"I see thee ever in my dreams,
Karaman!
Thy hundred hills, thy thousand streams,
Karaman, O Karaman!
As when thy gold-bright morning gleams,
As when the deepening sunset seams
With lines of light thy hills and streams,
Karaman!
So now thou loomest on my dreams,
Karaman, O Karaman!"
The previous use of this form, which is perhaps the most effective
possible for a battle hymn, by no means detracts from Randall's stirring
poem.
The poem would never have had great effect, however, if it had not been
fortunate in drafting to its service a splendid piece of music. Miss
Hattie Cary, of Baltimore, afterward the wife of Professor H. M. Martin,
of Johns-Hopkins University, brought about the wedding which enabled
Randall's song to reach every camp-fire of the Southern armies. "The
Glee Club was to hold its meeting in our parlors one evening early in
June," she writes, "and my sister Jennie, being the only musical member
of the family, had charge of the program on the occasion. With a
schoolgirl's eagerness to score a success, she resolved to secure some
new and ardent expression of feelings that were by this time wrought up
to the point of explosion. In vain she searched through her stock of
songs and airs--nothing seemed intense enough to suit her. Aroused by
her tone of despair, I came to the rescue with the suggestion that she
should adapt the words of _Maryland, my Maryland_, which had been
constantly on my lips since the appearance of the lyric a few days
before in the South. I produced the paper and began declaiming the
verses. '_Lauriger Horatius_,' she exclaimed, and in a flash the
immortal song found a voice in the stirring air so perfectly adapted to
it. That night when her contralto voice rang out the stanzas, the
refrain rolled forth from every throat without pause or preparation; and
the enthusiasm communicated itself with such effect to the crowd
assembled beneath our windows as to endanger seriously the liberties of
the party."
This air was originally an old German student melody used for a lovely
German lyric, _Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum_, which Longfellow has numbered
among his translations. The first verse is as follows,--
"O hemlock tree! O hemlock tree! how faithful are thy branches!
Green not only in summer time,
But in the winter's frost and rime!
O hemlock tree! O hemlock tree! how faithful are thy branches!"
Some one has well said that the transmigration of tunes is a large and
fertile subject. The capturing of the air of a jolly college song and
harnessing it to the service of a fiery battle hymn may seem very
strange, but not so to those who are familiar with the adventures which
a tune has often undergone.
This song was not only popular through the South, but so stately and
pleasing was the melody that it was often sung in the North. A soldier
relates: "I remember hearing it sung under circumstances that for the
time made me fancy it was the sweetest song I ever listened to. Our
command had just reached Frederick City, Maryland, after a distressing
forced march, and going into bivouac, the staff to which I was attached
took up their quarters on the piazza of a lonely mansion, and there,
wrapping themselves in their blankets, with their saddles for pillows,
sought needed repose. Sleep would not come to my eyelids. The night was
a delicious one; it was warm, but a slight breeze was stirring, and the
sky was clear, and the stars shone brilliantly. The stillness was
profound, every one around me was asleep, when suddenly there fell
upon my ears the song:--
'The despot's heel is on thy shore,
Maryland!'
The voice was a mezzo-soprano, full, round, and clear, and the charming
melody was sung with infinite tenderness and delicacy of shading. I
listened almost breathlessly, for it was the first time I had heard the
song, and as it was ended, I arose for the purpose of ascertaining who
it was that sang so sweetly. I found her in the person of a plump negro
girl of about sixteen years, with a face blacker than the smoke in
Vulcan's smithy."
A delightful contrast to the attack of the mob on the Massachusetts
Sixth, in Baltimore, in 1861, was furnished recently when the historic
Sixth from Boston passed through Baltimore on their way to the South to
take part in the invasion of Cuba. Baltimore gave herself up to seeing
how splendidly she could receive the regiment that had once been mobbed
in her streets. They were received at the station by the Mayor, the
school-children were drawn up in line along the route of march, and the
soldiers from Massachusetts were pelted with flowers instead of stones
and bullets. Each soldier was given a little box containing cake and
fruit, and a love letter, while a great motto met their eyes which said:
"Let the welcome of '98 efface the memory of '61."
[Illustration: _ULYSSES SIMPSON GRANT_]
_ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC._
"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 watchfires, are gleaming.
A tremulous sigh, as 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.
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 his side,
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-bye,"
And the lifeblood 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.
Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves,
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?
It looked like a rifle--"Ha! Mary, good-bye,"
And the lifeblood is ebbing and plashing.
--_Ethel Lynn Beers._
Mrs. Beers's right to the authorship of this famous song has been very
severely contested, but there seems to be no reason now to doubt that
the really fine poem is hers. Though there have been numerous claimants
for its authorship, the one who has come nearest to carrying the day is,
strange to say, a Southerner. It is curious indeed that a war song
should be claimed by both sides, but that has been the story of this
song. This Southerner is Lamar Fontaine. Mr. Fontaine was born at Gay
Hill, Texas. Twenty years before the war his father moved to Austin,
Texas, and was secretary to General Lamar, for whom the son was named.
When the war broke out this young Lamar Fontaine became a major in the
Confederate Army. Some time in 1862, when the poem _All Quiet Along the
Potomac_ appeared in a Southern newspaper, Lamar Fontaine's name was
attached to it. Davidson, the author of _Living Writers of the South_,
wrote to Fontaine in regard to the authorship of this hymn, and in
replying Fontaine said: "The poem in question was written by me while
our army lay at Fairfax Courthouse, or rather the greater portion, in
and around that place. On the second day of August, 1861, I first read
it to a few of my messmates in Company I, Second Virginia Cavalry.
During the month of August I gave away many manuscript copies to
soldiers, and some few to ladies in and about Leesburg, Loudon County,
Virginia. In fact, I think that most of the men belonging to the Second
Virginia, then commanded by Colonel Radford, were aware of the fact that
I was the author of it. I never saw the piece in print until just before
the battle of Leesburg (October 21, 1861), and then it was in a Northern
paper with the notice that it had been found on the dead body of a
picket. I hope the controversy between myself and others in regard to
_All Quiet Along the Potomac To-night_, will soon be forever settled. I
wrote it, and the world knows it; and they may howl over it, and give it
to as many authors as they please. I wrote it, and I am a Southern man,
and I am proud of the title, and am glad that my children will know that
the South was the birthplace of their fathers, from their generation
back to the seventh."
