An address, delivered at Wichita, Kansas, on Memorial Day, 1886.
COMRADES OF THE GRAND ARMY, AND LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: The growing
popularity of Memorial Day, and the increasing interest in the beautiful
ceremonies of its observance, are among the most happy and hopeful
indications of American sentiment. All the good or evil of to-day is but
the result of yesterday’s teaching. Our greatest historian, speaking of
the men who mustered on the village green at Lexington, “and fired the
shot heard round the world,” declares that “the light that led them on
was combined of rays from the whole history of the world; from the
traditions of the Hebrews in the gray of the world’s morning; from the
heroes and sages of Republican Greece and Rome; from the example of Him
who died on the cross for the life of humanity; from the religious creed
which proclaimed the divine presence in man, and on this truth, as in a
life-boat, floated the liberties of nations over the dark flood of the
Middle Ages; from the customs of the Germans transmitted out of their
forests to the councils of Saxon-England; and from the cloud of
witnesses of all the ages to the reality and rightfulness of human
freedom.”
This is the lesson of Memorial Day. It is yesterday teaching to-day. It
brings the peaceful present, reverently uncovered, to the grass-grown
grave of the war-worn past. It teaches the living to honor the memory of
those who cheerfully died for a good cause. It tells the children that,
in a war for human freedom, the level of a soldier is the pinnacle of
glory. And so long as heroism is thus revered and patriotism honored; so
long as men and women teach their children to honor and to emulate the
example of the heroes and patriots who, a quarter of a century ago,
rallied around the flag of their imperiled country with such
unparalleled enthusiasm, fought for it, suffered for it, died for it,
lifted it into the very heavens, stainless and triumphant, and made all
men free before the Constitution and the laws—so long as this is the
lesson and the inspiration of the rising generations of Americans, there
need be no fear that the dead have died in vain, or that the Republic
they loved will perish from the earth.
In speaking to you to-day, I shall talk of some heroes and martyrs who
were my comrades and my friends. They were not “born to fame.” None of
them were known beyond the narrow limits of the neighborhoods in which
they lived, or of the regiment they glorified by the simple manhood of
their lives. Country boys, some of them, they had grown up from infancy,
surrounded by calm and gracious scenes and sounds; town boys, others,
they had dreamed only of business or professional pursuits, and of those
triumphs and successes which, in civil life, insure a quiet and
prosperous old age.
Suddenly the flash of a gun in Charleston harbor startled the land like
an electric shock, and in a moment all the currents of its life were
changed. The air throbbed with the roll of drums and the blare of
bugles; flags fluttered in the sky, like shipwrecked rainbows; and for
the first time in their lives millions of people realized what the old
flag stood for. Men walked about with an unwonted flame in their eyes,
and women, quick to comprehend the agony and bitter sacrifices of the
years to come, and hiding in their hearts the never-lifting shadow of
their fears, wept and prayed, in the silence of their rooms, that this
cup might pass away.
Then came the calls for men, swiftly following one after another, and
sweeping away, in successive surges, the very blossom and flower of the
youth and manhood of the land. Seventy-five thousand first; then three
hundred thousand, and three hundred thousand more, until the total
exceeded two million seven hundred and seventy-two thousand; and in
almost every home throughout the length and breadth of the land there
were vacant places by the hearthstone and aching voids in the heart,
that, in hundreds of thousands of cases, would nevermore be filled.
Many of you, perhaps, have seen Rogers’s statuette, “One More Shot.”
Some time ago, while looking at a copy of it in a shop window, a soldier
friend said: “Two of the finest types of our volunteers are represented
in that group.” The martial pose of the central figure is superb; the
boyish grace of his kneeling comrade is no less striking. The one
represents a young man of twenty-five or thirty; his companion is a mere
boy. The elder, tall, alert, resolute, looks intently forward. His
broken left arm is held deftly in the folds of his coat; his gun rests
against his body, and his right hand is seeking his cartridge-box.
Martial, masterful, manly—there were dozens of men in every regiment who
might have stood for the model of this figure. The younger, sitting on a
knapsack engaged in binding up a wounded leg, and placidly indifferent
to everything else, fairly represents a still larger class of our
volunteers—the laughing, joking, rollicking boys, who were heroes
without heroic feeling, and equal to martyrdom without one spark of a
martyr’s fire.
