CHARLES FRANCIS ADAMS, Jr. son of Charles Francis Adams, keeps up
the tradition of his family so well that, unless it is John Adams
himself, no other member of the family surpasses him as an orator.
He was born in Boston, May 27th, 1835; graduating at Harvard
and studying law in the office of R. H. Dana, Jr. His peaceful
pursuits were interrupted by the Civil War which he entered a first
lieutenant, coming out a brevet-brigadier general. He was a chief of
squadron in the Gettysburg campaign and served in Virginia
afterwards. He was for six years president of the Union Pacific
railroad and is well known both as a financier and as an author.
The address on the Battle of Gettysburg is generally given as his
masterpiece, but he has delivered a number of other orations of high
and well-sustained eloquence.
THE BATTLE OF GETTYSBURG (Delivered at Quincy, Mass., July 4th,
1869)
Six years ago this anniversary, we, and not only we who stood upon
the sacred and furrowed field of battle, but you and our whole
country, were drawing breath after the struggle of Gettysburg. For
three long days we had stood the strain of conflict, and now, at
last, when the nation's birthday dawned, the shattered rebel columns
had suddenly withdrawn from our front, and we drew that long breath
of deep relief which none have ever drawn who have not passed in
safety through the shock of doubtful battle. Nor was our country
gladdened then by news from Gettysburg alone. The army that day
twined noble laurel garlands round the proud brow of the
motherland. Vicksburg was, thereafter, to be forever associated with
the Declaration of Independence, and the glad anniversary
rejoicings, as they rose from every town and village and city of the
loyal North, mingled with the last sullen echoes that died away from
our cannon over Cemetery Ridge, and were answered by glad shouts of
victory from the far Southwest. To all of us of this generation,
--and especially to such of us as were ourselves part of those great
events,--this celebration, therefore, now has and must ever retain
a special significance. It belonged to us, as well as to our
fathers. As upon this day ninety-three years ago this nation was
brought into existence through the efforts of others, so upon this
day six years ago I am disposed to believe through our own efforts,
it dramatically touched the climax of its great argument.
The time that has since elapsed enables us now to look back and to
see things in their true proportions. We begin to realize that the
years we have so recently passed through, though we did not
appreciate it at the time, were the heroic years of American
history. Now that their passionate excitement is over, it is
pleasant to dwell upon them; to recall the rising of a great people;
the call to arms as it boomed from our hilltops and clashed from our
steeples; the eager patriotism of that fierce April which kindled
new sympathies in every bosom, which caused the miser to give freely
of his wealth, the wife with eager hands to pack the knapsack of her
husband, and mothers with eyes glistening with tears of pride, to
look out upon the shining bayonets of their boys; then came the
frenzy of impatience and the defeat entailed upon us by rashness and
inexperience, before our nation settled down, solidly and patiently,
to its work, determined to save itself from destruction; and then
followed the long weary years of doubt and mingled fear and hope,
until at last that day came six years ago which we now celebrate--
the day which saw the flood, tide of rebellion reach the high-water
mark, whence it never after ceased to recede. At the moment,
probably, none of us, either at home or at the seat of war, realized
the grandeur of the situation, the dramatic power of the incidents,
or the Titanic nature of the conflict. To you who were at home,
mothers, fathers, wives, sisters, brothers, citizens of the common
country, if nothing else, the agony of suspense, the anxiety, the
joy, and, too often, the grief which was to know no end, which
marked the passage of those days, left little either of time or
inclination to dwell upon aught save the horrid reality of the
drama. To others who more immediately participated in those great
events, the daily vexations and annoyances--the hot and dusty day
--the sleepless, anxious night--the rain upon the unsheltered
bivouac--the dead lassitude which succeeded the excitement of action
--the cruel orders which recognized no fatigue and made no
allowance for labors undergone--all these small trials of the
soldier's life made it possible to but few to realize the grandeur
of the drama to which they were playing a part. Yet we were not
wholly oblivious of it. Now and then I come across strange evidences
of this in turning over the leaves of the few weather-stained,
dogeared volumes which were the companions of my life in camp. The
title page of one bears witness to the fact that it was my companion
at Gettysburg, and in it I recently found some lines of Browning's
noble poem of 'Saul' marked and altered to express my sense of our
situation, and bearing date upon this very fifth of July. The poet
had described in them the fall of snow in the springtime from a
mountain, under which nestled a valley; the altering of a few words
made them well describe the approach of our army to Gettysburg.
