CHAPTER XII.

IN THE ICE.

"Help! help!" shouted the four triphammers, bursting in like a magnified

echo of the boy's last word.

"Help! help!" all the humming wheels and drums repeated more

plaintively.

Wade made for the river.

This was the moment all his manhood had been training and saving for.

For this he had kept sound and brave from his youth up.

As he ran, he felt that the only chance of instant help was in that

queer little bowl-shaped skiff of the "Ambuster."

He had never been conscious that he had observed it; but the image

had lain latent in his mind, biding its time. It might be ten, twenty

precious moments before another boat could be found. This one was on the

spot to do its duty at once.

"Somebody carried off,--perhaps a woman," Wade thought. "Not--No, she

would not neglect my warning! Whoever it is, we must save her from this

dreadful death!"

He sprang on board the little steamboat. She was swaying uneasily at her

moorings, as the ice crowded along and hammered against her stem. Wade

stared from her deck down the river, with all his life at his eyes.

More than a mile away, below the hemlock-crested point, was the dark

object Perry had seen, still stirring along the edges of the floating

ice. A broad avenue of leaden-green water wrinkled by the cold wind

separated the field where this figure was moving from the shore. Dark

object and its footing of gray ice were drifting deliberately farther

and farther away.

For one instant Wade thought that the terrible dread in his heart would

paralyze him. But in that one moment, while his blood stopped flowing

and his nerves failed, Bill Tarbos overtook him and was there by his

side.

"I brought your cap," says Bill, "and our two coats."

Wade put on his cap mechanically. This little action calmed him.

"Bill," said he, "I'm afraid it is a woman,--a dear friend of mine,--a

very dear friend."

Bill, a lover, understood the tone.

"We'll take care of her between us," he said.

The two turned at once to the little tub of a boat.

Oars? Yes,--slung under the thwarts,--a pair of short sculls, worn and

split, but with work in them still. There they hung ready,--and a rusty

boat-hook, besides.

"Find the thole-pins, Bill, while I cut a plug for her bottom out of

this broomstick," Wade said.

This was done in a moment. Bill threw in the coats.

"Now, together!"

They lifted the skiff to the gangway. Wade jumped down on the ice and

received her carefully. They ran her along, as far as they could go, and

launched her in the sludge.

"Take the sculls, Bill. I'll work the boat-hook in the bow."

Nothing more was said. They thrust out with their crazy little craft

into the thick of the ice-flood. Bill, amidships, dug with his sculls

in among the huddled cakes. It was clumsy pulling. Now this oar and now

that would be thrown out. He could never get a full stroke.

Wade in the bow could do better. He jammed the blocks aside with his

boat-hook. He dragged the skiff forward. He steered through the little

open ways of water.

Sometimes they came to a broad sheet of solid ice. Then it was "Out with

her, Bill!" and they were both out and sliding their bowl so quick

over, that they had not time to go through the rotten surface. This was

drowning business; but neither could be spared to drown yet.

In the leads of clear water, the oarsman got brave pulls and sent the

boat on mightily. Then again in the thick porridge of brash ice they

lost headway, or were baffled and stopped among the cakes. Slow work,

slow and painful; and for many minutes they seemed to gain nothing upon

the steady flow of the merciless current.

A frail craft for such a voyage, this queer little half-pumpkin! A frail

and leaky shell. She bent and cracked from stem to stern among the

nipping masses. Water oozed in through her dry seams. Any moment a

rougher touch or a sharper edge might cut her through. But that was a

risk they had accepted. They did not take time to think of it, nor to

listen to the crunching and crackling of the hungry ice around. They

urged straight on, steadily, eagerly, coolly, spending and saving

strength.

Not one moment to lose! The shattering of broad sheets of ice around

them was a warning of what might happen to the frail support of their

chase. One thrust of the boat-hook sometimes cleft a cake that to the

eye seemed stout enough to bear a heavier weight than a woman's.

Not one moment to spare! The dark figure, now drifted far below the

hemlocks of the Point, no longer stirred. It seemed to have sunk upon

the ice and to be resting there weary and helpless, on one side a wide

way of lurid water, on the other half a mile of moving desolation.

Far to go, and no time to waste!

"Give way, Bill! Give way!"

"Ay, ay!"

Both spoke in low tones, hardly louder than the whisper of the ice

around them.

By this time hundreds from the Foundry and the village were swarming

upon the wharf and the steamboat.

"A hunderd tar-barrels wouldn't git up my steam in time to do any good,"

says Cap'n Ambuster. "If them two in my skiff don't overhaul the man,

he's gone."

"You're sure it's a man?" says Smith Wheelwright.

"Take a squint through my glass. I'm dreffully afeard it's a gal; but

suthin's got into my eye, so I can't see."

Suthin' had got into the old fellow's eye,--suthin' saline and

acrid,--namely, a tear.

"It's a woman," says Wheelwright,--and suthin' of the same kind blinded

him also.

Almost sunset now. But the air was suddenly filled with perplexing

snow-dust from a heavy squall. A white curtain dropped between the

anxious watchers on the wharf and the boatmen.

The same white curtain hid the dark floating object from its pursuers.

There was nothing in sight to steer by, now.

Wade steered by his last glimpse,--by the current,--by the rush of the

roaring wind,--by instinct.

How merciful that in such a moment a man is spared the agony of thought!

His agony goes into action, intense as life.

It was bitterly cold. A swash of ice-water filled the bottom of the

skiff. She was low enough down without that. They could not stop to

bail, and the miniature icebergs they passed began to look significantly

over the gunwale. Which would come to the point of foundering first, the

boat or the little floe it aimed for?

Bitterly cold! The snow hardly melted upon Tarbox's bare hands. His

fingers stiffened to the oars; but there was life in them still, and

still he did his work, and never turned to see how the steersman was

doing his.

A flight of crows came sailing with the snow-squall. They alighted all

about on the hummocks, and curiously watched the two men battling to

save life. One black impish bird, more malignant or more sympathetic

than his fellows, ventured to poise on the skiff's stern!

Bill hissed off this third passenger. The crow rose on its toes, let

the boat slide away from under him, and followed croaking dismal good

wishes.

The last sunbeams were now cutting in everywhere. The thick snow-flurry

was like a luminous cloud. Suddenly it drew aside.

The industrious skiff had steered so well and made such headway, that

there, a hundred yards away, safe still, not gone, thank God! was the

woman they sought.

A dusky mass flung together on a waning rood of ice,--Wade could see

nothing more.

Weary or benumbed, or sick with pure forlornness and despair, she had

drooped down and showed no sign of life.

The great wind shook the river. Her waning rood of ice narrowed, foot

by foot, like an unthrifty man's heritage. Inch by inch its edges wore

away, until the little space that half-sustained the dark heap was no

bigger than a coffin-lid.

Help, now!--now, men, if you are to save! Thrust, Richard Wade, with

your boat-hook! Pull, Bill, till your oars snap! Out with your last

frenzies of vigor! For the little raft of ice, even that has crumbled

beneath its burden, and she sinks,--sinks, with succor close at hand!

Sinks! No,--she rises and floats again.

She clasps something that holds her head just above water. But the

unmannerly ice has buffeted her hat off. The fragments toss it

about,--that pretty Amazonian hat, with its alert feather, all drooping

and draggled. Her fair hair and pure forehead are uncovered for an

astonished sunbeam to alight upon.

"It is my love, my life, Bill! Give way, once more!"

"Way enough! Steady! Sit where you are, Bill, and trim boat, while I

lift her out. We cannot risk capsizing."

He raised her carefully, tenderly, with his strong arms.

A bit of wood had buoyed her up for that last moment. It was a broken

oar with a deep fresh gash in it.

Wade knew his mark,--the cut of his own skate-iron. This busy oar was

still resolved to play its part in the drama.

The round little skiff just bore the third person without sinking.

Wade laid Mary Damer against the thwart. She would not let go her buoy.

He unclasped her stiffened hands. This friendly touch found its way to

her heart. She opened her eyes and knew him.

"The ice shall not carry off her hat to frighten some mother, down

stream," says Bill Tarbox, catching it.

All these proceedings Cap'n Ambuster's spy-glass announced to

Dunderbunk.

"They're h'istin' her up. They've slumped her into the skiff. They're

puttin' for shore. Hooray!"

Pity a spy-glass cannot shoot cheers a mile and a half!

Perry Purtett instantly led a stampede of half Dunderbunk along the

railroad-track to learn who it was and all about it.

All about it was, that Miss Damer was safe and not dangerously

frozen,--and that Wade and Tarbox had carried her up the hill to her

mother at Peter Skerrett's.

Missing the heroes in chief, Dunderbunk made a hero of Cap'n Ambuster's

skiff. It was transported back on the shoulders of the crowd in

triumphal procession. Perry Purtett carried round the hat for a

contribution to new paint it, new rib it, new gunwale it, give it new

sculls and a new boat-hook,--indeed, to make a new vessel of the brave

little bowl.

"I'm afeard," says Cap'n Ambuster, "that, when I git a harnsome new

skiff, I shall want a harnsome new steamboat, and then the boat will go

to cruisin' round for a harnsome new Cap'n."

And now for the end of this story.

Healthy love-stories always end in happy marriages.

So ends this story, begun as to its love portion by the little romance

of a tumble, and continued by the bigger romance of a rescue.

Of course there were incidents enough to fill a volume, obstacles enough

to fill a volume, and development of character enough to fill a tome

thick as "Webster's Unabridged," before the happy end of the beginning

of the Wade-Damer joint history.

But we can safely take for granted that the lover being true and manly,

and the lady true and womanly, and both possessed of the high moral

qualities necessary to artistic skating, they will go on understanding

each other better, until they are as one as two can be.

Masculine reader, attend to the moral of this tale:--

Skate well, be a hero, bravely deserve the fair, prove your deserts by

your deeds, find your "perfect woman nobly planned to warm, to comfort,

and command," catch her when found, and you are Blest.

Reader of the gentler sex, likewise attend:--

All the essential blessings of life accompany a true heart and a good

complexion. Skate vigorously; then your heart will beat true, your

cheeks will bloom, your appointed lover will see your beautiful soul

shining through your beautiful face, he will tell you so, and after

sufficient circumlocution he will Pop, you will accept, and your lives

will glide sweetly as skating on virgin ice to silver music.

* * * * *

MIDWINTER.

The speckled sky is dim with snow,

The light flakes falter and fall slow;

Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale,

Silently drops a silvery veil;

The far-off mountain's misty form

Is entering now a tent of storm;

And all the valley is shut in

By flickering curtains gray and thin.

But cheerily the chickadee

Singeth to me on fence and tree;

The snow sails round him, as he sings,

White as the down of angels' wings.

I watch the slow flakes, as they fall

On bank and brier and broken wall;

Over the orchard, waste and brown,

All noiselessly they settle down,

Tipping the apple-boughs, and each

Light quivering twig of plum and peach.

On turf and curb and bower-roof

The snow-storm spreads its ivory woof;

It paves with pearl the garden-walk;

And lovingly round tattered stalk

And shivering stem its magic weaves

A mantle fair as lily-leaves.

The hooded beehive, small and low,

Stands like a maiden in the snow;

And the old door-slab is half hid

Under an alabaster lid.

All day it snows: the sheeted post

Gleams in the dimness like a ghost;

All day the blasted oak has stood

A muffled wizard of the wood;

Garland and airy cap adorn

The sumach and the way-side thorn,

And clustering spangles lodge and shine

In the dark tresses of the pine.

The ragged bramble, dwarfed and old,

Shrinks like a beggar in the cold;

In surplice white the cedar stands,

And blesses him with priestly hands.

Still cheerily the chickadee

Singeth to me on fence and tree:

But in my inmost ear is heard

The music of a holier bird;

And heavenly thoughts, as soft and white

As snow-flakes, on my soul alight,

Clothing with love my lonely heart,

Healing with peace each bruisèd part,

Till all my being seems to be

Transfigured by their purity.

* * * * *

EASE IN WORK.

