Dare goes joshaway, now, wid Ole Glory strowed er roun' him, steppin lak a rare-hoss over de tater ridges.Dare goes joshaway, now, wid Ole Glory strowed er roun' him, steppin lak a rare-hoss over de tater ridges.
Uncle Joshua was the color guard in a volunteer company of negroes, whose muster roll, like a thermometer, ran up into the nineties. As he shook out the folds of the scarlet-veined banner of the free one morning in his cabin, he observed to his old wife, "Hit peers lak dat dare wus ernudder wun o' dem possels, ef my membrunce sarves me rite, dat toted de flag fur Ginrul Farryo when he wus er heppin disserway und datterway froo de dessart; but I moest furgit dat gemman's name. Twant Absurdam, I'm moest sho, und hit twant Jack-in-de-bed, nudder. Duz yu reckermember dat possel, Hanner? Yu und de locus preacher is erquainted wid all dem aintshunts."
"Umph!" grunted Hanna, "yu's gwine fur back fur sumbody to tote de flag. Ef yu hez gin out why don't you fling hit over to Efrum? Ur is yu aiming ter immertate dat aintshunt?"
"Grate Jarryko!" exclaimed Joshua, irritated by such a question. "Duz yu see dat fodder foot, und duz yu see dat shuck foot? Well, den, when de leftenant sez 'hep, hep, hep, hep, hep—fodder foot, shuck foot!' I'm ergwine ter fling dem footsies out disserway—see? Und I'm ergwine ter tote ole glory fo und aft, jess so, twell I gits ter be de ginrul, und den I'm ergwine ter fling dem identikle footses in de saddle, disserway, und uprare de rone on his hine shanks, jess lak dat."
"Umph!" grunted ole Hannah, "To be sho yu's jess rivved out o' de babboon show! Yu's er sho nuff limber Jack—jest ez suple ez a yurling gote, ebery bit und grane!"
"Now, den," continued Joshua, without heeding the ridiculous interruption, "I wuz studdin up dat possel, when you flung yo mouf inter de argyment."
"Wuz dat gemman a Mefodis ur Mishunary?" inquired Hannah, provokingly.
"Grate Jarryko! How's I ergwine to know dis fur back? Kin I skiver er humans clean clar ercross de dissart, und retch back ter de eend o' de yeth, wid dese wun-eyed specks? Ef he hilt on to grace, he wur a shoutin Mefodis; und ef he run wid Proverdense, he wur a Mishunary; und ef he hilt on ter sumfin wusser, he wur a harrytick. Dat's ez fur ez I'm gwine, doubt I node fur sartin. I'm moest sho, do, he wur a Mishunary, kase he didn't drap back when he cum in contack wid de water."
"Grate king!" snapped Hannah, as she kindled into a passion. "Wuz yu dare? Yu talks lak dare warnt no Mefodis mixed up wid dem harryticks; gwine on wid yer warter in de bilin dissart! Better git de Zion bushup to larn yu de scriptur."
"Oh, my sole!" groaned Joshua. "Ef hit warnt fer de Mishunarys in dis Soufland, dare mout be a wusser war dan ole Jeff Davis de secesh's. I'm ergwine ter ax yer wun pint mo, und den me und Ole Glory is ergwine ter hit de grit fur de conwenshun. Which wun o' dem slidin elders o' yourn hilt a confurence in dat dissart whey dare warnt no warter, und no chickens nudder, und whay de po parished up Mishunary hed to furrige er roun fer dare dinner? Now den!"
There were shops and bazaars scattered here and there about the public streets of the shire town within the recesses of which sat colored women selling their merchandise; now and then accentuating some passing pageant by the clapping of hands and other noisy demonstrations. There were disorderly, ruffianly negroes, in greasy uniforms,neither brigaded or disciplined, patrolling the country, discharging their muskets at random; and about the premises of Colonel Seymour there was a squad, more or less menacing, marching and counter-marching in the carriage way near the mansion, and the old man in his desperation cried out "Oh that I could gird the sword upon my thigh, like the man Barak, and could smite these devils to the earth."
"Mars Jon," interrupted Clarissa, "yer mout as well let dese devilis niggers lone; de Lord is agwine to slam dem to de yearth fore dey knows it; he is agwine to vour dem up lak hoppergrasses; day a ransakin all ober creashun fur franksized niggers to wote de yaller ticket in de convenshun; mout as well hab so many billy goats a wotin fur ole Abrum Laffin, de meanest, low downest scalyhorg in de wurrel. Yander goes ole Joshaway now, wid ole glory strode er roun him, steppin lak a rare-hoss ober de tater ridges agwine to de town." And she pointed to a group of four crossing the field from Joshua's cabin, marching under the stars and stripes, that swung lifelessly over old Joshua's right shoulder. We had just as well go with Joshua and witness the proceedings. The first observation the old negro made as he came up was this, "How much is de boss agwine to gib fur wotin fur him to go to de legislatur?"
"Agwine to giv yer, yer axes," replied a partisan of Laflin. "Yer dun und got freedom, haint yer? yer dun und jined de milintary cumpny, haint yer? Yer is de most selfishes nigger dat I ebber seed. Is yer aimin to git de whole kommisary flung in? What mo dos yer speck?" continued the black partisan. Freedom haint nebber made de pot bile at my house nary time, und it haint nebber fotched no sweetenin dar, und it haint put no sperrets in de jimmyjon, und it haint nebbersot out no taters nudder, und wid all dis lustration in de land, it haint agwine too, nudder. Jess as well be a naked snow-bird wid nary whing as wun ob dese franksized niggers. Too much freedom in de lan now, und not nuff horgs and catfishes. I'se been a wotin und a wotin eber since de belyun fell—a trapsing to de town bakkards und furruds, und I haint nebber got nuffin but freedom yit—not eben de rappins ob my little finger; und I has been hep, hep, hep, hep, heppin in de miluntary cumpny ober tater ridges und fru de brier patches und de skeeters, und de cap'in haint nebber said nary time, Joshaway, I'm agwine to put yaller upperlips on yer jacket, und I'm agwine ter gib yer a sord wid a wheel. Nary time hab de boss axed me how much meal I had in de gum, ur how much taters I hab in de hill; und I haint nebber had but wun little speck ob munny sense freedom cum in de lan, und den it wus Federick munny. Ef I dont git nuffin bettern dat I has got, und dat mity quick, dis po nigger is agwine to drap outer de ranks into de sametary. Dis here war has turned loose a passel ob niggers all ober de kentry wid dere freedum und muskets, und bress Gord dere aint nary turkle in de swamp, nur catfish nudder, yu mout say; und eben de sparrers when dey sees a nigger a cummin shakes his tail, und sais 'ugh, ugh; I'm agwine erway frum here.' Ole mars Jon had rudder de hoppergrasses wud kivver de hole lan, und de tarypin bugs too. Eber time de boss gits lected he ups and sezs, sez he, 'Josh, de nex time I runs I'm agwine to make yer er magistreet, so yer kin sot on white fokses, und bress de Lord, dat time haint nebber cum yit.'"
