SPIRIT AND SIGNIFICANCE: A Memorial Day Address by a future President in 1868

SPIRIT AND SIGNIFICANCE

DECORATION DAY ADDRESS

BY JAMES A. GARFIELD

Extract from an Oration delivered at Arlington, Va.,

May 30, 1868

I am oppressed with a sense of the impropriety of uttering words on this occasion. If silence is ever golden, it must be here beside the graves of fifteen thousand men, whose lives were more significant than speech, and whose death was a poem, the music of which can never be sung. With words we make promises, plight faith, praise virtue. Promises may not be kept; plighted faith may be broken; and vaunted virtue be only the cunning mask of vice. We do not know one promise these men made, one pledge they gave, one word they spoke; but we do know they summed up and perfected, by one supreme act, the highest virtues of men and citizens. For love of country they accepted death, and thus resolved all doubts, and made immortal their patriotism and their virtue. For the noblest man that lives, there still remains a conflict. He must still withstand the assaults of time and fortune, must still be assailed with temptations, before which lofty natures have fallen; but with these the conflict ended, the victory was won, when death stamped on them the great seal of heroic character, and closed a record which years can never blot.

I know of nothing more appropriate on this occasion than to inquire what brought these men here; what high motive led them to condense life into an hour, and to crown that hour by joyfully welcoming death? Let us consider.

Eight years ago this was the most unwarlike nation of the earth. For nearly fifty years no spot in any of these states had been the scene of battle. Thirty millions of people had an army of less than ten thousand men. The faith of our people in the stability and permanence of their institutions was like their faith in the eternal course of nature. Peace, liberty, and personal security were blessings as common and universal as sunshine and showers and fruitful seasons ; and all sprang from a single source, the old American principle that all owe due submission and obedience to the lawfully expressed will of the majority. This is not one of the doctrines of our political system it is the system itself. It is our political firmament, in which all other truths are set, as stars in Heaven. It is the encasing air, the breath of the Nation's life. Against this principle the whole weight of the rebellion was thrown. Its overthrow would have brought such ruin as might follow in the physical universe, if the power of gravitation were destroyed, and

"Nature's concord broke,

Among the constellations war were sprung,
Two planets, rushing from aspect malign
Of fiercest opposition, in mid-sky
Should combat, and their jarring spheres confound."

The Nation was summoned to arms by every high motive which can inspire men. Two centuries of freedom had made its people unfit for despotism. They must save their Government or miserably perish.

As a flash of lightning in a midnight tempest reveals the abysmal horrors of the sea, so did the flash of the first gun disclose the awful abyss into which rebellion was ready to plunge us. In a moment the fire was lighted in twenty million hearts. In a moment we were the most warlike Nation on the earth. In a moment we were not merely a people with an army we were a people in arms. The Nation was in column not all at the front, but all in the array.

I love to believe that no heroic sacrifice is ever lost; that the characters of men are molded and inspired by what their fathers have done; that treasured up in American souls are all the unconscious influences of the great deeds of the Anglo-Saxon race, from Agincourt to Bunker Hill. It was such an influence that led a young Greek, two thousand years ago, when musing on the battle of Marathon, to exclaim, ' the trophies of Miltiades will not let me sleep!' Could these men be silent in 1861; these, whose ancestors had felt the inspiration of battle on every field where civilization had fought in the last thousand years? Read their answer in this green turf. Each for himself gathered up the cherished purposes of life its aims and ambitions, its dearest affections and flung all, with life itself, into the scale of battle.

And now consider this silent assembly of the dead. What does it represent? Nay, rather, what does it not represent? It is an epitome of the war. Here are sheaves reaped in the harvest of death, from every battlefield of Virginia. If each grave had a voice to tell us what its silent tenant last saw and heard on earth, we might stand, with uncovered heads, and hear the whole story of the war. We should hear that one perished when the first great drops of the crimson shower began to fall, when the darkness of that first disaster at Manassas fell like an eclipse on the Nation; that another died of disease while wearily waiting for winter to end; that this one fell on the field, in sight of the spires of Richmond, little dreaming that the flag must be carried through three more years of blood before it should be planted in that citadel of treason; and that one fell when the tide of war had swept us back till the roar of rebel guns shook the dome of yonder Capitol, and re-echoed in the chambers of the Executive Mansion. We should hear mingled voices from the Rappahannock, the Rapidan, the Chickahominy, and the James ; solemn voices from the Wilderness, and triumphant shouts from the Shenandoah, from Petersburg, and the Five Forks, mingled with the wild acclaim of victory and the sweet chorus of returning peace. The voices of these dead will forever fill the land like holy benedictions.

What other spot so fitting for their last resting place as this, under the shadow of the Capitol saved by their valor? Here, where the grim edge of battle joined; here, where all the hope and fear and agony of their country centered; here let them rest, asleep on the Nation's heart, entombed in the Nation's love!

The Unknown Dead: A Decoration Day address

The Unknown Dead
A Decoration Day address (1912) in Littleton, N.H.
by John Edgar Johnson. Capt. & A. Q. M., U. S. V.

The leading purpose for which the Grand Army was organized, as set forth in its first prospectus, was the annual decoration of the graves of Union Soldiers. No such organization had ever existed before, or could have existed before, for the simple reason that nowhere in history is there any record of soldiers having been carefully buried in separate graves, with head-stones to mark them, until the United States Government made such, provision for its fallen heroes in the War for the Union. All the soldiers of Alexander the Great; all the soldiers of Caesar; all of those of Charlemagne, and of Napoleon were buried in unknown graves. Three thousand of General Washington's soldiers died and were buried that winter at Valley Forge, but only two graves are now pointed out there, and one of these is of a commissioned officer and the other is of a dog. The round globe itself is a vast mausoleum to the Unknown Dead — and old ocean is another.

John Edgar Johnson

But at the close of our Civil War the National Government not only gathered upon the battlefields of the South the remains of all Northern soldiers that could be identified, and had them re-interred in various cemeteries reverently set apart for that purpose, but it also erected in the great cemetery at Arlington Heights, near Washington, a profoundly impressive monument to "The Unknown Dead," beneath which lie buried the miscellaneous remains, impossible of identification, of a great number of those who fell fighting for liberty and their native land.

I suppose it was that Memorial which suggested so many of a like character all over the country. Visitors at Arlington invariably stand with bowed head beside it, and the tears of a sympathetic nation have fallen here as scarcely anywhere else on the continent. It appeals to the pity and the pathos and the patriotism of the Nation.

And now I venture to call attention to a distinction, not too fine perhaps, which may be drawn between “nameless graves" and "unknown dead."

Uncertainty attaches itself more particularly to the living than it does to the dead. Death is revelation. At death the scales drop from our eyes. We leave our death-mask behind us when we pass out of the body. Yonder we stand exposed and confessed to ourselves, to our fellow-men and to our Creator.

We are sometimes asked if we believe we shall recognize our friends in another world. Why we are never sure of them until we get there.

A monument to an "Unknown God," or to "Unknown Friends," I can understand, but a monument to the "Unknown Dead" is a misnomer. What does it signify whether the dead are unknown to us or not. The sun in the heavens is unknown to a mole in your garden. Here we see through a glass darkly; yonder they see face to face. Here we know in part; there they know even as they are known. The things we now see are fleeting shadows; the things seen beyond the veil are the substantial facts and eternal verities of the universe.

We talk much, for instance, about the Grand Army. Where is it? Is this the Grand Army; this corporal's guard of old men who once a year feebly grope their way to the graves of their comrades all over the country to decorate them with flowers? Ah, no! They are the Rear Guard of a great host who have marched on ahead. The Grand Army has passed over. It has forded the river and pitched its tents on the grand camping grounds beyond the grave.

There is a pious legend of an old monk who, wasted by fasting, sought the chapel of his monastery one day late in Lent, and there, with others, engaged in meditations. The walls of the chapel were covered with frescoes illustrating its history from its foundation centuries before. Among the figures there were not a few of those who had fought the good fight of faith and purchased the halo of the saint.

Overcome by his austerities, the aged man half fainted; passed, in fact, into the state of coma. He seemed to himself to be disembodied. He saw his own figure and those of his companions around him, like so many marble statues fixed and lifeless, while the frescoed images on the walls appeared to be moving about and conversing with one another.

He was soon discovered in his swoon, and carried to his cell, where he was resuscitated.

Now on Decoration Day old soldiers "dream dreams and see visions." Everything inverts itself. The earth mirrors itself in the skies. The Grand Army is on high, looking down upon us. They are the living heroes, and we are the lifeless figures on the ground.

When, from time to time, the roll is called up yonder, they who are there are reckoned "present." We who are here are "absent" or "missing," or, perchance, we may be written down as of whereabouts unknown or as unaccounted for.

But we, too, are moving onward and upward. We shall soon join the main column.

And what a day it will be over there when the "last survivor," as we lifeless mortals sometimes foolishly phrase it, shall cross over, ascend the bank on the other side, and close the long roll call with his "Here!"

Will it be in the feeble squeaking voice of an old man — a Veteran — or will it be in trumpet tones, echoing and re-echoing along all the arches of the universe?

I love to think of this "last man," clad once more in immortal youth, mounting up on high, leading captivity captive, falling into line and filling the last gap in the serried ranks of the reunited Union Army. That will be a Reunion and Review the glory of which is beyond the power of the imagination to conceive.

What a scene it will be! All heaven will be there to behold it. In the foreground will stand Father Abraham waiting to clasp this last man by the hand.

General Grant will be there, and the "silent man" will find his tongue, at last and shout "Hosannah!" General Sherman will be there — Old Tecumseh — who could talk almost as well as he could fight. He will "make a few remarks," no doubt. General Sheridan will be there— "Fighting Phil"—half horse and half man; as near a centaur as anything ever was.

General Custer will be there. How well we remember him at the Great Review at Washington at the close of the war. As he approached the grandstand his horse ran away with him — back along the lines. He conquered it, and when he came up again (his long, yellow hair streaming over his shoulders) and saluted the President and the rest of the reviewing officers, what a yell rent the air from that vast multitude. I can hear it now, although it is many a day since I last heard even the roll of heaven's artillery in a thunderstorm. That was, indeed the Grand Army.