I have, at home, a picture representing General Thomas studying a map by
the light of a camp-fire, on the evening after the first day’s fight at
Chicamauga. There is no artistic merit in the picture. But I bought it
and have kept it because it represents, though indifferently, several
other types of American soldiers. The painter has caught something of
the masterful figure of Thomas. Near the great General, seated on a
stump and gazing fixedly at the camp-fire, is a middle-aged Lieutenant.
With his elbow on his knee and his chin on his hand, his grave,
thoughtful, dreamy expression indicates that his mind has drifted far
away from the sights and sounds about him, and is with his wife and
children in the dear old home. Lazily watching the two officers is a
young soldier on duty as a sentinel, with his gun resting carelessly in
the hollow of his left arm. These three figures represent other types of
soldiers, and are as characteristic as, though less skillfully drawn
than, those of the Rogers group.
The dead soldiers I am going to speak of, like those of the Rogers group
and the Thomas picture, were only types of hundreds of other volunteers.
I have no doubt that, if I merely sketched them, giving no names, every
soldier here present would say that I was describing men of his own
regiment.
I first met one of them in the winter of 1861–2. There was a
reorganization of Kansas regiments, and he was transferred to mine, with
his company. Born in a small village in New York, he was country-bred,
and had a fair education. Square-shouldered, strong-limbed, graceful in
movement, and with every muscle and fibre of his body vigorous and
healthy, his was a handsome figure. Whether some remote ancestor had
transmitted to him the blood of a soldier, I do not know, but I doubt if
he had ever thought of war, or of a soldier’s life, before the flash of
the gun at Sumter startled the slumbering Nation. He was as modest as he
was manly. If he was corrected or reproved for mistakes such as young
officers frequently made in the early days of their service, he would
blush like a school-girl. But he was a born soldier. His blue-gray eyes
were alike steady, quick, and fearless. After three months drill he
walked with the erect and martial bearing of a regular; his prompt
military salute, never forgotten or omitted on any occasion, was given
or responded to with a grace that was at once easy and natural; and his
voice, clear as the tones of a silver bugle, had in it the ring of a
true commander. He was a Captain, and his company was made up, as most
volunteer companies were, of young men and boys who had been the
school-mates and friends of their officers. His affection for his boys
deepened and strengthened during every day of his service, and they
idolized him. But not one of them ever for a moment forgot that he was
their Captain, nor did he forget it. The willing respect, the cheerful
and prompt obedience he gave to his superior officers, he expected from
his men, and they gave it, not so much because it was enforced, as
because it was deserved.
I don’t think I ever heard him utter a complaint concerning any feature
of a soldier’s life, however hard or perilous it might be. The dusty
marches along Southern pikes beneath the blazing heat of a summer sun;
the cold and dreary tramps of midwinter; the lonely vigils of picket
duty; the weary monotony of camp-life—none of these ever extorted from
him a murmur. He was always and everywhere the same cheerful, patient,
willing soldier; the same kindly, brave and manly gentleman.
On the morning of the 19th of September, 1863, our division moved from
near Crawfish Springs to the battle-field of Chicamauga. The march was
rapid, dusty and exhausting. The thunder of artillery smote the air, and
the crackle of musketry at the distant fords told of a closer conflict.
The troops that had passed along the road during the night had fired the
fences on either side, and they were still smouldering, filling the
atmosphere with stifling smoke. When we reached a point near General
Rosecrans’s headquarters, we were ordered into the woods to the right,
and I halted to give instructions to my regiment as it passed by. Near
its center marched the young soldier of whom I have been speaking. As he
came up, and halted for a moment to talk, I noted his striking
appearance. His clothing was so dusty that it looked more like
Confederate gray than Union blue; his face was stained with smoke; he
had tied a white handkerchief about his neck, and its loose folds fell
down his back; but in his walk and bearing there was no trace of either
fatigue or lassitude. His step was even firmer, his bearing more erect,
than usual, and his brave eyes sparkled with the excitement of the
near-approaching fight.