"Shut dat big mouf ob yourn," sharply commanded Laflin's constituent.
"I haint agwine to do dat, nudder," saucily replied the old negro. "Ef de boss don't gib me erdram, ur sumfing when I gits to town, I'm agwine to wote fur tuther man. De ole ooman tole me to ax de boss fur a kaliker kote; sed how dat she wus jam nigh as ragged as a skeer-crow. Hanner is a gitten monstrus tired ob freedom, und dese franksized niggers—yer heers my racket. Aye! aye," he exclaimed patriotically, "dars ole glory now a shinin froo de trees," and with that the bandy shanked negro cut a pigeon wing in the middle of the road; and sure enough, the banner of the free, displaying its broad stripes and bright stars was nodding its welcome to its African heroes, who had worked out their emancipation with ploughshares and scythe blades.
"I knows," the negro continued in rapture, "when I sees dat butifullest flag er wavin und see-sawin dat dere is bound to be a stummic full ob good whittles sumwheres, but I's monstrous skeert hits agwine to gib out fore hit gits to me." And just now the faintest tintinnabulation of an asthmatic brass band broke upon old Joshua's ear like the sound of a dinner horn, on a long, dry summer day. Joshua braced up for the home stretch and began to take long slouchy strides, as if he were on the old parade ground again. Calling out to his comrades "Forrud, march to de town; hep, hep, hep, hep, hep, eyes to de front, charge, bagonets!" As he approached the rallying ground of the Laflin hosts, a recruiting agent from Laflin's opponent, took him by the arm and said patronizingly, "Let me put a bug in your ear, ole man."
Joshua jerked away with the startled cry "No sar, no sar, don't do dat white man, kase I kaint heer good no how, und ef yer puts dat ar bug in my yeer, how in de name ob Gord is I ebber agwine to git him outen dere eny more, and hit mout be a horned bug ur a stingin bug. I'll fite eny man dat puts a bug in my yeer, dat I will; stan back,white man; dont cum nigh me wid nun ob dem creeturs."
"You don't understand me, my friend" replied the scalawag, "our side are home folks, bred and born right here, and we know what we can do for our colored friends when we get to the legislature, and we are going to buy plantations for our men, and we are going to make our old friends like you sheriffs."
"Dats a mity heep ob promisin, white man," replied the negro suspiciously, "How menny shurrufs is yer agwine to hab in dis county?"
"Forty seven," replied the Scalawag.
"How menny jail houses is yer agwine to hab," asked the negro.
"We are going to do away with the jails," said he.
"Is?" exclaimed Joshua in surprise. "Ugh, Ugh! forty-leven shurrufs in dis county und all clecting taxes at wun time, Grate Jarryko, dar wont be nary tater, nur nary horg, nur nary ole settin hin—nur nary nigger in sebenteen fousan miles ob dis place. Saks a live, white man, dos yer aim to massercree fokes fo und aft? Whar wus yer when dey fit de war enny how?"
"Oh, I was at home raising breadstuffs for the poor," he answered.
"Raisin which fur de po, boss?" enquired Joshua.
"Breadstuffs," he replied.
"Und did de po git dey share?" asked Joshua.
"Yes, indeed," the scalawag answered.
"Und wus yer in de pennytenshun when yer raised dat truck?" further enquired Joshua.
"No, indeed," he said.
Joshua gazed comically into the face of the politician as he said; "Lemme look at yu rite good widboff eyes, wid dese ole specks on, disserway; dare. Haint I seed yu afore?"
"Perhaps so; I cant say" replied the scalawag furtively.
"Ugh! Ugh!" exclaimed Joshua.
"Haint I seed yu at Zion's meeting house wun time, at de stracted meetin? Dat time sister Cloe drapped back into er concushun und yu wuz de yarb doctor dat fotched her too, und yu tuck yo pay outen de munny dat wuz gwine to de orfins?"
"No, no, you are thinking of some one else I am sure."
"Und hit warnt yu nudder dat drunk up de sakryment de dekons stode away under de mussy seat?"
"No, indeed! why do you ask such a question?"
"Kase," replied Joshua quite saucily, "dem dare too eyes of yourn puts me in membrance of dat scalyhorg in de scriptur whay wuz drug outer de kote house ded, him und Sofy Mariah, too, kase day made er mis hit erbout dat lan."
"Oh Jerusalem!" retorted the scalawag "Lets get back to the subject."
"Jess so! Jess so!" exclaimed Joshua, laughing, "yu sees yu's dun und kotched, und yu aims to drap back in de convenshun agen."
"We pay one dollar in gold and a jug of whisky to every Laflin man that votes with us. Do you hear?" observed the scalawag.
"Now yer is er a gettin down to de pint," exclaimed the negro smiling. "Is yer man agwine to git lected?"
"Certainly, certainly, sir."
"Dats all right, den, when dos I git de munny und de sperrits, fore I wotes ur arterwurds?" asked Joshua dubiously.
"We don't pay in advance," replied the scalawag.
"Don't, hey?" exclaimed Joshua.
"Well Laflin], he do, und I mout wote fore I git de pay, und yer man mout not git lected, den my wote wud be flung away, und de munny und de sperrits too, dats de pint. Yer see, boss," Joshua continued argumentatively, "us franksized woters is bleeged to make er leetle kalkerlashun und den ef we gits disappinted its kase de white fokses obersizes de niggers. Don't yer see how de cat is agwine to jump, boss?" he whispered confidentially, "yer mout put de spirits in de jimmyjon now, und I mout take a drap ur too fore I wotes und yer mout hold back de munny twelt yer man is lected; how dos dat do?"
"All right," announced the scalawag. "You come with me." And old Joshua in his "hop, step and go fetchit" way followed the politician until he brought up squarely against one of Laflin's lieutenants, who took him savagely by the limp paper collar.
"Wher's yer agwine lak a struttin turkey gobbler, wid dat white man, yer fool nigger? Don't yer know dat ar white trash will put yer back in slabery?"