But as the ranks thin here they swell yonder, and the Final Review and Reunion is not far distant. “How the banners will wave on that great day! How the flags will flutter! How the drums will roll! How the fifes will shriek! How the bands will play "When Johnnie Comes Marching Home"!

Then "the peace which passeth all understanding" will settle down upon the universe.

"The war drums will throb no longer and the battle flags will be furled." There will be no more death and no more darkness, but all will be life and light unending.

We shall see eye to eye finally and forever; and there will be no "Unknown Dead," for we shall all have arrived, at last, in "The Land of the Living."

Henry Cabot Lodge's 4th of July Speech in Boston in 1879

Oration delivered before the City council and citizens of Boston, on the one hundred and third anniversary of the Declaration of American independence, July 4, 1879 by Henry Cabot Lodge at the Boston Theatre.

We meet to-day to commemorate, with customs honored in the observance, our national birthday. In this matter of birthdays, nations resemble individuals. The recurring anniversary is hailed in childhood with rejoicing and pleasure. It marks a period of rapid advance, and denotes another step towards manhood, and all its fancied independence. In due time the youth comes of age. Technically and legally, at least, the period of tutelage and immaturity is at an end. But with the acquisition of freedom a gradual change begins. Few persons go so far as Dean Swift, who passed his birthday in solitude, as a day of mourning, fasting, and prayer. Yet, to almost every one, I think, as he goes on in life, the birthday suggests more and more serious reflection. Gradually we turn our eyes, when the day arrives which closes each little cycle of our existence, from the future to the past. We strive more and more earnestly to draw from the departed years lessons which shall guide our footsteps upon the unknown pathway before us. If this be rightly done, it is at this period, when we have both a future and a past, that we achieve success.

So it is with nations. By the signatures of the Declaration of Independence we came into existence. By the signatures of the treaty of Paris, that existence was acknowledged in Europe. By the adoption of the Constitution, nationality, then only a possibility, became a probability, which, after many years, has ripened into certainty. Then came our boyhood, and the struggle to cast aside the colonial spirit, and shake ourselves free from the influence of older and stronger nations. This was a longer and more arduous process than we can readily realize now. If the world had been at peace, our task, wonderfully difficult under any circumstances, would have been somewhat simplified; but everything seemed to combine against us.

Civilized mankind was in the throes of the French revolution. Through the first period of that awful convulsion Washington and Hamilton and Adams steered us successfully into the haven offered by the peace of Amiens. There was a short lull, and then the tempest raged again more violently than before. The old pilots were gone, and there was no one who could fill their places in such stress and peril. We were the only important neutral nation in the world, and our rich and defenceless commerce was an inviting prey. We broke from our moorings, and drifted out upon the stormy seas of the Napoleonic wars, assailed by all, befriended by none. It was painfully evident then that we were still children, and still in tutelage, intellectually, if not physically. To our shame be it said, both political parties made it their principal business for ten years to accuse each other of foreign predilections. We displayed at every turn the violent anger and infirmity of purpose which characterize the headstrong and impetuous boy, whose powers are yet untried, and who lets " I dare not wait upon I would." It was a sorry time. . But the previous years of peace and union had not been useless. After sore humiliation and bitter insult had been tamely borne by the country a national party at last came into existence. They pushed aside the old leaders and the old provincial feelings, and resolved to fight. They acted blindly, hotly, and, in many ways, unwisely. They were not Washingtons, and could not imitate his policy. But they took the ' methods of the Federalists and the theories of the Democrats, and determined to assert their nationality by arms. In so doing they hurried the country into a desperate and losing war. They brought the Union to the verge of dissolution. They abandoned by treaty everything which they had sought to obtain by force. But they vindicated the national existence, they proved the fighting qualities of the race to be as fine as ever on sea, and at last on land, and they broke once for all the fetters of colonial thought and tradition. They did their work roughly and ignorantly, but they were right at, bottom, and by the treaty of Ghent we came of age.

Then followed a period of wild exuberance and exultant hope. By the almost magic growth of material prosperity, by the rapid spread of civilization, and by the new-born consciousness of nationality, men's minds were filled with visions of a political millennium. We became imbued with the belief that we had a great mission. All humanity was to come as to the promised land, and be relieved. The fertile imagination of Henry Clay devised the scheme of uniting all American States. This human freedom league, controlling the western hemisphere, was to resist the Holy Alliance of emperors and kings, and bring in the new world to redress the balance of the old. Doubts as to our system, or as to the perfection of humanity, when freed from oppressive government, were regarded as heresy. We were to reorganize society, and change the destiny of man. In our vanity, our self-confidence, our unwillingness to learn or to recognize and correct our faults, above all, in our morbid sensitiveness to ridicule, we showed only too clearly our youth and inexperience.

But, while we were rejoicing and looking forward to the beneficent and enchanted future, where our dreams were to become realities, a dark cloud was gathering over the prospect. Gradually it became evident that two distinct social systems had grown up within our borders, which were so wholly irreconcilable that even this broad land could not afford room for both. One must perish that the other might survive. With every advancing year the immutable laws of economy and industry widened and deepened the gulf between the opposing systems, and strengthened one side while they weakened the other. Free labor was stifled in an atmosphere where slaves breathed, and free labor held in its hands the destiny of the republic.

There might have been a time when this awful problem could have received a peaceable solution; but, when men were at last awakened to the facts, and prepared to deal with them, it was too late. Beneath the baneful influence of the slavery struggle, politics and public men degenerated, and the old statesmanship of the republic withered away. Great leaders, in Congress and elsewhere, cried, "Peace, peace;'' but there was no peace. Our social problem was a Gordian knot. We followed the example of Alexander, and untied it with the sword.

The greatest war of modern times, since Napoleon fled from the field at Waterloo, and all the far-reaching results of such a war, have made sad work with our illusions. They are gone, like our extreme youth, and we begin to turn our look backward for instruction as to the journey which once seemed so easy and so full of promise. We have reached the second stage in our national birthdays. The time for reflection has come. If we can profit by the teaching of the past, although the future no longer looks either so golden or so certain as of yore, we may still find in it a greater, better, and truer success even than that which once filled our youthful imaginings. On this day of the year it especially behooves us to make up our accounts and see how we stand. We may well pause for a moment in our hurried, nervous, busy life to contemplate the years which have gone, and see what we have done with them. We are growing old, old enough to have a history, old enough to study it carefully. Let us take, then.

That great, wise book, as beseemeth age,
While the shutters flap as the crosswind blows,
And we turn the page, and we turn the page,
Not verse, now, only prose.

We are in the very prime of life as a nation. We are still young, still growing, still plastic and able to learn. But we have also passed the period of immaturity; we are vigorous, powerful, rich, and masters of a continent. We have made for ourselves a history, and we have our heroes and our heroic age, — an age full of human passion and human error, but great by its struggles and its conquest of difficulties.

We are wont to revert to the war for independence as our most glorious time. So, in some respects, it was. But the Declaration of Independence is eclipsed by the adoption of the Constitution and the organization of the government. It is better to create than to destroy. If we had fought the Revolution merely to obtain the wretched Confederation, and then dissolve into petty and jarring States, it would have been more honorable to have remained an integral part of the great empire of England. But this was not to be. We proved ourselves worthy of our inheritance, and capable of the moderation, temperance, and foresight which resulted in the Constitution. With the inauguration of Washington our national existence became a fact, and to the history of-, our career from that time to this we must look for guidance and instruction.

Although history, as a science, is still in its infancy, we have gone far enough to perceive a few great laws of human development, and from these, as they are the greatest and simplest, we learn the most, our own history we can easily detect the governing forces which have shaped our destiny, and struggle for victory. Two great conflicts of opposing principles have gone on here side by side. Nationality and separatism, aristocracy and democracy, are the contending forces which have made the political history of the country, and been felt throughout society and all its manifold forms of activity. All these forces existed in the States of the Confederation. They were present at the debates on the Constitution, and, from the foundation of the government, they have battled for the great prize of its possession and administration.

In the old system of the Confederation the separatist principle was supreme. Every State looked out for its own immediate interest with selfish and short-sighted ingenuity. The general government was despised and rejected. Anarchy seemed at hand. By a grand effort the wisest and most patriotic men framed and carried the Constitution. They succeeded, by means of judicious compromises, in "extorting from the grinding necessity of a reluctant people" a bare assent to the new scheme. Whatever glosses may now be put upon the Constitution, and upon the debates which preceded it, there can be no doubt that it was regarded at the time not only as an experiment, but as an agreement. Irrationality had but a feeble life in 1789, when the first Congress met in New York. There is no need to dwell upon the growth of the national principle embodied in the Constitution, or the phases of the conflict which ensued between that principle and the older one of State sovereignty. They, at last, contended for dominion sword in hand, and the events which led to four years of civil war are as familiar as a twice-told tale.

Everyone knows that, with each advance of the national power, the separatist spirit started up with fiercer menace and contested the ground. Sometimes the State prevailed, and sometimes the nation. Finally the rights of States were appropriated to the service of slavery, which gathered to itself every interest and every passion almost of which human nature is capable. At last slavery drew the sword of State rights and struck at the national existence. Then it was seen that the Constitution had silently done its work. The puny infant of 1789 had become a giant. When the bit of bunting which typified national existence was assailed the national spirit burst forth. Men were ready to bear with slavery and with all else, but there was one thing they would not part with, — their nation. The strong instinct of nationality started up and filled the hearts and minds of men. Like other instincts it found no exact expression; it gave rise to no formula, but the strength of the people was in it, and was resolved that the Empire of the West should remain intact. All else might perish — that should not. Whether for good or ill, the nation should remain united, the empire should not be shattered into jarring and discordant States. In this spirit the battle was fought and victory gained. Whatever else might come to pass, the Union under one flag was assured so far as human exertion and human sacrifice can assure anything.

So much of the long struggle is over. That we are a nation, and not a confederacy, has been decided by the dread arbitrament of the sword. We may again have civil war, — which God forbid! — but we shall not fight for our national existence. If we do fight, it will be for the possession of the national government, not for its overthrow. The national force, social- and political, is supreme.

The history of the great conflict is familiar, but it is well to call it to mind and dwell upon its results and lessons. We owe our existence as a nation to the Constitution, and to its silent work during three- quarters of a century. Our first feeling ought to be one of gratitude to that great instrument, and to the men who framed it. Such gratitude, however, can be expressed only by reverence for its provisions and scrupulous observance of its limitations. Herein lie the merit and value of a written constitution, if it has any, and who can doubt this when its work is considered? Formed by wisdom and patriotism, the Constitution rises up over the warring passions of party, to check and to control. There is the rule of action for the majority; there, and there alone, can the rights of the minority find shelter and protection.

