Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Still floated our flag at the mainmast head Lord, how beautiful was Thy day! Every waft of the air Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead.

Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas! Ye are at peace in the troubled stream; Ho! brave land! with hearts like these, Thy flag, that is rent in twain, Shall be one again, And without a seam!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.



THE MONITOR

TWO old Spanish ships had, prior to the sinking of the Cumberland, met a like fate at the hands of the Confederates; and the signal success of the Merrimac now augured well for the break of the blockade.

The South was greatly elated. The North was disquieted.

Twenty-four hours later the trend of events was changed.

There appeared in Hampton Roads a strange new craft, called the Monitor. It was unlike any vessel before seen, having a revolving round tower of iron, that enabled the gunners to train the guns on the enemy continuously, without regard to the position of the ship. The hull had an "overhang," a projection constructed of iron and wood, as a protection against rams.

The inventor and builder of this little giant was John Ericsson.

His,

"The master mind that wrought, With iron hand, this iron thought. Strength and safety with speed combined."

The vessel had been launched in less than a hundred days after the laying of the keel, in an effort of the Federal government to have her in service before the completion of the Merrimac (the Virginia.)

The new warship attracted the attention of the navies of Europe and brought about a change in the construction of war vessels.

As if indignant at the actions of the Merrimac in preceding her, and in attacking the Union fleet, the Monitor bore down upon her like some live thing bent upon retribution, and at once engaged her in a terrific encounter.

With the hope born of confidence in the strength of the Confederate ironclad, and her ability to overpower completely the Union flotilla, boats filled with sight-seers had gone out from Norfolk, but with the first terrible onset of the armored combatants speedily made their way back to safety.

In this battle of the waters two old Naval Academy comrades fought on opposite sides, Lieutenant Green and Lieutenant Butt, both well-known names.

For five long awful hours the strength of the two iron monsters was pitted against each other for supremacy on the seas, without apparent serious injury to either vessel.

At last the Merrimac ended the gigantic contest by turning her prow and withdrawing to Norfolk.



THE CRUISE OF THE MONITOR

Hampton Roads, Virginia, March 9, 1862

OUT of a Northern city's bay, 'Neath lowering clouds, one bleak March day, Glided a craft,—the like I ween, On ocean's crest was never seen Since Noah's float, That ancient boat, Could o'er a conquered deluge gloat.

No raking masts, with clouds of sail, Bent to the breeze or braved the gale; No towering chimney's wreaths of smoke Betrayed the mighty engine's stroke; But low and dark, Like the crafty shark, Moved in the waters this novel bark.

The fishers stared as the flitting sprite Passed their huts in the misty light, Bearing a turret huge and black, And said, "The old sea serpent's back Carting away, By light of day, Uncle Sam's fort from New York bay."

Forth from a Southern city's dock Our frigates' strong blockade to mock, Crept a monster of rugged build, The work of crafty hands, well skilled— Old Merrimac, With an iron back Wooden ships would find hard to crack.

Straight to where the Cumberland lay The mail-clad monster made its way; Its deadly prow struck deep and sure, And the hero's fighting days were o'er. Ah! many the braves Who found their graves With that good ship beneath the waves.

Flushed with success, the victor flew, Furious, the startled squadron through; Sinking, burning, driving ashore, Until the Sabbath day was o'er, Resting at night, To renew the fight With vengeful ire by morning's light.

Out of its den it burst anew, When the gray mist the sun broke through, Steaming to where, in clinging sands, The frigate Minnesota stands, A sturdy foe To overthrow, But in woeful plight to receive a blow.

But see! beneath her bow appears A champion no danger fears; A pigmy craft, that seems to be, To this new lord that rules the sea, Like David of old To Goliath bold— Youth and giant, by scripture told.

Round the roaring despot playing, With willing spirit helm obeying, Spurning the iron against it hurled, While belching turret rapid whirled, And swift shots seethe With smoky wreathe, Told that the shark was showing his teeth.

The Monitor fought. In grim amaze The Merrimacs upon it gaze, Cowering 'neath the iron hail, Crashing into their coat of mail, They swore, "this craft, The devil's shaft, Looked like a cheese box on a raft."

Hurrah! little giant of '62! Bold Worden with his gallant crew Forces the fight; the day is won; Back to his den the monster's gone, With crippled claws And broken jaws, Defeated in a reckless cause.

Hurrah for the master mind that wrought, With iron hand, this iron thought! Strength and safety with speed combined, Ericsson's gift to all mankind; To curb abuse, And chains to loose, Hurrah for the Monitor's famous cruise!

GEORGE H. BOKER.



THE NIGHT OF CHANTILLY

IN March, 1862, McClellan set out from Washington to capture the Confederate capital. At Yorktown he was held in check for a month by an inferior force of Confederates. It was the last of May before he reached Fair Oaks (Seven Pines), seven miles from Richmond. The Confederates here attacked him, and a furious battle of two days' duration ensued, when the Confederates were driven back. A notable event of this engagement was the appointment of General Robert E. Lee, as commander in chief of the Confederate armies; in place of General Joseph E. Johnston, who was severely wounded.