In less than half an hour he was in the midst of it, and all day long,
as the battle ebbed and flowed, and the air was turned to powder and
smoke, and shells tore through the woods, and the roar of musketry grew
so dense that it drowned the thunder of the cannon, his courage and
enthusiasm were conspicuously illustrated. At dusk our division was
relieved, and he marched his company to the field assigned for our
bivouac. Over fifty per cent. of his men had been killed or wounded, but
he was unhurt.
An hour later, after the command had cooked and eaten a scanty meal, the
first since morning, he came to me and asked permission to take a small
squad of his company and go out to the front. “I think,” he said, “that
I may be able to find some of my boys who are wounded.” I gave the
requested permission, but warned him not to venture too far, calling his
attention to the constant firing of the picket lines. A bright smile lit
up his face as he said: “Oh, I’ll be careful. But that rattle is feeble
after the roar of to-day.” And giving his usual quick, graceful military
salute, he wheeled and walked away out of the light of the camp-fire
into the darkness.
I never saw him again. An hour later the men he had taken with him
returned, and reported that they had run into a squad of the enemy; that
the Captain had been shot through the heart and instantly killed; and
that they were unable to bring in his body.
Thus ended the young life of Edgar P. Trego, “a soldier without fear and
without reproach.” From the dull level of every-day walks and ways he
stepped at once into the great events of a great era, and became a hero
and a martyr for a great cause. One of the counties of this State bears
his name, and is honored by it. His remains, recovered months after his
death, repose in the beautiful National Cemetery at Chattanooga, with
those of nearly twenty thousand other soldiers who gave up their lives
that the country might live.
“Brave, good, and true,
I see him stand before me now,
And read again on that young brow,
Where every hope was new,
How sweet were life! Yet, by the mouth firm-set
And look made up for Duty’s utmost debt,
I could divine he knew
That death within the sulphurous hostile lines,
In the mere wreck of nobly-pitched designs,
Plucks heartsease, and not rue.”
—The stories told by the rosters of military companies are always very
meager. They are like the family histories recorded in an old Bible. A
child is born; it dies. This is the beginning and the end. Now and then
a marriage is noted. The army records are quite as brief. A soldier is
mustered in; he is killed in battle, or dies, or is mustered out. Now
and then he receives promotion, or is wounded. These are the only facts
that are noted on the Company rolls. But meager as they are, they may,
to one familiar with army life, tell a wonderful story of duty
faithfully discharged and of dangers bravely faced. One of these
military biographies—the story of another comrade and friend—I propose
to quote as it is recorded in the books of the Adjutant General’s
office. The subject of it was born across the ocean. The flag he
followed, the Nation he gave his life to preserve, were his only by
adoption. He was a German. Small in stature; his features delicate and
sensitive; his complexion clear and rosy as a girl’s; well educated and
of studious tastes; keeping “the noiseless tenor of his way” with a
modesty only equalled by his merit, he won confidence and esteem by
genuine deserving, and his history, even as it is set down in the brief
notations of a regimental roster, is a wonderful story. I quote it in
full:
“Zacharias Burkhardt. Born in Saxony. Merchant, 38 years of age,
single. Enlisted in Co. B, Eighth Kansas Infantry, Sept. 2d, 1861,
at Leavenworth, Kansas, and was mustered in as a private. Promoted
Corporal, Sept. 2d, 1861. Promoted Sergeant, Nov. 17th, 1861.
Promoted First Sergeant, August 1st, 1862. Promoted Sergeant Major
of the Regiment, Dec. 17th, 1862. Promoted Second Lieutenant Co. B,
May 13th, 1863. Promoted First Lieutenant, May 27th, 1863. Severely
wounded at the battle of Chicamauga, Ga., Sept. 19th, 1863. Died at
Atlanta, Ga., October 28th, 1863, of wounds received in action.”
