, and thoroughly commonplace work,
without a prospect of adventure, and much less of
danger. The explanation of this calmness, so brutal
perhaps to the eye of a sensitive soul, lies mainly in
the fact that they were all veterans, the survivors of
marches, privations, maladies, sieges, and battles. Not
SELECTIONS 283
a regiment present numbered four hundred men, and
the average was not above three hundred. The whole
force, including artillery and cavalry, might have been
about twenty-five hundred sabers and bayonets.
At the beginning of the march Waldron fell into
the rear of his staff and mounted orderlies. Then the
boy who had fled from Fitz Hugh dropped out of the
tramping escort, and rode up to his side.
1 Well, Charlie," said Waldron, casting a pitying
glance at the yet pallid face and anxious eyes of
the youth, "you have had a sad fright. I make you
very miserable."
' He has found us at last," murmured Charlie in a
tremulous soprano voice. " What did he say ? '
[ We are to talk to-morrow. He acts as my aide-
de-camp to-day. I ought to tell you frankly that he
is not friendly."
" Of course, I knew it," sighed Charlie, while the
tears fell.
' It is only one more trouble — one more danger,
and perhaps it may pass. So many have passed."
' Did you tell him anything to quiet him ? Did you
tell him that we were married ? '
* But we are not married, yet, Charlie. We shall
be, I hope."
' But you ought to have told him that we were.
It might stop him from doing something — mad. Why
didn't you tell him so? Why didn't you think of it? '
' My dear little child, we are about to have a battle.
I should like to carry some honor and truth into it."
''Where is he?' continued Charlie, unconvinced
and unappeased. " I want to see him. Is he at the
284 MEMORIAL DAY
head of the column? I want to speak to him, just
one word. He won't hurt me."
She suddenly spurred her horse, wheeled into the
fields, and dashed onward. Fitz Hugh was lounging
in his saddle, and somberly surveying the passing
column, when she galloped up to him.
" Carrol ! " she said, in a choked voice, reining in by
his side, and leaning forward to touch his sleeve.
He threw one glance at her — a glance of aversion,
if not of downright hatred, and turned his back in
silence.
' He is my husband, Carrol," she went on rapidly.
" I knew you didn't understand it. I ought to have
written you about it. I thought I would come and
tell you before you did anything absurd. We were
married as soon as he heard that his wife was dead."
'What is the use of this?' he muttered hoarsely.
' She is not dead. I heard from her a week ago. She
was living a week ago."
"Oh, Carrol!" stammered Charlie. "It was some
mistake then. Is it possible! And he was so sure!
But he can get a divorce, you know. She abandoned
him. Or she can get one. No, he can get it — of
course, when she abandoned him. But, Carrol, she
must be dead — he was so sure."
' She is not dead, I tell you. And there can be no
divorce. Insanity bars all claim to a divorce. She
is in an asylum. She had to leave him, and then
she went mad."
' Oh, no, Carrol, it is all a mistake ; it is not so,
Carrol," she murmured in a voice so faint that he
could not help glancing at her, half in fury and half
SELECTIONS 285
in pity. She was slowly falling from her horse. He
sprang from his saddle, caught her in his arms, and
laid her on the turf, wishing the while that it covered
her grave. Just then one of Waldron's orderlies rode
up and exclaimed : " What is the matter with the — the
Boy? Hullo, Charlie."
Fitz Hugh stared at the man in silence, tempted to
tear him from his horse. " The boy is ill," he an-
swered when he recovered his self-command. " Take
charge of him yourself." He remounted, rode on-
ward out of sight beyond a thicket, and there waited
for the brigade commander, now and then fingering
his revolver. As Charlie was being placed in an am-
bulance by the orderly and a sergeant's wife, Waldron
came up, reined in his horse violently, and asked in
a furious voice, " Is that boy hurt? '
" Ah — fainted," he added immediately. " Thank
you, Mrs. Gunner. Take good care of him — the best
of care, my dear woman, and don't let him leave you
all day."
Further on, when Fitz Hugh silently fell into his
escort he merely glanced at him in a furtive way,
and then cantered on rapidly to the head of the cav-
alry. There he beckoned to the tall, grave, iron-gray
Chaplain of the Tenth, and rode with him for nearly
an hour, apart, engaged in low and seemingly im-
passioned discourse. From this interview Mr. Colqu-
houn returned to the escort with a strangely solem-
nized, tender countenance, while the commandant, with
a more cheerful air than he had yet worn that day,
gave himself to his martial duties, inspecting the land-
scape incessantly with his glass, and sending fre-
286 MEMORIAL DAY
quently for news to the advance scouts. It may prop-
erly be stated here that the Chaplain never divulged
to anyone the nature of the conversation which he had
held with his Colonel.
Nothing further of note occurred until the little
army, after two hours of plodding march, wound
through a sinuous, wooded ravine, entered a broad,
bare, slightly undulating valley, and for the second
time halted. Waldron galloped to the summit of a
knoll, pointed to a long eminence which faced him
from two miles distant, and said tranquilly, " There
is our battle-ground."
'Is that the enemy's position?' returned Captain
Ives, his Adjutant-General. " We shall have a tough
job if we go at it from here."
Waldron remained in deep thought for some min-
utes, meanwhile scanning the ridge and all its sur-
roundings.
" What I want to know," he observed, at last, " is
whether they have occupied the wooded knolls in
front of their right and around their right flank."
Shortly afterward the commander of the scouting
squadron came riding back at a furious pace.
" They are on the hill, Colonel," he shouted.
" Yes, of course," nodded Waldron ; " but have they
occupied the woods which veil their right front and
flank ? "
" Not a bit of it ; my fellows have cantered all
through, and up to the base of the hill."
" Ah ! ' exclaimed the brigade commander, with a
rush of elation. " Then it will be easy work. Go
back, Captain, and scatter your men through the wood,
SELECTIONS 287
and hold it, if possible. Adjutant, call up the regi-
mental commanders at once. I want them to under-
stand my plan fully."
In a few minutes Gahogan, of the Tenth; Gilder-
sleeve, of the Fourteenth ; Peck, of the First ; Thomas,
of the Seventh ; Taylor, of the Eighth, and Colburn, of
the Fifth, were gathered around their commander.
There, too, was Bradley, the boyish, red-cheeked chief
of the artillery ; and Stilton, the rough, old, bearded
regular, who headed the cavalry. The staff was at
hand, also, including Fitz Hugh, who sat his horse,
a little apart, downcast and somber and silent, but
nevertheless keenly interested. It is worthy of re-
mark, by the way, that Waldron took no special
note of him, and did not seem conscious of any dis-
turbing presence. Evil as the man may have been, he
was a thoroughly good soldier, and just now he
thought but of his duties.
' Gentlemen," he said, " I want you to see your
field of battle. The enemy occupy that long ridge.
How shall we reach it ? '
' I think, if we go at it straight from here, we
shan't miss it," promptly judged Old Grumps, his
red-oak countenance admirably cheerful and hopeful,
and his jealousy all dissolved in the interest of ap-
proaching combat.
* Nor they won't miss us nuther," laugher 'Major
Gahogan. ' Better slide our infantree into thim wuds,
push up our skirmishers, play away wid our guns for
an hour, an' thin rowl in a couple o' coFms."
There was a general murmur of approval. The
limits of volunteer invention in tactics had been
288 MEMORIAL DAY
reached by Gahogan. The other regimental com-
manders looked upon him as their superior in the art of
war.
" That would be well, Major, if we could do nothing
better," said Waldron. " But I do not feel obliged to
attack the front seriously at all. The rebels have
been thoughtless enough to leave that long semicircle
of wooded knolls unoccupied, even by scouts. It
stretches from the front of their center clear around
their right flank. I shall use it as a veil to cover
us while we get into position. I shall throw out a
regiment, a battery, and five companies of cavalry, to
make a feint against their center and left. With the
remainder of the brigade I shall skirt the woods,
double around the right of the position, and close in
upon it front and rear."