One of the most conspicuous figures of this battle of Fair Oaks was General Philip Kearney.

In the words of Stedman:—

"When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn:— He rode down the length of the withering column, His sword waved us on and we answered the sign."

"Kearney was the bravest man and the most perfect soldier I ever saw," said General Scott. "A man made for the profession of arms," says Rope. "In the field he was always ready, always skillful, always brave, always untiring, always hopeful, and always vigilant and alert."

He distinguished himself in the War with Mexico, and lost an arm while he was leading cavalry troops in close pursuit of the retreating Mexicans, at the battle of Churubusco, when they retreated into the city of San Antonio itself.

Mounted upon his great gray steed, "Monmouth," he spurred through a rampart, felling the Mexicans as he went. A thousand arms were raised to strike him, a thousand sabers glistened in the air, when he hurriedly fell back, but too late to escape the wound which necessitated the amputation of his left arm.

At Churubusco ended the spectacular career of the celebrated San Patricios battalion of Irish deserters, who deserted to the American army on the Canadian border and afterwards deserted to the Mexicans from the Texan border, fighting against the American in every Mexican war battle of consequence from Palo Alto to Churubusco. After capture the leaders and many of the men were court-martialed and shot; their commander, the notorious Thomas Riley, among the latter. The survivors were branded in the cheek with the letter "D" as a symbol of their treachery.

General Kearney resigned from the army in 1851 and made a tour of the world. He then went to France and fought in the war of that country against Italy. At Magenta, while he was leading the daring and hazardous charge that turned the situation and won Algiers to France, he charged with the bridle in his teeth.

For his bravery he received the Cross of the Legion of Honor, being the first American thus honored.

When the Civil War cloud burst, he came back to the United States and was made brigadier general in the Federal army and given the command of the First New Jersey Brigade.

His timely arrival at Williamsburg saved the day for the Federals.

In the engagement at Fair Oaks,

"Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose highest, Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest,"

there was no charge like Kearney's.

"How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his blade brighten, In the one hand still left,—and the reins in his teeth!"

General Oliver O. Howard lost his right arm in this battle. When the amputation was taking place, he looked grimly up at General Kearney, who was present, and remarked, "We'll buy our gloves together, after this."

At Chantilly, a few days after the second battle of Bull Run, wherein he forced the gallant Stonewall Jackson back, he penetrated into the Confederate lines and met his death.

The Confederates had won. The dusk had fallen and General Kearney was reconnoitering after placing his division.

"He rode right into our men," feelingly relates a Confederate soldier, "then stopping suddenly, called out,

"'What troops are these?'"



Some one replied, "Hays' Mississippi Brigade."

He turned quickly in an attempt to escape. A shower of bullets fell about him. He leaned forward as if to protect himself, but a ball struck him in the spine. He reeled and fell.

Under the white flag of truce, General Lee sent his remains to General Hooker, who had the body transported to New York, where it was interred with becoming honors.

"Oh, evil the black shroud of night of Chantilly, That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried."



KEARNEY AT SEVEN PINES

SO that soldierly legend is still on its journey,— That story of Kearney who knew not how to yield! 'Twas the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, and Birney, Against twenty thousand he rallied the field. Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose highest, Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf oak and pine, Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest,— No charge like Phil Kearney's along the whole line.

When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our ground He rode down the length of the withering column, And his heart at our war cry leapt up with a bound. He snuffed like his charger, the wind of the powder,— His sword waved us on and we answered the sign; Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the louder, "There's the devil's own fun, boys, along the whole line!"

How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his blade brighten, In the one hand still left,—and the reins in his teeth! He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten, But a soldier's glance shot from his visor beneath. Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal, Asking where to go in,—through the clearing or pine? "O, anywhere! Forward! 'Tis all the same, Colonel! You'll find lovely fighting along the whole line!"

Oh, evil the black shroud of night of Chantilly, That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried! Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily, The flower of our knighthood, the whole army's pride! Yet we dream that he still,—in that shadowy region Where the dead form their ranks at the wan drummer's sign,— Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion, And the word still is "Forward!" along the whole line.

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.



THE CAVALRY CHARGE

WITH bray of the trumpet And roll of the drum, And keen ring of bugle, The cavalry come. Sharp clank the steel scabbards The bridle chains ring, And foam from red nostrils The wild chargers fling.

Tramp! tramp! o'er the greensward That quivers below, Scarce held by the curb bit The fierce horses go! And the grim-visaged colonel, With ear-rending shout, Peals forth to the squadrons The order: "Trot out!"

One hand on the saber, And one on the rein, The troopers move forward In line on the plain. As rings the word, "Gallop!" The steel scabbards clank; As each rowel is pressed To a horse's hot flank; And swift is their rush And the wild torrents flow, When it pours from the crag On the valley below.