To thoughts and expressions of peculiar force and beauty we give the

epithets "happy" and "felicitous," as if we esteemed them a product

rather of the writer's fortune than of his toil. Thus, Dryden says of

Shakspeare, "All the images of Nature were still present to him, and he

drew from them, not laboriously, but luckily." And, indeed, when one

contemplates a noble creation in art or literature, one seems to receive

from the work itself a certain testimony that it was never wrought out

with wrestling struggle, but was genially and joyfully produced, as the

sun sends forth his beams and the earth her herbage. This appearance

of play and ease is sometimes so notable as to cause a curious

misapprehension. For example, De Quincey permits himself, if my memory

serve me, to say that Plato probably wrote his works not in any

seriousness of spirit, but only as a pastime! A pastime for the

immortals that were.

The reason of this ease may be that perfect performance is ever more the

effluence of a man's nature than the conscious labor of his hands. That

the hands are faithfully busy therein, that every faculty contributes

its purest industry, no one could for a moment doubt; since there could

not be a total action of one's nature without this loyalty of his

special powers. Nevertheless, there are times when the presiding

intelligence descends into expression by a law and necessity of its own,

as clouds descend into rain; and perhaps it is only then that consummate

work is done. He who by his particular powers and gifts serves as a

conduit for this flowing significance may indeed toil as no drudge ever

did or can, yet with such geniality and success, that he shall feel of

his toil only the joy, and that we shall see of it only the prosperity.

A swan labors in swimming, a pigeon in his flight; yet as no part

of this industry is defeated, as it issues momentarily in perfect

achievement, it makes upon us the impression, not of the limitation of

labor, but of the freedom and liberation of an animal genius.

"Long deliberations," says Goethe, "commonly indicate that we have not

the point to be determined clearly in view." So an extreme sense

of striving effort, or, in other words, an extreme sense of inward

hindrance, in the performance of a high task, usually denotes the

presence in us of an element irrelevant to our work, and perhaps

unfriendly to it. If a stream flow roughly, you infer obstructions in

the channel. Often the explanation may be that one is attempting to-day

a task proper to some future time,--to another year, or another

century. It is the green fruit that clings tenaciously to the bough; the

ripe falls of itself.

But as blighted and worm-eaten apples likewise fall of themselves, so in

this ease of execution the falsest work may agree with the best. That

the similarity is purely specious needs not be urged; yet in practically

distinguishing between the two there are not a few that fail. The most

precious work is performed with a noble, though not idle ease, because

it is the sincere, seasonable, and, as it were, inevitable flowering

into expression of one's inward life; and work utterly, glibly insincere

and imitative is often done with ease, because it is so successfully

separated from the inward life as not even to recognize its claim.

Accordingly, pure art and pure artifice, sincere creation and sheer

fabrication, flow; from the mixture of these, or from any mixture of

natural and necessary with factitious expression, comes embarrassment.

In the mastery of life, or of death, there is peace; the intermediate

state, that of sickness, is full of pain and struggle. In Homer and

in Tupper, in Cicero and the leaders of the London "Times," in Jeremy

Taylor and the latest Reverend Mr. Orotund, you find a liberal and

privileged utterance; but honest John Foster, made of powerful, but

ill-composed elements, and replete with an intelligence now gleaming and

now murky, could wring statements from his mind only as testimony in

cruel ages was obtained from unwilling witnesses, namely, by putting

himself to the torture.

But it is of prime importance to observe that the aforementioned mature

fruit, which so falls at the tenderest touch into the hand, is no

sudden, no idle product. It comes, on the contrary, of a depth of

operation more profound, and testifies to a genius and sincerity in

Nature more subtile and religious, than we can understand or imagine.

This apple that in fancy we now pluck, and hardly need to pluck, from

the burdened bough,--think what a pedigree it has, what aeons of

world-making and world-maturing must elapse, all the genius of God

divinely assiduous, ere this could hang in ruddy and golden ripeness

here! Think, too, what a concurrence and consent of elements, of sun and

soil, of ocean-vapors and laden winds, of misty heats in the torrid zone

and condensing blasts from the North, were required before a single

apple could grow, before a single blossom could put forth its promise,

tender and beautiful amidst the gladness of spring!--and besides these

consenting ministries of Nature, how the special genius of the tree must

have wrought, making sacrifice of woody growth, and, by marvellous and

ineffable alchemies, co-working with the earth beneath, and the heaven

above! Ah, not from any indifference, not from any haste or indolence,

in Nature, come the fruits of her seasons and her centuries!

Now he who has any faculty of thinking must see that thoughts are before

things in the order of existence. True it is, that here as elsewhere, as

everywhere, last is first and first is last. That which is innermost,

and consequently primary, is last to appear on the surface; and

accordingly thoughts _per se_ follow things in the order of

manifestation. But how could the thing exist, but for a thought that

preceded and begot it? And now that the thought has passed _through_

the material symbol, has passed forward to a new and more consummate

expression, first in the soul, and afterwards by the voice, we should

be unwise indeed to deny or forget its antiquity. Thoughts are no

_parvenus_ or _novi homines_ in Nature, but came in with that Duke

William who first struck across the unnamed seas into this island of

time and material existence which we inhabit. Accordingly, it is using

extreme understatement, to say that every pure original thought has a

genesis equally ancient, earnest, vital with any product in Nature,--has

present relationships no less broad and cosmical, and an evolution

implying the like industries, veritable and precious beyond all scope of

affirmation. Even if we quite overlook its pre-personal ancestry, still

the roots it has in its immediate author will be of unmeasured depth,

and it will still proceed toward its consummate form by energies and

assiduities that beggar the estimation of all ordinary toil. With the

birth of the man himself was it first born, and to the time of its

perfect growth and birth into speech the burden of it was borne by every

ruddy drop of his heart's blood, by every vigor of his body,--nerve

and artery, eye and ear, and all the admirable servitors of the soul,

steadily bringing to that invisible matrix where it houses their

costly nutriments, their sacred offices; while every part and act of

experience, every gush of jubilance, every stifle of woe, all sweet

pangs of love and pity, all high breathings of faith and resolve,

contribute to the form and bloom it finally wears. Yet the more profound

and necessary product of one's spirit it is, the more likely at last

to fall softly from him,--so softly, perhaps, that he himself shall be

half-unaware when the separation occurs.

And such only are men of genius as accomplish this divine utterance.

The voice itself may be strong or tiny,--that of a seraph, or that of a

song-sparrow; the range and power of combination may be Beethoven's, or

only such as are found in the hum of bees; but in this genuineness, this

depth of ancestry and purity of growth, this unmistakable issue under

the patronage of Nature, there is a test of genius that cannot vary. He

is not inimitable who imitates. He that speaks only what he has learned

speaks what the world will not long or greatly desire to learn from him.

"Shakspeare," said Dryden, not having the fear of Locke before his eyes,

"was naturally learned"; but whoever is quite destitute of natural

learning will never achieve winged words by dint and travail of other

erudition. If his soul have not been to school before coming to his

body, it is late in life for him to qualify himself for a teacher of

mankind. Words that are cups to contain the last essences of a sincere

life bear elixirs of life for as many lips as shall touch their brim;

they refresh all generations, nor by any quaffing of generations are

they to be drained.

To this ease it may be owing that poets and artists are often so ill

judges of their own success. Their happiest performance is too nearly of

the same color with their permanent consciousness to be seen in relief:

work less sincere--that is, more related and bound to some partial state

or particular mood--would stand out more to the eye of the doer. To this

error he will be less exposed who learns--as most assuredly every artist

should--to estimate his work, not as it seems to him _striking_, but as

it echoes to his ear the earliest murmurs of his childhood, and reclaims

for the heart its wandered memories. Perhaps it is common for one's

happiest thoughts, in the moment of their apparition in words, to affect

him with a gentle surprise and sense of newness; but soon afterwards

they may probably come to touch him, on the contrary, with a vague

sense of reminiscence, as if his mother had sung them by his cradle, or

somewhere under the rosy east of life he had heard them from others.

A statement of our own which seems to us _very_ new and striking is

probably partial, is in some degree foreign to our hearts; that which

one, being the soul he is, could not do otherwise than say is probably

what he was created for the purpose of saying, and will be found his

most significant and living word. Yet just in proportion as one's speech

is a pure and simple efflux of his spirit, just in proportion as its

utterance lies in the order and inevitable procedure of his life, he

will be _liable_ to undervalue it. Who feels that the universe is

greatly enriched by his heart-beats?--that it is much that he breathes,

sleeps, walks? But the breaths of supreme genius are thoughts, and the

imaginations that people its day-world are more familiar to it than the

common dreams of sleepers to them, and the travel of its meditations is

daily and customary; insomuch that the very thought of all others which

one was born to utter he may _forget_ to mention, as presuming it to be

no news. Indeed, if a man of fertile soul be misled into the luckless

search after peculiar and surprising thoughts, there are many chances

that be will be betrayed into this oversight of his proper errand. As

Sir Martin Frobisher, according to Fuller, brought home from America a

cargo of precious stones which after examination were thrown out to mend

roads with, so he leaves untouched his divine knowledges, and comes

sailing into port full-freighted with conceits.

May not the above considerations go far to explain that indifference,

otherwise so astonishing, with which Shakspeare cast his work from him?

It was his heart that wrote; but does the heart look with wonder and

admiration on the crimson of its own currents?

* * * * *

AT PORT ROYAL. 1861.

The tent-lights glimmer on the land,

The ship-lights on the sea;

The night-wind smooths with drifting sand

Our track on lone Tybee.

At last our grating keels outslide,

Our good boats forward swing;

And while we ride the land-locked tide,

Our negroes row and sing.

For dear the bondman holds his gifts

Of music and of song:

The gold that kindly Nature sifts

Among his sands of wrong;

The power to make his toiling days

And poor home-comforts please;

The quaint relief of mirth that plays

With sorrow's minor keys.

Another glow than sunset's fire

Has filled the West with light,

Where field and garner, barn and byre

Are blazing through the night.

The land is wild with fear and hate,

The rout runs mad and fast;

From hand to hand, from gate to gate,

The flaming brand is passed.

The lurid glow falls strong across

Dark faces broad with smiles:

Not theirs the terror, hate, and loss

That fire yon blazing piles.

With oar-strokes timing to their song,

They weave in simple lays

The pathos of remembered wrong,

The hope of better days,--

The triumph-note that Miriam sung,

The joy of uncaged birds:

Softening with Afric's mellow tongue

Their broken Saxon words.

SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMEN.

Oh, praise an' tanks! De Lord he come

To set de people free;

An' massa tink it day ob doom,

An' we ob jubilee.

De Lord dat heap de Red Sea waves

He jus' as 'trong as den;

He say de word: we las' night slaves;

To-day, de Lord's freemen.

De yam will grow, de cotton blow,

We'll hab de rice an' corn:

Oh, nebber you fear, if nebber you hear

De driver blow his horn!

Ole massa on he trabbels gone;

He leab de land behind:

De Lord's breff blow him furder on,

Like corn-shuck in de wind.

We own de hoe, we own de plough,

We own de hands dat hold;

We sell de pig, we sell de cow,

But nebber chile be sold.

De yam will grow, de cotton blow,

We'll hab de rice an' corn:

Oh, nebber you fear, if nebber you hear

De driver blow his horn!

We pray de Lord: he gib us signs

Dat some day we be free;

De Norf-wind tell it to de pines,

De wild-duck to de sea;

We tink it when de church-bell ring,

We dream it in de dream;

De rice-bird mean it when he sing,

De eagle when he scream.

De yam will grow, de cotton blow,

We'll hab de rice an' corn:

Oh, nebber you fear, if nebber you hear

De driver blow his horn!

We know de promise nebber fail,

An' nebber lie de word;

So, like de 'postles in de jail,

We waited for de Lord:

An' now he open ebery door,

An' trow away de key;

He tink we lub him so before,

We lub him better free.

De yam will grow, de cotton blow,

He'll gib de rice an' corn:

So nebber you fear, if nebber you hear

De driver blow his horn!

So sing our dusky gondoliers;

And with a secret pain,

And smiles that seem akin to tears,

We hear the wild refrain.