" Loike scissors blades upon a snip o' paper,"
shouted Gahogan, in delight. Then he turned to Fitz
Hugh, who happened to be nearest him, and added,
' I tell ye he's got the God o' War in um. He's the
burrnin' bussh of humanity, wid a God o' Battles in-
side on't."
" But how if they come down on our thin right
wing? " asked a cautious officer, Taylor, of the Eighth.
They might smash it and seize our line of retreat."
' Men who have taken up a strong position, a posi-
tion obviously chosen for defense, rarely quit it
promptly for an attack," replied Waldron. " There is
not one chance in ten that these gentlemen will make
a considerable forward movement early in the fight.
Only the greatest geniuses jump from the defensive
to the offensive. Besides, we must hold the wood.
SELECTIONS 289
So long as we hold the wood in front of their center
we save the road."
Then came personal and detailed instructions. Each
regimental commander was told whither he should
march, the point where he should halt to form line,
and the direction by which he should attack. The
mass of the command was to advance in marching col-
umn toward a knoll where the highway entered and
traversed the wood. Some time before reaching it
Taylor was to deploy the Eighth to the right, throw out
a strong skirmish line, and open fire on the enemy's
center and left, supported by the battery of Parrotts,
and, if pushed, by five companies of cavalry. The re-
maining troops would reach the knoll, file to the left
under cover of the forest, skirt it for a mile as rapidly
as possible, enfold the right of the Confederate posi-
tion, and then move upon it concentrically. Counting
from the left, the Tenth, the Seventh, and the Four-
teenth were to constitute the first line of battle, while
five companies of cavalry, then the First, and then
the Fifth formed the second line. Not until Gaho-
gan might have time to wind into the enemy's right
rear should Gildersleeve move out of the wood and
commence the real attack.
" You will go straight at the front of their right,"
said Waldron, with a gay smile, to this latter Colonel.
" Send up two companies as skirmishers. The moment
they are clearly checked, lead up the other eight in
line. It will be rough work. But keep pushing. You
won't have fifteen minutes of it before Thomas, on
your left, will be climbing the end of the ridge to
take the rebels in flank. In fifteen minutes more Ga-
2QO MEMORIAL DAY
hogan will be running in on their backs. Of course,
they will try to change front and meet us. But they
have extended their line a long way in order to cover
the whole ridge. They will not be quick enough. We
shall get hold of their right, and we shall roll them
up. Then, Colonel Stilton, I shall expect to see the
troopers jumping into the gaps and making prisoners."
" All right, Colonel," answered Stilton in that hoarse
growl which is apt to mark the old cavalry officer.
" Where shall we find you if we want a fresh order? '
" I shall be with Colburn, in rear of Gildersleeve.
That is our center. But never mind me; you know
what the battle is to be, and you know how to fight it.
The whole point with the infantry is to fold around
the enemy's right, go in upon it concentrically, smash
it, and roll up their line. The cavalry will watch
against the infantry being flanked, and when the
latter have seized the hill, will charge for prisoners.
The artillery will reply to the enemy's guns with shell,
and fire grape at any offensive demonstration. You
all know your duties, now, gentlemen. Go to your
commands, and march ! '
The Colonels saluted and started off at a gallop.
In a few minutes twenty-five hundred men were in
simultaneous movement. Five companies of cavalry
wheeled into column of companies, and advanced at
a trot through the fields, seeking to gain the shelter of
the forest. The six infantry regiments slid up along-
side of each other, and pushed on in six parallel col-
umns of march, two on the right of the road and four
on the left. The artillery, which alone left the high-
way, followed at a distance of two or three hundred
SELECTIONS 291
yards. The remaining cavalry made a wide detour to
the right, as if to flank the enemy's left.
It was a mile and a quarter — it was a march of fully
twenty minutes — to the edge of the woodland, the pro-
posed cover of the column. Ten minutes before this
point was reached a tiny puff of smoke showed on
the brow of the hostile ridge; then, at an interval of
several seconds, followed the sound of a distant ex-
plosion ; then, almost immediately came the screech of
a rifled shell. Every man who heard it swiftly asked
himself, " Will it strike me ? ' But ever as the words
were thought out it had passed, high in air, clean to
the rear, and burst harmlessly. A few faces turned
upward and a few eyes glanced backward, as if to
see the invisible enemy. But there was no pause in
the column ; it flowed onward quietly, eagerly, and with
business-like precision ; it gave forth no sound but
the trampling of feet and the muttering of the officers,
" Steady, men ! Forward, men."
The Confederates, however, had got their range.
A half-minute later four puffs of smoke dotted the
ridge, and a flight of hoarse humming shrieks tore
the air. A little aureole cracked and splintered over
the First, followed by loud cries of anguish and a brief,
slight confusion. The voice of an officer rose sharply
out of the flurry. " Close up, Company A ! Forward,
men ! ' The battalion column resumed its even
formation in an instant, and tramped unitedly on-
ward, leaving behind it two quivering corpses and a
wounded man who tottered rearward.
Then came more screeches, and a shell exploded
over the highroad, knocking a gunner lifeless from.
292 MEMORIAL DAY
his carriage. The brigade commander glanced
anxiously along his batteries, and addressed a few
words to his chief of artillery. Presently the four Na-
poleons set forward at a gallop for the wood, while the
four Parrotts wheeled to the right, deployed, and
advanced across the fields, inclining toward the left
of the enemy. Next, Taylor's regiment (the Eighth)
halted, fronted, faced to the right, and filed off in col-
umn of march at a double-quick until it had gained
the rear of the Parrotts, when it fronted again, and
pushed on in support. A quarter of a mile further
on these guns went into battery behind the brow of a
little knoll, and opened fire. Four companies of the
Eighth spread out to the right as skirmishers, and
commenced stealing toward the ridge, from time to
time measuring the distance with rifle-balls. The re-
mainder of the regiment lay down in line between the
Parrotts and the forest. Far away to the right, five
companies of cavalry showed themselves, maneuvering
as if they proposed to turn the left flank of the South-
erners. The attack on this side was in form and in
operation.
Meantime the Confederate fire had divided. Two
guns pounded away at Taylor's feint, while two shelled
the main column. The latter was struck repeatedly;
more than twenty men dropped silent or groaning out
of the hurrying files; but the survivors pushed on
without faltering, and without even caring for the
wounded. At last a broad belt of green branches rose
between the regiments and the ridge; and the rebel
gunners, unable to see their foe, dropped suddenly into
silence.
SELECTIONS 293
Here it appeared that the road divided. The high-
way traversed the forest, mounted the slope beyond,
and dissected the enemy's position, while a branch
road turned to the left and skirted the exterior of the
long curve of wooded hillocks. At the fork the bat-
tery of Napoleons had halted, and there it was ordered
to remain for the present in quiet. There, too, the
Fourteenth filed in among the dense greenery, threw
out two companies of skirmishers toward the ridge,
and pushed slowly after them into the shadows.
" Get sight of the enemy at once! " was Waldron's
last word to Gildersleeve. ' If they move down the
slope, drive them back. But don't commence your
attack under half an hour."
Next he filed the Fifth into the thickets, saying to
Colburn, " I want you to halt a hundred yards to the
left and rear of Gildersleeve. Cover his flank if he is
attacked; but otherwise lie quiet. As soon as he
charges, move forward to the edge of the wood, and
be ready to support him. But make no assault your-
self until further orders."