Of his long and trying marches, in heat or cold, rain or sunshine; of
the patient, zealous devotion to duty which won for him six promotions,
never jumping a grade, in less than two years; of his unfailing good
temper; of the exact discipline, enforced with equal kindliness, justice
and firmness, he always maintained; of the modest pride with which he
wore either chevrons or shoulder-straps, never exalting himself, yet
never forgetting the added burdens they imposed, not only of authority
but of responsibility—on all these qualities, so conspicuously
illustrated during his service, I might dwell long and lovingly. But
“they need no praise whose deeds are eulogy,” and nothing that I could
say would add to the glory of a life so manly and unpretending, and of a
death so heroic.
—A man who might have stood for the original of the principal figure of
Rogers’s “Last Shot,” was Charles O. Rovohl. Tall, erect, compactly
built, masterful in strength, with a fine head set on a finely
proportioned body, his appearance would have attracted attention in any
crowd of men. His soldierly qualities were no less conspicuous, and he
was soon chosen for that post of honor and of danger, the Regimental
Color-Bearer. He had enlisted in Company I, Eighth Kansas, at White
Cloud, April 3d, 1862; on the 1st of January, 1863, he was promoted to
be a Corporal; and in August, 1863, he was appointed Color-Bearer of the
Regiment.
Around him, at Chicamauga, was a remarkable group of boyish-looking
soldiers, the eight Corporals constituting the Color Guard: William E.
Wendell, Co. E, Thomas Adamson, Co. D, John Binger, Co. B, George
Mathews, Co. F, Charles Morgan, Co. H, Benjamin Sprouse, Co. G, Hugh
Turner, Co. K, and Allen B. Bozarth, Co. H. Rovohl was about twenty-six
years of age—most of his comrades were under twenty-one. Selected, as
the Color Guard always is, from different companies, and with a
carefulness inspired by regimental pride, the Color-Bearer and his guard
of honor formed a striking group—he tall, powerful, manly, grave and
silent; they boyish, beardless, laughing, chattering, careless—but one
and all of them daring and gallant beyond what was common even in those
heroic years.
Within an hour after the battle began, Rovohl, the Color-Bearer, was
mortally wounded. When he fell his comrades indulged in a fierce dispute
as to which of them was entitled to carry the flag. Several claimed it,
but Wendell, affirming his seniority of rank as a Corporal, secured it.
Two of them proposed to carry Rovohl to the surgeons in the rear, but he
refused all help, saying: “My life is nothing-keep the flag to the
front.” Corporal Wendell was soon mortally wounded, and Adamson then
took the flag. Morgan and Sprouse were instantly killed, and Mathews was
severely wounded. Adamson and Bozarth were also wounded. When night came
and the roar of battle died away, four of these nine young men were
dead, three others were wounded, and only two, Binger and Turner, were
unhurt. Binger was, some weeks later, promoted to be a Sergeant,
appointed Regimental Color-Bearer, and served in that position until his
final muster-out, in January, 1866. He refused promotion offered him, to
a Lieutenancy, because he would not part with the colors.
I have heard men, during recent years, deride eulogistic references to
our country’s flag as sentimental nonsense. If any of you should hear
such talk, think of these young heroes, who thought the flag was worth
far more than their own lives; who so loved it and reverenced it that
they cheerfully died for it; and let their devotion, their sentiment,
their sacrifice, be a mute but unanswerable protest against those who
deny the existence of such a thing as disinterested patriotism. And when
you think of the flag, the brave old flag, the flag that means
everything worth having in this country; the flag that is at once the
beauty and the glory of our land; the “Old Flag” that is always new, and
bright, and gracious, and inspiring; the flag that, floating against the
sky, is not only the most beautiful thing a true American will ever see,
but the most thrilling and sacred sentiment that warms his heart—when
you think of this glorious old flag,
“Think of the strong, heroic souls,
Who hailed it as their pride.
And with their faint and anguished eyes,
Lifted in dreadful agonies,
Saw it between them and the skies,
Blessed it, and, blessing, died.”