The Constitution, if we heed its provisions, gives time for cool second thought, and, as nearly as possible, personifies reason and law, staying the action of excited force. The man or the party who violates it endangers our liberties. They are the enemies of the national charter. The greater the majority which overrides its provisions, the greater and the more unpardonable the sin, for the Constitution has within itself means to remedy legally and deliberately its own shortcomings.

Foreign critics have sometimes found fault with our excessive reverence for the Constitution. We do well to venerate that which has made us a nation. But let us beware of mere lip-service, and take care that in practice we submit to and observe it. We are too ready to infringe both the letter and the spirit of the constitution in the excitement of party contests. Nothing can be more fatal, for within its sacred limits lies the well-being of our political system.

Within those limits, too, lies the defeated principle in the great conflict between nationality and separatism. In the last decisive struggle the rights of States were sorely wounded. It could not have been otherwise, when their most zealous advocates used them as the sword and shield of slavery, and dashed them against the strong rock of national existence. The injury then suffered by the rights of States is one of the gravest results of the war, simply from its effects upon our minds and habits of thought. "We have been insensibly led to regard a violation of State rights with indifference, if not with approval. The principle of States' rights is as vital and essential as the national principle itself. If the former, carried to extremes, means anarchy, the latter, carried to like extremes, means centralization and despotism. So long as we have the strong barrier of the States, we are safe from usurpation and plebiscites. Here in the North, States' rights have naturally become words of evil significance, and are even used to revile political opponents. This is not only bad in itself, but it involves an amount of historical hypocrisy which is intolerable. The most meagre outline of our history suffices to show unmistakably that the separatist principle has existed everywhere, and has, at some time, burst forth everywhere into dangerous activity. If this teaches nothing else, it should at last enforce the wholesome doctrines of consistency and charity.

That separatism should have existed everywhere was not only natural but inevitable. The government of each State was old, familiar, and beloved when the Union was formed. The State represented "the past. With its existence were entwined all the memories and traditions which carried men back to tile toils and sufferings of their hardy ancestors, who bad made homes in the wilderness that their children might be free and receive a continent for their inheritance. The hearts of men were bound up in their States. The Federal government at first appealed only to their reason or their interest. To their States they turned as the objects of their first allegiance. This sentiment knew neither North nor South, East nor West. Nothing is more false than to associate the doctrine of States' rights with any particular part of the country, or exclusively with those States which last invoked its aid. Nothing is plainer than that the States and the party in power have always been strongly national, while the minority, call it by what party name you will, has as steadily gravitated toward States' rights.

There has never been a moment of peculiar stress and bitterness when the truth of this has not been brought home with sharp distinctness.

Washington and Adams and Hamilton were strong nationalists, and vigorously supported a liberal construction of the Constitution. The opposition, led by Jefferson, resisted the central government, advocated strict construction, and leaned upon States' rights. But the wheel revolved, and Jefferson became President. He retained in office all his old theories, but his practice was that of his predecessors. No one ever pushed the national power further, or strained the Constitution more boldly, than Thomas Jefferson. The famous alien and sedition laws of the Federalists paled before the stringency and oppression of the enforcement act, which almost drove Massachusetts into rebellion. Both measures were said to be demanded by national safety; both were the work of a national administration, and they were severally carried through by parties of diametrically opposite principles. On the other hand, the Federalists, once out of office and a hopeless minority, drifted into States' rights, and used them freely against the national government. The Union was never in greater peril than in 1814, when New England threatened secession unless the administration and ruling party yielded to her demands. With characteristic caution, she stayed her uplifted hand and waited a little longer. The wisest and most temperate leaders among the Federalists put aside the more violent, in order to guide and check the separatist movement, and thus maintain a control which open opposition would have destroyed. But no one then doubted either the meaning or the danger of New England's altitude. If the blow had fallen, the Union would have been dashed in pieces, without hope of recovery.

States' rights belong to no party and to no State. They are as universal as nationality; and that they are so is proof of their value. But they go much deeper than their name implies. They involve a principle as old as the race itself. This principle was born in the forests of Germany, is recorded in the pages of Tacitus, and came with the wild Teutonic tribes across the channel to Britain more than a thousand years ago. It is the great Anglo-Saxon principle of local self-government, and is the safe- guard of our liberties now, as it has ever been in the past. Without it there is no health in us. It should be more jealously watched than any other, because the tendency in large communities is always towards centralization. We see illustrations of this tendency every day, in the growing habit of both parties to judge every question according to its expediency, and not according to the constitutional principles, which they, as parties, are supposed to represent. There seems to be no desire anywhere to oppose a measure, simply and solely because it leans more toward centralization than is warranted by the Constitution. This tendency is full of peril. Our government is a system of checks and balances. Destroy one element, and the whole fabric falls. Nationality is strong and safe. Our most important duty is to protect our local rights, wherever they exist, and feel as the colonies did when the Boston Port Bill passed, that the cause of one is the cause of all.

Two lessons are clearly written on the pages which record the strife between the inborn love of local independence and the broader spirit of nationality created by the Constitution. One is reverence for the Constitution; the other, a careful maintenance of the principle of States' rights.

Let us turn for a moment to the other great conflict, which has gone on side by side with that between nationality and separatism. The opposing principles of aristocracy and democracy, of government by part, instead of government by all, of class- rule, in contradistinction to the rule of the whole people, have entered more deeply into our manners, habits, modes of thought, and daily lives than the purely political forces. The latter are better understood and appreciated, but the former, silently and almost unnoticed, have striven to possess and retain every nerve and fibre of the social and political body. Incidentally the conflict between aristocracy and democracy became involved in that between nationality and separatism, and met its fate upon the same field; but its history and origin are, nevertheless, wholly independent.

We are too apt to forget that an aristocracy of strong social and political influence existed in a greater or less degree in every one of the thirteen colonies when they threw off the yoke of the mother- country. In Virginia and the southern States there was a pure aristocracy in theory and in fact. It rested upon the firm foundation of great landed estates, a tenantry of slaves, and broad class distinctions. Government was wholly in the hands of this ruling class, and the Virginian system continued to sway the South until the day of Lee's surrender. In New England, on the other hand, the political system was democratic, and modeled upon the church system of the early Puritans. Here, too however, there was an aristocracy from which our early leaders were chiefly taken; but their power and influence rested only upon consent. They were permitted to guide and govern, deference was yielded to them, and official position freely given, but solely on account of ancestral service to the State, of ability, wealth, or learning. Such an aristocracy may be an ideal one, but its tenure of power is precarious, and its supports are frail. The middle States contained both Virginian and New England elements. Great families, owning vast estates, dominated New York, but mainly by dexterous management of the masses; while, in Pennsylvania, the democratic principle had the advantage, and the aristocracy, from its own supineness, seems to have had less power even than in New England.

This wide-spread, aristocratic element, which was so powerful a century ago, made itself deeply felt in all matters of government. We find in the early State constitutions ample provisions for the representation of the upper classes, and for the restraint of democracy, as well as many and various limitations upon the suffrage. The aristocratic principle came out strongly in the convention which framed the constitution of the United States. “We are too democratic, and means must be found to check the spread and the action of democracy," was the cry of many members in that convention, including some men who soon after followed the Jeffersonian standard. The great party which carried the Constitution, organized and set in motion the government, held possession of it for twelve years, and nearly overthrew it in their last struggle for power, was an aristocratic party, and wished to build up and consolidate a ruling class.

They aimed at the creation of an aristocratic republic, and a strong and energetic central government. They shrank with undisguised horror from the idea of universal suffrage, and, embittered by the spectacle of the French revolution, regarded pure democracy as equivalent to anarchy, and, as of necessity, a government by the worst elements of society. They fought manfully to maintain and carry out their theory, and they failed. They were contending with an irresistible social and political force, and the accession of Jefferson not only marked their defeat, but accomplished a complete revolution in our theory of government. From that time the democratic principle was supreme. But customs die hard. Even after the vital principle is gone habits live on. The theory was established, but more than a quarter of a century elapsed before the practice was changed. There was still a ruling class from which the men to fill high office were for the most part selected. Birth, education, social position, wealth, and training still continued to be most important requisites for a statesman. At last the second revolution came, and practice was made to conform to theory. With the election of Andrew Jackson, qualities, inherited or acquired, which raised a man above his fellows, and had been supposed to imply peculiar fitness for public life, were cast aside forever as tests for employment in the national service.

Ability, property, training, reputation, were not only no longer required, they became positive disadvantages. A “self-made" man, who had started with nothing, and worked his way up, despite ignorance and poverty, from the log-cabin in the backwoods, was considered to have better claims, solely on account of his antecedents, than one who had been bred to the profession of state-craft, and had every opportunity for improvement which wealth and care could give. The new practice, carried by the impulse of victory to extremes, was every whit as false as the old. It simply reversed the ancient order, and declared that favor should be extended to those who had formerly stood at a disadvantage. Class discrimination was as strong as ever, in a new form. But all class distinctions are foreign to the spirit of our political system, no matter what portion of society is the favored one. They are utterly alien to the theory of administration which was accepted and laid down at the outset as the guiding principle of our government, and in accordance with which the best men, and the best men only, were to administer public affairs and be properly remunerated for their labor. This was a business theory, upon which our system was founded, and it worked capitally until, as was said by Mr. Evarts, I believe, the corollary was added, that one man was just as good as another. It was this corollary which was swept into power with Andrew Jackson, and it was anything but a business theory. It never obtained for a moment, in any walk of private life, where fitness has always continued to be the test of selection for places of trust and profit. In public affairs alone it was forced into practical operation. We are still reaping the results of this distortion of democratic principles.

