[On the 4th of July, 1888, Col. Sam. Scott, of Kansas City, Mo.,
presented to the Soldiers’ Home, at Leavenworth, a large wagon,
fitted with reclining chairs for the sick and maimed members of
that institution, and four horses. Governor Martin was selected to
acknowledge this generous gift, and did so in the following
speech:]
Those who have seen Joseph Jefferson in his great character of Rip Van
Winkle, will recall the tender, touching pathos of his simple words:
“Alas, how soon we are forgot!” There are tears in his eyes as he utters
this sorrowful plaint, and tears in the eyes of all who hear it. Even to
the wild, improvident, careless vagabond, the consciousness of oblivion
is a grievous wound.
There are times, I am sure, when this mock grief of the play-actor is a
real grief in the hearts of thousands of Union soldiers. Time was when
they were central figures in the grandest drama ever enacted on the
world’s great stage. What they thought or said was the inspiration of
millions; what they did lifted manhood to sublime heights, and filled
the eyes of women with tender, happy tears. Thousands gathered to see
them as they marched away to the war, while every window and housetop
blossomed with the colors they loved, and every tongue voiced the
grateful thankfulness and exultant pride of those who watched them go.
For years thereafter they enriched the annals of the age with their
splendid deeds, and every word that came to them was fragrant with
praise. The bells in every steeple rang with jubilant triumph, and eager
throngs of people, gathered in every city, town and hamlet throughout
the land, shouted, danced and wept with joy when the bulletins from the
front told how the soldier boys, amid the fierce storms of battle, had
kept unstained the fervor of their faith and the valor of their
aspirations, and carried the old flag to victory. Their glory was the
theme of exulting songs, and the thanks of legislatures and of Congress
were showered upon them in unstinted measure. And when at last they
marched back to their old homes, their faded and tattered battle-flags
radiant with the lustre of victories greater and grander than men had
ever before won, how the generous welcomes that everywhere greeted them
touched and warmed their brave and simple hearts. These were so fervent,
so spontaneous, so universal, that it was as balm to the sore hurts of
sickness or wounds, and blotted out all recollection of the hardships,
privations, perils and sacrifices of their service. They had saved the
Republic, they had exalted the Nation to sublime heights, they had
preserved Liberty with its blessings, and brought back the joys and
contentment of Peace. This was their glory and their reward, and in
their exultant strength and happiness they asked nothing more.
But alas! “how soon we are forgot.” Not a quarter of a century has
passed and gone, and all the glorious memories and still more glorious
deeds of the great war are as “a tale that is told.” The men who then
“rallied around the flag” are growing old, and seem, at times, to have
outlived their age. The far-away days that are so real and so vivid to
them, are a dim and misty past to the new generations. They hear and
read and see many things that wound them as did the bullets of their
country’s foes. This practical, pushing era looks askance when they
“fight their battles o’er.” The old stories of march, and camp, and
battle-field, so full of never-ending interest to them, fall on dull
ears and cold hearts unless they are told at some reunion or camp-fire
where only their old comrades hear, and sympathize, and understand. At
times it seems to them as if the Nation exulted in forgetfulness; as if
the thousands of their countrymen, enjoying the peace and prosperity
their valor won, regarded it as a crime to talk of the war; as if the
men of to-day esteemed their victory over armed treason a moral wrong,
to be regretted and apologized for, rather than a glory to be cherished
and remembered forever. They find the children at school—even their own
sons and daughters—reading histories in which the heroism, the love of
country, and the military genius of Greek, Roman, French, German and
English soldiers and generals are eulogized in eloquent and fervid
language, while the valor, the patriotism, the skill and ability of the
soldiers and commanders of the Union army are “damned with faint
praise,” or dismissed with the most meager statement of facts. They hear
cruel sneers about “the old-soldier racket,” and loud complaints
concerning “the burden of the pension lists.” And, most grievous of all
to their sore hearts, they see men whose bullets laid their comrades low
in death, men who waged a bloody and relentless war against the life of
the Nation, men who were glad when the Union army suffered defeat and
mourned when it was victorious—they see these men exalted to high
places, and honored above those who suffered, endured, and braved so
much that the Republic might live. It is not strange, in view of all
these things, that the soldiers of the Union often think themselves
forgotten, and cry out, in bitter grief, that their sacrifices and
services were all in vain.
It is true that, in many respects, the Nation has not been unmindful of
or ungenerous to its soldiers. No other country, in any age, has paid to
its maimed defenders such pensions as our Government pays. In no other
land are such Homes as this provided for the care and comfort of
disabled veterans. Nearly two thousand men, torn by wounds, or enfeebled
by disease, or broken by the infirmities of old age, are here sheltered,
fed and clothed, and in the five Homes now established, fourteen
thousand are thus cared for. But, after all, the mere necessaries of
life do not make a home. The members of this institution have a right to
expect something more than these. They have a right to know that they
are not forgotten by the people who enjoy the fruits of their perils and
their sacrifices. They have a right to feel that the citizens of the
Republic kindly remember and gratefully appreciate their heroic
services. This knowledge, this consciousness that they are not
forgotten, will, I am sure, warm the cockles of their hearts, and make
the bare walls of every barrack glow with the soft, sweet light that
shines in the dearest, happiest homes in all the land—the light of
peaceful content, and trusting, confident love.
I am glad and proud to be the bearer of such a message of remembrance
and gratitude to the members of this Home. It comes, too, from an old
comrade—from one who carried a musket during the far-away days of the
great war, and who shared, with you, the just pride of duties well
performed. Time and fortune have dealt kindly with him. It is said that
he is a rich man. I have not cared to verify this story by an
examination of the commercial reports. But that he is a thoughtful and a
generous man, the useful and costly present he makes to this Home is
conclusive evidence. He has not forgotten the men who once touched
elbows with him in the forming lines. The music of battle-bugles still
rings in his heart, and he hears, in his dreams, the steady tramp of the
marching columns and the hum of the camp when the evening fires were
lighted. Thus remembering, and thus inspired with a true soldier’s
sympathy, and a true man’s thoughtful generosity, he has brought to you
a gift that will, for many years to come, relieve the suffering and
brighten the daily life of hundreds of the sorely stricken members of
this Home.
In the name of all the officers and members of the Western Branch, I
thank you, Colonel Scott, for your generous gift. No language at my
command would, I am sure, fitly express their thankfulness and their
gratitude. But the prayers and blessings of all the stricken men who
enjoy your gift, will, I know, be for you and with you; and the
consciousness of having brought into their lonely and broken lives some
rays of joy and contentment, and given to these old and war-worn
veterans the dear assurance of remembrance and appreciation, will be
your rich reward.