The rival candidates were running for the legislature. On one side of the court house square were aligned the adherents of Laflin, the carpet-bagger; on the other side the adherents of Hale the scalawag. Each was haranguing the black sovereigns of the South—men who in other fields had toiled ever so hard for their country, but whose hands were unskilled, and whose minds were untutored in this the grandest of human endeavors—the building up of an immense superstructure that shall stand "four square to all the winds that blow."
Each candidate had his claquers, slipping into rough, horny hands the paper representative ofmanhood, intellectual, patriotic manhood—manhood compromised by no overt act of treason.
Every star and every stripe upon that magnificent banner just overhead accentuated the fact that in devious wanderings over blood stained battle fields, fire scathed villages, homes and plantations it had followed manhood suffrage as faithfully as it did the tithing agent throughout the South. Suspended above the heads of the free men, across the street, was this blood-red warning "No man shall vote here who followed Lee and Jackson." Vain delusion; as if there could be treason under that flag; or traitors lurking in its shadows like mad Malays! Stranger still, that the dust of Jackson should re-animate hearts that had been broken in a catastrophe, too terrible to be uttered by patriots. Strangest of all, that living heroes should gather at a banquet where toasts were spoken in frantic curses of the brave by fanatics! To the right were barrels of whiskey on tap; to the left were huge piles of yellow tickets with appropriate devices upon them; and to the front waved over a bloodless conquest the "Star Spangled banner," just as triumphantly as it did at the head of the charging battalions of Lee and Jackson in Mexico, just as proudly as when the Southern cross yielded its sovereignty upon the ill-starred field of Appomattox. Crimsoned to a deeper blush to-day methinks because it is made to dishonor Lee and Jackson, who shall live forever in the pantheon of history—as men worthy of emulation, as heroes whose fame is already written upon amaranthine tablets.
"Who sees them act but envies every deed—Who hears them groan and does not wish to bleed;Great men struggling with the storms of state,And greatly fallen with a falling state."
"Who sees them act but envies every deed—Who hears them groan and does not wish to bleed;Great men struggling with the storms of state,And greatly fallen with a falling state."
"Welcome, my son, here lay him down, my friends,Full in my sight, that I may view at leisureThe bloody corse and count those glorious wounds.How beautiful is death when earned by virtue."
"Welcome, my son, here lay him down, my friends,Full in my sight, that I may view at leisureThe bloody corse and count those glorious wounds.How beautiful is death when earned by virtue."
About high noon Joshua, with his old beaver caved in on both sides and one skirt of his blue coat torn away, was seen to oscillate, as it were, betwixt the whiskey barrel on the Laflin side and the rum barrel on Hales' side, and doubtless, so far as his vote was concerned, preserving a strict neutrality, that is to say, in the plantation language of the old negro, "Bress de Lawd, I was so flushtrated wid dat meextry o' rum und sperrits dat I flung in six wotes fur de cyarpet-sacker und er eben haf dozen fur de scalyhorg." The result officially declared, made the agreement between Joshua and Hales' manager about the payment of money "arter yo man is dun und lected" a nude pact.
Laflin was nominated, and in his address to his constituents flattered himself that the nomination came unsought and with practical unanimity.
"Our enemies," said he, "shall feel our power, and you will be asked to co-operate in such manner as will place you above them in this government. Can I depend on you?"
"Dat yer kin!" came from a hundred throats. "Hurrah for de boss! He is de ginrul fur dis kentry, und he will lick out de white trash! Yes siree!"
Such were the exclamations that deafened the ear and horrified the sense. Joshua was too drunk to be offensively partisan. He lay in the street waving his old beaver hat and hurrahing the best he could for Laflin, as he held on to "de jimmyjon," and singing in a drunken, maudlin way—
"Dis jug lak a ribber is er flowin,Und I don't keer how fast it flows on boys, on;While de korn in de low groun is er growin,Und dis mouf ketch de stuff as it runs."
"Dis jug lak a ribber is er flowin,Und I don't keer how fast it flows on boys, on;While de korn in de low groun is er growin,Und dis mouf ketch de stuff as it runs."
When Joshua got home next morning the sun was blazing like a great ball of fire from the mid-heavens. Both skirts of his old blue coat were gone. His old beaver was flopping and hung limp and crownless over his right eye, and his old wife paused in her work in her garden to observe the dilapidated negro as he approached his cabin. She could hear him muttering to himself, "Talk erbout de niggers ergwine ter de conwenshun, und er runnin dis here kentry, und er gittin de eddykashun und er bossin de white fokeses, ef ennybody is er mint ter gin me wun dollar fer my pribileges, I'm ergwine ter sell out, und I mout tak pay in Federic munny."
"Ergwine ter sell out, is yer!" exclaimed Hannah with a grunt.
Joshua looked up startled, and pushing the broken brim of his old hat from his eyes, he saw it was Hannah who had interrupted his soliloquy, and she continued in ridicule, "Yu is too brash, Joshaway; yer mout git ter be presydent, den yer cud git er cote wid two skurts to hit. Yu keep er wotin und er wotin, und bimeby yu is ergwine ter be wun ob dem Mishunary possels wid whings, same ez er blue herron."
Joshua saw that his wife was making him ridiculous, and he slunk away into the old cabin and fell asleep upon the rickety bed.
The patriotic men of the South who had so valorously insisted upon their rights throughout the deadly passage at arms, felt that now the war was over, that the country should settle down on the great common principle of the constitution—the principle that had triumphed in 1780. They had an intuitive abhorrence to confiding extravagant power in the hands of the corrupt and ignorant. They could not understand how the Union could be preserved by the annexation of eleven conquered provinces, and asked themselves the question, "Will not the light of these eleven pale stars be totally obscured by a central sun blighting and destroying every germ of constitutional liberty?" The Union, said they, was safe in the hands of President Lincoln. Rome was safe when Cincinnatus was called from the plow, but she was torn asunder by the wars of Scylla and Marius, and history is more or less a repetition of itself.
Despite the catastrophe that overlaid the South because of the unhappy issue of the war; the gravity of which enemies, both domestic and foreign, have scandalized by calling it "rebellion," despite the fact that disbanded forces were still prosecuting their conquests, not against disciplined armies in the field, but against men, women and children, in the lawful pursuit of peace and happiness, with a vengeance hourly reinforced by new resources and fresh horrors, and with a terror that mastered our fettered souls; our people felt that there was at least one refuge from the blast of the tornado—stilla sheltering rock to which they could flee from the cruel cloud-burst.