"Fold on fold, all at once, we crowded thundrously down to your
feet;
And there fronts yon, stark black but alive yet, your army of old
With its rents, the successive bequeathing of conflicts untold.
Yea, each harm got in fighting your battles, each furrow and scar
Of its head thrust twixt you and the tempest--all hail, here we
are."
And there we were, indeed, and then and there was enacted such a
celebration as I hope may never again be witnessed there or
elsewhere on another fourth of July. Even as I stand here before
you, through the lapse of years and the shifting experiences of the
recent past, visions and memories of those days rise thick and fast
before me. We did, indeed, crowd thundrously down to their feet. Of
the events of those three terrible days I may speak with feeling and
yet with modesty, for small, indeed, was the part which those with
whom I served were called upon to play. When those great bodies of
infantry drove together in the crash of battle, the clouds of
cavalry which had hitherto covered up their movements were swept
aside to the flanks. Our work for the time was done, nor had it been
an easy or a pleasant work. The road to Gettysburg had been paved
with our bodies and watered with our blood. Three weeks before, in
the middle days of June, I, a captain of cavalry, had taken the
field at the head of one hundred mounted men, the joy and pride of
my life. Through twenty days of almost incessant conflict the hand
of death had been heavy upon us, and now, upon the eve of
Gettysburg, thirty-four of the hundred only remained, and our
comrades were dead on the field of battle, or languishing in
hospitals, or prisoners in the hands of the enemy. Six brave young
fellows we had buried in one grave where they fell on the heights of
Aldie. It was late on the evening of the first of July, that there
came to us rumors of heavy fighting at Gettysburg, nearly forty
miles away. The regiment happened then to be detached, and its
orders for the second were to move in the rear of Sedgwick's corps
and see that no man left the column. All that day we marched to the
sound of the cannon. Sedgwick, very grim and stern, was pressing
forward his tired men, and we soon saw that for once there would be
no stragglers from the ranks. As the day grew old and as we passed
rapidly up from the rear to the head of the hurrying column, the
roar of battle grew more distinct, until at last we crowned a hill,
and the contest broke upon us. Across the deep valley, some two
miles away, we could see the white smoke of the bursting shells,
while below the sharp incessant rattle of the musketry told of the
fierce struggle that was going on. Before us ran the straight,
white, dusty road, choked with artillery, ambulances, caissons,
ammunition trains, all pressing forward to the field of battle,
while mixed among them, their bayonets gleaming through the dust
like wavelets on a river of steel, tired, foot-sore, hungry,
thirsty, begrimed with sweat and dust, the gallant infantry of
Sedgwick's corps hurried to the sound of the cannon as men might
have flocked to a feast. Moving rapidly forward, we crossed the
brook which ran so prominently across the map of the field of
battle, and halted on its further side to await our orders. Hardly
had I dismounted from my horse when, looking back, I saw that the
head of the column had reached the brook and deployed and halted on
its other bank, and already the stream was filled with naked men
shouting with pleasure as they washed off the sweat of their long
day's march. Even as I looked, the noise of the battle grew louder,
and soon the symptoms of movement were evident. The rappel was
heard, the bathers hurriedly clad themselves, the ranks were formed,
and the sharp, quick snap of the percussion caps told us the men
were preparing their weapons for action. Almost immediately a
general officer rode rapidly to the front of the line, addressed to
it a few brief, energetic words, the short sharp order to move by
the flank was given, followed immediately by the "double-quick"; the
officer placed himself at the head of the column, and that brave
infantry which had marched almost forty miles since the setting of
yesterday's sun,--which during that day had hardly known either
sleep, or food, or rest, or shelter from the July heat,--now, as
the shadows grew long, hurried forward on the run to take its place
in the front of battle and to bear up the reeling fortunes of the
day.
It is said that at the crisis of Solferino, Marshal McMahon appeared
with his corps upon the field of battle, his men having run for
seven miles. We need not go abroad for examples of endurance and
soldierly bearing. The achievement of Sedgwick and the brave Sixth
Corps, as they marched upon the field of Gettysburg on that second
day of July, far excels the vaunted efforts of the French Zouaves.