The two next regiments — the Seventh and First —
he placed in echelon, in like manner, a quarter of a mile
further along. Then he galloped forward to the cav-
alry, and had a last word with Stilton. " You and
Gahogan must take care of yourselves. Push on four
or five hundred yards, and then face to the right.
Whatever Gahogan finds let him go at it. If he can't
shake it, help him. You two must reach the top of
the ridge. Only, look out for your left flank. Keep
a squadron or two in reserve on that side."
" Currnel, if we don't raich the top of the hill, it'll
294 MEMORIAL DAY
be because it hasn't got wan," answered Gahogan.
Stilton only laughed and rode forward.
Waldron now returned toward the fork of the road.
On the way he sent a staff officer to the Seventh with
renewed orders to attack as soon as possible after
Gildersleeve. Then another staff officer was hurried
forward to Taylor with directions to push his feint
strongly, and drive his skirmishers as far up the slope
as they could get. A third staff officer set the Par-
rotts in rear of Taylor to firing with all their might.
By the time that the commandant had returned to
Colburn's ambushed ranks, no one was with him but
his enemy, Fitz Hugh.
" You don't seem to trust me with duty, Colonel,"
said the young man.
" I shall use you only in case of extremity, Captain,"
replied Waldron. " We have business to settle to-
morrow.'
" I ask no favors on that account. I hope you will
offer me none."
" In case of need I shall spare no one," declared
Waldron.
Then he took out his watch, looked at it impatiently,
put it to his ear, restored it to his pocket, and fell
into an attitude of deep attention. Evidently his
whole mind was on his battle, and he was waiting,
watching, yearning for its outburst.
"If he wins this fight," thought Fitz Hugh, " how
can I do him a harm ? And yet," he added, " how can
I help it ? "
Minutes passed. Fitz Hugh tried to think of his in-
jury, and to steel himself against his chief. But the
SELECTIONS 295
roar of battle on the right, and the suspense and im-
minence of battle on the left, absorbed the attention
of even this wounded and angry spirit, as, indeed, they
might have absorbed that of any being not more or less
than human. A private wrong, insupportable though
it might be, seemed so small amid that deadly clamor
and awful expectation ! Moreover, the intellect which
worked so calmly and vigorously by his side, and
which alone of all things near appeared able to rule
the coming crisis, began to dominate him, in spite
of his sense of injury. A thought crossed him to the
effect that the great among men are too valuable to be
punished for their evil deeds. He turned to the ob-
sorbed brigade commander, now not only his ruler,
but even his protector, with a feeling that he must ac-
cord him a word of peace, a proffer in some form of
possible forgiveness and friendship. But the man's
face was clouded and stern with responsibility and
authority. He seemed at that moment too lofty to be
approached with a message of pardon. Fitz Hugh
gazed at him with a mixture of profound respect and
smothered hate. He gazed, turned away, and re-
mained silent.
Minuter more passed. Then a mounted orderly
dashed up at full speed, with the words, " Colonel,
Major Gahogan has fronted."
' Has he?" answered Waldron, with a smile which
thanked the trooper and made him happy. " Ride
on through the thicket here, my man, and tell Col-
onel Gildersleeve to push up his skirmishers."
With a thud of hoofs and a rustling of parting
foliage the cavalryman disappeared amid the under-
296 MEMORIAL DAY
wood. A minute or two later a thin, dropping rattle
of musketry, five hundred yards or so to the front,
announced that the sharpshooters of the Fourteenth
were at work. Almost immediately there was an
angry response, full of the threatenings and execution
of death. Through the lofty leafage tore the screech
of a shell, bursting with a sharp crash as it passed
overhead, and scattering in humming slivers. Then
came another, and another, and many more, chasing
each other with hoarse hissings through the trembling
air, a succession of flying serpents. The enemy doubt-
less believed that nearly the whole attacking force was
massed in the wood around the road, and they had
brought at least four guns to bear upon that point, and
were working them with the utmost possible rapidity.
Presently a large chestnut, not fifty yards from Fitz
Hugh, was struck by a shot. The solid trunk, nearly
three feet in diameter, parted asunder as if it were
the brittlest of vegetable matter. The upper portion
started aside with a monstrous groan, dropped in a
standing posture to the earth, and then topped slowly,
sublimely prostrate, its branches crashing and all its
leaves wailing. Ere long, a little further to the front,
another Anak of the forest went down ; and, mingled
with the noise of its sylvan agony, there arose sharp
cries of human suffering. Then Colonel Colburn, a
broad-chested and ruddy man of thirty-five, with a
look of indignant anxiety in his iron-gray eyes, rode
up to the brigade commander.
" This is very annoying, Colonel," he said. ' I am
losing my men without using them. That last tree
fell into my command."
SELECTIONS 297
" Are they firing toward our left ? " asked Waldron.
" Not a shot."
" Very good," said the chief, with a sigh of content-
ment. "If we can only keep them occupied in this
direction ! By the way, let your men lie down under
the fallen tree, as far as it will go. It will protect
them from others."
Colburn rode back to his regiment. Waldron looked
impatiently at his watch. At that moment a fierce
burst of line firing arose in front, followed and al-
most overborne by a long-drawn yell, the scream of
charging men. Waldron put up his watch, glanced ex-
citedly at Fitz Hugh, and smiled.
' I must forgive or forget," the latter could not
help saying to himself. " All the rest of life is nothing
compared with this."
" Captain," said Waldron, " ride off to the left at full
speed. As soon as you hear firing at the shoulder of
the ridge, return instantly and let me know."
Fitz Hugh dashed away. Three minutes carried
him into perfect peace, beyond the whistling of ball
or the screeching of shell. On the right was a tran-
quil, wide waving of foliage, and on the left a serene
landscape of cultivated fields, with here and there an
embowered farmhouse. Only for the clamor of
artillery and musketry far behind him, he could not
have believed in the near presence of battle, of blood
and suffering and triumphant death. But suddenly he
heard to his right, assaulting and slaughtering the tran-
quillity of nature, a tumultuous outbreak of file-firing,
mingled with savage yells. He wheeled, drove spurs
into his horse, and flew back to Waldron. As he re-
298 MEMORIAL DAY
entered the wood he met wounded men streaming
through it, a few marching alertly upright, many more
crouching and groaning, some clinging to their less in-
jured comrades, but all haggard in face and ghastly.
"Are we winning?' he hastily asked of one man
who held up a hand with three ringers gone and the
bones projecting in sharp spikes through mangled flesh.
" All right, Sir ; sailing in," was the answer.
" Is the brigade commander all right ? " he inquired
of another who was winding a bloody handkerchief
around his arm.
" Straight ahead, Sir ; hurrah for Waldron ! ' re-
sponded the soldier, and almost in the same instant
fell lifeless with a fresh ball through his head.
" Hurrah for him ! " Fitz Hugh answered frantically,
plunging on through the underwood. He found Wal-
dron with Colburn, the two conversing tranquilly in
their saddles amid hissing bullets and dropping
branches.
" Move your regiment forward now," the brigade
commander was saying; " but halt it in the edge of the
wood."
"Shan't I relieve Gildersleeve if he gets beaten?'
asked the subordinate officer eagerly.
" No. The regiments on the left will help him out.
I want your men and Peck's for the fight on top of the
hill. Of course the rebels will try to retake it; then I
shall call for you."
Fitz Hugh now approached and said, " Colonel, the
Seventh has attacked in force."
" Good ! " answered Waldron, with that sweet smile
of his which thanked people who brought him pleas-
SELECTIONS 299
ant news. " I thought I heard his fire. Gahogan will
be on their right rear in ten minutes. Then we shall
get the ridge. Ride back now to Major Bradley, and
tell him to bring his Napoleons through the wood, and
set two of them to shelling the enemy's center. Tell
him my idea is to amuse them, and keep them from
changing front."