"Charge!" thunders the leader; Like shaft from the bow Each mad horse is hurled On the wavering foe. A thousand bright sabers Are gleaming in air; A thousand dark horses Are dashed on the square. Resistless and reckless Of aught may betide, Like demons, not mortals The wild troopers ride. Cut right! and cut left! For the parry who needs? The bayonets shiver Like wind-scattered reeds.

Vain—vain the red volley That bursts from the square,— The random-shot bullets Are wasted in air. Triumphant, remorseless, Unerring as death,— No saber that's stainless Returns to its sheath. The wounds that are dealt By that murderous steel Will never yield case For the surgeon to heal. Hurrah! they are broken— Hurrah! boys, they fly! None linger save those Who but linger to die.

Rein up your hot horses And call in your men,— The trumpet sounds, "Rally To colors!" again. Some saddles are empty, Some comrades are slain And some noble horses Lie stark on the plain: But war's a chance game, boys, And weeping is vain.

FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE.



AN IMMORTAL TWAIN

IT is a coincidence worthy of note, and heretofore unremarked by historians, that, as in the hour of birth of the National Flag there was given to posterity the name of a great Revolutionary hero, the hour of birth of the Confederate Battle Emblem immortalized the name of a hero of the Confederacy.

At four o'clock in the afternoon of that hard-fought battle of Manassas (Bull Run), July 21, 1861, the Federals were thinning out the lines in gray. Now they were directing their efforts against the wings of Jackson and Beauregard. Jackson's solemn visage was growing more solemn; Beauregard was anxiously scanning the landscape beyond, in the hope of discovering the approach of badly needed reenforcements.

Over the hill a long line was seen advancing. The day was hot and dry and not a leaf stirred in the dust-laden air. Clouds of smoke and grime enveloped the advancing troops and obscured their colors. General Beauregard raised his glass and surveyed them critically.



He then called an officer and instructed him to go to General Johnston and inform him that the enemy was receiving reenforcements and it might be wise for him to withdraw to another point. Still, he was not fully assured that the coming troops were Federals! The flag hung limp and motionless and could not be accurately discerned.

If these were Federals the day was surely lost. But if they were Confederates there was a fighting chance to win.

He determined to hold his position, and called out,

"What troops are those?"

No one could tell. Just then a gust of wind spread the colors. The flag was the Stars and Bars—General Early's brigade, not a moment too soon.

"We must have a more distinct flag," announced General Beauregard vehemently, in infinite relief: "One that we can recognize when we see it."

In that instant was conceived the Confederate Battle Flag, used thereafter throughout the Civil strife.

After the battle, the design—St. Andrew's Cross—was submitted by General Beauregard, and, approved by General Joseph E. Johnston, was adopted by the Confederate Congress.

"Conceived on the field of battle, it lived on the field of battle, and was proudly borne on every field from Manassas to Appomattox."

* * * * *

The Confederates were routed and running in disorder. General Jackson was standing immovable. General Bee rode to his side. "They will beat us back!"

"No, Sir," replied Jackson, "we will give them the bayonet."

General Bee rode back to his brigade. "Look at Jackson," said he, "standing there like a stone wall. Rally behind him." With this his brigade fell into line.

* * * * *

Early's troops arrived and formed. The Federals were beaten into a tumultuous retreat that never slacked until Centerville was reached.

From that day the name "Stonewall" attached to Thomas Jonathan Jackson and was peculiarly appropriate as indicating the adamantine, unyielding character of the man.

The motto of his life was: "A man can do what he wills to do," and in his resolves he depended for guidance upon Divine leading. He tried always to throw a religious atmosphere about his men; and out of respect to his feelings, if for no other reason, they often refrained from evil. His mount was a little sorrel horse, that the men affirmed was strikingly like him as it could not run except towards the enemy.

The ardent love of his troops for him made the tragedy of his death the more deplorable. Mistaking him for the enemy as he was returning from the front, in the gathering darkness at Chancellorsville, May, 1863, his own men shot him,—shot him down with victory in his grasp.

The whole country was horror-struck. Friend and foe alike paused in sympathy at such a situation.

To the Southern cause it was more than the taking off of a leader; it was an irreparable loss. By his death was left a gap in the Confederate ranks that no one else could fill.

Prior to the breaking out of the war Jackson had been unknown, but in the two years of his service he accomplished more than any other officer on his side. He saved Richmond from early fall by keeping the Union forces apart, until he was joined by Lee, when together they drove McClellan from within a few miles of the Confederate Capital and cleared the James River of gunboats.