It would, however, be a mistake, to suppose that, because the national government had at last become purely democratic, class rule and aristocracy were therefore at an end. The Virginian system still prevailed in the South, and still held sway at Washington. The aristocracy of Virginia had perceived at an early day that they could not gain supremacy without northern allies. These they obtained with great sagacity and perfect success. They could form no alliance with the northern leaders in the days of the Federalists, so they turned to the masses. The people of the Northern States were altogether democratic, and had no real sympathy with slave-holders and great landlords. But the Virginian system was impregnable at home, and the Virginian leaders stepped boldly forward as the friends of humanity and equality, and as the advocates of doctrines which, if applied to their own State, meant total destruction to the very system that gave them power. Under the cloak of democratic principles, Virginia divided the North, and the curious spectacle was presented of the aristocratic portion of the country ranged on the side of democracy, while aristocracy made its stand and fought its last desperate fight under its true colors in the most thoroughly democratic States.

The Virginian policy worked admirably. For twenty-four years Virginia retained the presidency. For thirty-five years more the South controlled the national government. Under the withering and debasing influence of slavery the Virginian aristocracy rapidly degenerated. They ceased to be the class which had produced Washington and Marshall. Virginian aristocracy broadened into a southern aristocracy, and lost the qualities which had once made them so much more than mere slave-drivers and plantation lords. The aristocratic force remained, but its graces and virtues had departed, blighted by slavery and by the constant defence of what men in their hearts knew to be a great and crying iniquity. Still they held on, while violence and truculence usurped the place of courtesy and good-breeding, and drove out those other attributes which had once given the southern leaders a high and acknowledged position.

But other forces were at work, and the opposing systems met at last in battle. On the field of Gettysburg the democracy of Plymouth and the aristocracy of Jamestown came together in arms, and the principles of the Puritan triumphed once more over those of the Cavalier. As in the days of Charles I., aristocratic principles had allied themselves with a bad cause, and met with the defeat which that cause merited. The last class government was utterly swept away. We are finally democratic throughout the length and breadth of the land.

With the civil war the first era of our history closed. It is settled that we are to be one nation, and we have established a pure representative democracy. These results have been accomplished by tremendous sacrifices and exertions, and they bring with them a mighty responsibility. We have undertaken a gigantic task. We are making the greatest experiment in government ever attempted. We have built up an empire so great that, whether for evil or good, it is a chief factor in the affairs of civilized mankind and of the world. We have gradually evolved a political and social system which has, on the whole, produced a greater amount of human happiness and well-being than any other. We have done more to raise the condition of the average man than any other nation. To us belongs the solemn duty of maintaining this system, and of making this experiment of a great representative democracy succeed.

It is a momentous and difficult task. We cannot escape it. We cannot retrace our steps. We must either maintain our system as it is, or plunge blindly forward. We have reached the last point of safe progress in government. We have conferred sovereignty upon every man in the community, and, unless we include women and children, there is no possibility of further expansion in this direction. The step from democracy is to socialism, and although socialism is not an immediate danger in the United States, it here and there rears its ugly head and breathes its false spirit into our laws and party resolutions. It must be crushed out before it gathers strength; for socialism means anarchy, and anarchy can have but one result, the order of military despotism. Our position is difficult, and fraught with peril, but we have proved ourselves capable of great things, and we have no reason to falter. Yet, if we wish and mean to succeed, we must lay aside careless indifference as well as fear, and take seriously to heart some of the pregnant lessons of history.

The great secret of the political success of our race lies in its conservatism, in its ability to reform and not destroy in order to create anew. "We have adapted our forms of government to the changing necessities of the times, by clinging to the past until sure of the future, by holding fast the good and rejecting only the bad, and by sturdy contempt for inconsistencies, provided the system practically worked well.

But, in this country, by our youth, by our success, and by the marvelous changes we have wrought, we have been led to forget these principles. We have become too apt to concede that a change is worth trying, simply because it is a change. We are too ready to admit that everything is open to argument, instead of adhering, in some measure, at least, to the practice of our ancestors, who believed that there were certain laws and institutions upon which all civilized society rested, that were not susceptible of discussion. Let us revert to the traditions of our race, and practise a little more wholesome conservatism. No change should be made in our political system until it has been well considered and conclusively demonstrated that it is not a change for the worse. Progress is a fine word, but it is not necessarily a good thing. It may be progress in evil as well as in good. It may be as bad as reaction, and much worse than standing still.

In another respect, which nearly affects the success of our great democratic experiment, we have departed from the maxims of our ancestors and of the founders of the republic. No men were ever more skilled than they in the difficult art of free government, and they knew well that the sphere of legislation was not boundless. They believed that legislation could assist human effort by giving security to all, and thereby extending the best opportunities for great achievements. But they taught the doctrine that the individual man should rely upon himself, and not upon his government, for well-being and success. They were firmly convinced that legislation could not be a panacea for every ill that flesh is heir to; that it could not prevent human passion and error, and their legitimate results, or free men from misfortune and from the consequences of their own folly and mistakes. The fathers of our system had learned by bitter experience that legislation should be restricted to the very well defined field where effective action is possible, should leave room for every man to exert his talents, and, above all things, should not be meddling and paternal. This was sound, wise doctrine. But there is now a growing tendency to invoke legislation to cure the results of our own blunders; to regard it as a universal remedy for every mishap, and to carry it out of its proper sphere and force it to do work which belongs to the individual man. Such helpless leaning upon legislation is false in theory, dangerous in practice, thoroughly unmanly, and as peculiarly un-American as anything can possibly be. It is diametrically opposed to the independent, self-reliant spirit which has made America what she is. Strong,' masculine races have no need of paternal legislation. It is their worst enemy.

But there is one danger to our democracy which far surpasses all others in gravity and importance. When the government was founded, although there was a well-defined aristocracy, the social and economical conditions were much more favorable than at present to the successful establishment and working of a pure democracy. Great fortunes were rare, and extreme poverty was almost unknown. Men stood, as a rule, pretty nearly upon an equality in the matter of property and physical well-being. Agriculture and trade were the only pursuits of the community. There were no great centres of population. The largest cities were hardly more than small towns. Huge masses of capital were not collected for the prosecution of vast enterprises. Life was simple, and class distinctions rankled in no man's breast, despite the power and position of the aristocracy.

As the years have rolled on we have become a pure democracy, and, meantime, all the social and economical conditions have radically changed. Immense fortunes are no longer rare, and desperate poverty is only too common. Great corporations, controlling vast amounts of capital, have come into existence. Great cities have grown up, and complicated industries have spread, or are spreading, over the whole country. From a small society, where material equality reigned, simple in its tastes, habits and pursuits, we have become a great nation, with all the intricate and delicate machinery of a high and luxurious civilization, filled with glaring inequalities of condition.

In this state of affairs there is one thing absolutely fatal to the continuance of democratic government, and that is, strife between classes. Under the old and equal conditions this was not to be feared. Nearly everybody had a stake in the peaceable existence of the country and in the continued stability of the government. All men knew, with the keen instinct of those who have something to lose, the ruin which lurked in social disorder and in any invasion of the rights of property. The population then was also largely rural and widely scattered, and such inequalities as there were did not come home to men by daily and unavoidable contact. Now, enormous and defenceless wealth dwells side by side with hopeless poverty. In the progress of our wonderful development we have brought together a great deal of very inflammable material. Let us see to it that it is not ignited, as it might easily be if one class is aroused against another.

Here is the terrible foe of our system. Here is the enemy which, once let loose, will bring our fair experiment crashing in ruins about our heads. Scrupulous protection of private rights and private property has been the great secret of our success and the chief glory of our popular government. This essential principle can be destroyed not only by force, which is little to be feared, but quite as effectually, although more insidiously, under forms of law. In either case the meaning is the same. It is one part of society attacking the other, and if this war between classes comes the present scheme is ruined. It begins with statutes and constitutions, and ends with the bayonet and the barricade. While political divisions run up and down, we are safe; but, when they begin to run across society, the end is not far distant.

To the diminution, and, if possible, to the removal, of this danger, which can now be easily dealt with, our best efforts should be directed. A brand should be set upon the man who strives to stir up war.

A MEMORIAL DAY ADDRESS Given in 1890.

A speech given: MEMORIAL DAY ADDRESS AT FT. MADISON, IOWA, BY THOMAS HEDGE, MAY 30, 1890.

The story of the rise of civil and religious liberty on this continent is full of incongruities and of contradictions. The Pilgrim Fathers planted their commonwealth among the gray rocks of Massachusetts, that they might have freedom to worship God; but we remember they compelled the flight to Narragansett of the learned and sincere Roger Williams, the friend of Milton, chiefly because he held forth that the civil magistrate's power extends only to the bodies, goods and outward state of man, and thus the other commonwealth of Rhode Island and Providence plantations had its beginning.

It has been an American custom, reaching back to the days of our grandfathers, to read in public, with religious solemnity, the Declaration of Independence on the morning of the Fourth of July, and the winged words of Jefferson — "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal; endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness; that to secure these rights governments are instituted among men deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed" — we imagined, because they stirred our blood, that they set forth our profoundest faith. But it is only thirty years since no American citizen was permitted to speak in the spirit of those words below the lower rapids of yonder river, and only thirty years ago that if that American citizen should stretch forth his hand to help any man, woman or child, of a certain class, to cross that river in search of that unalienable right of liberty, he would be guilty of a crime against the government whose symbol was this flag.
(We are not ashamed to remember that there were not a few criminals of this sort in this neighborhood in those days.)
We were not in spirit a nation or a union, but a most heterogeneous aggregation of peoples, under the yoke of as many various customs, traditions, prejudices and bigotries as there were different communities. State lines were a reality, sectional feeling and mutual dread as impassable as the mountain range.