In passing the eye rapidly over the outline of the circumstances in which persecution originated; in reviewing the cause that unsettled the deep foundations of social life, the southern people felt that there were hallowed spots of ground so strongly buttressed in the hearts of the people that the violence of the storm could not rustle a leaf or shake a twig; that these consecrated precincts they could lawfully appropriate, and as to this claim, the carpet-baggers with all their hosts of misrule had the honor, magnanimity and mercy to forget, forgive and forbear. Here at least there could be no intrusion, because the baser passions were fenced upon the outside; and amid this sad continuity of graves the heart would be uplifted in gratitude to God, who in his great mercy had given to the nineteenth century and to the South, such undying examples of patriotism and valor. Here lie the bones of men who dared to say, when the political system of the South was strangely inverted, that it was such a menace to southern institutions that it could not go unchallenged; a palpaple violation of the public faith. To what other convulsions and changes are we predestined? they asked. Shall we leave our character, our civilization, our very being to the unresisted assault and prepare such an epitaph for our tombs? Shall we declare ourselves outlawed from the community of nations? "Nay, war rather to the cost of the last dollar, and slaughter of the last man." Such was the sentiment of the men who sleep so peacefully in these graves. Such was the sentiment of the men, women and children, who to-day stand over these graves to honor the brave, and to reproduce a fresh page in history, and lay it reverently by in our southern Valhalla.
Col. Seymour was the orator of the day. "Stonewall Jackson," his old commander, the subject, and his friends, Judge Bonham and the ex-governor honored auditors. The old governor, whitelocked and furrowed, in introducing the orator observed with a proper decorum. "For what Stonewall Jackson and his brave men did, we have no apologies to make here or elsewhere. I had rather wear here," said he, striking his aged breast, "a scar from the victorious field of Manassas, than the jewelled star of St George, or the Victorian Cross."
I can reproduce in a fragmentary way parts of the patriotic address which I herein give to the reader, to show that there was "life in the old land yet."
"My Comrades, Ladies and Gentlemen:
"My Comrades, Ladies and Gentlemen:
"One year ago to-day, with the reverence of a pilgrim, I stood by the grave of Stonewall Jackson; and I remembered that every battle order he ever wrote, every victory he ever won, was a thank offering to the christian's God.
"I thought, too, of the thousand highways that rayed out from citadels of oppression, barricaded with human bones. I thought of the seas of human slaughter, whose redundant tides flowed on and on as libations upon the altars of ambition.
"I saw as it were the faded crowns and the crumbling thrones of dead despots, who once girdled the earth with a cincture of fire, and marked its boundaries with the sword, writing again their achievements where mankind might read and wonder.
"I saw again the accusing throngs of pensioned widows from the Moselle, the Rhine, the Danube, the Nile, and wherever else the scarlet standards of fanaticism flaunted their challenge, hastening to record their anguish, where the tyrants had memorialized their deeds.
"I saw everywhere the badges of speculative knavery, of incorrigible wrong; Cossacks all, who knew no law but force, and no patriotism but greed.
"I thought of the Spaniard, riding to the stirrup-leather in the blood of babes in the Netherlands; of the Hun and his proclamation 'beauty and booty,' and I thought of the angel of God's mercy proclaiming an armistice; giving a refreshing peace to the saturated earth after these monsters were dead, and I bowed with a profounder reverence at this hallowed grave in the valley of Virginia.
"I thought then of Alcibiades at Abydos; of Alexander at Issus; of Scipio at Zama; of Hannibal at Cannae; of Pompey at Pharsalia; of Cæsar at the Rubicon; of Napoleon at Marengo; and I thought, as Vattel thought, that warriors such as these failed to prosecute the rights of their countrymen by force.
"I thought of the keen blade of the assassin that cut in twain the heart of Alcibiades; of the dagger of Brutus; of the murder of Clitus; of the hemlock; of the suicide's sword at Thrapsus; of the assassination at Miletus; of the fifth paragraph in the will of Napoleon; and then I thought of the bleeding earth these warriors had scarified and scourged, until they were drunken with excess of human slaughter; and then I looked back over the tide of centuries for a single example of disinterested patriotism, and I bowed my head once more to hear a protest from principalities in their orphanage, and commonwealths in their sorrow.
"I thought again of Jackson, as he knelt in prayer, when the great guns were signaling the issue of battle, as with hands uplifted to heaven he was supplicating his Father to guide and guard his poor country in her sore hour of travail, and I thought ifthere were a Pericles somewhere, who from the foot of our American Acropolis would sound his fame, the 'bloody chasm' would be bridged by a single span.
"A little more than three years ago, by the violation of a plain order, the tears of a nation, magnanimous and patriotic, rained down upon and extinguished almost the last camp fire of Gen. Robert E. Lee. Within that short period events, like chasing shadows, both clouded and glorified the perspective of history. Within a like period of time this great country, by a vigorous discipline, has completely obliterated lines and boundaries that once circumscribed the ambition of men. A trifling order methinks of Jackson, but it cancelled our charter of freedom, it rendered a nude pact our declaration of independence. It was only the nod of the head of an unlettered peasant at Hougomont, but it sent somersaulting into the sunken road of Ohain the steel clad cuirassiers of Napoleon the great; dipped the imperial purple starred with bees, into the silt of the English channel, and paragraphed the capitulation of Paris with the civil death of the great emperor. Such are some of the pivots upon which great crises rotate.
Forty eight years after the Scotch-Greys pierced the uplifted visors of the old guard, there glided down the echoing corridors of time this sententious order; "Shoot down without halting the man who dares to cross the lines to-night."
The catastrophe that rode as a courier upon the flank of this order, hacked the sword, unnerved the arm that was carving out of a heart of fire a civilization whose altars and whose shrines were relumed by the torch of liberty; but the God of battles, amid the carnage, called a halt. It was a night of exasperation, of despair. Ten million people watched, as watchers never watched before,the last flickering of a life that laid down its all, at the altar of love and duty. Those ten million people kept their vigil like vestal virgins, and saw, alas, the frenzied spirit of hate and wrath snuff out the candle and heard the groans of the victim of his own blunder, as he cried out in his delirium, "Let us cross over the river and rest under the shade of the trees."