In his report from Chancellorsville, General Robert E. Lee pays tribute to the illustrious officer thus:—

"The movement by which the enemy's position was turned and the fortune of the day decided, was conducted by the lamented Lieutenant General Jackson, who, as has already been stated, was severely wounded near the close of the engagement Saturday evening. I do not propose here to speak of the character of this illustrious man, since removed from the scene of his eminent usefulness, by the hand of an inscrutable but all-wise Providence. I nevertheless desire to pay the tribute of my admiration to the matchless energy and skill that marked this last act of his life, forming as it did a worthy conclusion of that long series of splendid achievements which won for him the lasting love and gratitude of his country.

"R. E. LEE.

"GENERAL S. COOPER, "Adjt. and Insp. Gen. C. S. Army, "Richmond, Va."



STONEWALL JACKSON

NOT midst the lightning of the stormy fight, Nor in the rush upon the vandal foe, Did Kingly Death with his resistless might Lay the great leader low.

His warrior soul its earthly shackles broke In the full sunshine of a peaceful town; When all the storm was hushed, the trusty oak That propped our cause went down.

Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground, Recalling all his grand heroic deeds, Freedom herself is writhing in the wound And all the country bleeds.

He entered not the Nation's Promised Land, At the red belching of the cannon's mouth But broke the House of Bondage with his hand, The Moses of the South!

O gracious God! not gainless is the loss; A glorious sunbeam gilds thy sternest frown, And while his country staggers neath the Cross, He rises with the Crown.

HENRY LYNDEN FLASH.





THE HIGH TIDE AT GETTYSBURG

A CLOUD possessed the hollow field, The gathering battle's smoky shield: Athwart the gloom the lightning flashed, And through the cloud some horsemen dashed, And from the heights the thunder pealed.

Then, at the brief command of Lee, Moved out that matchless infantry, With Pickett leading grandly down, To rush against the roaring crown, Of those dread heights of destiny.

Far heard above the angry guns A cry across the tumult runs,— The voice that rang through Shiloh's woods And Chickamauga's solitudes, The fierce South cheering on her sons!

Ah, how the withering tempest blew Against the front of Pettigrew! A Khamsin wind that scorched and singed Like that infernal flame that fringed The British squares at Waterloo!

A thousand fell where Kemper led; A thousand died where Garnett bled: In blinding flame and strangling smoke The remnant through the batteries broke And crossed the works with Armistead.

"Once more in Glory's van with me!" Virginia cried to Tennessee; "We two together, come what may, Shall stand upon these works today!" (The reddest day in history.)

Brave Tennessee! In reckless way Virginia heard her comrade say: "Close round this rent and riddled rag!" What time she set her battle-flag Amid the guns of Doubleday.

But who shall break the guards that wait Before the awful face of Fate? The tattered standards of the South Were shriveled at the cannon's mouth, And all her hopes were desolate.

In vain the Tennesseean set His breast against the bayonet; In vain Virginia charged and raged, A tigress in her wrath uncaged, Till all the hill was red and wet.

Above the bayonets, mixed and crossed, Men saw a gray, gigantic ghost Receding through the battle-cloud, And heard across the tempest loud The death-cry of a nation lost!

The brave went down! Without disgrace They leaped to Ruin's red embrace; They only heard Fame's thunders wake, And saw the dazzling sun-burst break In smiles on Glory's bloody face!

They fell, who lifted up a hand And bade the sun in heaven to stand; They smote and fell, who set the bars Against the progress of the stars, And stayed the march of Motherland!

They stood, who saw the future come On through the fight's delirium; They smote and stood, who held the hope Of nations on that slippery slope Amid the cheers of Christendom.

God lives! He forged the iron will That clutched and held the trembling hill! God lives and reigns! He built and lent The heights for freedom's battlement Where floats her flag in triumph still!

Fold up the banners! Smelt the guns! Love rules. Her gentler purpose runs. A mighty mother turns in tears The pages of her battle years, Lamenting all her fallen sons!

WILL HENRY THOMPSON.



UNITED

ALL day it shook the land—grim battle's thunder tread; And fields at morning green, at eve are trampled red. But now, on the stricken scene, twilight and quiet fall; Only, from hill to hill, night's tremulous voices call; And comes from far along, where camp fires warning burn, The dread, hushed sound which tells of morning's sad return.

Timidly nature awakens; the stars come out overhead, And a flood of moonlight breaks like a voiceless prayer for the dead. And steals the blessed wind, like Odin's fairest daughter, In viewless ministry, over the fields of slaughter; Soothing the smitten life, easing the pang of death, And bearing away on high the passing warrior's breath.

Two youthful forms are lying apart from the thickest fray, The one in Northern blue, the other in Southern gray. Around his lifeless foeman the arms of each are pressed, And the head of one is pillowed upon the other's breast. As if two loving brothers, wearied with work and play, Had fallen asleep together, at close of the summer day. Foemen were they, and brothers?—Again the battle's din, With its sullen, cruel answer, from far away breaks in.

BENJAMIN SLEDD.



OLD HEART OF OAK

TO the Navy is ascribed the larger shares in the Civil War, of overcoming the prowess of the South. "The blockade sapped the industrial strength of the Confederacy."