Another Southern man, however, and a distinguished one, puts a very
different look on the case. Mr. Chandler Harris of Georgia writes a
letter for insertion in Mr. Davidson's volume in the course of which he
says: "After a careful and impartial investigation of all the facts in
my reach, I have come to the conclusion that Mrs. Beers, and not Mr.
Fontaine, wrote the poem in question. My reasons for believing that Mr.
Fontaine is not the author of _All Quiet_, are several:
"1. The poem appeared in _Harper's Weekly_ for November 30, 1861, as
_The Picket Guard_, over the initials of Mrs. Ethel Beers of New
York.
[Illustration: _MOUNT VERNON_]
"2. It did not make its appearance in any Southern paper until about
April or May, 1862.
"3. It was published as having been found in the pocket of a dead
soldier on the battlefield. It is more than probable that the dead
soldier was a Federal, and that the poem had been clipped from
_Harper's_.
"4. I have compared the poem in _Harper's_ with the same as it first
appeared in the Southern papers, and find the punctuation to be
precisely the same.
"5. Mr. Fontaine, so far as I have seen, has given elsewhere no evidence
of the powers displayed in that poem. I, however, remember noticing in
the Charleston _Courier_, in 1863, or 1864, a 'Parodie' (as Mr. L. F.
had it) on Mrs. Norton's _Bingen on the Rhine_, which was positively the
poorest affair I ever saw. Mr. Fontaine had just come out of a Federal
prison, and some irresponsible editor, in speaking of this 'Parodie'
remarked that the poet's Pegasus had probably worn his wings out against
the walls of his Northern dungeon.
"You probably know me well enough to acquit me, in this instance at
least, of the charge of prejudice. I am jealous of Southern literature,
and if I have any partiality in the matter at all, it is in favor of
Major Lamar Fontaine's claim. I should like to claim this poem for that
gentleman; I should be glad to claim it as a specimen of Southern
literature, but the facts in the case do not warrant it."
Mr. Alfred H. Guernsey, for many years editor of _Harper's Magazine_,
bears testimony that the poem, bearing the title _The Picket Guard_,
appeared in _Harper's Weekly_ for November 30, 1861. He further declares
that it was furnished by Mrs. Ethel Lynn Beers, whom he describes as "a
lady whom I think incapable of palming off as her own any production of
another."
Mrs. Beers was born in Goshen, New York, and her maiden name was
Ethelinda Eliot. She was a direct descendant of John Eliot, the heroic
apostle to the Indians. When she began to write for the newspapers she
signed her contributions "Ethel Lynn," a _nom de plume_ very naturally
suggested by her Christian name. After her marriage, she added her
husband's name, and over the signature of Ethel Lynn Beers published
many poems. In her later years Mrs. Beers resided in Orange, New Jersey,
where she died October 10, 1879, on the very day on which her poems,
among them _All Quiet Along the Potomac_, were issued in book form.
There has never been any contest as to the music of the song, which was
composed by J. Dayton, the leader of the band of the First Connecticut
Artillery.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER_]
_THE OLD FOLKS AT HOME._
Way down upon de Suwanee ribber,
Far, far away,
Dere's wha my heart is turning ebber,
Dere's wha de old folks stay.
All up and down de whole creation,
Sadly I roam,
Still longin' for de old plantation,
And for de old folks at home.
All de world am sad and dreary,
Eb'rywhere I roam.
Oh! darkies, how my heart grows weary,
Far from de old folks at home.
All round de little farm I wander'd
When I was young,
Den many happy days I squander'd,
Many de songs I sung.
When I was playin' wid my brudder,
Happy was I,
Oh! take me to my kind old mudder,
Dere let me live and die.
One little hut among de bushes,
One dat I love,
Still sadly to my mem'ry rushes,
No matter where I rove.
When will I see de bees a-humming
All round de comb?
When will I hear de banjo tumming
Down in my good old home?
--_Stephen Collins Foster._
Stephen Collins Foster has a very tender place in the hearts of the
American people. His songs are marked by a tenderness and pathos which
goes straight to the fountain of tears. Foster was born on the 4th of
July, 1826, at Lawrenceburg, Pennsylvania. His native town was founded
by his father, but was many years ago merged into the city of Pittsburg.
Young Foster had good opportunities for education in an academy at
Allegheny, Pennsylvania, and afterward at Jefferson College. He had a
genius for music almost from his birth; while yet but a baby he could
wake sweet harmonies from any musical instrument he touched. At the age
of seven he had mastered the flageolet without a teacher, and had
already become quite proficient on the piano and the flute. He had a
clear though not a very strong voice, but one that was under perfect
control. As a lad he wrote his first composition, a waltz, which was
rendered at a school commencement. The composition, coming from so young
a boy, attracted a good deal of attention. His talent for music was so
marked that he became the leader throughout his school days of all
musical affairs among the students, and he was the center of every
serenading party or concert. To compose the words and music of a song
was his chief delight. He wrote the words first, and then hummed them
over and over till he found notes that would express them properly.
While he was in the academy a minstrel troupe came to town and he
attended their performance. He succeeded in having one of his songs
introduced into their program the next night, which greatly pleased the
local public. This was _Oh, Susanna_, which was afterward published in
1842, and immediately gained great popularity. This aroused his musical
enthusiasm, and he offered still other songs to publishers, and finally
determined to devote himself to musical composition for a livelihood. He
attended all the negro camp meetings he could reach, listened to the
songs of colored people, gathering new ideas, and this faithful
reproduction of what was up to that time an undiscovered mine of musical
possibilities, was the secret of his great success as a writer of negro
melodies.
Foster had a deeply poetic soul, and would go into the wildest ecstasy
over a pretty melody or a bit of rich harmony. There is a certain vein
of tender retrospect in nearly all his songs. Take _Old Dog Tray_, of
which a hundred and twenty-five thousand copies were sold the first
eighteen months after publication. There is something exceedingly
tender about it:--
"The morn of life is past, and ev'ning comes at last,
It brings me a dream of a once happy day,
Of merry forms I've seen upon the village green,
Sporting with my old dog Tray.
Old dog Tray's ever faithful,
Grief cannot drive him away,
He's gentle, he is kind; I'll never, never find
A better friend than Old Dog Tray!"