Again Fitz Hugh galloped off as before on a com-
fortably safe errand, safer at all events than many
errands of that day. ( This man is sparing my life,"
he said to himself. ' Would to God I knew how to
spare his ! '
He found Bradley lunching on a gun caisson, and
delivered his orders. " Something to do at last, eh ? '
laughed the rosy-cheeked youngster. : The smallest
favors thankfully received. Won't you take a bite
of rebel chicken, Captain? This rebellion must be put
down. No? Well, tell the Colonel I am moving on,
and John Brown's soul not far ahead."
When Fitz Hugh returned to Waldron he found him
outside of the wood, at the base of the long incline
which rose into the rebel position. About the slope
were scattered prostrate forms, most numerous near
the bottom, some crawling slowly rearward, some
quiescent. Under the brow of the ridge, decimated
and broken into a mere skirmish line sheltered in knots
and singly, behind rocks and knolls and bushes, lay the
Fourteenth Regiment, keeping up a steady, slow fire.
From the edge above, smokily dim against a pure, blue
heaven, answered another rattle of musketry, incessant,
obstinate, and spiteful. The combatants on both sides
were lying down; otherwise neither party could have
300 MEMORIAL DAY
lasted ten minutes. From Fitz Hugh's point of view
not a Confederate uniform could be seen. But the
smoke of their rifles made a long gray line, which was
disagreeably visible and permanent; and the sharp
whit! whit! of their bullets continually passed him, and
cheeped away in the leafage behind.
" Our men can't get on another inch," he ventured
to say to his commander. " Wouldn't it be well for me
to ride up and say a cheering word ? '
" Every battle consists largely in waiting," replied
Waldron thoughtfully. " They have undoubtedly
brought up a reserve to face Thomas. But when
Gahogan strikes the flank of the reserve, we shall
win."
" I wish you would take shelter," begged Fitz Hugh.
" Everything depends on your life."
" My life has been both a help and a hurt to my
fellow-creatures," sighed the brigade commander.
" Let come what will to it."
He glanced upward with an expression of profound
emotion ; he was evidently fighting two battles, an
outward and an inward one.
Presently, he added, " I think the musketry is in-
creasing on the left. Does it strike you so?'
He was all eagerness again, leaning forward with an
air of earnest listening, his face deeply flushed and
his eye brilliant. Of a sudden the combat above rose
and swelled into higher violence. There was a
clamor far away — it seemed nearly a mile away — over
the hill. Then the nearer musketry, first Thomas's
on the shoulder of the ridge, next Gildersleeve's in
front, caught fire and raged with new fury.
SELECTIONS 301
Waldron laughed outright. ' Gahogan has reached
them," he said to one of his staff who had just re-
joined him. " We shall all be up there in five min-
utes. Tell Colburn to bring on his regiment slowly."
Then, turning to Fitz Hugh, he added, ' Captain,
we will ride forward."
They set off at a walk, now watching the smoking
brow of the eminence, now picking their way among
dead and wounded. Suddenly there was a shout above
them and a sudden diminution of the firing; and
looking upward, they saw the men of the Fourteenth
running confusedly toward the summit. Without a
word the brigade commander struck spurs into his
horse and dashed up the long slope at a run, closely
followed by his enemy and aid. What they saw when
they overtook the straggling, running, panting, scream-
ing pell-mell of the Fourteenth was victory !
The entire right wing of the Confederates, attacked
on three sides at once, placed at enormous disad-
vantage, completely overgeneraled, had given way in
confusion, was retreating, breaking, and flying. There
were lines yet of dirty gray or butternut; but they
were few, meager, fluctuating, and recoiling, and there
were scattered and scurrying men in hundreds. Three
veteran and gallant regiments had gone all to wreck
under the shock of three similar regiments far more
intelligently directed. A strong position had been lost
because the heroes who held it could not perform the
impossible feat of forming successively two fresh
fronts under a concentric fire of musketry. The in-
ferior brain power had confessed the superiority of
the stronger one.
302 MEMORIAL DAY
On the victorious side there was wild, clamorous,
fierce exultation. The hurrying, shouting, firing sol-
diers, who noted their commander riding among them,
swung their rifles or their tattered hats at him, and
screamed " Hurrah ! ' No one thought of the Con-
federate dead under foot, nor of the Union dead who
dotted the slope behind. " What are you here for, Col-
onel?" shouted rough old Gildersleeve, one leg of his
trousers dripping blood. " We can do it alone."
'It is a battle won," laughed Fitz Hugh, almost
worshiping the man whom he had come to slay.
' It is a battle won, but not used," answered Wal-
dron. ' We haven't a gun yet, nor a flag. Where is
the cavalry? Why isn't Stilton here? He must have
got afoul of the enemy's horse, and been obliged
to beat it off. Can anybody hear anything of
Stilton ? "
' Let him go," roared Old Grumps. " The infantry
don't want any help."
" Your regiment has suffered, Colonel," answered
Waldron, glancing at the scattered files of the Four-
teenth. " Halt it and reorganize it, and let it fall in
with the right of the First when Peck comes up. I
shall replace you with the Fifth. Send your Adjutant
back to Colburn and tell him to hurry along. Those
fellows are making a new front over there," he added,
pointing to the center of the hill. ' I want the Fifth,
Seventh, and Tenth in echelon as quickly as possible.
And I want that cavalry. Lieutenant," turning to one
of his staff, " ride off to the left and find Colonel
Stilton. Tell him that I need a charge in ten
minutes."
SELECTIONS 303
Presently cannon opened from that part of the ridge
still held by the Confederates, the shells tearing
through or over the dissolving groups of their right
wing, and cracking viciously above the heads of the
victorious Unionists. The explosions followed each
other with stunning rapidity, and the shrill whirring
of the splinters was ominous. Men began to fall again
in the ranks or to drop out of them wounded. Of all
this Waldron took no further note than to ride hastily
to the brow of the ridge and look for his own
artillery.
" See how he attinds to iverthing himself," said
Major Gahogan, who had cantered up to the side of
Fitz Hugh. " It's just a matther of plain business,
an' he looks after it loike a business man. Did ye see
us, though, Captin, whin we come in on their right
flank? By George, we murthered um. There's
more'n a hundred lyin' in hapes back there. As for
old Stilton, I just caught sight of um behind that
wood to our left, and he's makin' for the enemy's
right rair. He'll have lots o' prisoners in half an
hour."
When Waldron returned to the group he was told
of his cavalry's whereabouts, and responded to the
information with a smile of satisfaction.
" Bradley is hurrying up," he said, " and Taylor
is pushing their left smartly. They will make one
more tussle to recover their line of retreat; but we
shall smash them from end to end and take every
gun."
He galloped now to his infantry, and gave the word
" Forward ! ' The three regiments which composed
304 MEMORIAL DAY
the echelon were the Fifth on the right, the Seventh
fifty yards to the rear and left of the Fifth. It was
behind the Fifth, that is, the foremost battalion, that
the brigade commander posted himself.
"Do you mean to stay here, Colonel?" asked Fitz
Hugh, in surprise and anxiety.
" It is a certain victory now," answered Waldron,
with a singular glance upward. " My life is no longer
important. I prefer to do my duty to the utmost in
the sight of all men."
" I shall follow you and do mine, Sir/' said the
Captain, much moved, he could scarcely say by what
emotions, they were so many and conflicting.
" I want you otherwheres. Ride to Colonel Taylor
at once, and hurry him up the hill. Tell him the enemy
have greatly weakened their left. Tell him to push
up everything, infantry, and cavalry, and artillery, and
to do it in haste."
' Colonel, this is saving my life against my will,"
remonstrated Fitz Hugh.
' Go ! ' ordered Waldron, imperiously. " Time is
precious."