A powerful factor in this blockade was David G. Farragut. Farragut was a Southerner by birth—a Tennessean—and fought, as it were, against his own hearthstone. Yet, when it is considered that from early youth he was in the marine service of the government and by arms upheld the national flag, and when it is remembered with what reverence the seaman regards the flag under which he serves, his choice is not surprising.

Scenes wherein men fought and died for the Stars and Stripes and often with their dying breath expressing adoration of the nation's emblem were common experiences of his life.

In his memoirs is related a pathetic story of a youth's death from accidental shooting. "Put me in the boat," implored he of his comrades, "that I may die under my country's flag." Another, a young Scotchman, who had a leg cut off in battle, cried out mournfully, "I can no longer be of use to the flag of my adoption," and threw himself overboard.

The necessity of choosing between the North and the South brought Farragut many sleepless nights and forced him between the fires of censure from the South and doubt of his fealty from the North, as it was recognized that the Southern man, as a rule, felt that his first allegiance was due to his State.

When he was but a lad of seven years, Farragut lost his mother and was adopted by his father's friend, that fighting old Commodore David Porter, who was destined to raise both his adopted and his own son to become admirals in the United States Navy.

For little Dave Farragut the sea had always a wonderful fascination, and at the age of twelve he was made a midshipman on the Essex, a warship of 1812. The Essex one day captured a whaling vessel, and Captain Porter placed David in charge to steer her across the Pacific. The captain of the whaler, when clear of the Essex, thought to regain his vessel from the boy, by countermanding his orders. He threatened to shoot any sailor who dared to disobey him. Right here, the mettle that was to make Farragut the head of the American navy and the idol of the American people manifested itself. He repeated his order at first given; and when the mutinous captain appeared from below decks where he had gone for his pistols, he was told by the youthful commander that he would have to stay below or be thrown overboard. He chose the former.

To this same dauntless spirit, the Federal government owed the blockade of the lower Mississippi and the closing of the ports of Mobile Bay, that inflicted such injuries upon the Confederacy as to hasten the end of the war. "With ports closed," says an authority, "the Southern armies were reduced to a pitiful misery, the long endurance of which makes a noble chapter in heroism."

The lower Mississippi was controlled by the Confederates. Possession of the river and the capture of New Orleans could be accomplished only by running the forts situated below the city some seventy miles. To run the forts with wooden vessels and escape destruction from the armed vessels of the Confederacy in the Mississippi was a hazardous undertaking. Farragut believed he could do this. In December, 1861, he wrote to a friend: "Keep your lips closed and burn my letters. Perfect silence is the first injunction of the Secretary. I am to have a flag in the gulf, and the rest depends upon myself."

In March he again wrote, "I have now attained what I have been looking for all my life—a flag—and having attained it, all that is necessary to complete the scene is a victory." The victory he was soon to have.

At two o'clock the morning of April 24, 1862, the signal for the start for the forts was given. In a few moments the thunderous roar of batteries and guns broke upon the air. The river became a mass of writhing flame.

"The passing of Forts Jackson and St. Phillips was one of the most awful sights and events I ever saw or expect to experience," says Farragut. Rafts of cotton were set on fire by the Confederates and came down the river, scattering disaster as they came. One of these caught the Hartford, Farragut's flagship, and set it on fire. So high rose the flames that even the courageous commander was for the moment daunted and exclaimed, "My God! is this to end this way!" By the expeditious use of the hose the flames were controlled.

The strong barriers across the river were broken. By repeated and desperate efforts the Confederate boats were sunk or disabled. The levee at New Orleans was gained. The Crescent City was taken.

Thus was accomplished a feat in naval warfare reckoned without a parallel in naval history, except in that of twenty-four months later in Mobile Bay. In compliment to his exploit the rank of rear admiral was conferred upon Farragut. Of the fleet, as subordinate officers, were Dewey and Schley, a future admiral and a rear-admiral.

To his home, the victorious commander addressed the following letter:—

"My dearest Wife and Boy.

"I am so agitated I can scarcely write, and I shall only tell you that it has pleased Almighty God to preserve my life through a fire such as the world has scarcely known."

When the ships lay safely at the levee with but one of the squadron lost, Farragut by note requested the mayor of New Orleans to remove the Confederate flag and to surrender the city formally. In curt terms the doughty mayor refused to do so, stating there was not in the city of New Orleans a man who would take down that flag. Then ensued a most unique correspondence between the two, through which Farragut made himself misunderstood to the extent that it was rumored that it was his intention to turn the guns on the city. At the expiration of forty-eight hours, however, an officer of the fleet removed the offending flag and hoisted the Stars and Stripes over the city hall.

To injure purposely the defenseless, as in turning the guns on the city, was not in keeping with the nature of David Farragut as revealed in history. Power combined with gentleness were the marked traits of his character. This gentleness had its finest reflex in his delicate attentions to his invalid wife. In the presence of her continuous suffering his warrior nature was laid aside, and his chivalric kindness shone forth in acts of rare devotion and tender care.