How often we say one to another, "It is good to be missed." But no one
has ever voiced that universal feeling of the heart as perfectly as has
Foster in his popular song, _Do They Miss Me at Home?_
"Do they miss me at home, do they miss me?
'Twould be an assurance most dear,
To know that this moment some lov'd one
Were saying, 'I wish he were here';
To feel that the group at the fireside
Were thinking of me as I roam;
Oh, yes, 'twould be joy beyond measure
To know that they miss me at home."
[Illustration:
"_Still longin' for de old plantation,
And for de old folks at home_"
]
Foster was a most prolific writer, producing between two and three
hundred popular songs, furnishing both the words and the music. Among
his best known war songs are _We've a Million in the_ _Field_,
_Stand by the Flag_, _For the Dear Old Flag I Die_, and _Was my Brother
in the Battle?_ His most famous song, however, and one which he hoped
would rival _Home, Sweet Home_,--a song of which the soldiers amid the
loneliness and homesickness of camp never grew weary--was _The Old Folks
at Home_. For the time it has been before the public, it is probably the
best known song in the world. Four hundred thousand copies of it were
sold the first few years after it was written. The tune has crossed all
oceans and become a favorite with martial bands of music in every region
of the earth.
The author of this sweet old melody that touches the heart of all
peoples closed his life in great sorrow and poverty. In the days of his
youth and early manhood he was greatly beloved by all who knew him. He
had multitudes of friends and in character was modest, unassuming, and
almost as shy as a girl. He was happily married in 1854, in Pittsburg,
but the bright prospects which he then had of a happy home life were
eclipsed through his yielding to the appetite for strong drink. In 1860
his dissipation separated him from his family, and he settled in New
York City, where for awhile he kept an old down-town grocery on the
corner of Hester and Christy Streets. Some of his most famous songs were
composed in the back room of that old grocery on pieces of brown
wrapping-paper. Many of these songs that under the impelling force of
his appetite for drink were sold for a few dollars, often brought
hundreds and even thousands of dollars to the purchasers.
On the 12th of January, 1864, he was injured by a fall, and died on the
following day in Bellevue Hospital, friendless, and in abject poverty.
This brilliant man whose melodies were sung by hundreds and thousands of
tongues, and to whom a single publisher had paid more than twenty
thousand dollars of royalties on his music, died lonely in a great city,
and his body was carried back to his native State through the charity of
the Pennsylvania Railroad Company. His funeral, however, was attended by
an immense concourse of people, comprising both the rich and poor of
Pittsburg who remembered his brighter days, and who felt that the city
was honored by his genius. Musicians attended in large force, and the
songs they sang above his grave were his own melodies.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _FRANCIS MILES FINCH_]
_THE BLUE AND THE GRAY._
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 foe;
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment 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;
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.
--_Francis Miles Finch._
Francis Miles Finch, the author of _The Blue and the Gray_, was born in
Ithaca, New York, in 1827. He graduated with honor from Yale College in
1845 in his eighteenth year. He studied law and became a practicing
lawyer of fine reputation at Ithaca, being elected an associate judge of
the Court of Appeals of the State of New York in 1881. In July, 1853, he
read a poem at the centennial celebration of the Linonian Society of
Yale, in which several lyrics were introduced, including one on Nathan
Hale, the patriot spy of the Revolution. This at once achieved wide
popularity. His one poem, however, which will carry his name down to the
future is _The Blue and the Gray_.
Two years after the war of the Rebellion there appeared in the New York
_Tribune_, the following item: "The women of Columbus, Mississippi,
animated by nobler sentiments than many of their sisters, have shown
themselves impartial in their offerings made to the memory of the dead.
They strewed flowers alike on the graves of the Confederate and of the
National soldiers." This, coming at a time when a great deal of the
soreness of defeat and the bitterness aroused by the war still
remained, seemed to be the first indication of an era of more kindly
feeling and a more generous Christian spirit.
The eye of a poet is always seeing the poetic possibilities in current
incidents, and when Mr. Finch saw this news item in his favorite daily
paper, he not only saw the romance and pathos of the situation, but
thought that such an exhibition of generosity should be at once met and
welcomed in the same temper. It was out of that impulse that _The Blue
and the Gray_ grew into being. Mr. Finch sent it to the _Atlantic
Monthly_, where it was published in the September number of 1867,
prefaced with the news extract from the _Tribune_ which had suggested
it. The poem at once aroused marked attention and became popular
throughout the entire country, but especially so in the South.
John Hutchinson was paying a visit to Vinnie Ream, the sculptor, who
designed the General Thomas monument in April, 1874. Among the guests
were three ex-Confederate generals. At her request Hutchinson sang _The
Blue and the Gray_; when he had finished singing the song, the three
Confederates rose simultaneously, and one after the other shook his hand
with great heartiness. "Mr. Hutchinson," they said, "that song is a
passport to you anywhere in the South." Alexander H. Stephens, the
ex-vice-president of the Confederacy, upon hearing from these gentlemen
of Mr. Hutchinson's singing, sent a special request to him to come
to his hotel and sing _The Blue and the Gray_. He was wheeled into the
room in his chair to listen to the song. At the conclusion he declared
that the country was safe when such sentiments became popular.
[Illustration: _GRANT'S MONUMENT_]
Mr. Hutchinson himself composed the music for Finch's famous song. At
the great Atlanta Exposition in 1895, Mr. Hutchinson made the journey to
Atlanta by special invitation of the management, and was present on
"Blue and Gray" Day. He says of the experience: "Who can picture my
thoughts on that notable occasion? To think that, at last, the man who
had known what it was to be maligned and buffeted in the South, should
be received with honor in its chief city, and witness the effects of
reconstruction in the great cotton country! It was a 'New South,'
indeed, that I saw. And there, to the great gathering of Union and
Confederate soldiers, I sang the song that had so often in later years
been a key to open the Southern heart to the Hutchinsons:--
"'No more shall the war cry sever,
Or the winding rivers be red;
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.'"