We dare not share the negro's trust,

Nor yet his hope deny;

We only know that God is just,

And every wrong shall die.

Rude seems the song; each swarthy face,

Flame-lighted, ruder still;

We start to think that hapless race

Must shape our good or ill;

That laws of changeless justice bind

Oppressor with oppressed;

And, close as sin and suffering joined,

We march to Fate abreast.

Sing on, poor hearts! your chant shall be

Our sign of blight or bloom,--

The Vala-song of Liberty,

Or death-rune of our doom!

FREMONT'S HUNDRED DAYS IN MISSOURI.

II.

_Camp Haskell, October 24th._ We have marched twelve miles to-day, and

are encamped near the house of a friendly German farmer. Our cortege has

been greatly diminished in number. Some of the staff have returned to

St. Louis; to others have been assigned duties which remove them from

head-quarters; and General Asboth's division being now in the rear, that

soldierly-looking officer no longer rides beside the General, and the

gentlemen of his staff no longer swell our ranks.

As we approach the enemy there is a marked change in the General's

demeanor. Usually reserved, and even retiring,--now that his plans

begin to work out results, that the Osage is behind us, that the

difficulties of deficient transportation have been conquered, there is

an unwonted eagerness in his face, his voice is louder, and there is

more self-assertion in his attitude. He has hitherto proceeded on a

walk, but now he presses on at a trot. His horsemanship is perfect.

Asboth is a daring rider, loving to drive his animal at the top of his

speed. Zagonyi rides with surpassing grace, and selects fiery chargers

which no one else cares to mount. Colonel E. has an easy, business-like

gait. But in lightness and security in the saddle the General excels

them all. He never worries his beast, is sure to get from him all

the work of which he is capable, is himself quite incapable of being

fatigued in this way.

Just after sundown the camp was startled by heavy infantry firing. Going

around the spur of the forest which screens head-quarters from the

prairie, we found the Guard dismounted, drawn up in line, firing their

carbines and revolvers. The circumstance excites curiosity, and we learn

that Zagonyi has been ordered to make a descent upon Springfield, and

capture or disperse the Rebel garrison, three or four hundred strong,

which is said to be there. Major White has already gone forward with his

squadron of "Prairie Scouts" to make a reconnoissance in the direction

of Springfield. Zagonyi will overtake White, assume command of the

whole force, which will number about three hundred men, and turn the

reconnoissance into an attack. The Guard set out at eight o'clock

this evening. A few are left behind to do duty around head-quarters.

Lieutenant Kennedy, of the Kentucky company, was ordered to remain in

command of our Home-Guard. He was greatly grieved, and went to the Major

and with tears in his eyes besought him to permit him to go. Zagonyi

could not refuse the gallant fellow, and all the officers of the Guard

have gone. There is a feeling of sadness in camp to-night. We wonder

which of our gay and generous comrades will come back to us again.

_October 25th_. We moved only seven miles to-day. It is understood that

the General will gather the whole army upon a large prairie a few miles

north of Bolivar, and devote a few days to reviewing the troops, and to

field-manoeuvres. This will have an excellent effect. The men will be

encouraged when they see how large the column is, for the army has never

been concentrated.

This morning we received news of the brilliant affair at Fredericktown.

Just before the General left camp to-day, I received orders to report

myself to General Asboth, for duty as Judge-Advocate of a Court-Martial

to be held in his division. General Asboth was several miles behind us,

and I set out to ride back and join him. After a gallop of half an hour

across the prairie, I discovered that I had lost my way. I vainly tried

to find some landmark of yesterday's march, but was at last compelled to

trust to the sagacity of my horse,--the redoubtable Spitfire, so named

by reason of his utter contempt for gunpowder, whether sputtered out of

muskets or belched forth by cannon. I gave him his head. He snuffed the

air for a moment, deliberately swept the horizon with his eyes, and then

turned short around and carried me back to the farm-house from which I

had started. I arrived just in time for dinner. Two officers of Lane's

brigade, which had marched from Kansas, came in while we were at the

table. They seasoned our food with spicy incidents of Kansas life.

After dinner I started with Captain R., of Springfield, to find Asboth.

As we left the house, we were joined by the most extraordinary character

I have seen. He was a man of medium height. His chest was enormous in

length and breadth; his arms long, muscular, and very large; his legs

short. He had the body of a giant upon the legs of a dwarf. This curious

figure was surmounted by a huge head, covered with coarse brown hair,

which grew very nearly down to his eyes, while his beard grew almost up

to his eyes. It seemed as if the hair and beard had had a struggle for

the possession of his face, and were kept apart by the deep chasm

in which his small gray eyes were set. He was armed with a huge

bowie-knife, which he carried slung like a sword. It was at least two

feet long, heavy as a butcher's cleaver, and was thrust into a sheath

of undressed hide. He called this pleasant instrument an Arkansas

toothpick. He bestrode, as well as his diminutive legs would let him, an

Indian pony as shaggy as himself. This person proved to be a bearer of

despatches, and offered to guide us to the main road, along which Asboth

was marching.

The pony started off at a brisk trot, and in an hour we were upon the

road, which we found crowded with troops and wagons. Pressing through

the underbrush along-side the road, we kept on at a rapid pace. We soon

heard shouts and cheers ahead of us, and in a few moments came in sight

of a farm-house, in front of which was an excited crowd. Men were

swarming in at every door and window. The yard was filled with furniture

which the troops were angrily breaking, and a considerable party was

busy tearing up the roof. I could not learn the cause of the uproar,

except that a Secessionist lived there who had killed some one. I passed

on, and in a little while arrived at Asboth's quarters.

He had established himself in an unpretending, but comfortable

farm-house, formerly owned by a German, named Brown. This house has

lately been the scene of one of those bloody outrages, instigated by

neighborhood hatred, which have been so frequent in Missouri. Old Brown

had lived here more than thirty years. He was industrious, thrifty,

and withal a skilful workman. Under his intelligent husbandry his farm

became the marvel of all that region. He had long outlived his strength,

and when the war broke out he could give to the Union nothing but

his voice and influence: these he gave freely and at all times. The

plain-spoken patriot excited the enmity of the Secessionists, and the

special hatred of one man, his nearest neighbor. All through the summer,

his barns were plundered, his cattle driven away, his fences torn down;

but no one offered violence to the white-headed old man, or to the three

women who composed his family. The approach of our army compelled the

Rebels of the neighborhood to fly, and among the fugitives was the foe I

have mentioned. He was not willing to depart and leave the old German

to welcome the Union troops. Just one week ago, at a late hour in the

evening, he rode up to Brown's door and knocked loudly. The old man

cautiously asked who it was. The wretch replied, "A friend who wants

lodging." As a matter of course,--for in this region every house is a

tavern,--the farmer opened the door, and at the instant was pierced

through the heart by a bullet from the pistol of his cowardly foe. The

blood-stains are upon the threshold still. It was the murderer's house

the soldiers sacked to-day. A German artillery company heard the

story, and began to plunder the premises under the influence of a not

unjustifiable desire for revenge. General Asboth, however, compelled the

men to desist, and to replace the furniture they had taken out.

I found General Sturgis, and Captain Parrot, his Adjutant, at General

Asboth's, on their way to report to General Fremont. Sturgis has brought

his command one hundred and fifty miles in ten days. He says that large

numbers of deserters have come into his lines. Price's followers are

becoming discouraged by his continued retreat.

The business which detained me in the rear was finished at an early

hour, but I waited in order to accompany General Asboth, who, with some

of his staff, was intending to go to head-quarters, five miles farther

south. We set out at nine o'clock. General Asboth likes to ride at the

top of his horse's speed, and at once put his gray into a trot so rapid

that we were compelled to gallop in order to keep up. We dashed over

a rough road, down a steep decline, and suddenly found ourselves

floundering through a stream nearly up to our saddle-girths. My horse

had had a hard day's work. He began to be unsteady on his pins. So I

drew up, preferring the hazards of a night-ride across the prairie to

a fall upon the stony road. The impetuous old soldier, followed by his

companions, rushed into the darkness, and the clatter of their hoofs and

the rattling of their sabres faded from my hearing.

I was once more alone on the prairie. The sky was cloudless, but the

starlight struggling through a thin haze suggested rather than revealed

surrounding objects. I bent over my horse's shoulder to trace the course

of the road; but I could see nothing. There were no trees, no fences.

I listened for the rustling of the wind over the prairie-grass; but as

soon as Spitfire stopped, I found that not a breath of air was stirring:

his motion had created the breeze. I turned a little to the left, and at

once felt the Mexican stirrup strike against the long, rank grass. Quite

exultant with the thought that I had found a certain test that I was in

the road, I turned back and regained the beaten track. But now a new

difficulty arose. At once the thought suggested itself,--"Perhaps I

turned the wrong way when I came back into the road, and am now going

away from my destination." I drew up and looked around me. There was

nothing to be seen except the veiled stars above, and upon either hand

a vast dark expanse, which might be a lake, the sea, or a desert, for

anything I could discern. I listened: there was no sound except the

deep breathing of my faithful horse, who stood with ears erect, eagerly

snuffing the night-air. I had heard that horses can see better than men.

"Let me try the experiment." I gave Spitfire his head. He moved across

the road, went out upon the prairie a little distance, waded into a

brook which I had not seen, and began to drink. When he had finished, he

returned to the road without the least hesitation.

"The horse can certainly see better than I. Perhaps I am the only one

of this company who is in trouble, and the good beast is all this while

perfectly composed and at ease, and knows quite well where to go."

I loosened the reins. Spitfire went forward slowly, apparently quite

confident, and yet cautious about the stones in his path.

I now began to speculate upon the distance I had come. I thought,--"It

is some time since we started. Head-quarters were only five miles off. I

rode fast at first. It is strange there are no campfires in sight."

Time is measured by sensation, and with me minutes were drawn out into

hours. "Surely, it is midnight. I have been here three hours at the

least. The road must have forked, and I have gone the wrong way. The

most sagacious of horses could not be expected to know which of two

roads to take. There is nothing to be done. I am in for the night, and

had better stay here than go farther in the wrong direction."

I dismount, fill my pipe, and strike a light. I laugh at my

thoughtlessness, and another match is lighted to look at my watch, which

tells me I have been on the road precisely twenty minutes. I mount.

Spitfire seems quite composed, perhaps a little astonished at the

unusual conduct of his rider, but he walks on composedly, carefully

avoiding the rolling stones.

It is not a pleasant situation,--on a prairie alone and at night, not

knowing where you are going or where you ought to go. Zimmermann himself

never imagined a solitude more complete, albeit such a situation is not

so favorable to philosophic meditation as the rapt Zimmermann might

suppose. I employ my thoughts as well as I am able, and pin my faith to

the sagacity of Spitfire. Presently a light gleams in front of me. It

is only a flickering, uncertain ray; perhaps some belated teamster

is urging his reluctant mules to camp and has lighted his lantern.

No,--there are sparks; it is a camp-fire. I hearken for the challenge,

not without solicitude; for it is about as dangerous to approach a

nervous sentinel as to charge a battery. I do not hear the stern

inquiry, "Who comes there?" At last I am abreast of the fire, and myself

call out,--

"Who is there?"

"We are travellers," is the reply.

What this meant I did not know. What travellers are there through this

distracted, war-worn region? Are they fugitives from Price, or traitors

flying before us? I am not in sufficient force to capture half a dozen

men, and if they are foes, it is not worth while to be too inquisitive;

so I continue on my way, and they and their fire are soon enveloped by

the night. Presently I see another light in the far distance. This must

be a picket, for there are soldiers. I look around for the sentry,

not quite sure whether I am to be challenged or shot; but again I am

permitted to approach unquestioned. I call out,--

"Who is there?"

"Men of Colonel Carr's regiment."

"What are you doing here?"

"We are guarding some of our wagons which were left here. Our regiment

has gone forward at a half-hour's notice to reinforce Zagonyi," said a

sergeant, rising and saluting me.

"But is there no sentry here?" I asked.