When he was asked one day, as to his feelings during a battle in seeing men fall writhing upon every side, he answered, "I thought of nothing but the working of the guns; but after the battle, when I saw the mangled bodies of my shipmates, dead and dying, groaning and expiring often with the most patriotic sentiments upon their lips, I became faint and sick. My sympathies were all aroused." Markedly noticeable in his letters is the absence of self-elation over his victories. There are, rather, a rejoicing in the advancement of his cause and gratitude to the Almighty for preservation. In this we read anew the lesson of true greatness.

Just prior to entering into the noted action of Mobile Bay, he wrote his son respecting his views of duty and death. "He who dies in doing his duty to his country, and at peace with his God, has played out the drama of life to the best advantage." Shortly after this was penned, the Hartford was steaming into Mobile Bay, under the heavy fire of guns of Fort Morgan and Fort Gaines, in the execution of a naval feat that attracted the attention and admiration of the whole civilized world.



At the mouth of the bay the two islands upon which the forts stood were less than a mile apart. The passage had been strewn with torpedoes by the Confederates, and only a narrow strip of water was left clear. Through this strip went Farragut's fleet: the Tecumseh first, the Brooklyn next, the Hartford third. Suddenly the prow of the Tecumseh lifted: she veered and sank. The Brooklyn backed and held Farragut's ship directly under the guns of Fort Morgan. Shot and shell hurtled in the air. The smoke grew dense. The fire from the cannons lit the heavens. Men shouted and fell.

"What's the matter!" called Farragut.

"Torpedoes," some one answered.

Never a profane man, he now gave vent to an oath, and cried out, "Full speed, Jouett. Four bells, Captain Drayton."

The Hartford steamed to the front. The torpedoes crackled under her as she sped on; but the forts were passed. And high in the rigging of his ship, in full view of the enemy and imminent danger of the fiery missiles, was seen Farragut, whence he directed all the ships' maneuvers. An officer, observing him standing there, feared lest a shot would cause his fall, and carried a rope and lashed him to the mast.

In maddened fury the ironclad Tennessee plunged straight at the Hartford. All the fleet bore down upon the Confederate ship. And crowding together, the Lackawanna, needing room, struck the flagship by accident, and came near striking the commander. Against the Tennessee every Federal ship now redoubled her efforts, until, battered and bruised and despairing, she struck her colors.

The captain of the Tennessee was Buchanan, the same who commanded the Merrimac in her fight with the Monitor in Hampton Roads. "The Tennessee and Buchanan are my prisoners," wrote Farragut home. "He has lost a leg. It was a hard fight, but Buck met his fate manfully."

Fort Morgan and Fort Gaines surrendered and Farragut's fierce conflicts were at an end. Nearly so was his path of life. Congress honored him with the rank of admiral, the highest honor to be conferred. America and foreign nations extended him the most distinguishing courtesies. And then—the unseen Pilot steered his course across the unknown sea unto the harbor of the city Eternal.



FARRAGUT

FARRAGUT, Farragut, Old Heart of Oak, Daring Dave Farragut, Thunderbolt stroke, Watches the hoary mist Lift from the bay, Till his flag, glory-kissed, Greets the young day.

Far, by gray Morgan's walls, Looms the black fleet. Hark, deck to rampart calls With the drums' beat! Buoy your chains overboard, While the steam hums; Men! to the battlement, Farragut comes.

See, as the hurricane Hurtles in wrath Squadrons of clouds amain Back from its path! Back to the parapet, To the gun's lips, Thunderbolt Farragut Hurls the black ships.

Now through the battle's roar Clear the boy sings, "By the mark fathoms four," While his lead swings. Steadily the wheelmen five "Nor' by East keep her." "Steady," but two alive: How the shells sweep her!

Lashed to the mast that sways Over red decks, Over the flame that plays Round the torn wrecks, Over the dying lips Framed for a cheer, Farragut leads his ships, Guides the line clear.

On by heights cannon-browed, While the spars quiver; Onward still flames the cloud Where the hulls shiver. See, yon fort's star is set, Storm and fire past. Cheer him, lads—Farragut, Lashed to the mast!

Oh! while Atlantic's breast Bears a white sail, While the Gulf's towering crest Tops a green vale, Men thy bold deeds shall tell, Old Heart of Oak, Daring Dave Farragut, Thunderbolt stroke!

WILLIAM TUCKEY MEREDITH.

August, 1864.



PINE AND PALM

(GRANT AND LEE)

Charles Francis Adams in address before Chicago Chapter of Phi Beta Kappa, June 17, 1902.