The truth spoken by him who was more than prophet, 'This country cannot remain half slave and half free,' at last became evident, and the darkness came and the labor and agony of the new birth of freedom.
It seemed as if the spirit of the Lord moved over the face of the land and breathed again into the nostrils of this people the breath of life. The eyes of their understanding were opened; it was given to them to see the invisible, to stand upon the Mount of Transfiguration and to be inspired with the presence of them of old time who had toiled, suffered and triumphed for the good of those to be. All human capacities seemed to be enlarged. All human faculties to be reinforced. All human affections quickened and purified in this fire of trial. The cause was seen to be and accepted as the cause common and vital to us all. It was the people's war. The times grew spacious. Nothing was too great or too high for the energy the constancy, the self-denial, the faith of this people in their devotion to this cause — ever old and ever new — of human liberty. As in the days of the revolution it called manhood from the tranquil pursuits and toils of peace, the delight of life, to absence from home, to cold, hunger, the prison-pen, disease, wounds, death; it called woman to poverty, to loneliness, to agony of suspense, to widowhood and bereavement of her first born.
There were days which were to her as a thousand years, when the very air quivered with the tidings of defeat or the hardly less dreadful word of victory; when she was told that while men of their abundance had cast their offerings into the treasury she had given more than them all — even all her living.
When this death angel came, although for tears she saw it not, the glory of the Lord shone 'round her dwelling-akin to that of the star of Bethlehem, for it had been vouchsafed to her to bear a son found worthy to die for the help of his fellow-men.
And the boys whom these women with christian grace had sent away, these boys whom we bear in memory at this hour, deeming it the highest privilege and pride of our earthly life that we hobnobbed with them and marched with them and were with them where they fell, they made up an army such as never had been known before. Their understanding comprehended fully the purpose of their warfare — it was not for ambition, for material conquest, for personal aggrandizement, nor to relieve themselves of personal oppression, for they had never realized the presence or approach of any tyranny. The flag to them was but the sign of the enforcement and security of those unalienable rights, which they had been trained to believe were the birthright of all men. It was such a sign, not for themselves or their's alone, not for a class, a sect, a party, a generation or a race, but for everyone made in the image of God, wherever and so long as that flag might wave.

I said that we were a heterogeneous people, marked by our provincial prejudices and bigotries. Travel broadens the view and dispels the mists of prejudice, and no sort of travel so effectually as that pursued by our young volunteer, After the boy from Iowa had trudged alongside of the boy from Vermont or Pennsylvania, or of the boy whose father was born in Ireland or Germany, and had drank from the same canteen, and shared his hard tack, had climbed the same opposing earthwork at his side, had witnessed his boyish valor "in the imminent deadly breach'' ''on the fiery edge of battle,'' and had lain down beside him in the swamp and suffered the same cold, the same homesickness, he began to realize what Paul meant by till men being of one blood; boundary lines and section corners vanished, and his love of country, as of his countrymen, came to comprehend the wide continent, bounded only by the inviolate seas.

He so bore himself that he conquered even the prejudices of his opposers, and to-day wherever his grave may be, whether by those of his kindred or in the red soil of Virginia, in the mountains of Georgia or Tennessee, or under the flowers of Carolina, it is at home, in his own country, a pledge and monument of perpetual union, and of ever growing peace and good will among its people.
As something of the duty of tradition mingles in these ceremonies, let me place in the minds of those born since the day of Appomattox a hint of the personality of the "boy in blue.'' As yon read that "the old 'Continentals' in their ragged regimentals faltered not," your fancy pictures a grizzled soldier toughened by the frosts of many winters, when in truth he and the Minute Man and the Green Mountain boy, as well as the boy in blue, were of the same age, which is yours. The soldier whose memory we are met to honor was not such as these to-day — his face lined and refined by care, with stooping shoulders and whitening hair, and halting step, and eyes grown dim; but such as these were five and twenty years ago; his face bright with hope, his gaze clear and proud with purpose, his step firm and sure, with the spring of youth. And my veteran brothers, those who were taken away from us at the front are now before the vision of our memory as when they marched out to die. Imperishable youth is theirs.
Their fame shall live so long as man loves liberty, the example of their sacrifice be an inspiration to future patriotism, their spirits the airy leaders of heroes yet to be.
It was ordained that they should die in glory — no less was it in the infinite purpose that we should survive. The earnest lesson of the day is that we learn and fulfil that purpose, that while they sleep we guard the field they died to win.
In the quarter of a century that has passed since the last surrender we have had time to come down from the Mount of Transfiguration, to lose something of the exaltation of spirit of the time of war in the dusty scramble for the things that perish, and a generation has arisen that cannot fully appreciate at what great price their freedom was obtained and preserved. We need to be reminded in season and out of season that "eternal vigilance is the price of liberty." The old theory seems to be regaining its lost ground, that the jurisdiction of human government is boundless, and its authority without limit; that all things, including riches and wisdom and virtue and honor, can be attained by the enactment of a legislature. We forget, that while government is an essential agency of society — supreme within its sphere — that its sphere is limited and that it is only an agency, like the Sabbath, made for man: that its province is only in public matters, to protect each from others' trespasses and to insure to every man his own. We do not keep in mind that government cannot create or confer the essential rights of man; that as Jefferson wrote, it is only an institution to secure these rights, and as it does not create or confer these rights, so it cannot justly impair them or take them away.
So long as men are self-seeking there will be efforts made to usurp power in legislation for selfish ends. So long as men are self-righteous they will strive to impose their own standard of right and wrong upon their neighbors, and as the people prefer, or wish to seem to prefer, whatsoever things are honest, or true, or of good report, with success proportioned to the apparent worthiness of the end to be attained. Our liberties are in little danger from the Philistines; it is the leaven of the Pharisee that is the present menace of the republic.

While it was the duty of the veteran, as a soldier, "not to reason why, only to do and die," it is his duty as a veteran, citizen always to reason why. To him much has been given — of him much shall be required. A sovereign citizen, to him is intrusted only in fuller measure, and to a higher degree, the charge of the Roman consul — to see that the republic receives no harm.

As the sphere of government is limited, so, comparatively, is his duty as a citizen; including this duty, intertwined with it, but infinitely broader and higher, is his duty as a man. The conscientious fulfillment of the daily round, the common task, is the path laid out for him to toil in after virtue. We cannot escape the scrutiny and the judgments of the boy of to-day his notion of the defender of the republic, his estimate of those comrades over whose repose we this day scatter the rose, the lily and the violet, is made up of what he sees in us. Their good name is in our keeping. No higher tribute can we pay to the fame of the American soldier than "the white flower of a blameless life.'’ Comrades, brothers! let our remaining days be so disciplined that when our rest is sounded our neighbors may mourn each one of us as we mourn these; that contemplating a character full rounded, freed from stain of ill doing, or rust of indolence, they may say lovingly and proudly. "As his young comrades died, so this veteran lived — for the advantage of his fellow-men."

The 27 Articles of Lawrence of Arabia

The 27 Articles by T.E. Lawrence, from The Arab Bulletin, 20 August 1917

Twenty-Seven Articles

The following notes have been expressed in commandment form for greater clarity and to save words. They are, however, only my personal conclusions, arrived at gradually while I worked in the Hejaz and now put on paper as stalking horses for beginners in the Arab armies. They are meant to apply only to Bedu; townspeople or Syrians require totally different treatment. They are of course not suitable to any other person's need, or applicable unchanged in any particular situation. Handling Hejaz Arabs is an art, not a science, with exceptions and no obvious rules. At the same time we have a great chance there; the Sherif trusts us, and has given us the position (towards his Government) which the Germans wanted to win in Turkey. If we are tactful, we can at once retain his goodwill and carry out our job, but to succeed we have got to put into it all the interest and skill we possess.

1. Go easy for the first few weeks. A bad start is difficult to atone for, and the Arabs form their judgments on externals that we ignore. When you have reached the inner circle in a tribe, you can do as you please with yourself and them.

2. Learn all you can about your Ashraf and Bedu. Get to know their families, clans and tribes, friends and enemies, wells, hills and roads. Do all this by listening and by indirect inquiry. Do not ask questions. Get to speak their dialect of Arabic, not yours. Until you can understand their allusions, avoid getting deep into conversation or you will drop bricks. Be a little stiff at first.

3. In matters of business deal only with the commander of the army, column, or party in which you serve. Never give orders to anyone at all, and reserve your directions or advice for the C.O., however great the temptation (for efficiency's sake) of dealing with his underlings. Your place is advisory, and your advice is due to the commander alone. Let him see that this is your conception of your duty, and that his is to be the sole executive of your joint plans.

4. Win and keep the confidence of your leader. Strengthen his prestige at your expense before others when you can. Never refuse or quash schemes he may put forward; but ensure that they are put forward in the first instance privately to you. Always approve them, and after praise modify them insensibly, causing the suggestions to come from him, until they are in accord with your own opinion. When you attain this point, hold him to it, keep a tight grip of his ideas, and push them forward as firmly as possibly, but secretly, so that to one but himself (and he not too clearly) is aware of your pressure.

5. Remain in touch with your leader as constantly and unobtrusively as you can. Live with him, that at meal times and at audiences you may be naturally with him in his tent. Formal visits to give advice are not so good as the constant dropping of ideas in casual talk. When stranger sheikhs come in for the first time to swear allegiance and offer service, clear out of the tent. If their first impression is of foreigners in the confidence of the Sherif, it will do the Arab cause much harm.

6. Be shy of too close relations with the subordinates of the expedition. Continual intercourse with them will make it impossible for you to avoid going behind or beyond the instructions that the Arab C.O. has given them on your advice, and in so disclosing the weakness of his position you altogether destroy your own.

7. Treat the sub-chiefs of your force quite easily and lightly. In this way you hold yourself above their level. Treat the leader, if a Sherif, with respect. He will return your manner and you and he will then be alike, and above the rest. Precedence is a serious matter among the Arabs, and you must attain it.

8. Your ideal position is when you are present and not noticed. Do not be too intimate, too prominent, or too earnest. Avoid being identified too long or too often with any tribal sheikh, even if C.O. of the expedition. To do your work you must be above jealousies, and you lose prestige if you are associated with a tribe or clan, and its inevitable feuds. Sherifs are above all blood-feuds and local rivalries, and form the only principle of unity among the Arabs. Let your name therefore be coupled always with a Sherif's, and share his attitude towards the tribes. When the moment comes for action put yourself publicly under his orders. The Bedu will then follow suit.

9. Magnify and develop the growing conception of the Sherifs as the natural aristocracy of the Arabs. Intertribal jealousies make it impossible for any sheikh to attain a commanding position, and the only hope of union in nomad Arabs is that the Ashraf be universally acknowledged as the ruling class. Sherifs are half-townsmen, half-nomad, in manner and life, and have the instinct of command. Mere merit and money would be insufficient to obtain such recognition; but the Arab reverence for pedigree and the Prophet gives hope for the ultimate success of the Ashraf.

10. Call your Sherif 'Sidi' in public and in private. Call other people by their ordinary names, without title. In intimate conversation call a Sheikh 'Abu Annad', 'Akhu Alia' or some similar by-name.