"There was one, but he has been withdrawn," replied the sergeant.

"Where are head-quarters?"

"At the first house on your right, about a hundred yards farther up the

road," he said, pointing in the direction I was going.

It was strange that I could ride up to within pistol-shot of

head-quarters without being challenged, I soon reached the house. A

sentry stood at the gate. I tied my horse to the fence, and walked into

the Adjutant's tent. I had passed by night from one division of the army

to another, along the public road, and entered head-quarters without

being questioned. Twenty-five bold men might have carried off the

General. I at once reported these facts to Colonel E.; inquiry was made,

and it was found that some one had blundered.

There is no report from Springfield. Zagonyi sent back for

reinforcements before he reached the town, and Carr's cavalry, with two

light field-pieces, have been sent forward. Captain R., my companion

this afternoon, has also gone to learn what he may. While I am writing

up my journal, a group of officers is around the fire in front of the

tent. They are talking about Zagonyi and the Guard. We are all feverish

with anxiety.

_October 26th_. This morning I was awakened by loud cheers from the camp

of the Benton Cadets. My servant came at my call.

"What are those cheers for, Dan?"

"The Body-Guard has won a great victory, Sir! They have beaten the

Rebels, driven them out of Springfield, and killed over a hundred of

them. The news came late last night, and the General has issued an order

which has just been read to the Cadets."

The joyful words had hardly reached my eager ears when shouts were heard

from the sharp-shooters. They have got the news. In an instant the camp

is astir. Half-dressed, the officers rush from their tents,--servants

leave their work, cooks forget breakfast,--they gather together, and

breathless drink in the delicious story. We hear how the brave Guard,

finding the foe three times as strong as had been reported, resolved

to go on, in spite of odds, for their own honor and the honor of our

General,--how Zagonyi led the onset,--how with cheers and shouts of

"Union and Fremont," the noble fellows rushed upon the foe as gayly as

boys at play,--what deeds of daring were done,--that Zagonyi, Foley,

Maythenyi, Newhall, Treikel, Goff, and Kennedy shone heroes in the

fray,--how gallantly the Guards had fought, and how gloriously they had

died. These things we heard, feasting upon every word, and interrupting

the fervid recital with involuntary exclamations of sympathy and joy.

It did not fall to the fortune of the writer to take part with the

Body-Guard in their memorable attack, but, as the Judge-Advocate of

a Court of Inquiry into that affair, which was held at Springfield

immediately after our arrival there, I became familiar with the field

and the incidents of the battle. I trust it will not be regarded as

an inexcusable digression, if I recite the facts connected with the

engagement, which, as respects the odds encountered, the heroism

displayed, and the importance of its results, is still the most

remarkable encounter of the war.

THE BODY-GUARD AT SPRINGFIELD.

It may not be out of place to say a few words as to the character and

organization of the Guard.

Among the foreign officers whom the fame of General Fremont drew around

him was Charles Zagonyi,--an Hungarian refugee, but long a resident of

this country. In his boyhood, Zagonyi had plunged into the passionate,

but unavailing, struggle which Hungary made for her liberty. He at once

attracted the attention of General Bem, and was by him placed in command

of a picked company of cavalry. In one of the desperate engagements of

the war, Zagonyi led a charge upon a large artillery force. More than

half of his men were slain. He was wounded and taken prisoner. Two years

passed before he could exchange an Austrian dungeon for American exile.

General Fremont welcomed Zagonyi cordially, and authorized him to

recruit a company of horse, to act as his bodyguard. Zagonyi was most

scrupulous in his selection; but so ardent was the desire to serve under

the eye and near the person of the General, that in five days after the

lists were opened two full companies were enlisted. Soon after a whole

company, composed of the very flower of the youth of Kentucky, tendered

its services, and requested to be added to the Guard. Zagonyi was still

overwhelmed with applications, and he obtained permission to recruit a

fourth company. The fourth company, however, did not go with us into the

field. The men were clad in blue jackets, trousers, and caps. They were

armed with light German sabres, the best that at that time could be

procured, and revolvers; besides which, the first company carried

carbines. They were mounted upon bay horses, carefully chosen from

the Government stables. Zagonyi had but little time to instruct his

recruits, but in less than a month from the commencement of the

enlistments the Body-Guard was a well-disciplined and most efficient

corps of cavalry. The officers were all Americans except three,--one

Hollander, and two Hungarians, Zagonyi and Lieutenant Maythenyi, who

came to the United States during his boyhood.

Zagonyi left our camp at eight o'clock on the evening of the

twenty-fourth, with about a hundred and sixty men, the remainder of the

Guard being left at headquarters under the command of a non-commissioned

officer.

Major White was already on his way to Springfield with his squadron.

This young officer, hardly twenty-one years old, had won great

reputation for energy and zeal while a captain of infantry in a

New-York regiment stationed at Fort Monroe. He there saw much hazardous

scouting-service, and had been in a number of small engagements. In the

West he held a position upon General Fremont's staff, with the rank of

Major. While at Jefferson City, by permission of the General, he had

organized a battalion to act as scouts and rangers, composed of two

companies of the Third Illinois Cavalry, under Captains Fairbanks and

Kehoe, and a company of Irish dragoons, Captain Naughton, which had been

recruited for Mulligan's brigade, but had not joined Mulligan in time to

be at Lexington.

Major White went to Georgetown in advance of the whole army, from there

marched sixty-five miles in one night to Lexington, surprised the

garrison, liberated a number of Federal officers who were there wounded

and prisoners, and captured the steamers which Price had taken from

Mulligan. From Lexington White came by way of Warrensburg to Warsaw.

During this long and hazardous expedition, the Prairie Scouts had been

without tents, and dependent for food upon the supplies they could take

from the enemy.

Major White did not remain at Warsaw to recruit his health, seriously

impaired by hardship and exposure. He asked for further service, and was

directed to report himself to General Sigel, by whom he was ordered to

make a reconnoissance in the direction of Springfield.

After a rapid night-march, Zagonyi overtook White, and assumed command

of the whole force. White was quite ill, and, unable to stay in the

saddle, was obliged to follow in a carriage. In the morning, yielding to

the request of Zagonyi, he remained at a farm-house where the troop had

halted for refreshment,--it being arranged that he should rest an

hour or two, come on in his carriage with a small escort, and overtake

Zagonyi before he reached Springfield. The Prairie Scouts numbered one

hundred and thirty, so that the troop was nearly three hundred strong.

The day was fine, the road good, and the little column pushed on

merrily, hoping to surprise the enemy. When within two hours' march of

the town, they met a Union farmer of the neighborhood, who told Zagonyi

that a large body of Rebels had arrived at Springfield the day before,

on their way to reinforce Price, and that the enemy were now two

thousand strong. Zagonyi would have been justified, if he had turned

back. But the Guard had been made the subject of much malicious remark,

and had brought ridicule upon the General. Should they retire now, a

storm of abuse would burst upon them. Zagonyi therefore took no counsel

of prudence. He could not hope to defeat and capture the foe, but he

might surprise them, dash into their camp, destroy their train, and, as

he expressed it, "disturb their sleep,"--obtaining a victory which, for

its moral effects, would be worth the sacrifices it cost. His daring

resolve found unanimous and ardent assent with his zealous followers.

The Union farmer offered to guide Zagonyi by a circuitous route to the

rear of the Rebel position, and under his guidance he left the main road

about five miles from Springfield.

After an hour of repose, White set out in pursuit of his men, driving

his horses at a gallop. He knew nothing of the change in Zagonyi's

plans, and supposed the attack was to be made upon the front of the

town. He therefore continued upon the main road, expecting every minute

to overtake the column. As he drew near the village, and heard and saw

nothing of Zagonyi, he supposed the enemy had left the place and the

Federals had taken it without opposition. The approach to Springfield

from the north is through a forest, and the village cannot be seen until

its outskirts are reached. A sudden turn in the road brought White into

the very midst of a strong Rebel guard. They surrounded him, seized his

horses, and in an instant he and his companions were prisoners. When

they learned his rank, they danced around him like a pack of savages,

shouting and holding their cocked pieces at his heart. The leader of the

party had a few days before lost a brother in a skirmish with Wyman's

force, and with loud oaths he swore that the Federal Major should die

in expiation of his brother's death. He was about to carry his inhuman

threat into execution, Major White boldly facing him and saying, "If my

men were here, I'd give you all the revenge you want." At this

moment a young officer, Captain Wroton by name,--of whom more

hereafter,--pressed through the throng, and, placing himself in front of

White, declared that he would protect the prisoner with his own life.

The firm bearing of Wroton saved the Major's life, but his captors

robbed him and hurried him to their camp, where he remained during the

fight, exposed to the hottest of the fire, an excited, but helpless

spectator of the stirring events which followed. He promised his

generous protector that he would not attempt to escape, unless his men

should try to rescue him; but Captain Wroton remained by his side,

guarding him.

Making a _détour_ of twelve miles, Zagonyi approached the position of

the enemy. They were encamped half a mile west of Springfield, upon a

hill which sloped to the east. Along the northern side of their camp was

a broad and well-travelled road; along the southern side a narrow lane

ran down to a brook at the foot of the hill: the space between, about

three hundred yards broad, was the field of battle. Along the west side

of the field, separating it from the county fair-ground, was another

lane, connecting the main road and the first-mentioned lane. The side

of the hill was clear, but its summit, which was broad and flat, was

covered with a rank growth of small timber, so dense as to be impervious

to horse.

The following diagram, drawn from memory, will illustrate sufficiently

well the shape of the ground, and the position of the respective forces.

[Illustration: A, Road leading into the village. B, Lane down which

Zagonyi came. C, Lane where Fairbanks led his men. D, Dense woods

covering the summit of the hill. E, Crest of the hill and clear land. F,

Hill-side up which the Guard charged. G, Brook at the foot of the hill.

H, Place where the Guard entered. I, Small patch of woods in front of

which the enemy's horse were stationed. J, Gate through which the Rebels

fled, Zagonyi pursuing. K, Fair-ground into which some of the enemy

fled. L, Place where Foley took down the fence.]

The foe were advised of the intended attack. When Major White was

brought into their camp, they were preparing to defend their position.

As appears from the confessions of prisoners, they had twenty-two

hundred men, of whom four hundred were cavalry, the rest being infantry,

armed with shot-guns, American rifles, and revolvers. Twelve hundred of

their foot were posted along the edge of the wood upon the crest of the

hill. The cavalry was stationed upon the extreme left, on top of a spur

of the hill and in front of a patch of timber. Sharp-shooters were

concealed behind the trees close to the fence along-side the lane, and

a small number in some underbrush near the foot of the hill. Another

detachment guarded their train, holding possession of the county

fair-ground, which was surrounded by a high board-fence.

This position was unassailable by cavalry from the road, the only point

of attack being down the lane on the right; and the enemy were so

disposed as to command this approach perfectly. The lane was a blind

one, being closed, after passing the brook, by fences and ploughed land:

it was in fact a _cul-de-sac_. If the infantry should stand, nothing

could save the rash assailants. There are horsemen sufficient to sweep

the little band before them, as helplessly as the withered forest-leaves

in the grasp of the autumn winds; there are deadly marksmen lying behind

the trees upon the heights and lurking in the long grass upon the

lowlands; while a long line of foot stand upon the summit of the slope,

who, only stepping a few paces back into the forest, may defy the

boldest riders. Yet, down this narrow lane, leading into the very jaws

of death, came the three hundred.

On the prairie, at the edge of the woodland in which he knew his wily

foe lay hidden, Zagonyi halted his command. He spurred along the line.

With eager glance he scanned each horse and rider. To his officers he

gave the simple order, "Follow me! do as I do!" and then, drawing up in

front of his men, with a voice tremulous and shrill with emotion, he

spoke:--

"Fellow-soldiers, comrades, brothers! This is your first battle. For our

three hundred, the enemy are two thousand. If any of you are sick, or

tired by the long march, or if any think the number is too great, now is

the time to turn back." He paused; no one was sick or tired. "We must

not retreat. Our honor, the honor of our General and our country, tell

us to go on. I will lead you. We have been called holiday soldiers for

the pavements of St. Louis; to-day we will show that we are soldiers for

the battle. Your watchword shall be, '_The Union and Fremont_!' Draw

sabre! By the right flank,--quick trot,--march!"