I NOW come to what I have always regarded—shall ever regard as the most creditable episode in all American history,—an episode without a blemish,—imposing, dignified, simple, heroic. I refer to Appomattox. Two men met that day, representative of American civilization, the whole world looking on. The two were Grant and Lee,—types each. Both rose, and rose unconsciously, to the full height of the occasion,—and than that occasion there has been none greater. About it and them, there was no theatrical display, no self-consciousness, no effort at effect. A great crisis was to be met; and they met that crisis as great countrymen should.

That month of April saw the close of exactly four years of persistent strife,—a strife which the whole civilized world had been watching intently. Then, suddenly, came the dramatic climax at Appomattox, dramatic I say, not theatrical,—severe in its simple, sober, matter-of-fact majesty. The world, I again assert, has seen nothing like it; and the world, instinctively, was at the time conscious of the fact. I like to dwell on the familiar circumstances of the day; on its momentous outcome; on its far-reaching results. It affords one of the greatest educational object lessons to be found in history; and the actors were worthy of the theater, the auditory, and the play.

A mighty tragedy was drawing to a close. The breathless world was the audience. It was a bright, balmy April Sunday in a quiet Virginia landscape, with two veteran armies confronting each other; one game to the death, completely in the grasp of the other. The future was at stake. What might ensue? What might not ensue? Would the strife end then and there? Would it die in a death-grapple, only to reappear in that chronic form of a vanquished but indomitable people, writhing and struggling, in the grasp of an insatiate but only nominal victor?

The answer depended on two men,—the captains of the contending forces. Think what then might have resulted had these two men been other than what they were,—had the one been stern and aggressive, the other sullen and unyielding. Most fortunately for us, they were what and who they were,—Grant and Lee. Of the two, I know not to which to award the palm. Instinctively, unconsciously, they vied not unsuccessfully each with the other, in dignity, magnanimity, simplicity.



THE CONQUERED BANNER

LIKE several other poems of renown, "The Conquered Banner" was written under stress of deep emotion.

Abram J. Ryan (Father Ryan) had been ordained as a Catholic priest. Shortly after his ordination he was made a chaplain in the Confederate army.

When the news came of General Lee's surrender at Appomattox he was in his room in Knoxville, where his regiment was quartered.

He bowed his head upon the table and wept bitterly.

He then arose and looked about him for a piece of paper, but could find nothing but a sheet of brown paper wrapped about a pair of shoes. Spreading this out upon the table, he, "in a spirit of sorrow and desolation" as expressed in his own words, wrote upon it "The Conquered Banner."

The following morning the regiment was ordered away, and the poem upon the table was forgotten. To the author's surprise it appeared over his name, in a Louisville paper, a few weeks later, having been forwarded to the paper by the lady in whose house he had stopped in Knoxville.

The poem was widely copied, and was read at gatherings throughout the South with ardor and often with tears.

As an expression of sorrow without bitterness it is considered a fine example.



THE CONQUERED BANNER

FURL that Banner, for 'tis weary; Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary; Furl it, fold it—it is best; For there's not a man to wave it, And there's not a sword to save it, And there's not one left to lave it In the blood which heroes gave it; And its foes now scorn and brave it; Furl it, hide it—let it rest!

Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered; Broken is its staff and shattered; And the valiant hosts are scattered, Over whom it floated high. Oh, 'tis hard for us to fold it, Hard to think there's none to hold it, Hard that those who once unrolled it Now must furl it with a sigh!

Furl that Banner—furl it sadly; Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, And ten thousands wildly, madly, Swore it should forever wave— Swore that foeman's sword could never Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, And that flag should float forever O'er their freedom or their grave!

Furl it! for the hands that grasped it, And the hearts that fondly clasped it, Cold and dead are lying low; And the Banner—it is trailing, While around it sounds the wailing Of its people in their woe.

For, though conquered, they adore it— Love the cold, dead hands that bore it! Weep for those who fell before it! Pardon those who trailed and tore it! But, oh, wildly they deplore it, Now who furl and fold it so!

Furl that Banner! True, 'tis gory, Yet, 'tis wreathed around with glory, And 'twill live in song and story Though its folds are in the dust! For its fame on brightest pages, Penned by poets and by sages, Shall go sounding down the ages— Furl its folds though now we must.

Furl that Banner, softly, slowly; Treat it gently—it is holy, For it droops above the dead; Touch it not—unfold it never; Let it droop there, furled forever,— For its people's hopes are fled.

ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN.



DEATH OF GRANT

AS one by one withdraw the lofty actors From that great play on history's stage eternal, That lurid, partial act of war and peace—of old and new contending, Fought out through wrath, fears, dark dismays, and many a long suspense; All past—and since, in countless graves receding, mellowing Victor and vanquished—Lincoln's and Lee's—now thou with them, Man of the mighty day—and equal to the day! Thou from the prairies?—and tangled and many veined and hard has been thy part, To admiration has it been enacted!

WALT WHITMAN.

The humblest soldier who carried a musket is entitled to as much credit for the results of the war as those who were in command.

U. S. GRANT.





ROBERT E. LEE

A GALLANT foeman in the fight, A brother when the fight was o'er, The hand that led the host with might The blessed torch of learning bore.