—During the historic march of General Sherman from Atlanta to the sea, a
new term suddenly achieved notoriety and popularity, and it came, after
awhile, to be applied indiscriminately and wrongfully to all his
soldiers, who were spoken of as “Sherman’s bummers.” In fact, the
“bummer” was a character in the Western armies long before the march to
the sea began. The name only was a result of that campaign. The army
“bummer” was a genuine product of the Western armies. The field of their
operations was so vast, their marches so long, their movements so swift,
that in time these characteristics of the whole body stimulated and
exaggerated the natural restlessness and adventurous spirit of many of
the men composing it, and thus the army “bummer” was developed. The term
should not be confounded. The army “bummer” was not akin, even remotely,
to the lazy, blear-eyed, bloated, worthless vagabond who, in civil life,
is designated by this term. The army variety of the _genus_ “bummer” was
simply a restless, adventurous, investigating, daring forager; a scout
not detailed for scouting duty; an independent exploring engineer, who
had a natural instinct for topography and poultry, and an unerring nose
for roads, by-paths, and Confederate pork and mutton. He looked with
contempt on camp-guards, and regarded picket-lines with disdain. He
could, without serious difficulty, make his way through an unknown
country swarming with his deadly enemies. Answering “here” to his name
at evening roll-call, and evading, with subtle skill, the vigilance of
the sentries, he would travel ten or fifteen miles, on the darkest
nights, through woods and fields he had never before seen, and, bringing
back a full supply of the best the country afforded for his mess, would
answer “here” at roll-call in the morning, and be ready for a
twenty-mile march that day. He could accomplish the feat—impossible in
times of peace—of carrying away, without being stung, a bee-hive loaded
with honey and populated by a full swarm of angry bees. He was
ubiquitous. In camp or with the column one moment, he was heard of an
hour later, miles away, calmly inspecting a smoke-house or cellar, and
retailing the most absurd inventions of his exuberant fancy to the
startled inhabitants. Possessing marvelous powers of endurance, fruitful
in expedients, always cool, courageous and alert, the army “bummer” was
at once an enigma and a phenomenon. How he did what he did, was not
capable of explanation; that he did it all was wonderful.
To this class or type of soldiers belonged James H. English, a private
soldier, from the date of his enlistment until the day of his death, in
Company I. Tall and supple, with not an ounce of superfluous flesh;
restless under restraints; having the instincts of an explorer allied
with the reckless audacity of an adventurer, “Jim” English was a
character. He was born in Pike county, Missouri, a region famous for its
odd specimens of humanity; was a brickmaker by trade, and twenty-four
years of age. The regimental roster says he enlisted December 11th,
1861, and was present for duty until January 1st, 1864, when he
reënlisted as a veteran, and was then present for duty until December
16th, 1864, when he was killed in battle at Nashville.
Poor, restless, wandering, good-hearted, illiterate “Jim;” always
“present for duty”—that was all. Always asking to go, and going whether
he got permission or not. Always keeping on good terms at regimental
headquarters so as to shield himself from the wrath of his Captain if
the latter discovered his nocturnal absences from camp. Appointing
himself forager for the field and staff, his voluntary duty was
discharged with zealous faithfulness and tenacity. Queer old “Jim”—I
should have gone hungry many a time if his daring and skill as a forager
had not been exerted in my behalf. Many were the faults of this odd,
slouching, observant, predatory, old-young fellow, but he had many good
qualities also, not the least of which were his shy friendliness and his
quiet good-nature. In that other and better land I hope he is not only
“present for duty,” as he always was on this earth, but that he is
serene and content, as he never was.
—Another and an entirely different type of our volunteer soldiers was
Orderly Sergeant John W. Long, whose military history is thus recorded
in the brief annals of the regiment:
“John W. Long enlisted as a private, September 30th, 1861. Born at
Lemoy, Ohio; a farmer; single; twenty years old at enlistment.
Promoted Corporal, May 1st, 1862. Wounded at Chicamauga, September
19th, 1863. Reënlisted as a veteran, January 1st, 1864. Wounded at
Peach Tree creek, near Atlanta, July 20th, 1864. Promoted First
Sergeant, October 21st, 1864. Killed at the battle of Nashville,
December 16th, 1864.”