Bright swords flashed in the sunshine, a passionate shout burst from

every lip, and with one accord, the trot passing into a gallop, the

compact column swept on to its deadly purpose. Most of them were boys. A

few weeks before they had left their homes. Those who were cool enough

to note it say that ruddy cheeks grew pale, and fiery eyes were dimmed

with tears. Who shall tell what thoughts,--what visions of peaceful

cottages nestling among the groves of Kentucky or shining upon the

banks of the Ohio and the Illinois,--what sad recollections of tearful

farewells, of tender, loving faces, filled their minds during those

fearful moments of suspense? No word was spoken. With lips compressed,

firmly clenching their sword-hilts, with quick tramp of hoofs and clang

of steel, honor leading and glory awaiting them, the young soldiers flew

forward, each brave rider and each straining steed members of one huge

creature, enormous, terrible, irresistible.

"'T were worth ten years of peaceful life,

One glance at their array."

They pass the fair-ground. They are at the corner of the lane where the

wood begins. It runs close to the fence on their left for a hundred

yards, and beyond it they see white tents gleaming. They are half-way

past the forest, when, sharp and loud, a volley of musketry bursts upon

the head of the column; horses stagger, riders reel and fall, but the

troop presses forward undismayed. The farther corner of the wood

is reached, and Zagonyi beholds the terrible array. Amazed, he

involuntarily cheeks his horse. The Rebels are not surprised. There to

his left they stand crowning the height, foot and horse ready to ingulf

him, if he shall be rash enough to go on. The road he is following

declines rapidly. There is but one thing to do,--run the gantlet, gain

the cover of the hill, and charge up the steep. These thoughts pass

quicker than they can be told. He waves his sabre over his head, and

shouting, "Forward! follow me! quick trot! gallop!" he dashes headlong

down the stony road. The first company and most of the second follow.

From the left a thousand muzzles belch forth a hissing flood of bullets;

the poor fellows clutch wildly at the air and fall from their saddles,

and maddened horses throw themselves against the fences. Their speed is

not for an instant checked; farther down the hill they fly, like wasps

driven by the leaden storm. Sharp volleys pour out of the underbrush at

the left, clearing wide gaps through their ranks. They leap the brook,

take down the fence, and draw up under the shelter of the hill. Zagonyi

looks around him, and to his horror sees that only a fourth of his

men are with him. He cries, "They do not come,--we are lost!" and

frantically waves his sabre.

He has not long to wait. The delay of the rest of the Guard was not from

hesitation. When Captain Foley reached the lower corner of the wood and

saw the enemy's line, he thought a flank attack might be advantageously

made. He ordered some of his men to dismount and take down the fence.

This was done under a severe fire. Several men fell, and he found the

wood so dense that it could not be penetrated. Looking down the hill, he

saw the flash of Zagonyi's sabre, and at once gave the order, "Forward!"

At the same time, Lieutenant Kennedy, a stalwart Kentuckian, shouted,

"Come on, boys! remember Old Kentucky!" and the third company of the

Guard, fire on every side of them,--from behind trees, from under the

fences,--with thundering strides and loud cheers, poured down the slope

and rushed to the side of Zagonyi. They have lost seventy dead and

wounded men, and the carcasses of horses are strewn along the lane.

Kennedy is wounded in the arm and lies upon the stones, his faithful

charger standing motionless beside him. Lieutenant Goff received a wound

in the thigh; he kept his seat, and cried out, "The devils have hit me,

but I will give it to them yet!"

The remnant of the Guard are now in the field under the hill, and

from the shape of the ground the Rebel fire sweeps with the roar of a

whirlwind over their heads. Here we will leave them for a moment, and

trace the fortunes of the Prairie Scouts.

When Foley brought his troop to a halt, Captain Fairbanks, at the head

of the first company of Scouts, was at the point where the first volley

of musketry had been received. The narrow lane was crowded by a dense

mass of struggling horses, and filled with the tumult of battle. Captain

Fairbanks says, and he is corroborated by several of his men who were

near, that at this moment an officer of the Guard rode up to him and

said, "They are flying; take your men down that lane and cut off their

retreat,"--pointing to the lane at the left. Captain Fairbanks was not

able to identify the person who gave this order. It certainly did not

come from Zagonyi, who was several hundred yards farther on. Captain

Fairbanks executed the order, followed by the second company of Prairie

Scouts, under Captain Kehoe. When this movement was made, Captain

Naughton, with the Third Irish Dragoons, had not reached the corner of

the lane. He came up at a gallop, and was about to follow Fairbanks,

when he saw a Guardsman who pointed in the direction in which Zagonyi

had gone. He took this for an order, and obeyed it. When he reached the

gap in the fence, made by Foley, not seeing anything of the Guard, he

supposed they had passed through at that place, and gallantly attempted

to follow. Thirteen men fell in a few minutes. He was shot in the arm

and dismounted. Lieutenant Connolly spurred into the underbrush and

received two balls through the lungs and one in the left shoulder. The

Dragoons, at the outset not more than fifty strong, were broken, and,

dispirited by the loss of their officers, retired. A sergeant rallied

a few and brought them up to the gap again, and they were again driven

back. Five of the boldest passed down the hill, joined Zagonyi, and were

conspicuous by their valor during the rest of the day.--Fairbanks and

Kehoe, having gained the rear and left of the enemy's position, made two

or three assaults upon detached parties of the foe, but did not join in

the main attack.

I now return to the Guard. It is forming under the shelter of the hill.

In front with a gentle inclination rises a grassy slope broken by

occasional tree-stumps. A line of fire upon the summit marks the

position of the Rebel infantry, and nearer and on the top of a lower

eminence to the right stand their horse. Up to this time no Guardsman

has struck a blow, but blue coats and bay horses lie thick along the

bloody lane. Their time has come. Lieutenant Maythenyi with thirty men

is ordered to attack the cavalry. With sabres flashing over their heads,

the little band of heroes spring towards their tremendous foe. Right

upon the centre they charge. The dense mass opens, the blue coats force

their way in, and the whole Rebel squadron scatter in disgraceful flight

through the cornfields in the rear. The bays follow them, sabring the

fugitives. Days after, the enemy's horses lay thick among the uncut

corn.

Zagonyi holds his main body until Maythenyi disappears in the cloud

of Rebel cavalry; then his voice rises through the air,--"In open

order,--charge!" The line opens out to give play to their sword-arm.

Steeds respond to the ardor of their riders, and quick as thought, with

thrilling cheers, the noble hearts rush into the leaden torrent which

pours down the incline. With unabated fire the gallant fellows press

through. Their fierce onset is not even checked. The foe do not wait for

them,--they waver, break, and fly. The Guardsmen spur into the midst of

the rout, and their fast-falling swords work a terrible revenge. Some

of the boldest of the Southrons retreat into the woods, and continue a

murderous fire from behind trees and thickets. Seven Guard horses fall

upon a space not more that twenty feet square. As his steed sinks under

him, one of the officers is caught around the shoulders by a grape-vine,

and hangs dangling in the air until he is cut down by his friends.

The Rebel foot are flying in furious haste from the field. Some take

refuge in the fair-ground, some hurry into the cornfield, but the

greater part run along the edge of the wood, swarm over the fence into

the road, and hasten to the village. The Guardsmen follow. Zagonyi leads

them. Over the loudest roar of battle rings his clarion voice,--"Come

on, Old Kentuck! I'm with you!" And the flash of his sword-blade tells

his men where to go. As he approaches a barn, a man steps from behind

the door and lowers his rifle; but before it has reached the level,

Zagonyi's sabre-point descends upon his head, and his life-blood leaps

to the very top of the huge barn-door.

The conflict now rages through the village,--in the public square, and

along the streets. Up and down the Guards ride in squads of three or

four, and wherever they see a group of the enemy charge upon and scatter

them. It is hand to hand. No one but has a share in the fray.

There was at least one soldier in the Southern ranks. A young officer,

superbly mounted, charges alone upon a large body of the Guard. He

passes through the line unscathed, killing one man. He wheels, charges

back, and again breaks through, killing another man. A third time he

rushes upon the Federal line, a score of sabre-points confront him,

a cloud of bullets fly around him, but he pushes on until he reaches

Zagonyi,--he presses his pistol so close to the Major's side that he

feels it and draws convulsively back, the bullet passes through the

front of Zagonyi's coat, who at the instant runs the daring Rebel

through the body, he falls, and the men, thinking their commander hurt,

kill him with half a dozen wounds.

"He was a brave man," said Zagonyi afterwards, "and I did wish to make

him prisoner."

Meanwhile it has grown dark. The foe have left the village and the

battle has ceased. The assembly is sounded, and the Guard gathers in the

_Plaza_. Not more than eighty mounted men appear: the rest are killed,

wounded, or unhorsed. At this time one of the most characteristic

incidents of the affair took place.

Just before the charge, Zagonyi directed one of his buglers, a

Frenchman, to sound a signal. The bugler did not seem to pay any

attention to the order, but darted off with Lieutenant Maythenyi. A

few moments afterwards he was observed in another part of the field

vigorously pursuing the flying infantry. His active form was always seen

in the thickest of the fight. When the line was formed in the _Plaza_,

Zagonyi noticed the bugler, and approaching him said, "In the midst of

the battle you disobeyed my order. You are unworthy to be a member of

the Guard. I dismiss you." The bugler showed his bugle to his indignant

commander;--the mouth-piece of the instrument was shot away. He said,

"The mouth was shoot off. I could not bugle viz mon bugle, and so I

bugle viz mon pistol and sabre." It is unnecessary to add, the brave

Frenchman was not dismissed.

I must not forget to mention Sergeant Hunter, of the Kentucky company.

His soldierly figure never failed to attract the eye in the ranks of

the Guard. He had served in the regular cavalry, and the Body-Guard had

profited greatly from his skill as a drill-master. He lost three horses

in the fight. As soon as one was killed, he caught another from the

Rebels: the third horse taken by him in this way he rode into St. Louis.

The Sergeant slew five men. "I won't speak of those I shot," said

he,--"another may have hit them; but those I touched with my sabre I am

sure of, because I _felt_ them."

At the beginning of the charge, he came to the extreme right and took

position next to Zagonyi, whom he followed closely through the battle.

The Major, seeing him, said,--

"Why are you here, Sergeant Hunter? Your place is with your company on

the left."

"I kind o' wanted to be in the front," was the answer.

"What could I say to such a man?" exclaimed Zagonyi, speaking of the

matter afterwards.

There was hardly a horse or rider among the survivors that did not bring

away some mark of the fray. I saw one animal with no less than seven

wounds,--none of them serious. Scabbards were bent, clothes and caps

pierced, pistols injured. I saw one pistol from which the sight had been

cut as neatly as it could have been done by machinery. A piece of board

a few inches long was cut from a fence on the field, in which there were

thirty-one shot-holes.

It was now nine o'clock. The wounded had been carried to the hospital.

The dismounted troopers were placed in charge of them,--in the double

capacity of nurses and guards. Zagonyi expected the foe to return every

minute. It seemed like madness to try and hold the town with his small

force, exhausted by the long march and desperate fight. He therefore

left Springfield, and retired before morning twenty-five miles on the

Bolivar road.

Captain Fairbanks did not see his commander after leaving the column in

the lane, at the commencement of the engagement. About dusk he repaired

to the prairie, and remained there within a mile of the village until

midnight, when he followed Zagonyi, rejoining him in the morning.