There has been now and again an illustrious personage, who appears to us to have been mirrored upon the foreground of events like some titanic silhouette. The irony of fate has dealt with such a man, as the creature of an hour, holding him in thrall in time of peace, to become the storm spirit in some great crisis. When he dies the face of history is saddened and obscured, and a twilight like that observed under Southern skies, falls upon the world. Such a person may be fitly called the courier of fate; or better still, the tragedian of revolution. He cannot be weighed or measured by the definitive judgment of contemporaries. When he dies the stride of conquest is checked; sword blades dripping with human blood are thrust back into scabbards. In war, he is its inspiration; its providence.
I make no allusion just now to that splendid effigy that is yet discerned in the haze that lowers over Vienna, Berlin and Moscow; that incomprehensible tutor of strategic science, who with sword and cannon cut a red swath through the capital cities of Europe; and partitioned the world into two dominions, as if he were only dividing in twain an apple. I speak not of him, whom this man that "embarrassed God," found a waif, and made a giant, whose death hastened to its decline that splendid imperialism that the great Napoleon erected on the ruins of the commune.
The fall of Stonewall Jackson at Chancellorsvillethrust betwixt the Confederacy and independence a pall so dense, that it could not be cut asunder with the sword.
I can compare Stonewall Jackson with no hero, living or dead. He stood in the foreground an unique personality—a phenomenon. With the genius of war he appeared almost supernaturally mated. Whether his unparalleled victories were the result of combinations essentially tactical, of methods logically conceived, or of an intuition that almost without arrangement forced its power upon vast evolutions, will perhaps never be known.
The plain profile of this man reminds one of the hard-hitting, rough-riding Roundhead. His dispatches smacked of the Calvinism of Ireton and Cromwell. "God blessed our arms at McDowell yesterday." Wherever there was a downpour of leaden rain Jackson and the "Ironsides" would have been in accord. His was the spirit that resolved combinations in his favor. His masterly apprehension of issues diminished the carnage by plucking the fruit before it was fully ripe. In war as elsewhere he was absorbed by a fatalism, such as Mohammedans sum up when they say "What is to be, will be." Napoleon, like an astrologer, believed in a star; Jackson, unlike an astrologer, believed in Him who made the star and lighted it in the candelabra of night.
A few years ago an American asked a halting, mutilated soldier of the Old Guard to tell him how Napoleon died? "The great Emperor dead! He will not die," was the sententious answer from the man who had fought under the shadow of his eagles at Wagram and Marengo. It was with something of this vague, indefinable superstition, of this heroic belief in "Old Stonewall" as their providence that one of the "Old Brigade" would hearkendubiously to such a challenge, "Tell us how Stonewall Jackson died?"
Critics who have judged with more or less asperity have said that his capacity as a commander was limited to the manoeuvres of a corps. Strange fatuity! A score of battle fields prove the opinion false. If such had been the case, the history of Port Republic, Harper's Ferry, Groveton and Winchester would have been written the other way.
I saw this imperturbable man at Cold Harbor. Again he reminded one of the "predestined" leader of the Ironsides. "If the enemy stand at sunset, press them with the bayonet." All commands issuing from him found their climax in this supreme order. The hero of Toulon never caressed the fire throated 12 pounder more ardently than did Jackson. He would have swept every obstruction from the field with a single battery, or failing in this would have "pressed" them with the bayonet. His camp fires are now extinguished. The old army of the Shenandoah is an aggregation of phantoms. Winchester, Port Royal, Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville appear as mirage reminiscences rather, that steal unbidden upon the soul when its depths are full of darkness and shadows.
"We walk to-day listlessly over the great, rough, heroic life of Stonewall Jackson, but on either side of us are monuments and memorials to his renown ever brightening to a higher luster.
It is a stern business, this going to war. Reconciliation is problematical, more frequently impossible. The public pulse in 1861 was intensely excited. One boastingly said upon one side that all the blood that would be spilt, could be wiped up with a silk handkerchief. Another on the other side with equal bravado answered that he would live to call the roll of his slaves from the foot ofBunker Hill, and thus there was boast and badinage until the "Anaconda" turned his many-hued scales to the sun on the 21st of July, 1861.
The scene from the northern point of view was exceedingly dramatic—a magnificent host all in tinsel—a composite picture of carnival and war. A flash, as of gunpowder; a blazing up as of dry heath; a shout ever so frightful, and half infernal, and the whole universe seemed wrapt in flame and wild tumult. But the fire has died out; tumultuous passion is allayed; the old South with its mountains and glades, rivers and valleys, the stars above its sodden ground beneath, is still there.
"Jackson believed in the southern cause, as if it had been a revelation from God. Cromwell said, 'Let us obey God's will' while he whetted his sword blade to drink the slaughter of women, and nursing babes at Drogheda. Jackson said, 'Let us obey God's will,' whilst bringing to the altar the offering of universal emancipation.
"Jackson believed that the war of invasion was a heartless crusade against mankind and womankind, and the civilization of the South, and the higher law proclamation was the aftermath of the pernicious broadcasting of seed sown by Horace Greely, Gerritt Smith, and Joshua R. Giddings. The old stubble required to be ploughed under, said they; unhappily in seeding the ground they scattered here and there dragons' teeth and forthwith there sprang up armed men.
"Jackson believed that the 'Grand army' in holiday attire, with flaunting banners and careering squadrons, were an aggregation of iconoclasts, fierce destroyers of images, creeds, institutions, traditions, homes, country. So believed he when the 'Anaconda' with panting sides drew back to strike.
"Man to man, bayonet to bayonet, cannon to cannon,bosom to bosom, here was challenged the asserted right of coercion, of frenzy against frenzy, patriotism, anger, vanity, hope, dispair; each facing and meeting the other like dark clashing whirlwinds."
Hither sped Jackson with the swoop of the eagle, down the valley from Gordonsville to fresher carnage, to a bloodier banquet. Hither he came with as high a resolve as ever animated Peter the Hermit, to plant upon the sand dunes of Palestine the fiery cross; whether right or wrong, cannot now be known. The formula by which he may be judged is yet undiscovered.
Eleven o'clock, twelve o'clock, and Jackson with folded arms, occupies the plateau near the "Henry House." Just beyond is a dark confused death wrestle. Forty thousand athletes against eighty thousand athletes; two hundred odd iron throats perpetually vomiting an emetic of death.
Hope within him burns like a freshly lighted fagot. There is a quiver in the hardened nerves; the old sun-scorched cap is in his hand; the lips are slightly parted; the order given, and the 'old Stonewall Brigade' is hurled like an immense projectile upon ranks of human flesh. There is a halt, a recoil; cannon spit out their fire, their hail, their death upon bosoms bared to the shock. 'There stands Jackson like a Stonewall.' Under that name he was baptized with blood at Manassas. Everywhere that faded coat and tarnished stars were the oriflame of battle and the old brigade followed them as if they had been the white plume of Navarre.