Perhaps no one thing has done so much to soften the bitterness which
civil war left in our country as the beautiful ceremonies connected with
Memorial Day. As the years have gone on, and every Memorial Day the
Southern soldiers have been more and more wont to cover the graves of
their dead foemen with wreaths of Southern flowers, and again and again
gray-haired veterans from both the "Blue and the Gray" have met beside
the Hudson to do honor to the great commander who at Appomattox said,
"Let us have peace," the coldness of suspicion and distrust have blown
away, until, now that the boys from the South as well as from the North
have marched together again under the old flag to fight a foreign foe,
we see eye to eye.
The birth of Decoration Day deserves to be held in everlasting
remembrance. Mrs. John A. Logan, the wife of the great Volunteer
General, in company with some friends, made a trip to Richmond in March,
1868. Mrs. Logan was particularly impressed by the evidences of
desolation and destruction which she witnessed everywhere, but which
seemed to her to be particularly emphasized by the innumerable graves
which filled the cemeteries, many of which were those of Confederate
soldiers. In the summer before they had all been decorated by wreaths of
flowers and little flags, all of which were faded, but which seemed to
the tender-hearted woman to be a mute evidence of the devotion and
gratitude of those people to the men who had lost their lives to their
cause.
On speaking of this to General Logan, on her return, he said it was a
beautiful custom and one worthy to be copied, and, as he was then
Commander-in-chief of the Grand Army of the Republic, that he intended
issuing an order, asking the entire people of the nation to inaugurate
the custom of annually decorating the graves of the patriotic dead as a
memorial of their sacrifice and devotion to country. He issued the first
order for May 30, 1868, and it was so enthusiastically received that
Congress made it a national holiday.
It will thus be seen, that Memorial Day was born out of a partnership
between a woman's tender heart and a man's noble purpose. It is also
sweet to reflect that South and North united at its birth. The Southern
mourners were the first to cover the graves of their dead with flowers,
as they were the first to decorate the graves of their fallen foes;
while their Northern brothers led in calling to it national attention,
and made the custom as wide as the country. From henceforth we all unite
in the closing couplet of Finch's noble song:--
"Love and tears for the Blue;
Tears and love for the Gray."
[Illustration: _JAMES THOMSON_]
_RULE, BRITANNIA._
When Britain first, at heaven's command,
Arose from out the azure main,
This was the charter, the charter of the land,
And guardian angels sung the strain:
Rule, Britannia,
Britannia rule the waves,
Britons never shall be slaves.
The nations, not so blest as thee,
Must in their turn to tyrants fall,
While thou shalt flourish, great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.
Rule, Britannia,
Britannia rule the waves,
Britons never shall be slaves.
Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
More dreadful from each foreign stroke;
As the loud blast that rends the skies
Serves but to root thy native oak.
Rule, Britannia,
Britannia rule the waves,
Britons never shall be slaves.
Thee, haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;
All their attempts to bend thee down
Will but arouse thy generous flame,--
But work their woe and thy renown.
Rule, Britannia,
Britannia rule the waves,
Britons never shall be slaves.
To thee belongs the rural reign,
Thy cities shall with commerce shine;
All thine shall be the subject main,
And every shore encircles thine.
Rule, Britannia,
Britannia rule the waves,
Britons never shall be slaves.
The Muses, still with freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coasts repair,
Blessed Isle! With matchless beauty crowned,
And manly hearts to guard the fair.
Rule, Britannia,
Britannia rule the waves,
Britons never shall be slaves.
--_James Thomson._
The poet Southey declares that this noble ode in honor of Great Britain
will be the political hymn of that country as long as she maintains her
political power. It had a peculiar origin. Dr. Thomas Arne, the great
musical composer, composed the music for his _Masque of Alfred_, and it
was first performed at Cliefden House, near Maidenhead, on August 1,
1740. Cliefden was then the residence of Frederick, Prince of Wales, and
the occasion was to commemorate the accession of George I. and in
honor of the birthday of young Princess Augusta. Doctor Arne afterward
altered it into an opera, and it was so performed at Drury Lane Theater
on March 20, 1745, for the benefit of Mrs. Arne. In the advertisement of
that performance Doctor Arne specially announces that _Rule Britannia_,
which he calls "a celebrated ode," will be sung. We judge from this that
it had even at that time gained great popularity.
Dr. Thomas Arne himself had a very interesting story. He was the son of
a wealthy upholsterer in London and was born in 1704. He was educated at
Eton, and his father intended him for the law, but while in school he
had such a craving for music that he would often dress himself in
servant's livery and sit in the upper gallery at the theaters. He
learned to play with the strings of his spinet muffled in a
handkerchief. One day his father attended a musicale at the house of a
friend, and to his great astonishment and disgust, his own son occupied
the place of first violinist. The father, however, decided to make the
best of it, and not to fight against nature. From that time on the
music-loving boy was allowed to play at home, and it was not very long
before the whole family were proud of his achievements. He was the first
English composer to rival Italian music in compass and difficulty.
Doctor Arne lived and died absorbed in musical tones. Death came to
him in the midst of his work, March 5, 1778. While attempting to
illustrate a musical idea, he sang an air in faltering tones; the sound
grew fainter, until song and breathing ceased together. Perhaps if he
could have chosen his way to die this would have pleased him best of
all.
The words for this _Masque of Alfred_, in which _Rule Britannia_
appears, were written jointly by James Thomson, the author of _The
Seasons_, and David Mallet, a Scotch tutor. It is not certain who was
the author of these verses, Thomson, or Mallet. During Thomson's life in
the newspapers of the day he alone was mentioned as the author. He died
in 1751, and Mallet brought out, in 1755, his _Masque of Britannia_, at
Drury Lane Theater, and it was received with great applause. The
_Monthly Review_, a Scottish magazine of the time, in noticing it says:
"_Britannia_, a Masque set to music by Doctor Arne. Mr. David Mallet is
its reputed author. His design is to animate the sons of Britannia to
vindicate their country's rights, and avenge her wrongs." On the whole,
the weight of evidence seems to be in favor of the famous ode having
been written by Thomson, but no one will ever be able to prove certainly
as to whether it originated in his brain or Mallet's.
[Illustration: _THE TOWER OF LONDON_]
_Rule Britannia_ soon became a favorite with the Jacobite party. Many
parodies of it have been written, some of which were very famous in
their time. One is to be found in _The True Royalist_, a
collection of English songs long since out of print, which is perhaps
worth repeating here:--
"Britannia, rouse at heav'n's command!