A universal favorite was “Johnny” Long, as he was called. He was always
in his place, and his brave, cheerful nature was superior to the
vicissitudes of the longest tramp or the most desolate bivouac. Through
all the eventful years of my service with him I am sure that I never saw
a frown on his face, nor heard a complaint from his lips. If extra duty
was to be performed, “Johnny” Long was always ready for it. If a forage
detail was needed, after a long day’s march, the bright, contented face
of “Johnny” Long, if he was a Corporal or Sergeant with the squad, gave
assurance that the work assigned the detail would be vigorously and
intelligently attended to. In camp, always neat, good-humored, and
vivacious; on duty, always prompt, tireless, and intelligent; in battle,
always steady, reliable, and brave—“Johnny” Long was at all times and
everywhere an ideal soldier.
Twice the enemy’s bullets struck him, inflicting first a slight and then
a severe wound, and his comrades joked him about “the third time, and
out.” But he only laughed, as he did at all things personal to himself.
Sympathetic and tender with the troubles or misfortunes of others, his
own he made light of. But, alas! the “third time” did put out the life
of this gay-hearted and fearless young soldier. In the last battle in
which his regiment took part, and while gallantly charging the enemy’s
works at Nashville, he was instantly killed. Some of his comrades say
that his face, in death, told no story of pain or of horror. It was
smiling, as in life. Hardships, privations and toil could not sour the
sweet currents of his nature, and even death failed to chill the
generous ardor of his soul. He died, as he had lived, with a smile on
his young lips and content in his heart.
“Right in the van,
On the red rampart’s slippery swell,
With heart that beat a charge, he fell
Forward, as fits a man.
But the high soul burns on to light men’s feet
Where death for noble ends makes dying sweet.”
—Not all the heroes of the war whose graves will be wreathed with
flowers to-day, fell in battle. It has been said that “the crowning
glory of our soldiers was their peaceful disbandment.” One day they
stood in line, the absolute masters of this land. Throughout its length
and breadth there was no power, no authority, that they did not outrank.
The next day they had disappeared, silently, peacefully, modestly, and
were absorbed into the great body of American citizens. Calmly and
serenely they took up the broken threads of their old life, with its
toils, its cares and its perplexities, and within a month no signs of
the most tremendous and momentous struggle the world has ever known were
to be seen.
One of these home-returning heroes was Ferdinand A. Berger. Enlisted as
a private in Company A, at Leavenworth, on the 1st of September, 1861,
he was finally mustered out, at Leavenworth, January 9th, 1866, having
served four years and four months. October 1st, 1861, he was promoted to
be a Corporal, and on January 1st, 1862, was made a Sergeant. At
Chicamauga he was severely wounded. January 1st, 1864, he reënlisted as
a veteran, and was, the same day, promoted to be First Sergeant. October
21st, 1864, he was promoted to be First Lieutenant, and in November of
the same year received a commission as Captain, but could not be
mustered, his company having been reduced in number below the standard.
December 16th, 1864, at Nashville, he was again severely wounded. And on
the 9th of January, 1866, he was finally mustered out, with his company,
only nine enlisted men remaining. He was then only twenty-four years of
age.
Returning to Kansas, he located in Atchison county, and engaged in
farming. On the 8th of January, 1879, he came to Atchison city, in the
full enjoyment of health, to attend to some business affairs. Shortly
after noon, a runaway team attached to an overturned sleigh, came
dashing up the street. With characteristic promptness and courage,
Captain Berger sprang in front of the frantic horses, and seizing them
by their bits, managed to stop them. The owner then came up and caught
the reins, but the maddened animals continued to plunge and struggle,
and Captain Berger attempted to unhitch their traces. While thus
engaged, one of the horses delivered a vicious kick, its iron-shod hoof
striking him fair in the face, breaking his jaw in several places, and
producing a severe contusion of the brain. Two days later he died from
the effects of his injuries.
Thus one of the most faithful and heroic of soldiers, who had passed
through the harvest of death at Chicamauga, stormed the blazing heights
of Mission Ridge, gone unharmed through the campaign to Atlanta, and
charged the rebel works at Nashville, lost his life, at last, on the
peaceful streets of a Kansas town, while endeavoring to save the lives
of others.
* * * * *
—I might sketch for you many other soldiers, as brave, patriotic and
self-sacrificing as those I have named. Every volunteer regiment had in
its ranks scores of such men. Indeed, I should like to speak of Capt.