Fitz Hugh dashed down the slope to the right at a
gallop. The brigade commander turned tranquilly,
and followed the march of his echelon. The second
and decisive crisis of the little battle was approaching,
and to understand it we must glance at the ground on
which it was to be fought. Two hostile lines were
marching toward each other along the broad, gently
rounded crest of the hill, and at right angles to its gen-
eral course. Between these lines, but much the near-
est to the Union troops, a spacious road came up out
SELECTIONS 305
of the forest in front, crossed the ridge, swept down
the smooth decline in rear, and led to a single wooden
bridge over a narrow but deep rivulet. On either
hand the road was hedged in by a close board fence,
four feet or so in height. It was for the possession
of this highway that the approaching lines were about
to shed their blood. If the Confederates failed to
win it, all their artillery would be lost, and their army
captured or dispersed.
The two parties came on without firing. The sol-
diers on both sides were veterans, cool, obedient to
orders, intelligent through long service, and able
to reserve all their resources for a short-range and
final struggle. Moreover, the fences as yet par-
tially hid them from each other, and would have
rendered all aim for the present vague and uncer-
tain.
"Forward, Fifth!" shouted Waldron. "Steady.
Reserve your fire." Then, as the regiment came up to
the fence, he added, " Halt, right dress. Steady,
men/
Meantime he watched the advancing array with
an eager gaze. It was a noble sight, full of moral
sublimity, and worthy of all admiration. The long,
lean, sunburned, weather-beaten soldiers in ragged
gray stepped forward, superbly, their ranks loose, but
swift and firm, the men leaning forward in their haste,
their tattered slouch hats pushed backward, their whole
aspect business-like and virile. Their line was three
battalions strong, far outflanking the Fifth, and at least
equal to the entire echelon. When within thirty or
forty yards of the further fence they increased their
306 MEMORIAL DAY
pace to nearly a double-quick, many of them stooping
low in hunter fashion, and a few firing. Then Wal-
dron rose in his stirrups and yelled, " Battalion ! ready
— aim — aim low. Fire ! '
There was a stunning roar of three hundred and
fifty rifles and a deadly screech of bullets. But the
smoke rolled out, the haste to reload was intense, and
none could mark what execution was done. Whatever
the Confederates may have suffered, they bore up un-
der the volley, and they came on. In another minute
each of those fences, not more than twenty-five yards
apart, was lined by the shattered fragments of a regi-
ment, each firing as fast as possible into the face of
the other. The Fifth bled fearfully : it had five of its
ten company commanders shot dead in three minutes;
and its loss in other officers and in men fell scarcely
short of this terrific ratio. On its left the Seventh
and the Tenth were up, pouring in musketry, and re-
ceiving it in a fashion hardly less sanguinary. No one
present had ever seen, or ever afterward saw, such
another close and deadly contest.
But the strangest thing in this whole wonderful fight
was the conduct of the brigade commander. Up and
down the rear of the lacerated Fifth, Waldron rode
thrice, spurring his plunging and wounded horse, close
to the yelling and fighting file-closers, and shouting in
a piercing voice encouragement to his men. Stranger
still, considering the character which he had borne in
the army, and considering the evil deed for which he
was to account on the morrow, were the words which
he was distinctly and repeatedly heard to utter.
' Stand steady, men — God is with us ! ' ' was the ex-
SELECTIONS 307
traordinary battle-cry of this backslidden clergyman,
this sinner above many.
And it was a prophecy of victory. Bradley ran up
his Napoleons on the right in the nick of time, and,
although only one of them could be brought to bear,
it was enough ; the grape raked the Confederate left,
broke it, and the battle was over. In five minutes
more their whole array was scattered, and the entire
position open to galloping cavalry, seizing guns, stand-
ards, and prisoners.
It was in the very moment of triumph, just as the
stubborn Southern line reeled back from the fence in
isolated clusters, that the miraculous impunity of
Waldron terminated, and he received his death wound.
A quarter of an hour later Fitz Hugh found a sor-
rowful group of officers gazing from a little distance
upon their dying commander.
' Is the Colonel hit? " he asked, shocked and grieved,
incredible as the emotion may seem.
' Don't go near him," called Gildersleeve, who, it
will be remembered, knew or guessed his errand in
camp. ' The Chaplain and surgeon are there. Let
him alone."
' He's going to render his account," added Gahogan.
' An' whativer he's done wrong, he's made it square
to-day. Let um lave it to his brigade."
Adjutant Wallis, who had been blubbering aloud,
who had cursed the rebels and the luck energetically,
and who had also been trying to pray inwardly,
groaned out, " This is our last victory. You see if it
ain't. Bet you two to one."
" Hush, man," replied Gahogan. " We'll win our
308 MEMORIAL DAY
share of um, though we'll have to work harder for it.
We'll have to do more ourselves, an' get less done for
us in the way of tactics."
" That so, Major," whimpered a drummer, looking
up from his duty of attending to a wounded comrade.
" He knowed how to put his men in the right place,
and his men knowed when they was in the right place.
But it's goin' to be uphill through the steepest part of
hell the rest of the way."
Soldiers, some of them weeping, some of them
bleeding, arrived constantly to inquire after their com-
mander, only to be sent quietly back to their ranks or
to the rear. Around lay other men — dead men, and
senseless, groaning men — all for the present unnoticed.
Everything, except the distant pursuit of the cavalry,
waited for Waldron to die. Fitz Hugh looked on
silently, with the tears of mingled emotions in his eyes,
and with hopes and hatreds expiring in his heart. The
surgeon supported the expiring victor's head, while
Chaplain Colquhoun knelt beside him, holding his hand
and praying audibly. Of a sudden the petition ceased,
both bent hastily toward the wounded man, and after
what seemed a long time exchanged whispers. Then
the Chaplain rose, came slowly toward the now ad-
vancing group of officers, his hands outspread toward
heaven in an attitude of benediction, and tears running
down his haggard white face.
' I trust, dear friends," he said, in a tremu-
lous voice, " that all is well with our brother and
commander. His last words were, ' God is with
us.'
Oh ! but, man, that isn't well," broke out Gahogan,
SELECTIONS 309
in a groan. "What did ye pray for his sowl for?
Why didn't ye pray for his loif e ? '
Fitz Hugh turned his horse and rode silently away.
The next day he was seen journeying rearward by the
side of an ambulance, within which lay what seemed
a strangely delicate boy, insensible, and, one would
say, mortally ill.
A STORY OF DECORATION DAY FOR THE
LITTLE CHILDREN OF TO-DAY 1
BY ELIZABETH HARRISON
I want you to listen to a sad, sweet story to-day, and
yet one that ought to make you glad — glad that such
men have lived as those of whom I am going to tell
you. It all happened a good many years ago, in fact
so long ago that your fathers and mothers were little
boys and girls in kilts and pinafores, some of them
mere babies in long clothes.
One bright Sunday morning in April the telegraph
wires could be heard repeating the same things all over
the land, " Tic, tic, tictic ; t-i-c ; tic, tictic ; — tic, t-i-c, tic ;
t-i-c ; tic, t-i-c ; t-i-c, t-i-c, tic," they called out, and the
drowsy telegraph operators sat up in their chairs as if
startled by the words the wires were saying.
Tic, t-i-c ; tic ; tictic ; tic, tictic ; tic, t-i-c, tictic ; —
tic, tic ; t-i-c, tic," continued the wires, and the faces of
'From "In Story Land." Sigma Publishing Co., St.
Louis, Mo.
3io MEMORIAL DAY
the telegraph operators grew pale. Any looker-on
could have seen that something dreadful was being told
by the wires.