And crown thy native Prince again;
Then Peace shall bless thy happy land,
And Plenty pour in from the main:
Then shalt thou be--Britannia thou shalt be
From home and foreign tyrants free.
"Behold, great Charles! thy godlike son,
With majesty and sweetness crown'd;
His worth th' admiring world doth own,
And fame's loud trump proclaims the sound.
Thy captain him, Britannia, him declare!
Of kings and heroes he's the heir.
"The second hope young Hero claims,
Th' extended empire of the main;
His breast with fire and courage flames,
With Nature's bounds to fix thy reign.
He (Neptune-like), Britannia, will defy
All but the thunder of the sky.
"The happiest states must yield to thee,
When free from dire corruption's thrall;
Of land and sea thou'lt Emp'ror be,
And ride triumphant round the ball:
Britannia, unite! Britannia must prevail,
Her powerful hand must guide the scale."
There is still another parody, also once very famous, contained in the
book referred to. The first verse is as follows,--
"When our great Prince, with his choice band,
Arriv'd from o'er the azure main,
Heav'n smil'd with pleasure, with pleasure on the land,
And guardian angels sung this strain:
Go, brave hero; brave hero, boldly go,
And wrest thy scepter from thy foe."
In letting the parodies die, and in retaining the original song,
succeeding generations have manifestly ensured the survival of the
fittest. There has perhaps been no time since the Revolutionary War when
Americans have listened to _Rule Britannia_ with as sympathetic ears as
since the beginning of our war with Spain. The almost universal sympathy
expressed for us by all classes in England has served to bring the two
nations closer together than a hundred years of ordinary intercourse.
Whether or no it brings about the Anglo-American alliance so widely
discussed, it has made _Rule Britannia_ a grateful song to patriotic
Americans.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _OTTO EDUARD LEOPOLD VON BISMARCK-SCHÖNHAUSEN_]
_THE WATCH ON THE RHINE._
Like gathering thunder spreads a cry,
Like clash of arms when battle's nigh,
The Rhine! there's danger to the Rhine!
Who'll shield it from the foe's design?
Dear Fatherland, no fear be thine,
Dear Fatherland, no fear be thine,
Steadfast and true, we guard our German Rhine!
Steadfast and true, we guard our German Rhine!
The tidings flash through million hearts,
From million flaming eyes it darts;
Our valiant sons, in danger strong,
Will guard our hallow'd stream from wrong!
What though the foe my life should quench,
I know thy wave will ne'er be French;
And ample as thy tide of blue,
The living stream of heroes true.
The shades of heroes past and gone
Upon our deeds are looking down;
By home and Fatherland we swear
The foeman from thy banks to scare.
While through my veins the life is poured,
As long as I can hold a sword,
No stranger shall our land despoil,
No foeman desecrate our soil.
Proclaim the vow from shore to shore,
Let banners wave and cannons roar,
The Rhine! The lovely German Rhine,
To keep it Germans all combine.
Dear Fatherland, all fear resign,
Dear Fatherland, all fear resign,
Stout hearts and true will keep watch on the Rhine,
Stout hearts and true will keep watch on the Rhine.
--_Max Schneckenburger._
(_Translated by Lady Natalie MacFarren._)
_The Watch on the Rhine_ was written by Max Schneckenburger in 1840, and
though not so fine a poem from a literary standpoint as many others that
have embodied the same sentiment, it has about it that nameless charm
which has enthralled the popular heart. Although it was thirty years old
in 1870, it then struck its first great popularity and became by all
odds the most popular war song in Germany.
Schneckenburger, like many another hymn writer, owes his entire
reputation to a single song. He was an obscure Swabian merchant, quiet
and unassuming, who never did anything in his life to attract public
attention except to write this hymn. But it might well be said that in
order to make a man's name immortal he need not do anything else than
write one song that voices the soul's ambition or the heart's longing of
a great people. Max Schneckenburger is perhaps the only writer of a
popular national hymn who is not the author of other lesser songs; for
we have not been able to discover that he ever published anything except
_The Watch on the Rhine_. He died in Berne, in 1849, without the
slightest thought that his song would ever make his name famous. Long
after his death a handsome monument was built above his grave at
Thalheim, in Wurtemberg.
The music for _The Watch on the Rhine_ was composed by Carl Wilhelm, who
first arranged it as a chorus for male voices. Wilhelm was a music
teacher and conductor. He was born at Schmalkalden and died in 1873.
Carl Hauser says that Carl Wilhelm never dreamed of _The Watch on the
Rhine_ turning out to be a national hymn at the time he composed the
music. Wilhelm was a thorough Bohemian, a sort of typical German
bandmaster, who was accustomed to write music on lager-beer tables amid
the fumes of smoking pipes. He was not counted as a great musician,
except among a few bosom friends, and was satisfied to get a very small
price for his compositions, and what he received in that way usually
went to pay his beer bills.
On a certain occasion a schoolmaster who was a friend of Wilhelm asked
him as a personal favor to compose a chorus for his pupils to sing on
Commencement Day. The school-teacher saw the value of the music, and
treacherously sold it. Thousands of copies went all over the world, but
Wilhelm received no benefit therefrom. But after his music became
famous, in 1870, tardy recognition was granted him, and in 1871 he was
granted an annual pension of seven hundred and fifty dollars. He only
lived two years to enjoy it.
In the Franco-Prussian war of 1870, _The Watch on the Rhine_ had for a
time a rival in a song the first verse of which ran:--
"It never shall be France's,
The free, the German Rhine,
Until its broad expanse is
Its last defender's shrine."
But when Von Moltke and old King William, with Bismarck and the Crown
Prince Frederick, pushed their armies over the Rhine toward Paris, the
war-like _Watch on the Rhine_ soon distanced all other songs in the
affections of the soldiers, and became the song of the nation.