John L. Graham, of Robert M. Hale, of William H. Horr, of Gil. M. Judah,
of John W. McClellan, and many others among the martyred dead, and of
dozens who passed unscathed through the fiery furnace of war and are
still among the living. But my purpose is fulfilled. I simply desired to
present an outline sketch of a few soldiers, differing widely in
temperaments and personal characteristics, but all fair types of the men
whose valor and patriotism crushed the greatest rebellion the world has
ever witnessed. The pictures are incomplete, I know. I regret that a
hand more skillful than mine has not drawn them; that a tongue more
eloquent than mine could not have told the inspiring story of their
dauntless courage and their sublime self-sacrifice. But as I knew them I
have tried to present them to you, not as soldiers of rare or
exceptional qualities and services, but as representatives and types of
thousands of their comrades, living and dead. In every city, town and
neighborhood of Kansas may be found soldiers of these types, for our
wonderful population includes more than a hundred thousand men who have
marched to the music of a drum:
“Men who were brave to act,
And rich enough their actions to forget, forget—
Who, having filled their day with chivalry,
Withdraw, and keep their simpleness intact,
And, all unconscious, add more lustre yet
Unto their victory.
“Lo! a farmer ploughing busily,
Who lifts a swart face, looks upon the plain.
I see in his frank eyes
The hero’s soul appear.
Thus in the common fields and streets they stand;
The light that on the past and distant gleams
They cast upon the present and the near,
With antique virtues from some mystic land
Of knightly deeds and dreams.”
I might have talked to you of campaigns and battles, or discussed the
causes and results of the war, or spoken of army life in general. But
these are harvested fields, in which I did not care to glean after the
reapers who had gone before. So it seemed to me that I might interest
you, for a few brief moments, by telling this simple story of a few of
the martyred dead whose lives and services, although not written in any
history, are worthy of record on the brightest pages of fame’s deathless
memoirs. The Union army contained a vast host of men such as these I
have described. Never in any other land beneath the sun, nor in any
other age since the morning stars first sang together, did such an array
of brilliant youth and splendid manhood rally around any standard to do
battle for any cause. From schools and workshops, from fair country
fields and busy marts of commerce, the bravest, brightest, best of all
the land came thronging to fields lit by the baleful fires of civil war,
to fight, to suffer, and to die for the Republic and for Freedom. The
comforts of home, the charms of society, the joys of love, the profits
of commerce, the acquisitions of industry, the allurements of ambition,
the delights of ease—all these were abandoned for the privations, the
hardships, the dangers of a soldier’s life. The world was fair and
beautiful to them, the future hopeful and happy. But they gave all they
had—the boundless resources of their youth, the potent energies of their
manhood, the devotion of their hearts, even life itself—for Union and
Liberty. Saint nor martyr never gave more.
“Old Greece hath her Thermopylæ,
Brave Switzerland her Tell,
The Scot his Wallace heart, and we
Heroic souls as well.
The graves of glorious Marathon
Are green above the dead;
And we have royal fields whereon
The trampled grass is red.
“Oh, not alone the hoary Past
Spilled precious princely blood;
Oh, not alone its sons were cast
In knightly form and mood;
Perennial smells of sacrifice
Make sweet our sickened air;
And troth, as leal as Sidney’s, lies
Around us everywhere.
“Though tears be salt, and wormwood still
Is bitter to the taste,
God’s heart is tender, and He will
Let no life fail or waste.
O, mothers of our Gracchi! when
You gave your jewels up,
A continent of hopeless men
Grew rich in boundless hope.
“Renown stands mute beside the graves
With which the land is scarred;
Unheralded, our splendid braves
Went forth unto the Lord;
No poet hoards their humble names
In his immortal scrolls,
But none the less the darkness flames
With their clear-shining souls.
“Beneath the outward havoc, they
The inward mercy saw;
High intuitions of Duty lay
Upon them, strong as law;
Athwart the bloody horizon
They marked God’s blazing sword,
And heard His dreadful thunder’s run
When but the cannon roared.
“Shield-bearers of the Sovran Truth!
We count your costly deeds
Devoutly as a maiden doth
Her consecrated beads.
You thrill us with the calms which flow
In Eucharistic wine;
And by your straight tall lives we know
That life is still divine.”