11. The foreigner and Christian is not a popular person in Arabia. However friendly and informal the treatment of yourself may be, remember always that your foundations are very sandy ones. Wave a Sherif in front of you like a banner and hide your own mind and person. If you succeed, you will have hundreds of miles of country and thousands of men under your orders, and for this it is worth bartering the outward show.

12. Cling tight to your sense of humour. You will need it every day. A dry irony is the most useful type, and repartee of a personal and not too broad character will double your influence with the chiefs. Reproof, if wrapped up in some smiling form, will carry further and last longer than the most violent speech. The power of mimicry or parody is valuable, but use it sparingly, for wit is more dignified than humour. Do not cause a laugh at a Sherif except among Sherifs.

13. Never lay hands on an Arab; you degrade yourself. You may think the resultant obvious increase of outward respect a gain to you, but what you have really done is to build a wall between you and their inner selves. It is difficult to keep quiet when everything is being done wrong, but the less you lose your temper the greater your advantage. Also then you will not go mad yourself.

14. While very difficult to drive, the Bedu are easy to lead, if: have the patience to bear with them. The less apparent your interferences the more your influence. They are willing to follow your advice and do what you wish, but they do not mean you or anyone else to be aware of that. It is only after the end of all annoyances that you find at bottom their real fund of goodwill.

15. Do not try to do too much with your own hands. Better the Arabs do it tolerably than that you do it perfectly. It is their war, and you are to help them, not to win it for them. Actually, also, under the very odd conditions of Arabia, your practical work will not be as good as, perhaps, you think it is.

16. If you can, without being too lavish, forestall presents to yourself. A well-placed gift is often most effective in winning over a suspicious sheikh. Never receive a present without giving a liberal return, but you may delay this return (while letting its ultimate certainty be known) if you require a particular service from the giver. Do not let them ask you for things, since their greed will then make them look upon you only as a cow to milk.

17. Wear an Arab headcloth when with a tribe. Bedu have a malignant prejudice against the hat, and believe that our persistence in wearing it (due probably to British obstinacy of dictation) is founded on some immoral or irreligious principle. A thick headcloth forms a good protection against the sun, and if you wear a hat your best Arab friends will be ashamed of you in public.

18. Disguise is not advisable. Except in special areas, let it be clearly known that you are a British officer and a Christian. At the same time, if you can wear Arab kit when with the tribes, you will acquire their trust and intimacy to a degree impossible in uniform. It is, however, dangerous and difficult. They make no special allowances for you when you dress like them. Breaches of etiquette not charged against a foreigner are not condoned to you in Arab clothes. You will be like an actor in a foreign theatre, playing a part day and night for months, without rest, and for an anxious stake. Complete success, which is when the Arabs forget your strangeness and speak naturally before you, counting you as one of themselves, is perhaps only attainable in character: while half-success (all that most of us will strive for; the other costs too much) is easier to win in British things, and you yourself will last longer, physically and mentally, in the comfort that they mean. Also then the Turks will not hang you, when you are caught.

19. If you wear Arab things, wear the best. Clothes are significant among the tribes, and you must wear the appropriate, and appear at ease in them. Dress like a Sherif, if they agree to it.

20. If you wear Arab things at all, go the whole way. Leave your English friends and customs on the coast, and fall back on Arab habits entirely. It is possible, starting thus level with them, for the European to beat the Arabs at their own game, for we have stronger motives for our action, and put more heart into it than they. If you can surpass them, you have taken an immense stride toward complete success, but the strain of living and thinking in a foreign and half-understood language, the savage food, strange clothes, and stranger ways, with the complete loss of privacy and quiet, and the impossibility of ever relaxing your watchful imitation of the others for months on end, provide such an added stress to the ordinary difficulties of dealing with the Bedu, the climate, and the Turks, that this road should not be chosen without serious thought.

21. Religious discussions will be frequent. Say what you like about your own side, and avoid criticism of theirs, unless you know that the point is external, when you may score heavily by proving it so. With the Bedu, Islam is so all-pervading an element that there is little religiosity, little fervour, and no regard for externals. Do not think from their conduct that they are careless. Their conviction of the truth of their faith, and its share in every act and thought and principle of their daily life is so intimate and intense as to be unconscious, unless roused by opposition. Their religion is as much a part of nature to them as is sleep or food.

22. Do not try to trade on what you know of fighting. The Hejaz confounds ordinary tactics. Learn the Bedu principles of war as thoroughly and as quickly as you can, for till you know them your advice will be no good to the Sherif. Unnumbered generations of tribal raids have taught them more about some parts of the business than we will ever know. In familiar conditions they fight well, but strange events cause panic. Keep your unit small. Their raiding parties are usually from one hundred to two hundred men, and if you take a crowd they only get confused. Also their sheikhs, while admirable company commanders, are too 'set' to learn to handle the equivalents of battalions or regiments. Don't attempt unusual things, unless they appeal to the sporting instinct Bedu have so strongly, unless success is obvious. If the objective is a good one (booty) they will attack like fiends, they are splendid scouts, their mobility gives you the advantage that will win this local war, they make proper use of their knowledge of the country (don't take tribesmen to places they do not know), and the gazelle-hunters, who form a proportion of the better men, are great shots at visible targets. A sheikh from one tribe cannot give orders to men from another; a Sherif is necessary to command a mixed tribal force. If there is plunder in prospect, and the odds are at all equal, you will win. Do not waste Bedu attacking trenches (they will not stand casualties) or in trying to defend a position, for they cannot sit still without slacking. The more unorthodox and Arab your proceedings, the more likely you are to have the Turks cold, for they lack initiative and expect you to. Don't play for safety.

23. The open reason that Bedu give you for action or inaction may be true, but always there will be better reasons left for you to divine. You must find these inner reasons (they will be denied, but are none the less in operation) before shaping your arguments for one course or other. Allusion is more effective than logical exposition: they dislike concise expression. Their minds work just as ours do, but on different premises. There is nothing unreasonable, incomprehensible, or inscrutable in the Arab. Experience of them, and knowledge of their prejudices will enable you to foresee their attitude and possible course of action in nearly every case.

24. Do not mix Bedu and Syrians, or trained men and tribesmen. You will get work out of neither, for they hate each other. I have never seen a successful combined operation, but many failures. In particular, ex-officers of the Turkish army, however Arab in feelings and blood and language, are hopeless with Bedu. They are narrow minded in tactics, unable to adjust themselves to irregular warfare, clumsy in Arab etiquette, swollen-headed to the extent of being incapable of politeness to a tribesman for more than a few minutes, impatient, and, usually, helpless without their troops on the road and in action. Your orders (if you were unwise enough to give any) would be more readily obeyed by Beduins than those of any Mohammedan Syrian officer. Arab townsmen and Arab tribesmen regard each other mutually as poor relations, and poor relations are much more objectionable than poor strangers.

25. In spite of ordinary Arab example, avoid too free talk about women. It is as difficult a subject as religion, and their standards are so unlike our own that a remark, harmless in English, may appear as unrestrained to them, as some of their statements would look to us, if translated literally.

26. Be as careful of your servants as of yourself. If you want a sophisticated one you will probably have to take an Egyptian, or a Sudani, and unless you are very lucky he will undo on trek much of the good you so laboriously effect. Arabs will cook rice and make coffee for you, and leave you if required to do unmanly work like cleaning boots or washing. They are only really possible if you are in Arab kit. A slave brought up in the Hejaz is the best servant, but there are rules against British subjects owning them, so they have to be lent to you. In any case, take with you an Ageyli or two when you go up country. They are the most efficient couriers in Arabia, and understand camels.

27. The beginning and ending of the secret of handling Arabs is unremitting study of them. Keep always on your guard; never say an unnecessary thing: watch yourself and your companions all the time: hear all that passes, search out what is going on beneath the surface, read their characters, discover their tastes and their weaknesses and keep everything you find out to yourself. Bury yourself in Arab circles, have no interests and no ideas except the work in hand, so that your brain is saturated with one thing only, and you realize your part deeply enough to avoid the little slips that would counteract the painful work of weeks. Your success will be proportioned to the amount of mental effort you devote to it.

The first shots of the US Civil War

Extracts from: REMINISCENCES OF FORTS SUMTER AND MOULTRIE IN 1860–'61 By ABNER DOUBLEDAY, BREVET MAJOR-GENERAL U.S.A., NEW YORK, HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE, 1876

THE BOMBARDMENT.

As soon as the outline of our fort could be distinguished, the enemy carried out their programme. It had been arranged, as a special compliment to the venerable Edmund Ruffin, who might almost be called the father of secession, that he should fire the first shot against us, from the Stevens battery on Cummings Point, and I think in all the histories it is stated that he did so; but it is attested by Dr. Crawford and others who were on the parapet at the time, that the first shot really came from the mortar battery at Fort Johnson. Almost immediately afterward a ball from Cummings Point lodged in the magazine wall, and by the sound seemed to bury itself in the masonry about a foot from my head, in very unpleasant proximity to my right ear. This is the one that probably came with Mr. Ruffin's compliments. In a moment the firing burst forth in one continuous roar, and large patches of both the exterior and interior masonry began to crumble and fall in all directions. The place where I was had been used for the manufacture of cartridges, and there was still a good deal of powder there, some packed and some loose. A shell soon struck near the ventilator, and a puff of dense smoke entered the room, giving me a strong impression that there would be an immediate explosion. Fortunately, no sparks had penetrated inside.

Nineteen batteries were now hammering at us, and the balls and shells from the ten-inch columbiads, accompanied by shells from the thirteen-inch mortars which constantly bombarded us, made us feel as if the war had commenced in earnest.

When it was broad daylight, I went down to breakfast. I found the officers already assembled at one of the long tables in the mess-hall. Our party were calm, and even somewhat merry. We had retained one colored man to wait on us. He was a spruce-looking mulatto from Charleston, very active and efficient on ordinary occasions, but now completely demoralized by the thunder of the guns and crashing of the shot around us. He leaned back against the wall, almost white with fear, his eyes closed, and his whole expression one of perfect despair. Our meal was not very sumptuous. It consisted of pork and water, but Dr. Crawford triumphantly brought forth a little farina, which he had found in a corner of the hospital.

When this frugal repast was over, my company was told off in three details for firing purposes, to be relieved afterward by Seymour's company. As I was the ranking officer, I took the first detachment, and marched them to the casemates, which looked out upon the powerful iron-clad battery of Cummings Point.