No shriek of shells nor roll of drums, No challenge fierce, resounding far, When reconciling wisdom comes To heal the cruel wounds of war.

Thought may the minds of men divide, Love makes the heart of nations one, And so, thy soldier grave beside, We honor thee, Virginia's son.

JULIA WARD HOWE.





OLD GLORY ON THE ISLAND

MEN who have had grave differences and looked at each other coldly and passed with unsmiling faces have, when some calamity threatened, sprang shoulder to shoulder and spent their united strength in defense of a common cause.

Thus in the Spanish-American spurt of war,—serious enough, too serious, alas, in some aspects; but great in some of its beneficent results. In that call, "To Arms!" was laid to rest—forever forgotten—the old enmity between the North and the South, engendered by the Civil Strife.

On the island of Cuba, the trenches of the United States Army were five miles in extent and in shape of a horseshoe. Above the trenches, five curving miles of Stars and Stripes gleamed.

To the United States prisoners, confined in the prison, within sight of these flags, but under the flag of Spain, the waving emblems before their eyes brought daily hope and courage.



In full vision of the men in the trenches fluttered the flag of Spain; above their heads Old Glory flew,—the sheltering Stripes and Stars.

As night came down, and land and shimmering sea was bathed in the white light of the sub-tropics, the strains of the "Star-Spangled Banner" were borne upon the air and fell away softly, as if coming from across the water. Every man uncovered and stood with silent lips, and eyes fixed upon Old Glory until the last echoing note died in the distance, then turned again to duties; but upon his face was stamped the deeper understanding of the meaning of it all—of Flag, and Home, and Country.

Thus from the shores of a tropic island, fighting together for the flag of the nation, both Blue and Gray gained a new and happier viewpoint; and looking back across the warm and shining waters of the Gulf Stream, each knew that all was good, and said:—

"Lo! from the thunder-strife, And from the blown, white ashes of the dead, We rise to larger life."

"There is a peace amid'st the shock of arms, That satisfies the soul, though all the air Hurtles with horror and with rude alarms."

"That clarion cry, My country! makes men one."



WHEELER'S BRIGADE AT SANTIAGO

'NEATH the lanes of the tropic sun The column is standing ready, Awaiting the fateful command of one Whose word will ring out To an answering shout To prove it alert and steady. And a stirring chorus all of them sung With singleness of endeavor, Though some to "The Bonny Blue Flag" had swung And some to "The Union For Ever."

The order came sharp through the desperate air And the long ranks rose to follow, Till their dancing banners shone more fair Than the brightest ray Of the Cuban day On the hill and jungled hollow; And to "Maryland" some in the days gone by Had fought through the combat's rumble And some for "Freedom's Battle-Cry" Had seen the broad earth crumble.

Full many a widow weeps in the night Who had been a man's wife in the morning; For the banners we loved we bore to the height Where the enemy stood As a hero should His valor his country adorning; But drops of pride with your tears of grief, Ye American women, mix ye! For the North and South, with a Southern chief, Kept time to the tune of "Dixie."

WALLACE RICE.



SOLDIERS

SO many, many soldiers At reveille fared forth; Such ready, willing soldiers, From sunny South and North.

So many gallant soldiers At noon to face the fight; So many weary wounded Home-dreaming in the night.

So many quick to answer To drum and bugle sound; So many war-scarred sleepers On death's white-tented ground.

O soldiers, silent soldiers, Calm-sleeping in the sun, Beneath one happy flag again, God rest you, every one.

Of every human difference Great Time, the high priest, shrives; While Southern winds are telling The fragrance of brave lives.

Beneath the Southern willows, In slumber folded deep, O soldiers, brothers, every one, God's peace attend your sleep.

WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLE.

* * * * *

Our battle-fields, safe in the keeping, Of Nature's kind, fostering care, Are blooming,—our heroes are sleeping,— And peace broods perennial there. All over our land rings the story Of loyalty, fervent and true; "One flag, and that flag is Old Glory," Alike for the Gray and the Blue.

JOHN HOWARD JEWETT.

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Printed in the United States of America.



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Transcriber's Note:

The original punctuation, language and spelling have been retained, except where noted. The following changes were made to the original text (correction in brackets):

Page v: for "Soldiers"; to Mr. John Howard Jewitt[Jewett] for Page v: for "The Cruise of the Monitor" by George M.Ḥ Boker; Page 60: Now all is hushed: th[the] gleaming lines Page 67: And the star-spangled banner n[in] triumph shall wave Page 74: Packenham[Pakenham]! Page 75: General Packenham[Pakenham] heroically waved his troops Page 80: As fair and free as now[now?] Page 83: CHARLES DAWSON SHANLEY[SHANLY]. Page 113: GEORGE M. BAKER[H. BOKER]. Page 173: WILL ALLEN DROMGOLOE[DROMGOOLE].

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THE END