" Tic, t-i-c, tic ; tictic ; tic, tictic ; tic ; t-i-c, tictic ; — tic,
tic; t-i-c, tic," again repeated the wires. There was
no mistaking the message this time. Alas, alas, it was
true ! The terrible news was true ! Even the bravest
among the operators trembled.
Then came the rapid writing out of the fearful words
that the slender wires had uttered, the hurrying to and
fro; the messenger boys were seen flying to the great
newspaper offices, and the homes of the mayors of the
cities, and to the churches where already the people
were beginning to assemble. For the deep-toned Sab-
bath church bells high up in the steeples had been ring-
ing out their welcome to all, even the strangers in
their midst — " Bim ! Baum ! Bim ! ' they sang, which
everybody knew meant, " Come to church, dear people !
Come ! Come ! Come ! ' And the people strolled
leisurely along toward the churches, — fathers and
mothers and little ones, and even grandfathers and
grandmothers. It was such a bright, pleasant day
that it seemed a joy to go to the house of God and
thank Him for all His love and care. So one family
after another filed into their pews while the organist
played such soft, sweet music that everybody felt
soothed and quieted by it.
Little did they dream of the awful words which the
telegraph wires were at that very moment calling out
with their " Tic, t-i-c, tic; t-i-c; tic, t-i-c; t-i-c; t-i-c,
tic ; — tic, t-i-c, tic, tictic, tic, tictic ; tic, t-i-c ; tictic."
The clergymen came in and took their places in the
SELECTIONS 311
pulpits. In each church the organ ceased its wordless
song of praise. The congregation bowed and silently
joined with all their hearts in the petitions which the
clergyman was offering to the dear Lord, Father of all
mankind, Ruler of heaven and earth. Some of them
softly whispered " Amen " as he asked protection for
their homes and their beloved country. Did they know
anything about the danger which even then hung over
them? -Perhaps they did.
In many of the churches the prayer was over, the
morning hymn had been sung, when a stir and bustle
at the door might have been noticed, as the messenger
boys, excited and out of breath, handed their yellow
envelopes to the ushers who stood near the door ready
to show the late comers to unoccupied seats. First
one and then the other ushers read the message, and
from some one of them escaped in a hushed whisper,
the words, " Oh God ! Has it come to this ! '
And all looked white and awe-struck. The head
usher hurried tremblingly down the aisle, and without
waiting for the clergyman to finish reading the an-
nouncements of the week, laid the telegram upon the
pulpit desk.
The clergyman, somewhat surprised at such an inter-
ruption, glanced at the paper, stopped, gasped, picked
it up, and reread the words written upon it, as though
he could not believe his own eyes. Then he advanced
a step forward, holding on to the desk, as if he had
been struck a blow by some unseen hand. The con-
gregation knew that something terrible had happened,
and their hearts seemed to stop beating as they leaned
forward to catch his words.
312 MEMORIAL DAY
' My people," said he in a slow, deliberate tone, as
if it were an effort to steady his voice, " I hold in my
hand a message from the President of the United
States." Then his eyes dropped to the paper which he
still held, and now his voice rang out clear and loud as
he read, " Our Flag has been fired upon! Seventy- five
thousand troops wanted at once. Abraliam Lincoln."
•••••••
I could not make you understand all that took place
the next week or two any more than the little children
who heard what the telegram said, understood it.
Men came home, hurried and excited, to hunt up law
papers, or to straighten out deeds, saying in con-
strained tones to the pale-faced women, " I will try
to leave all business matters straight before I go."
There was solemn consultations between husbands and
wives, which usually ended in the father's going out,
stern-faced and silent, and the mother, dry-eyed but
with quivering lips, seeking her own room, locking her-
self in for an hour, then coming out to the wondering
children with a quiet face, but with eyes that showed
she had been weeping. There were gatherings in the
town halls and in the churches and school houses all
over the land. The newspapers were read hurriedly
and anxiously.
And when little Robert looked up earnestly into his
Grandmamma's face and asked, " Why does Mamma
not eat her breakfast? " Grandmamma replied, " Your
Papa is going away, my dear ;" and when little Robert
persisted by saying, " But Papa goes to New York
every year, and Mamma does not sit and stare out of
the window, and forget to eat her breakfast." Then
SELECTIONS 313
Mamma would turn solemnly around and say, " Robert,
my boy, Papa is going to the war, and may never come
back to us. But you and I must be brave about it
and help him get ready." And if Robert answered,
' Why is he going to the war ? Why does he not stay
at home with us ? Doesn't he love us any more ? '
then Mamma would draw her boy to her and, putting
her arms around him, and looking into his eyes, she
would say, " Yes, my darling, he loves us, but he must
go. Our country needs him, and you and I must be
proud that he is ready to do his duty." Then Robert
would go away to his play, wondering what it all
meant, just as you would have wondered if you had
been there.
Soon the Papas and Uncles, and even some of the
Grandfathers, put on soldiers' uniforms, and drilled in
the streets with guns over their shoulders, and bands
of music played military music, and the drums beat,
and crowds of people collected on the street corners,
and there were more speeches, and more flags, and
banners, and stir, and excitement. And nothing else
was talked of but the war, the war, the terrible war.
Then came the marching away of the soldiers to the
railway stations, and then the farewells and cheers and
waving of handkerchiefs and the playing of patriotic
airs by the bands of music, and much more confusion
and excitement and good-by kisses and tears than I
could tell you of.
• ••••••
Then came the long, long days of waiting and pray-
ing in the homes to which fathers and brothers no
longer came, and silent watching for letters, and
3i4 MEMORIAL DAY
anxious opening of the newspapers, and oftentimes the
little children felt their Mamma's tears drop on their
faces as she kissed them good-night — their dear
Mamma who so often had sung them to sleep with
her gay, happy songs, — what did it all mean? They
could not tell.
And all this time the fathers, brave men as they
were, had been marching down to the war. Often-
times they slept on the hard ground with only their
army blankets wrapped around them, and the stars to
keep watch over them, and many a day they had
nothing to eat but dry bread and black coffee, because
they had not time to cook more, and sometimes they
had no breakfast at all because they must be up by
daybreak and march on, even if the rain poured down,
as it sometimes did, wetting them through and
through. What were such hardships zvhen their coun-
try was in danger?
Then came the terrible, terrible battles, more awful
than anything you ever dreamed of. Men were shot
down by the thousands, and many who did not lose
their lives had a leg shot off, or an arm so crushed
that it had to be cut off. Still they bravely struggled
on. It was for their beloved country they were fight-
ing, and for it they must be willing to suffer, or to die.
Then a hundred thousand more soldiers were called
for, and then another hundred thousand, and still the
bloody war continued. For four long years it lasted,
and the whole world looked on, amazed at such cour-
age and endurance.
• ••••••
Then the men who had not been killed, or who had
SELECTIONS 315
not died of their sufferings, came marching home again,
many, alas, on crutches, and many who knew that they
were disabled for life. But they had saved their coun-
try! And that was reward enough for their heroic
hearts. Though many a widow turned her sad face
awray when the crowd welcomed the returning soldiers,
for she knew that her loved one was not with them,
and many little children learned in time that their dear
fathers would never return to them.
War is such a terrible thing that it makes one's
heart ache to think of it.
Then by and by the people said, " Our children must
grow up loving and honoring the heroic men who gave
their lives for their country." So in villages and
towns, and cities, monuments were built in honor of
the men who died fighting for their country. And one
day each year was set apart to keep fresh and green
the memory of the brave soldiers, and it has been
named " DECORATION DAY," because on this day
all the children, all over the land, are permitted to go
to the graves of the dead soldiers and place flowers
upon them.
THE FIRE REKINDLED *
BY CLAIRE WALLACE FLYNN
The rat-a-tat of the drums and the dauntless voice
of the fife began to awaken the quiet streets early in
a
Lippincotfs Magazine, January- June, 1907.