I will now return to Major White. During the conflict upon the hill, he

was in the forest near the front of the Rebel line. Here his horse was

shot under him. Captain Wroton kept careful watch over him. When the

flight began he hurried White away, and, accompanied by a squad of

eleven men, took him ten miles into the country. They stopped at a

farm-house for the night. White discovered that their host was a Union

man. His parole having expired, he took advantage of the momentary

absence of his captor to speak to the farmer, telling him who he was,

and asking him to send for assistance. The countryman mounted his son

upon his swiftest horse, and sent him for succor. The party lay down by

the fire, White being placed in the midst. The Rebels were soon asleep,

but there was no sleep for the Major. He listened anxiously for the

footsteps of his rescuers. After long, weary hours, he heard the tramp

of horses. He arose, and walking on tiptoe, cautiously stepping over his

sleeping guards, he reached the door and silently unfastened it. The

Union men rushed into the room and took the astonished Wroton and his

followers prisoners. At daybreak White rode into Springfield at the head

of his captives and a motley band of Home-Guards. He found the Federals

still in possession of the place. As the officer of highest rank, be

took command. His garrison consisted of twenty-four men. He stationed

twenty-two of them as pickets in the outskirts of the village, and held

the other two as a reserve. At noon the enemy sent in a flag of truce,

and asked permission to bury their dead. Major White received the flag

with proper ceremony, but said that General Sigel was in command and the

request would have to be referred to him. Sigel was then forty miles

away. In a short time a written communication purporting to come from

General Sigel, saying that the Rebels might send a party under certain

restrictions to bury their dead, White drew in some of his pickets,

stationed them about the field, and under their surveillance the

Southern dead were buried.

The loss of the enemy, as reported by some of their working party, was

one hundred and sixteen killed. The number of wounded could not be

ascertained. After the conflict had drifted away from the hill-side,

some of the foe had returned to the field, taken away their wounded,

and robbed our dead. The loss of the Guard was fifty-three out of one

hundred and forty-eight actually engaged, twelve men having been left by

Zagonyi in charge of his train. The Prairie Scouts reported a loss of

thirty-one out of one hundred and thirty: half of these belonged to the

Irish Dragoons. In a neighboring field an Irishman was found stark and

stiff, still clinging to the hilt of his sword, which was thrust through

the body of a Rebel who lay beside him. Within a few feet a second Rebel

lay, shot through the head.

I have given a statement of this affair drawn from the testimony taken

before a Court of Inquiry, from conversations with men who were engaged

upon both sides, and from a careful examination of the locality. It was

the first essay of raw troops, and yet there are few more brilliant

achievements in history.

It is humiliating to be obliged to tell what followed. The heroism of

the Guard was rewarded by such treatment as we blush to record. Upon

their return to St. Louis, rations and forage were denied them, the men

were compelled to wear the clothing soiled and torn in battle, they were

promptly disbanded, and the officers retired from service. The swords

which pricked the clouds and let the joyful sunshine of victory into the

darkness of constant defeat are now idle. But the fame of the Guard is

secure. Out from that fiery baptism they came children of the nation,

and American song and story will carry their heroic triumph down to the

latest generation.

MASON AND SLIDELL: A YANKEE IDYLL.

_To the Editors of the_ ATLANTIC MONTHLY.

Jaalam, 6th Jan., 1862.

GENTLEMEN,--I was highly gratified by the insertion of a portion of my

letter in the last number of your valuable and entertaining Miscellany,

though in a type which rendered its substance inaccessible even to the

beautiful new spectacles presented to me by a Committee of the Parish on

New-Year's Day. I trust that I was able to bear your very considerable

abridgment of my lucubrations with a spirit becoming a Christian. My

third grand-daughter, Rebekah, aged fourteen years, and whom I have

trained to read slowly and with proper emphasis, (a practice too much

neglected in our modern systems of education,) read aloud to me the

excellent essay upon "Old Age," the authour of which I cannot help

suspecting to be a young man who has never yet known what it was to have

snow (_canities morosa_) upon his own roof. _Dissolve frigus, large

super foco ligna reponens_, is a rule for the young, whose wood-pile is

yet abundant for such cheerful lenitives. A good life behind him is the

best thing to keep an old man's shoulders from shivering at every breath

of sorrow or ill-fortune. But methinks it were easier for an old man to

feel the disadvantages of youth than the advantages of age. Of these

latter I reckon one of the chiefest to be this: that we attach a less

inordinate value to our own productions, and, distrusting daily more

and more our own wisdom, (with the conceit whereof at twenty we wrap

ourselves away from knowledge as with a garment,) do reconcile ourselves

with the wisdom of God. I could have wished, indeed, that room might

have been made for the residue of the anecdote relating to Deacon

Tinkham, which would not only have gratified a natural curiosity on the

part of the publick, (as I have reason to know from several letters of

inquiry already received,) but would also, as I think, have largely

increased the circulation of your Magazine in this town. _Nihil humani

alienum_, there is a curiosity about the affairs of our neighbours which

is not only pardonable, but even commendable. But I shall abide a more

fitting season.

As touching the following literary effort of Esquire Biglow, much might

be profitably said on the topick of Idyllick and Pastoral Poetry,

and concerning the proper distinctions to be made between them, from

Theocritus, the inventor of the former, to Collins, the latest authour I

know of who has emulated the classicks in the latter style. But in the

time of a civil war worthy a Milton to defend and a Lucan to sing, it

may be reasonably doubted whether the publick, never too studious of

serious instruction, might not consider other objects more deserving of

present attention. Concerning the title of Idyll, which Mr. Biglow has

adopted at my suggestion, it may not be improper to animadvert, that the

name properly signifies a poem somewhat rustick in phrase, (for, though

the learned are not agreed as to the particular dialect employed by

Theocritus, they are universanimous both as to its rusticity and its

capacity of rising now and then to the level of more elevated sentiments

and expressions,) while it is also descriptive of real scenery and

manners. Yet it must be admitted that the production now in question

(which here and there bears perhaps too plainly the marks of my

correcting hand) does partake of the nature of a Pastoral, inasmuch as

the interlocutors therein are purely imaginary beings, and the whole

is little better than [Greek: skias onar.] The plot was, as I believe,

suggested by the "Twa Briggs" of Robert Burns, a Scottish poet of the

last century, as that found its prototype in the "Mutual Complaint of

Plainstanes and Causey" by Fergusson, though the metre of this latter

be different by a foot in each verse. I reminded my talented young

parishioner and friend that Concord Bridge had long since yielded to the

edacious tooth of Time. But he answered me to this effect: that there

was no greater mistake of an authour than to suppose the reader had

no fancy of his own; that, if once that faculty was to be called into

activity, it were _better_ to be in for the whole sheep than the

shoulder; and that he knew Concord like a book,--an expression

questionable in propriety, since there are few things with which he

is not more familiar than with the printed page. In proof of what he

affirmed, he showed me some verses which with others he had stricken out

as too much delaying the action, but which I communicate in this place

because they rightly define "punkin-seed," (which Mr. Bartlett would

have a kind of perch,--a creature to which I have found a rod or pole

not to be so easily equivalent in our inland waters as in the books of

arithmetic,) and because it conveys an eulogium on the worthy son of an

excellent father, with whose acquaintance (_eheu, fugaces anni!_) I was

formerly honoured.

"But nowadays the Bridge ain't wut they show,

So much ez Em'son, Hawthorne, an' Thoreau.

I know the village, though: was sent there once

A-schoolin', coz to home I played the dunce;

An' I've ben sence a-visitin' the Jedge,

Whose garding whispers with the river's edge,

Where I've sot mornin's, lazy as the bream,

Whose only business is to head up-stream,

(We call 'em punkin-seed,) or else in chat

Along'th the Jedge, who covers with his hat

More wit an' gumption an' shrewd Yankee sense

Than there is mosses on an ole stone fence."

Concerning the subject-matter of the verses I have not the leisure at

present to write so fully as I could wish, my time being occupied

with the preparation of a discourse for the forthcoming bi-centenary

celebration of the first settlement of Jaalam East Parish. It may

gratify the publick interest to mention the circumstance, that my

investigations to this end have enabled me to verify the fact (of much

historick importance, and hitherto hotly debated) that Shearjashub

Tarbox was the first child of white parentage born in this town, being

named in his father's will under date August 7th, or 9th, 1662. It is

well known that those who advocate the claims of Mehetable Goings are

unable to find any trace of her existence prior to October of that year.

As respects the settlement of the Mason and Slidell question, Mr. Biglow

has not incorrectly stated the popular sentiment, so far as I can judge

by its expression in this locality. For myself, I feel more sorrow than

resentment; for I am old enough to have heard those talk of England who

still, even after the unhappy estrangement, could not unschool their

lips from calling her the Mother-Country. But England has insisted on

ripping up old wounds, and has undone the healing work of fifty years;

for nations do not reason, they only feel, and the _spretae injuria

formae_ rankles in their minds as bitterly as in that of a woman. And

because this is so, I feel the more satisfaction that our Government has

acted (as all Governments should, standing as they do between the people

and their passions) as if it had arrived at years of discretion. There

are three short and simple words, the hardest of all to pronounce in any

language, (and I suspect they were no easier before the confusion of

tongues,) but which no man or nation that cannot utter can claim to have

arrived at manhood. Those words are, _I was wrong_; and I am proud,

that, while England played the boy, our rulers had strength enough from

below and wisdom enough from above to quit themselves like men. Let us

strengthen the hands of those in authority over us, and curb out own

tongues,[A] remembering that General Wait commonly proves in the end

more than a match for General Headlong, and that the Good Book ascribes

safety to a multitude, indeed, but not to a mob, of counsellours. Let us

remember and perpend the words of Paulus Emilius to the people of Rome:

that, "if they judged they could manage the war to more advantage by any

other, he would willingly yield up his charge; but if they confided in

him, _they were not to make themselves his colleagues in his office, or

raise reports, or criticize, his actions, but, without talking, supply

him with means and assistance necessary to the carrying on of the war;

for, if they proposed to command their own commander, they would render

this expedition more ridiculous than the former." (Vide Plutarchum in

vitâ P.E.)_ Let us also not forget what the same excellent authour

says concerning Perseus's fear of spending money, and not permit the

covetousness of Brother Jonathan to be the good-fortune of Jefferson

Davis. For my own part, till I am ready to admit the Commander-in-Chief

to my pulpit, I shall abstain from planning his battles. Patience is the

armour of a nation; and in our desire for peace, let us never be willing

to surrender the Constitution bequeathed us by fathers at least as wise

as ourselves, (even with Jefferson Davis to help us,) and, with those

degenerate Romans, _tuta et presentia quam vetera et periculosa malle._

With respect,

Your ob't humble serv't,

HOMER WILBUR, A.M.

[Footnote A: And not only our own tongues, but the pens of others, which

are swift to convey useful intelligence to the enemy. This is no new

inconvenience; for, under date 3rd June, 1745, General Pepperell wrote

thus to Governour Shirley from Louisbourg:--"What your Excellency

observes of the _army's being made acquainted with any plans proposed,

until really to be put in execution_, has always been disagreeable

to me, and I have given many cautions relating to it. But when your

Excellency considers that _our Council of War consists of more than

twenty members_, am persuaded you will think it _impossible for me to

hinder it_, if any of them will persist in communicating to inferiour

officers and soldiers what ought to be kept secret. I am informed that

the Boston newspapers are filled with paragraphs from private letters

relating to the expedition. Will your Excellency permit me to say I

think it may be of ill consequence? Would it not be convenient, if your

Excellency should forbid the Printers' inserting such news?" Verily, if

_tempora mutantur,_ we may question the _et nos mutamur in illis;_ and

if tongues be leaky, it will need all hands at the pumps to save the

Ship of State. Our history dates and repeats itself. If Sassycus (rather

than Alcibiades) find a parallel in Beauregard, so Weakwash, as he is

called by the brave Lieutenant Lion Gardiner, need not seek far among

our own Sachems for his antitype.]

I love to start out arter night's begun,

An' all the chores about the farm are done,

The critters milked an' foddered, gates shet fast,

Tools cleaned aginst to-morrer, supper past,

An' Nancy darnin' by her ker'sene lamp,--

I love, I say, to start upon a tramp,

To shake the kinkles out o' back an' legs,

An' kind o' rack my life off from the dregs

Thet's apt to settle in the buttery-hutch

Of folks thet foller in one rut too much:

Hard work is good an' wholesome, past all doubt;

But 't ain't so, ef the mind gits tuckered out.