[Illustration: _NATIONAL MONUMENT, NIEDERWALD_]
Perhaps this martial song was never sung under more splendid
circumstances than at the unveiling of the great National Monument
inaugurated in 1883 to commemorate the victories in the Franco-Prussian
war and the foundation of the new German Empire in 1870-'71. This
magnificent monument stands on the bank of the Rhine opposite the
beautiful town of Bingen, famous in history and story, on a wooded
hill nearly a thousand feet above the sea level, and flanked with
glorious vineyards. No national monument is a more perfect expression of
the spirit of a great people. The principal figure is a noble female
form, thirty-three feet in height, Germania, wearing an imperial crown,
and holding a sword wreathed with laurel as an emblem of the unity and
strength of the empire. The figure is the embodiment of self-conscious
dignity and strength. As a recent American traveler philosophizes, there
is nothing vain or conceited about it, but the pride and confidence of
one that knows and feels his power. The form erect and standing boldly
forth as if before the face of the whole world, the head gracefully
poised--thrown a little back, not haughtily nor disdainfully, but with
steadfast and self-reliant courage--seems to say, "Behold in me the
symbol of a great and mighty people!" On the right hand of the central
figure, but far beneath its feet, is a symbolical figure of War, winged,
with a helmet on its head, and a trumpet at its mouth, expressive of
Titanic energy, as if a single blast of the trumpet would bring a
million men in arms to the front. On the left is a symbolical figure of
Peace, smiling benignantly, and holding in her arms the emblems of
industry. These figures seem to say to the world, and especially to
France, "War, terrible and destructive, if we must; but Peace, if you
will."
In the hearts of the thousands of Germans gathered to unveil this great
monument, there must have been a thrill of electric energy as they sang
the popular song which it incarnated, for it stands as the crystallized
representative of _The Watch on the Rhine_.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _LA FAYETTE_]
_THE MARSEILLAISE._
Ye sons of France, awake to glory,
Hark, hark what myriads bid you rise,
Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary,
Behold their tears and hear their cries!
Shall hateful tyrants, mischief breeding,
With hireling hosts, a ruffian band,
Affright and desolate the land,
While peace and liberty lie bleeding?
To arms! To arms, ye brave!
Th' avenging sword unsheath!
March on, march on, all hearts resolved
To victory or death.
Now, now the dangerous storm is scowling
Which treacherous kings, confederate, raise;
The dogs of war, let loose, are howling,
And lo! our fields and cities blaze.
And shall we basely view the ruin,
While lawless force, with guilty stride,
Spreads desolation far and wide,
With crimes and blood his hands embruing?
With luxury and pride surrounded,
The vile, insatiate despots dare,
Their thirst of power and gold unbounded,
To mete and vend the light and air;
Like beasts of burden would they load us,
Like gods would bid their slaves adore:
But man is man, and who is more?
Then, shall they longer lash and goad us?
O Liberty! can man resign thee!
Once having felt thy gen'rous flame?
Can dungeon, bolts, and bars confine thee,
Or whips thy noble spirit tame?
Too long the world has wept, bewailing
That falsehood's dagger tyrants wield;
But freedom is our sword and shield,
And all their arts are unavailing.
--_Claude Joseph Rouget de Lisle._
This is perhaps the most famous song in the world. Not because it is
sung more frequently than any other song, but because it has about it in
title, romantic story, and fervor, something that has touched the heart
of mankind and inspired for it a respect and admiration in all civilized
lands.
Its author, Rouget de Lisle, was a young artillery officer who had a
fancy for newspaper writing, and had contributed a number of articles to
a newspaper in Strasburg owned by the mayor of the city. He dined one
evening at his great friend's house, and the conversation turned on the
departure of several hundred volunteers from the town of Strasburg to
the Army of the Rhine. There were to be public ceremonies connected with
the departure of the troops, and Mayor Dietrich urged young De Lisle
to write a martial song to be sung on that occasion. He consented and
went at once from supper to his room. The weather was bitter cold, but
he sat down at the piano, and between reciting and playing and singing,
eventually composed the _Marseillaise_, and, thoroughly exhausted, fell
asleep with his head on his desk.
In the morning he handed the song complete, with words and music, to his
friend, Baron Dietrich. Every one was enchanted with the song, and was
roused by it to the greatest enthusiasm. It was sung a few days later at
the departure of the troops from Strasburg, and thence to the insurgents
of Marseilles, and soon to all the nation. In six months it had been
adopted by the people, the army, the legislature, and the whole country.
Its appeal to liberty and glory voiced the hunger of the popular heart
at the time, and never did song so completely charm and capture an
entire people.
De Lisle's mother was a most ardent royalist, and when the hymn was on
everybody's lips, asked of her son, "What do people mean by associating
our name with the revolutionary hymn which those brigands sing?" De
Lisle himself, proscribed as a royalist, when flying for his life in the
Jura Mountains, heard it as a menace of death, and recognizing the air
as that of his own song, asked his guide what it was called. It must
have seemed to him that day like a Nemesis of his own creation. It had
then been christened _The Marseillaise Hymn_.
De Lisle was reduced to great poverty in later years. It is
characteristic of the French nation that, a short time before his death,
when poverty and age had crushed out the hopes and ambitions of life and
he was no longer capable of receiving great joy from any honor that
might come to him, the National Government decorated him with the ribbon
of the Legion of Honor. It will no doubt do the same thing for Émile
Zola. Not long after this tardy recognition, several pensions were
conferred upon him, which he lived to enjoy but for a few months. He
died in 1836.
The English translation of the _Marseillaise_ as here given was
published in 1795, only three years after the original was written. The
translator's name is unknown, but it is considered the best English
version.
[Illustration: _VIEUX PORT, MARSEILLES_]
The popularity of the song has naturally led to a great many claimants
concerning it, especially the music. The author of a book entitled _An
Englishman in Paris_, relates a very interesting story of a certain
Alexandre Boucher, an eccentric violinist, who vowed that he (Boucher)
wrote the _Marseillaise_ for the colonel of a regiment who was about to
leave Marseilles the next day. According to this story, Boucher was
seated next Rouget de Lisle at a dinner party in Paris some years after
the _Marseillaise_ had become famous throughout the world. They
had never met before, and the violinist was very much interested in the
gentleman whom, with many others at the table, he complimented on his
production; only Boucher confined himself to complimenting him on his
poem. "You don't say a word about the music," Rouget replied, "and yet,
being a celebrated musician, that ought to interest you. Do you not like
it?" "Very much indeed," said Boucher, in a somewhat significant tone.