316 MEMORIAL DAY
the morning. Little bands of Grand Army men, stray
cavalry squads, ambitious patriotic citizens on the way
to their armories to don their military dress, crossed
and recrossed the city, all bent on being early at the
starting-point of the Memorial Day parade.
Adam Roth, brought to his window by the insistent
call of the fifes, raised his eyes to the cloudless blue
of the spring sky and then let them shift back uneasily
to his shabby room.
He was old. He was poor. The strength of his
life was gone. His whole personality marked him as
a failure, a failure that had taken the honest man-to-
man look from his eyes and left only a wavering,
frightened, almost crafty glance in its stead. His bent
shoulders had long ago given up their effort to square
themselves against the world, and the knotted hand
that smoothed back his thin gray hair trembled dis-
tressingly.
As the sounds died away, Adam went and stood
beside the bed. On it was laid the full uniform of a
Zouave, discolored with the smoke of many battles,
ragged and worn with the stress of weary marches.
Near one shoulder a faded stain spoke of a wound re-
ceived at Alexandria.
Adam looked long on this uniform, and then, brush-
ing away a mist from before his eyes, he whispered
the name " Dan ! ' as he sat down beside the clothes
and passed his hand over them with a caressing
touch.
No, Dan would wear them no more. Dan, the brave
brother who had first donned them in '61, who had
with unabated love and energy and pride worn them
SELECTIONS 317
on every Memorial Day since the first, had gone to the
great " Assembly," and only Adam was left.
And Adam ! There was no part for him in all these
half pleasant, half sad reunions, these enthusiastic
parades through the great city, these glorious awaken-
ings of memories of deeds well done in the past. That
was what ate into his soul and blotted out the light in
his face. He had been a coward — coward! In those
days, when the uniform before him had been a bright
red, and the gun, leaning against the foot of the bed,
had sparkled and shone, he had failed to answer the
bugle call of his country. He had seen his brother
volunteer, imbued with the spirit that creates heroes,
but he himself had felt the black hand of fear clutch
his heart and strike at the very roots of his life.
What use to fight against that name of ' coward " !
In truth, he had not fought ; he had let it sweep over
him, engulf him, ruin him.
Again the rat-a-tat of the drums. The man on the
bed lifted his head. Oh, to feel just once Dan's sim-
ple love for his flag, the glow of patriotism, the thrill
of war that trembled a faint, hallowed echo on this
day! To feel, if such were possible, all these things
that had been denied him in his youth — just to feel
them once before he too went to that dim place where
the Stars and Stripes and all the other banners of
the world are furled in everlasting peace !
The sounds in the street below grew louder, and
the sun streamed into the room, sending a sudden riot
to Adam's heart. The veins in his temples throbbed
like ceaseless threshing machines, separating all the
chaff of his long life of failure and cowardice from
318 MEMORIAL DAY
this strange, burning prayer that sprang up within
him, that he might once, only once, go forth in the uni-
form of the country he loved, to march behind the flag
he had failed to protect, to be an American soldier !
He found himself taking off his coat with shaking
hands, and, almost before he realized it, he was hur-
rying into the uniform, talking to himself, and it, the
while, in frightened whispers.
" There, now, Dan's gone, but you shall go out into
the sunlight as you always have, and the people will'
cheer when you come along." He was having a great
deal of trouble with the rusty old leggings, but he got
them on at last.
' And I shall be there, marching in Dan's place.
They will never know, nobody will know — but I shall
be there where I should have been long ago, with the
men who were brave in their youth, and who fought
for their flag — their flag. Oh, my God! I love it as
much as they did ! '
He dusted the moth-eaten fez and put it on his
head. The worn tassel fell over his ear, and he tossed
it back with a new, free fling of his head. The mantle
of Dan seemed truly to have fallen upon him, bringing
with it the spirit of '61.
He went down into the street, Dan's rifle across his
shoulder, his Zouave jacket lending strength and erect-
ness to his weary back.
A man leading two little boys by the hand pointed
him out to the children. " There goes one of those
grizzly old fighters, boys. I tell you they did great
work ! ' The words reached Adam, and sent a gleam
to his eyes.
SELECTIONS 319
The streets were becoming crowded. He threaded
his way among the people, conscious of the looks that
were cast toward him, the small boys that followed at
his heels, adoring and reverent. He had no shame
because of his masquerade. He had no wish to de-
fraud. It was simply that now, at this late day, he
felt he must don the badge of his country's service.
He hurried on, not knowing where he was going.
" I've made a mistake ! " he cried to himself. " I've
made a mistake ! Every boy in those days may have
had his moment of fear, of weakness. Even Dan may
have known this moment. But I believed I must be a
coward, I never tried to conquer my dread, my terror,
at the thought of going into battle. Now I see that
it was a mistake. My life is gone, my opportunity is
lost, but I want to march behind the flag just once, I
want to "
He never knew how far he had walked when sud-
denly, at the corner of a street, he was brought to a
stop by a compact body of people. He started to push
his way through, and the crowd fell back a little at
sight of his uniform. A policeman came and helped
make a path for him to the outer edge of the crowd.
Then he knew where he was. He saw the lines of
silent people on each side of the avenue, and the crash
of a military band sounded in his ears. The parade
was passing. He stood for a long time and watched
it. A space, a lull, then a fife-and-drum corps swung
up the avenue. Adam grasped his gun with nervous,
tense fingers. The men wore the familiar baggy red
trousers, the short jacket, the jaunty little cap. The
drums had passed. The thinning lines of veterans
320 MEMORIAL DAY
followed, some out of step, some lame, some white
and feeble, some with empty sleeves dangling at their
sides. Rusty, dusty, and old they marched along,
and in their midst the flags, nothing but shreds and
strings of silk, riddled and shot away until only a few
brave ribbons remained clinging to their staffs. Hats
were lifted as they passed, hearts swelled and trem-
bled, and above " When Johnny Comes Marching
Home " rose a cheer that held in its depths that great
anthem that rises in our breasts for those who have
done their duty wherever they have seen it, under any
flag, for any principle, so long as they had such love
and faith that they would lay down their lives for it,
if need be.
The cheers lasted, the straggling ranks went on.
They were the Zouaves.
With one great throb of his heart Adam stepped
into the street and swung into line.
On and on ! How natural it seemed to keep step
to that simple call of the fife, that short command of
the drum ! The rifle grew light upon Adam's shoul-
der. He was on the end of the line. The man next to
him glanced in his direction, and his face whitened.
Dan Roth! Surely old Dan Roth was dead! The
whole post had heard of it nearly a year ago. Who,
then, was this silent, mysterious figure, springing sud-
denly from the crowd and joining them? Who was
this old, pale Zouave who had Dan's form, Dan's head,
with his long, thin locks ; Dan's features — save for a
strange, unreal expression? Was he himself so near
the solving of the Great Mystery that this silent mes-
senger was already at his elbow ? The veteran, under
SELECTIONS 321
the influence of a strange fear, moved farther from
Adam.
On they went. The rhythm of marching feet, the
stirring music, the fluttering handkerchiefs, and the
ripple of applause all lent their enchantment to this
stolen hour. Adam Roth's years were dropping from
him; his eyes flashed with the long-denied fire of en-
thusiasm.
The parade seemed to halt. He glanced at the man
next to him to seek the reason when the order for
" Rest! " rang down the street. He let his gun rattle
to the pavement, and tightened his red sash a little.
There was something so real in this jesture, some-
thing so human in the way he mopped his forehead,
that his neighbor came closer to him.
" Who are you ? " asked the man.
Adam wavered a moment before he answered. The
simple query blotted out his cherished dream ; perhaps
it would make the continuance of his march impossi-
ble. But finally he turned and answered :
" Dan Roth's brother."