In aiming the first gun fired against the rebellion I had no feeling of self-reproach, for I fully believed that the contest was inevitable, and was not of our seeking. The United States was called upon not only to defend its sovereignty, but its right to exist as a nation. The only alternative was to submit to a powerful oligarchy who were determined to make freedom forever subordinate to slavery. To me it was simply a contest, politically speaking, as to whether virtue or vice should rule.

My first shot bounded off from the sloping roof of the battery opposite without producing any apparent effect. It seemed useless to attempt to silence the guns there; for our metal was not heavy enough to batter the work down, and every ball glanced harmlessly off, except one, which appeared to enter an embrasure and twist the iron shutter, so as to stop the firing of that particular gun.

I observed that a group of the enemy had ventured out from their intrenchments to watch the effect of their fire, but I sent them flying back to their shelter by the aid of a forty-two-pounder ball, which appeared to strike right in among them.

Assistant-surgeon Crawford, having no sick in hospital, volunteered to take command of one of the detachments. He and Lieutenant Davis were detailed at the same time with me; and I soon heard their guns on the opposite side of the fort, echoing my own. They attacked Fort Moultrie with great vigor.

Our firing now became regular, and was answered from the rebel guns which encircled us on the four sides of the pentagon upon which the fort was built. The other side faced the open sea. Showers of balls from ten-inch columbiads and forty-two-pounders, and shells from thirteen-inch mortars poured into the fort in one incessant stream, causing great flakes of masonry to fall in all directions. When the immense mortar shells, after sailing high in the air, came down in a vertical direction, and buried themselves in the parade-ground, their explosion shook the fort like an earthquake.

Our own guns were very defective, as they had no breech-sights. In place of these, Seymour and myself were obliged to devise notched sticks, which answered the purpose, but were necessarily very imperfect.

Our fort had been built with reference to the penetration of shot when the old system of smooth-bore guns prevailed. The balls from a new Blakely gun on Cummings Point, however, had force enough to go entirely through the wall which sheltered us, and some of the fragments of brick which were knocked out wounded several of my detachment. None were seriously hurt except Sergeant Thomas Kirnan, of my company. His contusions were severe, but did not keep him out of the fight.

After three hours' firing, my men became exhausted, and Captain Seymour came, with a fresh detachment, to relieve us. He has a great deal of humor in his composition, and said, jocosely, "Doubleday, what in the world is the matter here, and what is all this uproar about?"

I replied, "There is a trifling difference of opinion between us and our neighbors opposite, and we are trying to settle it."

"Very well," he said; "do you wish me to take a hand?"

I said, "Yes, I would like to have you go in."

"All right," he said. "What is your elevation, and range?"

I replied, "Five degrees, and twelve hundred yards."

"Well," he said, "here goes!" And he went to work with a will.

Part of the fleet was visible outside the bar about half-past ten a.m. It exchanged salutes with us, but did not attempt to enter the harbor, or take part in the battle. In fact, it would have had considerable difficulty in finding the channel, as the marks and buoys had all been taken up. It was composed originally of the frigates Pawnee, under Commodore Rowan; the Pocahontas, under Captain Gillis; the Powhatan, under Captain Mercer; the steam transport Baltic, under Captain Fletcher; and, I believe, the steam-tugs Yankee, Uncle Ben, and another, which was not permitted to leave New York. The soldiers on board consisted of two hundred and fifty recruits from Governor's Island, under command of First Lieutenants E.M.K. Hudson, of the Fourth, and Robert O. Tyler, of the Third Artillery, and Second Lieutenant A.I. Thomas, of the First Infantry.

This expedition was designed by Captain Fox, in consultation with G.W. Blunt, William H. Aspinwall, Russel Sturges, and others. After the event much obloquy was thrown upon the navy because it did not come in and engage the numerous batteries and forts, and open for itself a way to Charleston; but this course would probably have resulted in the sinking of every vessel.

As far back as December I had written to New York that it was very difficult for a gun on shore to hit a small boat dancing on the waves in the daytime, and at night it is almost impossible. I suggested, therefore, that we might be re-enforced and provisioned by means of a number of small boats, supplied from several naval vessels as a base of operations. The same idea had occurred to Captain Fox; and on the present occasion he had brought thirty launches to be used for this purpose. They were to be manned by three hundred sailors, and in case they were assailed, the fleet was to protect them as far as possible by its guns. Unfortunately, the different vessels did not reach the rendezvous together. The Pawnee and Pocahontas arrived on the 12th, but lost a great deal of time in waiting for the Powhatan, which contained the launches and other arrangements, without which a boat expedition could not be organized. The Powhatan never appeared, having been unexpectedly detached, by order of the President, at the solicitation of Secretary Seward, and without consultation with the Navy Department. I think the Baltic was detained by running upon Rattlesnake Shoal. The steam-tug Uncle Ben was driven into Wilmington by a storm, and the Yankee did not make its appearance until the 15th. The expedition was thus an utter failure. Nevertheless, a passing schooner was purchased and loaded up with provisions and soldiers, and an attempt would have been made to run in on the night of the 13th, but by that time it was too late. The fort had surrendered.

Having explained this matter, we will now resume the narrative of our operations. For the next three hours a vigorous fire was kept up on both sides. A great many shots were aimed at our flag-staff, but nearly all of them passed above the fort and struck in the water beyond. I think we succeeded in silencing several guns in Fort Moultrie, and one or more in the Stevens battery.

When Seymour's three hours were up, I relieved him, and continued the firing. As our balls bounded off the sloping iron rails like peas upon a trencher, utterly failing to make any impression, and as the shot from the Blakely gun came clear through our walls, Anderson directed that the men should cease firing at that particular place. I regretted very much that the upper tier of guns had been abandoned, as they were all loaded and pointed, and were of very heavy calibre. A wild Irish soldier, however, named John Carmody, slipped up on the parapet, and, without orders, fired the pieces there, one after another, on his own account. One of the ten-inch balls so aimed made quite an impression on the Cummings Point battery; and if the fire could have been kept up, it might possibly have knocked the iron-work to pieces.

After my detachment had abandoned the casemate opposite the Blakely gun, to my great astonishment the battery I had left recommenced firing. I could not imagine who could have taken our places. It seems that a group of the Baltimore workmen had been watching our motions, and had thus learned the duties of a cannoneer. In spite of their previous determination not to take part in the fight, they could not resist the fun of trying their hand at one of the guns. It was already accurately pointed, and the ball struck the mark in the centre. The men attributed it to their own skill, and when I entered they were fairly in convulsions of laughter. One of them, in answer to my question, gasped out, "I hit it square in the middle." After this first attempt, each of them was desirous of trying his skill at aiming. The result was, that we soon had them organized into a firing-party.

Finding one of my chests had been left in the officers' quarters, and that it would probably be knocked to pieces by the shells, I asked the mulatto, who still sat back against the wall, apparently asleep, to bear a hand and help me bring it out. He opened his eyes, shook his head dolefully, and said, "De major, he say, I muss not expose myself."

If I mistake not, Roswell S. Ripley, formerly a brevet major in our army, fired the second or third shot to bring down the flag under which he had served for so many years. Ripley was born in Ohio, appointed from New York, and educated at the Military Academy. He had, therefore, even on the Southern theory of State rights, no necessary affiliation with the South. In fact, they always despised a man who joined them to fight against his own State. In one instance, Jeff Davis himself had to use all his influence to induce the Southern troops to obey one of these Northern generals. Ripley had previously been engaged as an agent for Sharpe's Arms Company in Europe; and, having been unsuccessful there, came to Charleston, with the hope of repairing his shattered fortunes by selling guns to South Carolina. Through the influence of Colonel Huger, of our Ordnance Department, who was in the city at the time, Ripley failed in this, and, being entirely out of employment, accepted a commission from the Confederacy to fight against his old comrades. Being a man of talent, and a skillful artillerist, he did us a great deal of harm. Like all Northern converts, he thought it necessary to be overzealous in his new position, to do away with the suspicions excited by his birth and education. I was told at the time that for this purpose he took pains to denounce me as an Abolitionist, and to recommend that I be hanged by the populace as soon as caught.

The firing continued all day, without any special incident of importance, and without our making much impression on the enemy's works. They had a great advantage over us, as their fire was concentrated on the fort, which was in the centre of the circle, while ours was diffused over the circumference. Their missiles were exceedingly destructive to the upper exposed portion of the work, but no essential injury was done to the lower casemates which sheltered us.

Some of these shells, however, set the officers' quarters on fire three times; but the flames were promptly extinguished once or twice through the exertions of Peter Hart, whose activity and gallantry were very conspicuous.

The night was an anxious one for us, for we thought it probable that the launches, filled with armed men from the fleet, might take advantage of the darkness to come in with provisions and supplies. Then, too, it was possible that the enemy might attempt a night attack. We were on the alert, therefore, with men stationed at all the embrasures; but nothing unusual occurred. The batteries fired upon us at stated intervals all night long. We did not return the fire, having no ammunition to waste.

On the morning of the 13th, we took our breakfast—or, rather, our pork and water—at the usual hour, and marched the men to the guns when the meal was over.

From 4 to 6.30 a.m. the enemy's fire was very spirited. From 7 to 8 a.m. a rain-storm came on, and there was a lull in the cannonading. About 8 a.m. the officers' quarters were ignited by one of Ripley's incendiary shells, or by shot heated in the furnaces at Fort Moultrie. The fire was put out; but at 10 a.m. a mortar shell passed through the roof, and lodged in the flooring of the second story, where it burst, and started the flames afresh. This, too, was extinguished; but the hot shot soon followed each other so rapidly that it was impossible for us to contend with them any longer. It became evident that the entire block, being built with wooden partitions, floors, and roofing, must be consumed, and that the magazine, containing three hundred barrels of powder, would be endangered; for, even after closing the metallic door, sparks might penetrate through the ventilator. The floor was covered with loose powder, where a detail of men had been at work manufacturing cartridge-bags out of old shirts, woolen blankets, etc.