"Well," continued de Lisle, "let me be frank with you; the music is not
mine. It was that of a march which came heaven knows whence, and which
they kept on playing at Marseilles during the Terror when I was a
prisoner at the fortress of St. Jean. I made a few alterations
necessitated by the words, and there it is." "Thereupon," says Boucher,
"to his great surprise, I hummed the march as I had originally written
it. 'Wonderful!' he exclaimed; 'How did you come by it?' When I told
him," says the violinist, "he threw himself round my neck, but the next
moment he said: 'I am very sorry, my dear Boucher, but I am afraid that
you will be despoiled forever, do what you will; for your music and my
words go so well together that they seem to have sprung simultaneously
from the same brain, and the world, even if I proclaimed my indebtedness
to you, would never believe it.'" "Keep the loan," was Boucher's
magnanimous reply. "Without your genius, my march would be forgotten
by now. You have given it a patent of nobility. It is yours forever."
All this is very interesting, but, unfortunately for Boucher's claim, De
Lisle had put the music and the words together before the Reign of
Terror began, and the story must fall to the ground.
Under the monarchical governments in France the song has always been
held seditious, because of its extraordinary influence upon the French
people. The first time since the Revolution that it was not regarded as
treasonable by those in authority was at the opening of the World's Fair
in 1878.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _CHARLES EDWARD STUART, THE PRETENDER_]
_THE BLUE BELLS OF SCOTLAND._
Oh! where, tell me where, is your Highland laddie gone?
Oh! where, tell me where is your Highland laddie gone?
"He's gone with streaming banners where noble deeds are done,
And my sad heart will tremble till he come safely home,
He's gone with streaming banners where noble deeds are done,
And my sad heart will tremble till he come safely home."
Oh! where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie stay?
Oh! where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie stay?
"He dwelt among the holly trees, beside the rapid Spey,
And many a blessing followed him the day he went away,
He dwelt beneath the holly trees, beside the river Spey,
And many a blessing followed him the day he went away."
Oh! what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie wear?
Oh! what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie wear?
"A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war,
And a plaid across the manly breast, that yet shall wear a star,
A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war,
And a plaid across the manly breast, that yet shall wear a star."
Suppose, ah, suppose, that some cruel, cruel wound
Should pierce your Highland laddie, and all your hopes confound;
"The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly,
And for his king and country dear, with pleasure would he die,
The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly,
And for his king and country dear, with pleasure would he die.
"But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's bonnie bounds,
But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's bonnie bounds;
His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds,
While wide through all our Highland hills his war-like name resounds,
His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds,
While wide through all our Highland hills his war-like name resounds."
--_Annie McVicar Grant._
The father of Annie McVicar was an officer in the British army and was
transferred to this country for service in the American Colonies in
1757. When he left the old country with his troops his little daughter
was but two years old. Soon after he went away the little girl wandered
from home one day, greatly to the alarm of her family. She was overtaken
by a friend, and when asked where she was going said, "I am going to
America to see papa."
In 1758, the mother and little girl crossed the ocean and landed at
Charleston, finding still a long, tiresome trip to make before they
rejoined the beloved soldier father, who was stationed at Albany, New
York. Here it was, in this then frontier land, that Annie grew to
girlhood. She had only two treasures besides Indian trinkets and relics
of Scotland, and these were Milton and a dictionary. She committed
_Paradise Lost_ to memory, and the blind poet's good and evil angels
became as real to her as the soldiers about the fort. One day, when in
the presence of Madame Schuyler, who was the great lady of Albany at
that time, the little girl made a very appropriate quotation from Milton
which so delighted the fashionable woman that thereafter she showed the
child much kindness and regarded her as though she had been her own
daughter.
When Annie was thirteen years old her father was transferred again to
Scotland, and a few years later, at Fort Augustus, Annie McVicar fell in
love with James Grant, the chaplain of the fort. She did her duty as a
minister's wife, and one can imagine that she had plenty to do, as eight
children came to their fireside, one after another, in rapid succession.
Mr. Grant died poor, leaving his wife with these eight children
dependent upon her. She must do something to make a living and keep the
wolf from the door, and in her sore straits she gathered up the poems
which she had written from time to time, and successfully published them
by subscription. Afterward she brought out several volumes entitled
_Letters from the Mountains_, which passed through several editions and
brought her considerable profit. These fairly launched her on the sea of
authorship, and many volumes of prose and verse followed, which,
together with a pension granted her by the government, placed her in
most comfortable circumstances, and she reached the ripe age of
eighty-four, surrounded by a large circle of admiring friends in the
city of Edinburgh.
[Illustration: _STIRLING CASTLE_]
Mrs. Grant wrote _The Blue Bells of Scotland_ on the occasion of the
departure of the Marquis of Huntly for the Continent with his regiment
of Highland troops in 1799. A book entitled _The North Country
Chorister_, printed in 1802, included this song under the title _The New
Highland Lad_. Ritson, the editor of this book, says: "The song has been
lately introduced upon the stage. It was originally _The Bells of
Scotland_, but was revised by Mrs. Jordan, who altered the words and
sang them to a tune of her own which superseded the old air." When
Charles Mackay and Sir Henry Rowley Bishop were arranging old English
airs, this song came under discussion. Mackay says: "_The Blue Bells of
Scotland_ is almost invariably spoken of as a Scottish air; but Sir
Henry found reason to suspect that it was English, and urged me to write
new words to it, to dispossess, if possible, the old song of Mrs.
Jordan. He was induced to form this opinion by receiving from Mr.
Fitzgerald 'a Sussex tune' to a song commencing: 'Oh, I have been
forester this many a long day.' Three or four bars of the melody were
almost identical with the second part of _The Blue Bells of Scotland_,
but as the remainder bore no resemblance to that popular favorite, and
the whole tune was so beautiful that it was well worth preserving, I so
far complied with Sir Henry's wish as to write _The Magic Harp_ to Mr.
Fitzgerald's kind contribution to our work. Sir Henry wrote under date
of the 22nd of October, 1852, 'I am strongly of the opinion that when
Mrs. Jordan composed the music of _The Blue Bells of Scotland_, she
founded the air upon that rescued from oblivion for us by Mr.
Fitzgerald--or rather that she originally intended to sing it to that
tune, but finding some parts of it too high for her voice, which was of
a very limited compass, she altered them, and the air became that of
_The Blue Bells of Scotland_.'"