This incomparable leader never failed in a single battle from the day when with 2800 men at Kernstown he held in check 20,000 men and covered the retreat of the army from Centreville to Manassas, where he cut their communications anddecoyed their columns into the iron jaws of Longstreets reserves. Such achievements were not accidental. No manoeuvre could mislead the clear judgment that presided serenely in that soul of fire. It is not too much to say that the conqueror of Port Republic was an overmatch in strategy and technique of war for his opponents.
He's in the saddle, now fall in—Steady! the whole brigade!Hill's at the ford cut off; he'll winHis way out with ball and blade.What matter if our shoes are worn—What matter if our feet are torn—The foe had better ne'er been bornThat gets in Stonewall's way.
He's in the saddle, now fall in—Steady! the whole brigade!Hill's at the ford cut off; he'll winHis way out with ball and blade.
What matter if our shoes are worn—What matter if our feet are torn—The foe had better ne'er been bornThat gets in Stonewall's way.
There were other attractions there, too; flower girls had brought hither, not the funereal cypress and willow, but bright and beautiful carnations and violets, and streaming about the heads of the throngs were battle flags, torn and tattered—almost shredded by shot and shell—cross-barred with blue, with pale white stars like enameled lilies peeping out of the azure ground. Lifeless eyes and voiceless lips now, had cheered these flags with the same joy that once greeted the eagles of Napoleon. Withered skeleton hands now, had borne them at the head of charging squadrons and battalions, the guidons of victorious armies—the guerdon of a nation's trust and faith. If out of the cold, dead white stars could come again the old gleam of light as it lighted up the line of direction over the mountain passes of Virginia and the valley of the Shenandoah, what a halo of glory would encircle Winchester and Gordonsville and Chantilly! how dramatic the narrative; how truthful the history; how inspiring the reminiscence; how fully and completely vindicated the Old South—the lostcause! But there is no light in the stars, and the broad bands of blue upon the blood-red field are disfiguring scars upon the face of an incident long since closed, and closed forever, full of tragedy and patriotism.
The old Governor was exceedingly complimentary towards his old friend, Colonel Seymour, "for his patriotic address," and very cordially invited him to visit him at his home.
Alice had formed new acquaintances, and Clarissa too had honored this most interesting occasion with her presence. She had carried a basketful of flowers that had been carefully plucked and assorted by her young mistress, and with very tender hands Alice had placed them in a stone urn at the foot of a grave that seemed to have been more profusely decorated than the others. Indeed, it was the grave of the soldier boy who had been the first to fall in the terrible holocaust of war.
"Miss Alice," Clarissa asked quite feelingly, "Haint yu dun und fotched back to yo membrunce dis here po sojer boy dat fout in de battle of Manassy, und was brung back home to pine away und die? Me und yu seed him arter he got home, und hit made my flesh creep und crawl lak katterpillers when I seed how de yankeys had mommucked up dat po chile. Dare wus wun arm all twisted kattykornered twell you couldn't tell pine-plank whedder it growed wid de fingers pinted disserway or datterway, und den dare wus er hole in de buzzum dat yu cud farely see de daylight on de tother side. Grate king! De yankeys mouter shot dat po chile wid a steer kyart; he wus de wustest lookin' humans I eber seed in my born days, und he wus de onliest chile of his po mammy. Dare's her grabe too. Dare day lay side by side, und de Lord in hebben only knows what day's dun und sed erbout dis here war up yander. I'm ergwine ter vstrow dese lillies o' de walley on boff on em. Po fings, I hopes und prays day has dun und gon froo de purly gates whey dare aint no war, nur tribulation of sperrets nudder." And the old negro knelt reverently at the graves and placed the white flowers upon them. As she rose from the solemn service she said feelingly to her young mistress, "Pend upon it, missis, sumbody's bleeged to suffer fer all dis gwines on epseps dare aint no troof in proverdense nur grace nudder. Miss Alice, bress yer life, Gord aint ergwine ter suffer his people ter be mommucked up in no sich er fashion. Now dar is dat po 'oman lying out dare; ef de yankeys hadn't kilt her onliest son, she would be right here ergwine erbout spreddin flowers on de grabes o' dese po sojers, und she'd er heerd ole marser a speechifying to all dese fokeses."
Alice was not in the humor to indulge Clarissa in further observations. She was thinking of a grave over yonder in old Virginia, and wondering if some fair hand was not arranging the flowers and tenderly placing them upon the grave of her boy lover.
The setting sun was shooting little slivers of gold from its beautiful disc all around the cemetery, and the shadows from magnolias and weeping willows were deepening and darkening all the while, when the Colonel, his daughter and Clarissa drove home in the old barouche, tired out with the fatigue incident to the day and its burdens.
The lights were burning with a soft glow one night in the mansion when the announcement was made by Clarissa that a gentleman stood without, desiring an audience with the old master. The gentleman introduced himself as Mr. Summers (half apologetically), a reconstructed rebel. There was a moment's pause in which, by the shimmer of the lighted lamps, Colonel Seymour saw that the visitor was quite an elderly man, without beard and with soft white hair. His address was easy and insinuating. He was neatly clad in black cloth, and impressed Colonel Seymour as being a man of affairs. Together they entered the library, the Colonel observing that he conducted all business transactions in that particular room just now. Considering the unusual hour at which the visitor had arrived, in connection with the unpleasant incidents of a quite eventful day, there was nothing reassuring in the visit: the times were critical, to say the least, and his own situation so entirely defenceless, that he felt as if "vigilance was truly the price of liberty." So he addressed the stranger in a manner quite emphatic—
"May I enquire, sir, to what circumstance I am indebted for the honor of this visit?"
"Why, certainly, sir," replied the bland stranger. "But will you permit me first to ask after your health and that of your family? How are you, sir?"
"My family—that is my wife—is quite unwell, sir. She has been an invalid for many weeks, andI fear there is no possible hope of her recovery," said the Colonel.
"Ah, that distresses me greatly; perhaps her condition is not so bad as you fear. May I ask after your health, sir?"
The Colonel hesitated for a moment, and then observed, deliberately, "Physically, I am quite well, sir."
"Did I not see you, sir, when we were re-crossing the Potomac on our mad flight from Gettysburg at the lower ford?" enquired the stranger.