Twenty-four hours later we stood on that same ground. Many dear
friends had yielded up their young lives during the hours which had
elapsed, but, though twenty thousand fellow-creatures were wounded
or dead around us, though the flood gates of heaven seemed opened
and the torrents fell upon the quick and the dead, yet the elements
seemed electrified with a certain magic influence of victory, and as
the great army sank down over-wearied in its tracks it felt that the
crisis and danger was passed,--that Gettysburg was immortal.
May I not, then, well express the hope that never again may we or
ours be called upon so to celebrate this anniversary? And yet now
that the passionate hopes and fears of those days are all over,--
now that the grief which can never be forgotten is softened and
modified by the soothing hand of time,--now that the distracting
doubts and untold anxieties are buried and almost forgotten,--we
love to remember the gathering of the hosts, to bear again in memory
the shock of battle, and to wonder at the magnificence of the
drama. The passion and the excitement are gone, and we can look at
the work we have done and pronounce upon it. I do not fear the sober
second judgment. Our work was a great work,--it was well done, and
it was done thoroughly. Some one has said, "Happy is the people
which has no history." Not so! As it is better to have loved and
lost than never to have loved at all, so it is better to have lived
greatly, even though we have suffered greatly, than to have passed a
long life of inglorious ease. Our generation,--yes, we ourselves
have been a part of great things. We have suffered greatly and
greatly rejoiced; we have drunk deep of the cup of joy and of
sorrow; we have tasted the agony of defeat, and we have supped full
with the pleasures of victory. We have proved ourselves equal to
great deeds, and have learnt what qualities were in us, which in
more peaceful times we ourselves did not suspect.
And, indeed, I would here in closing fain address a few words to
such of you, if any such are here, who like myself may nave been
soldiers during the War of the Rebellion. We should never more be
partisans. We have been a part of great events in the service of the
common country, we have worn her uniform, we have received her pay
and devoted ourselves to the death, if need be, in her service. When
we were blackened by the smoke of Antietam, we did not ask or care
whether those who stood shoulder to shoulder beside us, whether he
who led us, whether those who sustained us, were Democrats or
Republicans, conservatives or radicals; we asked only that they
might prove as true as was the steel we grasped, and as brave as we
ourselves would fain have been. When we stood like a wall of stone
vomiting fire from the heights of Gettysburg,--nailed to our
position through three long days of mortal Hell,--did we ask each
other whether that brave officer who fell while gallantly leading
the counter-charge--whether that cool gunner steadily serving his
piece before us amid the storm of shot and shell--whether the poor
wounded, mangled, gasping comrades, crushed and torn, and dying in
agony around us--had voted for Lincoln or Douglas, for Breckenridge
or Bell? We then were full of other thoughts. We prized men for what
they were worth to the common country of us all, and recked not of
empty words. Was the man true, was he brave, was he earnest, was all
we thought of then;--not, did he vote or think with us, or label
himself with our party name? This lesson let us try to remember. We
cannot give to party all that we once offered to country, but our duty
is not yet done. We are no longer, what we have been, the young guard
of the Republic; we have earned an exemption from the dangers of the
field and camp, and the old musket or the crossed sabres hang harmless
over our winter fires, never more to be grasped in these hands
henceforth devoted to more peaceful labors; but the duties of the
citizen, and of the citizen who has received his baptism in fire, are
still incumbent upon us. Though young in years, we should remember
that henceforth, and as long as we live in the land, we are the
ancients,--the veterans of the Republic. As such, it is for us to
protect in peace what we preserved in war; it is for us to look at all
things with a view to the common country and not to the exigencies of
party politics; it is for us ever to bear in mind the higher
allegiance we have sworn, and to remember that he who has once been a
soldier of the motherland degrades himself forever when he becomes the
slave of faction. Then at last, if through life we ever bear these
lessons freshly in mind will it be well for us, will it be well for
our country, will it be well for those whose names we bear, that our
bones also do not molder with those of our brave comrades beneath the
sods of Gettysburg, or that our graves do not look down on the
swift-flowing Mississippi from the historic heights of Vicksburg?