Mrs. Grant's _Highland Laddie_ and Mrs. Jordan's _Blue Bells of
Scotland_ have kept time together so long now, that it is not likely any
musical critic will ever disturb them again. The following altered
version of Mrs. Grant's song has in some places been even more popular
than the original:--
"Oh where, and oh where is your Highland laddie gone?
'He's gone to fight the French for King George upon the throne;
And it's oh! in my heart, how I wish him safe at home.'
"Oh where, and oh where does your Highland laddie dwell?
'He dwells in merrie Scotland, at the sign of the Blue Bell;
And it's oh, in my heart, that I love my laddie well.'
"What clothes, in what clothes is your Highland laddie clad?
'His bonnet's of the Saxon green, his waistcoat's of the plaid;
And it's oh! in my heart, that I love my Highland lad.'
"Suppose, oh, suppose that your Highland lad should die?
'The bagpipes shall play over him, I'll lay me down and cry;
And it's oh! in my heart, that I wish he may not die!'"
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _RUDYARD KIPLING_]
_RECESSIONAL._
God of our fathers, known of old--
Lord of our far-flung battle line--
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies--
The captains and the kings depart;
Still stands thine ancient sacrifice,
A humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
Far-called our navies melt away--
On dune and headland sinks the fire--
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not thee in awe;
Such boasting as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard--
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And, guarding, calls not thee to guard--
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy mercy on thy people, Lord!
Amen.
--_Rudyard Kipling._
Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee, celebrated on the 22nd of June, 1897,
has gone into history as the greatest human pageant in the whole story
of humanity. As sovereign of Great Britain and Ireland and Empress of
India, she occupies the most powerful position on earth. In addition to
the material power represented, the admiration and love in which she is
held by the truest people of every nation and kindred, because of her
wise reign as well as her long and pure life, swelled her jubilee into a
tribute of the united affection of civilized mankind. Preparations were
made for months beforehand. Representatives from kings and presidents,
as well as from the army and navy of every country in the world, came to
do her homage.
It was not only Queen Victoria's day, it was Great Britain's day. Not
only in London, where the great procession of representatives and
soldiers from all the Colonies marched in honor of the gracious queen,
but the services in honor of the day belted the globe. They began in
the Colonies of New Zealand and Australia; afterward in South Africa;
and so they followed the sun westward. When his light had crossed the
ocean and reached the continent of America, the citizens of St. John's,
Newfoundland, recommenced the anthem which was taken up in succession,
in town after town across the continent through Canada, from the
Atlantic to the Pacific. The loyal dwellers at Victoria, British
Columbia, tossed it across the Pacific, and on to India, throughout all
the Colonies of the empire of the Union Jack.
It was a sublime and unparalleled occasion, and yet it is not too much
to say that the most splendid and perhaps the most enduring souvenir of
the Queen's Jubilee was Rudyard Kipling's poem--the _Recessional_. The
editor of the London _Times_, in which journal it was first published,
declares that it is the greatest poem of the century, and it is quite
possible that such may be the verdict of the next generation.
This great poem came at the close of the Jubilee exercises and struck
the world with a surprise. While Mr. Kipling has long been regarded as a
great writer of fiction, and a strong poet, the deep note of strength,
the undertone of volcanic earnestness, as well as the profound religious
faith of the _Recessional_, were qualities which had not been attributed
to Mr. Kipling by the majority of people. Yet, as Dr. George Horr, one
of our brightest editors, has clearly set forth, Kipling, both as
novelist and poet, has always portrayed the manly, strenuous side of
life. He does not falter at putting before us ugly representations of
vice, but beneath all the roughness and viciousness of men whom he
describes, he reveals to us the real bedrock of genuine manliness. He
never seeks to make us admire a cheat, a sneak, or a mountebank of any
kind. Even in his most unconventional stories there is a Puritan strain
in his temper, both in mental and moral quality, which holds him to the
great essential moralities.
It is certainly appropriate that such a man should have eyes to see the
profound religious side of the Queen's Jubilee, for at the bottom,
everything that is real, that is manly and heroic, is also religious. It
is not to be marveled at that this keen student of human nature and of
human history should have been able to perceive that "the far-flung
battle line," "the dominion over palm and pine," "the tumult and the
shouting," "the captains and the kings," and "the far-called navies" are
only dust and ashes, unless God lives in the hearts and controls the
character of those who wield these instruments; and that "the frantic
boast," and "the foolish word" may pull a national structure down upon
the heads of a people drunken with their own power and riches. The
sublime and solemn refrain of the poem,--
[Illustration: _HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT_]
"Lest we forget--lest we forget,"
called back not only the British people in all parts of the world, but
the conscience of all civilization, to the one abiding source of human
power.
The fact that Kipling's poem touched the heart of the English-speaking
world as nothing else connected with the Jubilee did, is, as Doctor Horr
states, "a profound testimony to the existence and dominance of the
religious instinct in the Anglo-Saxon race. We have often been told that
luxury, and pride, and gross materialism, have quenched the Puritan
spirit. We have never believed that, though it has been hard sometimes
to maintain the contrary against almost overwhelming evidence. But under
the breath of a moral issue the smouldering fire has leaped into flame.
The poet who elicits this temper, interprets it to itself, and gives it
form and voice, renders a service to the higher interests of the race
that can hardly be computed. Religion has not lost its hold when such
lines as these are universally recognized as the noblest feature of the
Jubilee:--
"If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not thee in awe;
Such boasting as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
"For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard--
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And, guarding, calls not thee to guard--
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy mercy on thy people, Lord."
Mr Edward Bok, the brilliant editor of the _Ladies' Home Journal_,
secured the service of the celebrated composer Reginald de Koven to
compose suitable music for this poem, and it was published in that
magazine in the issue for May, 1898. De Koven's music promises to be a
great success. On last Memorial Sunday, May 29, the _Recessional_ was
sung to De Koven's music by church choirs in every large town and city
in the United States. Surely nothing could be more appropriate for
Americans to sing at the present time than the _Recessional_. It is a
time when it is important that the citizens of our proud Republic shall
remember that not in her vast territory, or inexhaustible wealth, or in
mighty navy or splendid army, but in the blessing of Almighty God lies
the real strength of a nation. Kipling's august prayer and refrain is as
appropriate for us as for Great Britain:--
"Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!"
[Illustration: FINIS]
Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
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