Now, bein' born in Middlesex, you know,

There's certin spots where I like best to go:

The Concord road, for instance, (I, for one,

Most gin'lly ollers call it _John Bull's Run._)--

The field o' Lexin'ton, where England tried

The fastest colors thet she ever dyed,--

An' Concord Bridge, thet Davis, when he came,

Found was the bee-line track to heaven an' fame,--

Ez all roads be by natur', ef your soul

Don't sneak thru shun-pikes so's to save the toll.

They're 'most too fur away, take too much time

To visit often, ef it ain't in rhyme;

But there's a walk thet's hendier, a sight,

An' suits me fust-rate of a winter's night,--

I mean the round whale's-back o' Prospect Hill.

I love to loiter there while night grows still,

An' in the twinklin' villages about,

Fust here, then there, the well-saved lights goes out,

An' nary sound but watch-dogs' false alarms,

Or muffled cock-crows from the drowsy farms,

Where some wise rooster (men act jest thet way)

Stands to't thet moon-rise is the break o' day:

So Mister Seward sticks a three-months pin

Where the war'd oughto end, then tries agin;--

My gran'ther's rule was safer'n 't is to crow:

_Don't never prophesy--onless ye know._

I love to muse there till it kind o' seems

Ez ef the world went eddyin' off in dreams.

The Northwest wind thet twitches at my baird

Blows out o' sturdier days not easy scared,

An' the same moon thet this December shines

Starts out the tents an' booths o' Putnam's lines;

The rail-fence posts, acrost the hill thet runs,

Turn ghosts o' sogers should'rin' ghosts o' guns;

Ez wheels the sentry, glints a flash o' light

Along the firelock won at Concord Fight,

An' 'twixt the silences, now fur, now nigh,

Rings the sharp chellenge, hums the low reply.

Ez I was settin' so, it warn't long sence,

Mixin' the perfect with the present tense,

I heerd two voices som'ers in the air,

Though, ef I was to die, I can't tell where:

Voices I call 'em: 't was a kind o' sough

Like pine-trees thet the wind is geth'rin' through;

An', fact, I thought it _was_ the wind a spell,--

Then some misdoubted,--couldn't fairly tell,--

Fust sure, then not, jest as you hold an eel,--

I knowed, an' didn't,--fin'lly seemed to feel

'T was Concord Bridge a-talkin' off to kill

With the Stone Spike thet's druv thru Bunker Hill:

Whether't was so, or ef I only dreamed,

I couldn't say; I tell it ez it seemed.

THE BRIDGE.

Wal, neighbor, tell us, wut's turned up thet's new?

You're younger'n I be,--nigher Boston, tu;

An' down to Boston, ef you take their showin',

Wut they don't know ain't hardly wuth the knowin'.

There's _sunthin'_ goin' on, I know: las' night

The British sogers killed in our gret fight

(Nigh fifty year they hedn't stirred nor spoke)

Made sech a coil you'd thought a dam hed broke:

Why, one he up an' beat a revellee

With his own crossbones on a holler tree,

Till all the graveyards swarmed out like a hive

With faces I hain't seen sence Seventy-five.

Wut _is_ the news? 'T ain't good, or they'd be cheerin'.

Speak slow an' clear, for I'm some hard o' hearin'.

THE MONIMENT.

I don't know hardly ef it's good or bad,--

THE BRIDGE.

At wust, it can't be wus than wut we've had.

THE MONIMENT.

You know them envys thet the Rebbles sent,

An' Cap'n Wilkes he borried o' the Trent?

THE BRIDGE.

Wut! hev they hanged 'em? Then their wits is gone!

Thet's a sure way to make a goose a swan!

THE MONIMENT.

No: England she _would_ hev 'em, _Fee, Faw, Fum!_

(Ez though she hedn't fools enough to home,)

So they've returned 'em--

THE BRIDGE.

_Hev_ they? Wal, by heaven,

Thet's the wust news I've heerd sence Seventy-seven!

_By George_, I meant to say, though I declare

It's 'most enough to make a deacon, swear.

THE MONIMENT.

Now don't go off half-cock: folks never gains

By usin' pepper-sarse instid o' brains.

Come, neighbor, you don't understand--

THE BRIDGE.

How? Hey?

Not understand? Why, wut's to hender, pray?

Must I go huntin' round to find a chap

To tell me when my face hez hed a slap?

THE MONIMENT.

See here: the British they found out a flaw

In Cap'n Wilkes's readin' o' the law:

(They _make_ all laws, you know, an' so, o' course,

It's nateral they should understand their force:)

He'd oughto took the vessel into port,

An' hed her sot on by a reg'lar court;

She was a mail-ship, an' a steamer, tu,

An' thet, they say, hez changed the pint o' view,

Coz the old practice, bein' meant for sails,

Ef tried upon a steamer, kind o' falls;

You _may_ take out despatches, but you mus'n't

Take nary man--

THE BRIDGE.

You mean to say, you dus'n't!

Changed pint o' view! No, no,--it's overboard

With law an' gospel, when their ox is gored!

I tell ye, England's law, on sea an' land,

Hez ollers ben, "_I've gut the heaviest hand_."

Take nary man? Fine preachin' from _her_ lips!

Why, she hez taken hunderds from our ships,

An' would agin, an' swear she hed a right to,

Ef we warn't strong enough to be perlite to.

Of all the sarse thet I can call to mind,

England _doos_ make the most onpleasant kind:

It's you're the sinner ollers, she's the saint;

Wut's good's all English, all thet isn't ain't;

Wut profits her is ollers right an' just,

An' ef you don't read Scriptur so, you must;

She's praised herself ontil she fairly thinks

There ain't no light in Natur when she winks;

Hain't she the Ten Comman'ments in her pus?

Could the world stir 'thout she went, tu, ez nus?

She ain't like other mortals, thet's a fact:

_She_ never stopped the habus-corpus act,

Nor specie payments, nor she never yet

Cut down the int'rest on her public debt;

_She_ don't put down rebellions, lets 'em breed,

An' 's ollers willin' Ireland should secede;

She's all thet's honest, honnable, an' fair,

An' when the vartoos died they made her heir.

THE MONIMENT.

Wal, wal, two wrongs don't never make a right;

Ef we're mistaken, own it, an' don't fight:

For gracious' sake, hain't we enough to du

'Thout gittin' up a fight with England, tu?

She thinks we're rabble-rid------

THE BRIDGE

An' so we can't

Distinguish 'twixt _You oughtn't_ an' _You shan't!_

She jedges by herself; she's no idear

How 't stiddies folks to give 'em their fair sheer:

The odds 'twixt her an' us is plain's a steeple,--

Her People's turned to Mob, our Mob's turned People.

THE MONIMENT.

She's riled jes' now------

THE BRIDGE

Plain proof her cause ain't strong,--

The one thet fust gits mad's most ollers wrong.

THE MONIMENT.

You're ollers quick to set your back aridge,--

Though't suits a tom-cat more 'n a sober bridge:

Don't you git het: they thought the thing was planned;

They'll cool off when they come to understand.

THE BRIDGE

Ef _thet's_ wilt you expect, you'll _hev_ to wait:

Folks never understand the folks they hate:

She'll fin' some other grievance jest ez good,

'Fore the month's out, to git misunderstood.

England cool off! She'll do it, ef she sees

She's run her head into a swarm o' bees.

I ain't so prejudiced ez wut you spose:

I hev thought England was the best thet goes;

Remember, (no, you can't,) when _I_ was reared,

_God save the King_ was all the tune you heerd:

But it's enough to turn Wachuset roun',

This stumpin' fellers when you think they're down.

THE MONIMENT.

But, neighbor, ef they prove their claim at law,

The best way is to settle, an' not jaw.

An' don't le' 's mutter 'bout the awfle bricks

We'll give 'em, ef we ketch 'em in a fix:

That 'ere's most frequently the kin' o' talk

Of critters can't be kicked to toe the chalk;

Your "You'll see _nex'_ time!" an' "Look out bimeby!"

Most ollers ends in eatin' umble-pie.

'T wun't pay to scringe to England: will it pay

To fear thet meaner bully, old "They'll say"?

Suppose they _du_ say: words are dreffle bores,

But they ain't quite so bad ez seventy-fours.

Wut England wants is jest a wedge to fit

Where it'll help to widen out our split:

She's found her wedge, an' 't ain't for us to come

An' lend the beetle thet's to drive it home.

For growed-up folks like us 't would be a scandle,

When we git sarsed, to fly right off the handle.

England ain't _all_ bad, coz she thinks us blind:

Ef she can't change her skin, she can her mind;

An' you will see her change it double-quick,

Soon ez we've proved thet we're a-goin' to lick.

She an' Columby's gut to be fas' friends;

For the world prospers by their privit ends:

'T would put the clock back all o' fifty years,

Ef they should fall together by the ears.

THE BRIDGE.

You may be right; but hearken in your ear,--

I'm older 'n you,--Peace wun't keep house with Fear:

Ef you want peace, the thing you've gut to du

Is jest to show you're up to fightin', tu.

_I_ recollect how sailors' rights was won

Yard locked in yard, hot gun-lip kissin' gun:

Why, afore thet, John Bull sot up thet he

Hed gut a kind o' mortgage on the sea;

You'd thought he held by Gran'ther Adam's will,

An' ef you knuckle down, _he_'ll think so still.

Better thet all our ships an' all their crews

Should sink to rot in ocean's dreamless ooze,

Each torn flag wavin' chellenge ez it went,

An' each dumb gun a brave man's moniment,

Than seek sech peace ez only cowards crave:

Give me the peace of dead men or of brave!

THE MONIMENT.

I say, ole boy, it ain't the Glorious Fourth:

You'd oughto learned 'fore this wut talk wuz worth.

It ain't _our_ nose thet gits put out o' jint;

It's England thet gives up her dearest pint.

We've gut, I tell ye now, enough to du

In our own fem'ly fight, afore we're thru.

I hoped, las' spring, jest arter Sumter's shame,

When every flag-staff flapped its tethered flame,

An' all the people, startled from their doubt,

Come must'rin' to the flag with sech a shout,--

I hoped to see things settled 'fore this fall,

The Rebbles licked, Jeff Davis hanged, an' all;

Then come Bull Run, an' _sence_ then I've ben waitin'

Like boys in Jennooary thaw for skatin',

Nothin' to du but watch my shadder's trace

Swing, like a ship at anchor, roun' my base,

With daylight's flood an' ebb: it's gittin' slow,

An' I 'most think we'd better let 'em go.

I tell ye wut, this war's a-goin' to cost--

THE BRIDGE.

An' I tell _you_ it wun't be money lost;

Taxes milks dry, but, neighbor, you'll allow

Thet havin' things onsettled kills the cow:

We've gut to fix this thing for good an' all;

It's no use buildin' wut's a-goin' to fall.

I'm older 'n you, an' I've seen things an' men,

An' here's wut my experience hez ben:

Folks thet worked thorough was the ones thet thriv,

But bad work follers ye ez long's ye live;

You can't git red on 't; jest ez sure ez sin,

It's ollers askin' to be done agin:

Ef we should part, it wouldn't be a week

'Fore your soft-soddered peace would spring aleak.

We've turned our cuffs up, but, to put her thru,

We must git mad an' off with jackets, tu;

'T wun't du to think thet killin' ain't perlite,--

You've gut to be in airnest, ef you fight;

Why, two-thirds o' the Rebbles 'ould cut dirt,

Ef they once thought thet Guv'ment meant to hurt;

An' I _du_ wish our Gin'rals hed in mind

The folks in front more than the folks behind;

You wun't do much ontil you think it's God,

An' not constitoounts, thet holds the rod;

We want some more o' Gideon's sword, I jedge,

For proclamations hain't no gret of edge;

There's nothin' for a cancer but the knife,

Onless you set by 't more than by your life.

_I_'ve seen hard times; I see a war begun

Thet folks thet love their bellies never'd won,--

Pharo's lean kine hung on for seven long year,--

But when't was done, we didn't count it dear.