"Mad flight!" echoed the veteran with ill-concealed wrath. "Have you such a conception of the orderly retreat of our great army without the loss of a gun and without the capture of a man, as to characterize it as a mad flight? Were you a Confederate soldier, sir, and do you insult my intelligence, my loyalty, yea, my bravery, sir, by this challenged inquiry?"
"My dear sir, if the statement pains you I will recall it instantly. Pray excuse me. I was Major of the 7th Virginia Cavalry, and as the army halted at the ford I saw an officer, a Colonel, who was badly wounded and who with great difficulty sat his horse on that occasion. I now see that the officer whom I then saw is the gentleman I now address, and I heartily crave your pardon for the rash expression."
"Very well, then," replied the Colonel. "We are Confederate soldiers again, and will make our future assaults upon the enemy, if you please, and not upon Lee's army, that whipped the enemy at Gettysburg; yes, sir, whipped them and fell back, sir, because our base of supplies was menaced by the flooding of the Potomac, sir," fairly hissed the old man in great excitement.
"My dear sir, why this excessive warmth?" cried the stranger; "I am sure we understand each other;but, my dear sir, the war is over—why make imaginary assaults upon an imaginary enemy? We are entirely in accord. We entered the army because we then believed we were right, and—"
"Knew it, sir, knew it, and know it now, sir, know it now, sir," fiercely interrupted the Colonel.
"Will you allow me to ask, my dear sir, do you recall those events with any degree of pleasure?" asked the stranger.
"Yes, and no. When I realize that then and now, the enemy with unbounded resources was eternally casting into the vat of pernicious fermentation every act, thought and suggestion that was doubtful in interpretation, and brewing a concoction as nauseous as the black vomit of the red harlot herself, and eructating it upon us—the recollection is painful; but when I remember that every sword thrust into their vitals was the act of a patriot, I delight to recall events that crowned the old South with undying glory."
"Allow me one other observation, if you please," asked the stranger in a tentative way. "Admittedly the South was right, but, my dear sir, do you think it possible that men like yourself who gallantly fought for a cause they sincerely believed to be just may not impress their individuality upon an era that promises so much for the betterment of our condition as a people?"
"Barely possible, I imagine," replied the Colonel.
"Are you inclined to favor a proposition that has in contemplation the election of negroes to office."
"No sir; such a proposition, in my opinion, would be so abhorrent to our ideals of sovereignty that I should consider myself a traitor to the South and her people. Should I endorse such a proposition, it would be an act of self degradation."
"But, my dear sir," argued the stranger, "you will pardon me if I should say that every man must look out for his own safety. Patriotism to a great extent, is a matter of sentiment, and a great man once said 'It is the last refuge of a scoundrel.' You of course will not yield to such an interpretation, nor would I ask you to do so, but, sir, we must let the dead past bury its dead. We must live in the present, and we must as skilled architects build for future generations a superstructure that shall challenge the admiration of men yet unborn."
"That is to say, if I understand you," interrupted the Colonel, "you propose to inoculate the South with the poison of your infamous reconstruction policy, to engraft upon our institutions a new and dangerous character, and besides other atrocious enormities to establish the spoils principle—its temptation to licentiousness—the watchword to animate your corrupt followers to a savage and unscrupulous warfare, sparing neither sex nor age, practicing every species of fraud and hypocrisy, confounding right and wrong, and robbing the innocent and virtuous of their only treasure, their manhood and womanhood. What is your proposition, sir," he exclaimed vehemently, "but a proclamation to the venal and depraved to rally to the standard of a chief, who, like the leader of an army of bandits, points to our God-forsaken country, and says to your plunderers, 'This shall be the reward of victory.' This is no exageration, sir; disguise it as you may, your proposition leads to brigandage and ruin."
"But, my dear sir," replied the stranger, "you have so disarmed me by your arguments that I fear my mission to you will be without avail—will you allow me to proceed, sir? We deplore the fact, sir, that our most virtuous men are stillbraving the dangers they might, with a little circumspection avoid; still plunging headlong, as it were into great heated furnaces whose doors are open to receive them."
"How would you advise, sir, that we can protect ourselves, so we will not be utterly consumed, but only roasted here and there" asked the Colonel epigrammatically.
"Ah, you trifle with serious matters" replied the white haired stranger. "There is one way, sir, and one way only—adopt this, sir, and the country will honor you with its blandishments. Take the tide at its flood, and co-operate patriotically with those who are enforcing manhood suffrage without respect to educational or property qualifications, and the suffrages of the adult freemen, white and black, will be cast for you for congress."
"Ah, a tempting bait," exclaimed the Colonel, "but it has a rancid negroish scent, and the hook is too sharp—too sharp sir. Do you intend to do this thing?" continued the Colonel interrogatively.
"Assuredly, sir," the stranger replied, with might and main.
"Then sir," shouted the indignant man, "this interview ends now."
"One more word," pleaded the stranger, "and I have done—please bear with me a moment. The Central Executive Committee, of which I am a member, feeling their great need of your invaluable services have commissioned me to make known to you their earnest desire, that you will accept a nomination, from the party, for Congress upon the reform platform."
"You mean your ultra radical platform," suggested the Colonel.
"No, not exactly that," replied the stranger, "they desire further, if however you will not accept,that you will submit your views upon the perplexing subject of negro or manhood suffrage."
"And you are sure your committee will act upon suggestions from me?" he asked.
"I am quite sure they will," answered Mr. Summers.
"Then, sir, please ask your committee, as a special request from John W. Seymour, to put the negroes to work upon the farms; and the carpet-baggers out of the state, and hang the scalawags by the neck until they are dead, dead, dead, sir."
"Tut, tut, tut," exclaimed the old man excitedly, "you are beside yourself. Remember, my dear sir, that you are sowing the wind, and by and by strangers will reap the whirlwind. Good night, Colonel Seymour, I hope you will think better of the matter.
As the white haired stranger passed out of the door, Clarissa, who was closing it after him, enquired of her old master, "Mars Jon, what nice farderly ole man was dat ole gemmen? he peared lak he wus mity sorrowful. Iseed him put his handkercher to his face lak he mout be weepin; what did yer say to him, ole marser, dat upsot him so bad?"
"Without deigning a reply Col. Seymour enquired of Clarissa what the shouting and halloing at her house last night meant?"