Suddenly he felt the silent encouragement of a hand-
shake. The veteran meant to be his friend. Again
the command of " Forward march ! ' came to them,
and they were off once more, this time flashing warm,
triumphant, into Riverside Drive. The long march
would soon be over now. They were to stop at the
Soldiers' Monument for Memorial Day exercises, the
Zouaves to constitute a guard of honor. The old sol-
dier next to him had told him this.
The rest seemed unreal, more unreal even than all
that had gone before, but finally Adam found himself
322 MEMORIAL DAY
on the approach to the monument, with his eyes divided
between the sparkling river that flowed past him to the
bay, and the sea of faces that swayed below him.
He heard the speaker of the day, a bronzed old gen-
eral, begin his oration. He heard the flights of
eulogistic praise for those who had fought on both
sides of the great conflict — words all spelling the name
of " Dan " ; words meant for every man there but him-
self— a coward, who even here at the very last was
proving himself an impostor.
Beside him stood the color-bearer, holding aloft the
tattered glory of the regiment. It seemed that the
poor shreds of silk had twined themselves tenderly
around his heart in divine forgiveness for his denial
of them in the days gone by. The words of the
orator floated on the quivering air, and the cannon
boomed from the gunboat in the river; but all sounds
now seemed to come to Adam from a great distance.
He was aflame with the spirit of devotion; the dark-
ened lamp of patriotism had been lighted anew in him,
and in the whole world there was nothing else. He
dimly wondered if everyone felt as he. It seemed that
they must; there could be no one now in this broad
land who did not feel the thrill of the moment.
Presently Adam's kindling eyes fell upon a man
among the crowd of spectators, a man whose haggard
face and twitching body marked him apart. Rage,
wild, unreasoning rage at fate, cried out from all his
features. The collar tightened up about his throat,
and the hat half pulled down over his forehead, gave
him a sinister look. With some fascination Adam
noticed that his eyes, too, were fastened upon the flag,
SELECTIONS 323
or all that was left of it. But what a gaze! In the
tortured fastness of his heart Adam knew that he had
never looked on it as did this man. He had failed,
trembled, tried to draw his eyes away where he could
not see its tingling red, its unsullied blue, its accusing
stars that gazed down on him and saw only a
dastard. But this man ! His glance was a menace,
his look burnt with the hatred of one whose hand is
forever set against the insignia of law and loyalty.
Adam had heard of men of this kind. Some of them
had even tried to draw him, poor failure that he was,
into their ranks, but he had been too timid to join them.
To-day, however, he was a soldier, a Zouave, a guard
of honor, a defender of the flag against just such
enemies as these.
The ceremonies were drawing to a close. The silent
heroes in blue and gray had had their measure of
praise meted out to them, when a bugler stepped for-
ward and played the first bar of the " Star Spangled
Banner." There was a shout, a sudden concerted
movement of the crowd to get a little nearer the
bugler, as the long notes rang out. From his higher
place Adam saw the man whom he had been watching
push his way to the edge of the crowd, directly facing
the flag. His face was darker than ever, with an im-
measurable hatred. He sneered as he looked at the
Zouaves standing gaunt and rugged about the great
monument that had been raised to the memory of their
brothers. The people were singing now. The man
laughed. Above the voice of palpitating youth and
earnest age Adam heard it, and clenched his hand at
his side. What did this man mean to do ? Such wild-
324 MEMORIAL DAY
ness, such enmity, would not go unsatisfied. The
man's hand went to his pocket. Adam stood tense,
watching his every movement. Again the man looked
at the flag — the flag that was almost shot away, the
flag that perhaps the man argued had been carried
aloft on the battlefield at a frightful and needless cost,
while a calm government sat back and said, " Let the
slaughter go on." Was that, questioned Adam, that
the man was thinking? Adam took a step nearer the
standard-bearer, whose dim eyes were ignorant of
danger. Adam seemed to feel in some intuitive way
what this poor, frantic creature below meant to do.
But he must not be allowed to do it — he must not!
Those smoky, stained old shreds of silk must not
feel a wound from the hand of a disloyal son.
The man's arm shot out. Something gleamed in the
sunshine, something sang in the air above the words
" in triumph shall wave," and an old Zouave stumbled
and fell forward upon the white stones.
The wild disorder of a moment was soon quelled.
A line of red-capped soldiers were drawn around the
base of the monument. A little group moved toward
the standard-bearer, who stood looking down at the
prostrate figure at his feet, not forgetting that he was
still on duty.
The commander of the post stooped over the fallen
man and lifted his head. The man was a stranger
to him. He looked at a Zouave standing near, silently
questioning him.
" He pushed in front of Peterson, sir, just as that
scoundrel fired. He tried to grasp the flag, sir. I
guess he saw what the fellow aimed at."
SELECTIONS 325
Still the commander looked at the speaker, the man
who had marched all the way beside Adam.
"Who is he?' continued the officer. "And what
is he doing here? He is not one of my men."
The old Zouave took his ragged cap from his head.
' He was Dan Roth's brother. We have all heard
of him — he was the boy who wouldn't join in '61. But
to-day he — he "
The old man knelt down beside Adam. Just below
the dim stain on the shoulder of Dan's jacket, the stain
which marked that day at Alexandria, there was a new,
fresh one. The heart that lay beneath it was at peace.
MEMORIAL DAY 1898
The days are dead of bitter fray, of red despair and black
distress;
The blessed years speed on their way, the years that bring
forgetfulness.
Awhile the livid scars we note of biting sword and rending
shot,
Awhile there rises in the throat the sob for those who heed
it not;
Awhile the remnant still we see that lessens with the seasons'
round,
And then — how long till they and we are unremembered,
underground?
Lights out! The tragedy is done; the curtain falls; the play-
ers cease
Their warlike parts, and here begun behold the Passion-Play
of Peace!
Reveille sound! New pageants come; new war-worn knights
are marching home:
With trumpets' blare and roll of drums, a triumph 'tis of
ancient Rome.
Yet surely 'tis a little thing and meet to do, so, while we
may,
Let us bow down remembering a Mother mourns her lost
to-day.
What though the word from Eastern isles tells that her new-
est ministers
Have won fresh battles? Tho' she smiles on those, these
too — these too are hers!
Here at the revel's highest tide, before the conquered over-
seas,
She pauses, pale, to turn aside and cast one flower more for
these.
Yea, all are hers — and what a host! Through half the world
they mark her way,
Or bleaching on the China coast, or torn and toss'd in South-
ern bay.
326
SELECTIONS 327
On many a scattered field they lie, from lonely heights call out
to her,
In alien waters glad to die, the sea their shifting sepulchre.
We smile again in peace to greet the servient savage, hold our
head
Above the clouds of dawn — our feet trampling upon our
brothers, dead!
My country, hark! On every hand thou seest thy work and
find'st it good —
No, Goddess, no; each inch of land bought with a fallen sol-
dier's blood!
The lover, father, brother, son, have ransomed thee through all
the years;
Wan boys have paid thy martyrdom, thy smile is bought with
women's tears.
Listen, my Mother, 'tis the mouth thy bursting breasts have
ever fed,
From East and West, from North and South: "Give back out
dead! Give back our dead!"
Nay, peace! They would not bring thee pain, howe'er then
wildest woe be heard:
And when thou needest lives again, their hearts are ready — -
say the word.
Gladly we help the sacrifice, but though we serve unmurmur-
ingly,
Remember, Freedom is our price, since men must die that men
be free;
That is thy pledge, by peace or war, to those who sleep upon
the ground
Their blood had bought from shore to shore, until the last
reveille sound.
REGINALD WRIGHT KAUFFMAN.
THE END
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