Why, law an' order, honor, civil right,

Ef they _ain't_ wuth it, wut _is_ wuth a fight?

I'm older 'n you: the plough, the axe, the mill,

All kinds o' labor an' all kinds o' skill,

Would be a rabbit in a wile-cat's claw,

Ef't warn't for thet slow critter, 'stablished law;

Onsettle _thet_, an' all the world goes whiz,

A screw is loose in everythin' there is:

Good buttresses once settled, don't you fret

An' stir 'em: take a bridge's word for thet!

Young folks are smart, but all ain't good thet's new;

I guess the gran'thers they knowed sunthin', tu.

THE MONIMENT.

Amen to thet! build sure in the beginning',

An' then don't never tech the underpinnin':

Th' older a Guv'ment is, the better 't suits;

New ones hunt folks's corns out like new boots:

Change jest for change is like those big hotels

Where they shift plates, an' let ye live on smells.

THE BRIDGE

Wal, don't give up afore the ship goes down:

It's a stiff gale, but Providence wun't drown;

An' God wun't leave us yet to sink or swim,

Ef we don't fail to du wut 's right by Him.

This land o' ourn, I tell ye, 's gut to be

A better country than man ever see.

I feel my sperit swellin' with a cry

Thet seems to say, "Break forth an' prophesy!"

O strange New World, thet yet wast never young,

Whose youth from thee by gripin' need was wrung,--

Brown foundlin' o' the woods, whose baby-bed

Was prowled round by the Injun's cracklin' tread,

An' who grew'st strong thru shifts an' wants an' pains,

Nussed by stern men with empires in their brains,

Who saw in vision their young Ishmel strain

With each hard hand a vassal ocean's mane,--

Thou, skilled by Freedom an' by gret events

To pitch new States ez Old-World men pitch tents,--

Thou, taught by Fate to know Jehovah's plan

Thet only manhood ever makes a man,

An' whose free latch-string never was drawed in

Aginst the poorest child o' Adam's kin,--

The grave's not dug where traitor hands shall lay

In fearful haste thy murdered corse away!

I see----

Jest here some dogs began to bark,

So thet I lost old Concord's last remark:

I listened long, but all I seemed to hear

Was dead leaves goss'pin' on some birch-trees near;

But ez they hedn't no gret things to say,

An' said 'em often, I come right away,

An', walkin' home'ards, jest to pass the time,

I put some thoughts thet bothered me in rhyme:

I hain't hed time to fairly try 'em on,

But here they be,--it's

JONATHAN TO JOHN.

It don't seem hardly right, John,

When both my hands was full,

To stump me to a fight, John,--

Your cousin, tu, John Bull!

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess

We know it now," sez he,

"The lion's paw is all the law,

Accordin' to J.B.,

Thet's fit for you an' me!"

Blood ain't so cool as ink, John:

It's likely you'd ha' wrote,

An' stopped a spell to think, John,

_Arter_ they'd cut your throat?

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess

He'd skurce ha' stopped," sez he,

"To mind his p-s an' q-s, ef thet weasan'

Hed b'longed to ole J.B.,

Instid o' you an' me!"

Ef _I_ turned mad dogs loose, John,

On _your_ front-parlor stairs,

Would it jest meet your views, John,

To wait an' sue their heirs?

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,

I on'y guess," sez he,

"Thet, ef Vattel on _his_ toes fell,

'T would kind o' rile J.B.,

Ez wal ez you an' me!"

Who made the law thet hurts, John,

_Heads I win,--ditto, tails?_

"_J.B._" was on his shirts, John,

Onless my memory fails.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,

(I'm good at thet,)" sez he,

"Thet sauce for goose ain't _jest_ the juice

For ganders with J.B.,

No more than you or me!"

When your rights was our wrongs, John,

You didn't stop for fuss,--

Britanny's trident-prongs, John,

Was good 'nough law for us.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,

Though physic's good," sez he,

"It doesn't foller thet he can swaller

Prescriptions signed 'J.B.,'

Put up by you an' me!"

We own the ocean, tu, John:

You mus'n't take it hard,

Ef we can't think with you, John,

It's jest your own back-yard.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,

Ef _thet's_ his claim," sez he,

"The fencin'-stuff 'll cost enough

To bust up friend J.B.,

Ez wal ez you an' me!"

Why talk so dreffle big, John,

Of honor, when it meant

You didn't care a fig, John,

But jest for _ten per cent_.?

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,

He's like the rest," sez he:

"When all is done, it's number one

Thet's nearest to J.B.,

Ez wal ez you an' me!"

We give the critters back, John,

Coz Abram thought 't was right;

It warn't your bullyin' clack, John,

Provokin' us to fight.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess

We've a hard row," sez he,

"To hoe jest now; but thet, somehow,

May heppen to J.B.,

Ez wal ez you an' me!"

We ain't so weak an' poor, John,

With twenty million people,

An' close to every door, John,

A school-house an' a steeple.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess

It is a fact," sez he,

"The surest plan to make a Man

Is, Think him so, J.B.,

Ez much ez you or me!"

Our folks believe in Law, John;

An' it's for her sake, now,

They've left the axe an' saw, John,

The anvil an' the plough.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,

Ef't warn't for law," sez he,

"There'd be one shindy from here to Indy;

An' thet don't suit J.B.

(When't ain't 'twixt you an' me!)"

We know we've gut a cause, John,

Thet's honest, just, an' true;

We thought't would win applause, John,

Ef nowheres else, from you.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess

His love of right," sez he,

"Hangs by a rotten fibre o' cotton:

There's natur' in J.B.,

Ez wal ez you an' me!"

The South says, "_Poor folks down!_" John,

An' "_All men up!_" say we,--

"White, yaller, black, an' brown, John:

Now which is your idee?"

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,

John preaches wal," sez he;

"But, sermon thru, an' come to _du_,

Why, there's the old J.B.

A-crowdin' you an' me!"

Shall it be love or hate, John?

It's you thet's to decide;

Ain't _your_ bonds held by Fate, John,

Like all the world's beside?

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess

Wise men forgive," sez he,

"But not forget; an' some time yet

Thet truth may strike J.B.,

Ez wal ez you an' me!"

God means to make this land, John,

Clear thru, from sea to sea,

Believe an' understand, John,

The _wuth_ o' bein' free.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,

God's price is high," sez he;

"But nothin' else than wut He sells

Wears long, an' thet J.B.

May learn like you an' me!"

* * * * *

REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES.

_The Cloister and the Hearth; or, Maid, Wife, and Widow_. A

Matter-of-Fact Romance. By CHARLES READE, Author of "Never too Late to

Mend," etc., etc. New York: Rudd & Carleton. 8vo.

The novels of Charles Reade are generally marked not only by

individuality of genius, but by individualisms of egotism and caprice.

The latter provoke the reader almost as much as the former gives him

delight. It disturbs the least critical mind to find the keenest insight

in company with the loudest bravado, and the statement of a wise or

beautiful thought followed up by a dogmatic assertion of infallibility

as harsh as a slap on the face. The indisposition to recognize such a

genius comes from the fact that he irritates as well as stimulates the

minds he addresses. Everybody reads him, but the fooling he inspires is

made up of admiration and exasperation. The public is both delighted and

insulted. He not only does not attempt to conceal his contemptuous sense

of superiority to common men, but he absolutely screeches and bawls it

out. Fearful that the dull Anglo-Saxon mind cannot appreciate his finest

strokes, he emphasizes his inspirations not merely by Italics, but by

capitals, thus conveying his brightest wit and deepest contrivances by

a kind of typographic yell. Were there not a solid foundation of

observation, learning, genius, and conscience to his work, his egotistic

eccentricities would awake a tempest of hisses. Being, in reality,

superficial and not central, they are readily pardoned by discerning

critics. Even these, however, must object to his disposition to cluck or

crow, in a manner altogether unseemly, whenever he hits upon a thought

of more than ordinary delicacy or depth.

It is but just to say, in palliation of this fault, that Mr. Reade's

insolent tone is not peculiar to him. It characterizes almost every

prominent person who has attempted to mould the opinions of the age. We

find it in Macaulay, Carlyle, Ruskin, and Kingsley, as well as in Reade.

Modesty is not the characteristic of the genius of the nineteenth

century; and the last thing we look for in any powerful work of the

present day is toleration for other minds and opposing opinions.

Each capable person who puts in his thumb and pulls out a plum draws

instantly the same inference which occurred to the first explorer of

the Christmas-pie. Charles Reade has no reservation at all, and boldly

echoes Master Horner's sage conclusion.

"The Cloister and the Hearth," in spite of its faults, is really a great

book. It is a positive contribution to history as well as to romance. It

would be vain to point to any other volume which could convey to common

minds so clear and accurate a conception of European life in the

fifteenth century as this. The author has deeply studied the annals,

memoirs, and histories which record the peculiarities of that life, and

he has carried into the study a knowledge of those powers and passions

of human nature which are the same in every age. The result is a

"romance of history" which contains more essential truth than the most

labored histories; for the writer is a man who has both the heart to

feel and the imagination to conceive the realities of the time about

which he writes.

The characterization of the book is original, various, and powerful.

It ranges from the lowest hind to the most exquisite representative

of female tenderness and purity. The scenes of passion show a clear

conception of and a strong hold upon the emotional elements of

character, and a capacity to exhibit their most terrible workings

in language which seems identical with the feelings it so burningly

expresses. In vigor and vividness of description and narration the novel

excels any of Reade's previous books. The plot is about the same as that

of "The Good Fight," though the _dénouement_ is different. "The Cloister

and the Hearth," indeed, incorporates "The Good Fight" in its pages, but

the latter forms not more than a fourth of the extended work. Altogether

the romance must be classed among the best which have appeared during

the last twenty years.

_Lessons in Life_. A Series of Familiar Essays. By TIMOTHY TITCOMB. New

York: Charles Scribner, 16 mo.

Who is more popular than honest Timothy? Opening this, his latest

volume, we read on, a fly-leaf fronting the title-page that twenty-six

editions of the "Letters to Young People," fifteen editions each of

"Bitter-Sweet" and "Gold Foil," and thirteen editions of "Miss Gilbert's

Career" have gone the way of all good books. The author says, in his

modest preface to the "Lessons," that he can hardly pretend to have done

more than to organize and put into form the average thinking of those

who read his books, and be only claims for his essays that they possess

the quality of common sense. He herein pays a very high compliment to

the crowd which demands over the bookseller's counter so many thousands

of his volumes. Wisdom, admirably put, is not a commodity glutting the

market every day. We find in the pages of this new venture so many

healthy maxims and so much excellent advice, that we hope the volume

will spread itself farther and wider than any of its predecessors. This

wish fulfilled will give it no mean circulation. "The Ways of Charity,"

one of the papers in this volume, ought to be printed in tract form, and

scattered broadcast everywhere. And there are other articles in the book

quite as good as this.

_English Sacred Poetry of the Sixteenth, Seventeenth, Eighteenth, and

Nineteenth Centuries._ Selected and edited by ROBERT ARIS WILLMOTT, M.A.

Illustrated by Holman Hunt, John Gilbert, and others. London: Routledge

& Co. 4to.

Mr. Willmott has considerable reputation for judgment and taste as a

compiler. He knows a good poem afar off, and his chief pleasure seems

to lie in reproducing from old books the excellent things that time has

spared to us. His last contribution to the stock of elegant volumes is

this very handsome book of English Sacred Poetry. The illustrations are

by no means equally good, but the majority of them are satisfactory.

Delicious bits of English landscape scenery peep out along the pages, as

one turns the leaves of this beautiful collection. An old village church

rising among the graves of centuries, a bird's-nest snug and warm in the

boughs of a mossy tree, a group of old-time worshippers gathered on the

grass, a brook making its way through flower-enamelled banks, a shepherd

with his flock couched on the hill-side, and other similar scenes of

quiet and rest, abound in this volume. The printer and the binder have

produced as luxurious a specimen of their respective arts as we have

seen from the British holiday press.

* * * * *

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