"Did yer heer dat racket Mars Jon? I spected yer wus asleep. Twant nuffin epceps Ned und Joshaway er cuttin up der shines. Dem niggers been to town und cum bak drunk as horgs in de mash tub und sed how dat dey had jined de milintery cumpny, und was agwine to clur up de po white trash in de kentry, fo und aft; when yer hurd dem dey wus er hollern to Ellik how dat de boss sed dat dey mout go to de town und draw delan und de mule und de penshun, dat dey wus agwine to git dern nex Saddy. Lans sake, ole Marser, I specks we's agwine to have orful times in dis kentry—de niggers turned loose lak blaten sheepses er shullikin und a pilfern erbout ebery which a way. Ole fokses used to say dat when de tip eend ob de moon wus rite red lak, dat yer mout look out fur wars und yurthshaks too, und I seed dat ur site las nite 'twixt midnite und day und it fotched what de ole fokses sed rite back to my member'nce. I'd hate powerful to see any udder bellion in dis lan, dat I would. Not ef day is ergwine to shoot steerkyarts und wheel-barrers clean froo our federick sojers, lak dey dun de last time. Grate king, Mars Jon, what sorter ammynishun did dem dare yankeys shoot outen dare kannons ennyhow? Frum de way our po sojers wuz tore to pieces, dey put me in membrunce of ambylances, und powerful big wuns at dat; Grate king! I natally heers dare po flesh er sizzing dis minnit. Is you sho ole marser dat de good Lord is ergwine to fetch all dem arms und legs und heds togedder, eend fur eend at de resurreckshun, so our sojers is ergwine to know pine plank which is dere'n, und dey drifted disserway und datterway in de cornfields of Manassy und Chuckkermorger und de Bulls Run? Grate king!"
Contemporaneously with the coming of the troubles that were well nigh overwhelming the old veteran and his beautiful daughter, the death of the wife and mother came as it were the knell of doom—the giving away of the last arch in the compact fabric of human life, the snapping of the last filament in the web of destiny—the leaking of the last drop of oil from the broken cruse. With her, the heart could be nerved to extraordinary endeavor; with her, ever so many bright colors could be painted upon the angry horizon; with her, thesunset heavens would diffuse a glamour, all radiant and glorious, as if the angels were kissing its banners into crimson and with deft fingers were garnishing the leaky clouds with prismatic hues; with her, the little birds upon sportive pinions would syllable their songs into the dialect of love. But she was passing away—passing away like the shadowy vapor that clings for a moment to the mountain's crest, like the resplendent star that shimmers more beautifully as it is dipping its disc below the western verge, and bids us good night—like the breath of the crushed flower that exhales its aroma for a moment, and is gone. Passing away from a home that is darkened by shadows, passing away from the hearts that are consumed into dead white ashes.
What black stygian waters were rushing vehemently against the fretted casements of these poor souls. Ties that are sundering here are binding into a glorious sheaf loves and affections up yonder, as imperishable as God's great throne. Passing away from the frigid griefs that are soon to environ old Ingleside, when the blood in its channels is to pause in its circulation, when a negro, vile and savage lacerates the dear, dear face of her beautiful daughter, and her precious blood follows the thorns. Passing away before the proud head of her noble husband is bowed in ignominy, when the shackles of a felon encircle arms—enslave hands that never struck a blow, except for his bleeding country. Passing away to plead in her own glorified person to a merciful Father to speedily unite the three in the realm of joy, where there are no shadows and no griefs.
Poor Alice knew as by revelation that the lifeless form before which she was kneeling and weeping was not her mother. Oh, what a royal welcome, what a banqueting upon love there will beby and by, when the terrors of the horrid reconstruction shall so chill her young blood that it will cease to flow, by and by, beyond the sighing and the weeping.
Tenderly, yea reverently, the body was placed into the casket and removed to the parlor, just under the portrait of her dear soldier boy who went to heaven from the gory field of Manassas. Friends had gathered into the room and the man of God read from the blessed Book, "I am the resurrection and the life." The solemn discourse was almost concluded when ruffianly booted feet were heard in the verandah, and a loud knock was heard at the door. Armed, uniformed negroes had come—come like an Arctic gale, chilling and freezing heart and soul—with a mandate to snatch the living from the dead.
Laflin himself would not have pursued the poor wretch within the barred precincts of the sepulchre. The infidel powers of the East would have paused when they saw this "truce of God." But there was no order of adjournment in the message which they brought. "Forthwith" was the unequivocal command and "forthwith" was now. They had come to take the broken-hearted man, though he clung to the casket; come to prod him with bayonets if the rigid limbs did not respond quickly to the command, "Quick time—March!"
Once or twice, through sheer faint, the poor old man fell out of line and against a black guard who violently pushed him into line with the imprecation—
"D—n yu, git back inter yer place, er I'll stick my bagonet clar froo yer."
He was arraigned before three white men and four negroes, and in the presence of whom stood the white-haired stranger, Mr. Summers.
The Colonel did not clearly comprehend thecharacter of the accusation against him. He had been informed by no one except in a general way. Perhaps he would learn as he followed Mr. Summers in his address to this tribunal.
"Gentlemen," said Mr. Summers, continuing his speech, "whilst it was my plain duty to report upon the case of Colonel Seymour, I do so with the hope that he may be given a day to answer; indeed, gentlemen, I pray that you may not deal harshly with this old man, who is now in the sere and yellow leaf. You say that you will require him to turn his back upon the traditions of the past—upon the ancient landmarks; that he shall fraternize with our party, in fact become one of us, or his condition shall be made intolerable and his life burdensome. Spare the rod, gentlemen, for his sake and for the sake of his only child."
"What have you to say for yourself, sir," asked the chairman frigidly, addressing himself to Colonel Seymour.
"Sir, I am an old man. One more turn of your wheel—the tightening of the cord ever so slight—and a life worthless and burdensome will drop at your feet. The standard of truth, virtue and patriotism has bowed its once lofty crest, and is now prostrate in the dust. All that was beautiful and lovely in this land of our fathers is sinking, rotting, dying beneath the blight and mildew of your accursed lust of power. Why should I survive? My life, sir, is behind me. You ask me to be your slave. Sir, your bondage is inexorable—it is the life of an outlaw, a traitor, a felon. You ask me to be your friend, and I should consort with thieves; I should crucify every principle of a man. You ask me to be your candidate—my consent would be an act of stultification. Sir, against your savage principles I swear an eternal hatred and wage an interminable war."
The feeble old man sank back exhausted into his seat.
"We intend," exclaimed the chairman with great deliberation, "to scarify the old wounds of the rebels until they bleed afresh. Sixty days, sir, within which to prove your loyalty. You can retire sir."
Thus ran the order, marked with three blood-red stars. * * *