While the officers exerted themselves with axes to tear down and cut away all the wood-work in the vicinity, the soldiers were rolling barrels of powder out to more sheltered spots, and were covering them with wet blankets. The labor was accelerated by the shells which were bursting around us; for Ripley had redoubled his activity at the first signs of a conflagration. We only succeeded in getting out some ninety-six barrels of powder, and then we were obliged to close the massive copper door, and await the result. A shot soon after passed through the intervening shield, struck the door, and bent the lock in such a way that it could not be opened again. We were thus cut off from our supply of ammunition, but still had some piled up in the vicinity of the guns. Anderson officially reported only four barrels and three cartridges as on hand when we left.

By 11 a.m. the conflagration was terrible and disastrous. One-fifth of the fort was on fire, and the wind drove the smoke in dense masses into the angle where we had all taken refuge. It seemed impossible to escape suffocation. Some lay down close to the ground, with handkerchiefs over their mouths, and others posted themselves near the embrasures, where the smoke was somewhat lessened by the draught of air. Every one suffered severely. I crawled out of one of these openings, and sat on the outer edge; but Ripley made it lively for me there with his case-shot, which spattered all around. Had not a slight change of wind taken place, the result might have been fatal to most of us.

Our firing having ceased, and the enemy being very jubilant, I thought it would be as well to show them that we were not all dead yet, and ordered the gunners to fire a few rounds more. I heard afterward that the enemy loudly cheered Anderson for his persistency under such adverse circumstances.

The scene at this time was really terrific. The roaring and crackling of the flames, the dense masses of whirling smoke, the bursting of the enemy's shells, and our own which were exploding in the burning rooms, the crashing of the shot, and the sound of masonry falling in every direction, made the fort a pandemonium. When at last nothing was left of the building but the blackened walls and smoldering embers, it became painfully evident that an immense amount of damage had been done. There was a tower at each angle of the fort. One of these, containing great quantities of shells, upon which we had relied, was almost completely shattered by successive explosions. The massive wooden gates, studded with iron nails, were burned, and the wall built behind them was now a mere heap of débris, so that the main entrance was wide open for an assaulting party. The sally-ports were in a similar condition, and the numerous windows on the gorge side, which had been planked up, had now become all open entrances.

About 12.48 p.m. the end of the flag-staff was shot down, and the flag fell. It had been previously hanging by one halliard, the other having been cut by a piece of shell. The exultation of the enemy, however, was short-lived. Peter Hart found a spar in the fort, which answered very well as a temporary flag-staff. He nailed the flag to this, and raised it triumphantly by nailing and tying the pole firmly to a pile of gun-carriages on the parapet. This was gallantly done, without undue haste, under Seymour's supervision, although the enemy concentrated all their fire upon the spot to prevent Hart from carrying out his intention. From the beginning, the rebel gunners had been very ambitious to shoot the flag down, and had wasted an immense number of shots in the attempt.

While the battle was going on, a correspondent of the New York Tribune, who was in Charleston, wrote that the populace were calling for my head. Fortunately, I was not there to gratify them. My relations with the gentlemen of Charleston had always been friendly. The enmity of the mob was simply political, and was founded on the belief that I was the only "Black Republican," as they termed it, in the fort.

THE EVACUATION.

There was a large, first-class wooden hotel, near the shore, on Sullivan's Island, called the Moultrie House. It was only kept open during the summer, and was a favorite resort, for planters and others, to enjoy the fresh sea-breeze, and the beautiful drive up the beach at low tide. Since the rebel occupation of Fort Moultrie, this hotel had been used as a dépôt and barracks for the troops in the vicinity. Just before the attack was made upon us, the Palmetto flag, which had waved over the building, was taken down; but I noticed with a spy-glass that there was still quite a number of people, apparently troops, remaining in the house. I saw no reason why the mere lowering of the flag should prevent us from firing at them. I therefore aimed two forty-two pounder balls at the upper story. The crashing of the shot, which went through the whole length of the building among the clapboards and interior partitions, must have been something fearful to those who were within. They came rushing out in furious haste, and tumbled over each other until they reached the bottom of the front steps, in one writhing, tumultuous mass.

When we left Fort Sumter, a South Carolina officer, who seemed to feel aggrieved in relation to this matter, asked me why we fired at that building. Not caring to enter into a discussion at that time, I evaded it by telling him the true reason was, that the landlord had given me a wretched room there one night, and this being the only opportunity that had occurred to get even with him, I was unable to resist it. He laughed heartily, and said, "I understand it all now. You were perfectly right, sir, and I justify the act."

About 2 p.m., Senator Wigfall, in company with W. Gourdin Young, of Charleston, unexpectedly made his appearance at one of the embrasures, having crossed over from Morris Island in a small boat, rowed by negroes. He had seen the flag come down, and supposed that we had surrendered in consequence of the burning of the quarters. This visit was sanctioned by the commander of Morris Island, Brigadier-general James W. Simons. An artillery-man, serving his gun, was very much astonished to see a man's face at the entrance, and asked him what he was doing there. Wigfall replied that he wished to see Major Anderson. The man, however, refused to allow him to enter until he had surrendered himself as a prisoner, and given up his sword. This done, another artillery-man was sent to bring an officer. Lieutenant Davis came almost immediately, but it took some time to find Anderson, who was out examining the condition of the main gates. I was not present during this scene, or at the interview that ensued, as I was engaged in trying to save some shells in the upper story from the effects of the fire. Wigfall, in Beauregard's name, offered Anderson his own terms, which were, the evacuation of the fort, with permission to salute our flag, and to march out with the honors of war, with our arms and private baggage, leaving all other war material behind. As soon as this matter was arranged, Wigfall returned to Cummings Point.

The first contest of the war was over, and had ended as a substantial victory for the Secessionists. They had commenced the campaign naked and defenseless; but the General Government had allowed them time to levy an army against us, and we had permitted ourselves to be surrounded with a ring of fire, from which there was no escape. Nor had we employed to the fullest extent all our available means of defense. No attempt had ever been made to use the upper tier of guns, which contained our heaviest metal, and which, from its height, overlooked the enemy's works, and was, therefore, the most efficient part of our armament. Although the fire of our columbiads, under ordinary circumstances, could not quite reach the city, we had arranged one of them to point upward at the maximum angle. As the carriage would not admit of this, the gun was taken off, and made to rest on a bed of masonry. Seymour and myself thought, by loading it with eccentric shells, we could increase the range of the guns so that the balls would reach that part of Charleston which was nearest to us; but we were not allowed to use the gun at all. It seemed to me there was a manifest desire to do as little damage as possible.

About eighteen hundred shot had been fired into Fort Sumter, and the upper story was pretty well knocked to pieces. To walk around the parapet, we had constantly to climb over heaps of débris. With all this expenditure of ammunition, we had but one man dangerously wounded. This was John Schweirer, foreman of the Baltimore brick-layers. He was struck by a piece of shell while standing near the open parade-ground. So long as our men fought in the lower casemates, which were shell-proof, the vertical fire could not reach them; and by drilling them to step one side of the embrasure whenever they saw the flash of a gun opposite, they escaped the danger of being struck by any ball which might enter the opening; so that, on the whole, they ran very little risk. Had they used the guns on the parapet, the number of casualties would have been greatly increased, but our missiles would have been much more effective.

Almost a fatal accident occurred to Roger A. Pryor shortly after his arrival in the fort. He was sitting in the hospital at a table, with a black bottle and a tumbler near his right hand. The place was quite dark, having been built up all around with boxes of sand, to render it shell-proof. Being thirsty, and not noticing what he did, he mechanically picked up the bottle, poured some of the liquid into the glass, and drank it down. It proved to be iodide of potassium, which is quite a poisonous compound. When I saw him, he was very pale, and leaning on the shoulder of Dr. Crawford, who was taking him out on the grass to apply the stomach-pump. He was soon out of danger. Some of us questioned the doctor's right to interpose in a case of this kind. It was argued that if any rebel leader chose to come over to Fort Sumter and poison himself, the Medical Department had no business to interfere with such a laudable intention. The doctor, however, claimed, with some show of reason, that he himself was held responsible to the United States for the medicine in the hospital, and therefore he could not permit Pryor to carry any of it away.

The next morning, Sunday, the 14th, we were up early, packing our baggage in readiness to go on board the transport. The time having arrived, I made preparations, by order of Major Anderson, to fire a national salute to the flag. It was a dangerous thing to attempt, as sparks of fire were floating around everywhere, and there was no safe place to deposit the ammunition. In that portion of the line commanded by Lieutenant Hall, a pile of cartridges lay under the muzzle of one of the guns. Some fire had probably lodged inside the piece, which the sponging did not extinguish, for, in loading it, it went off prematurely, and blew off the right arm of the gunner, Daniel Hough, who was an excellent soldier. His death was almost instantaneous. He was the first man who lost his life on our side in the war for the Union. The damage did not end here, for some of the fire from the muzzle dropped on the pile of cartridges below, and exploded them all. Several men in the vicinity were blown into the air, and seriously injured. Their names were George Fielding, John Irwin, George Pinchard, and Edwin Galway, and, I think, James Hayes. The first-named being very badly hurt, was left behind, to be cared for by the rebels. He was sent over to Charleston, where he was well treated, finally cured, and forwarded to us without being exchanged.

The salute being over, the Confederate troops marched in to occupy the fort. The Palmetto Guard, Captain Cuthbert's company, detailed by Colonel De Saussure, and Captain Hollinquist's Company B, of the regulars, detailed by Colonel Ripley, constituted the new garrison under Ripley. Anderson directed me to form the men on the parade-ground, assume command, and march them on board the transport. I told him I should prefer to leave the fort with the flag flying, and the drums beating Yankee Doodle, and he authorized me to do so. As soon as our tattered flag came down, and the silken banner made by the ladies of Charleston was run up, tremendous shouts of applause were heard from the vast multitude of spectators; and all the vessels and steamers, with one accord, made for the fort. Corporal Bringhurst came running to tell me that many of the approaching crowd were shouting my name, and making threatening demonstrations. The disorder, however, was immediately quelled by the appearance of Hartstein, an ex-officer of our navy, who threw out sentinels in all directions, and prevented the mob from landing.

The bay was alive with floating craft of every description, filled with people from all parts of the South, in their holiday attire. As I marched out at the head of our little band of regulars, it must have presented a strange contrast to the numerous forces that had assailed us; some sixty men against six thousand. As we went on board the Isabel, with the drums beating the national air, all eyes were fixed upon us amidst the deepest silence. It was an hour of triumph for the originators of secession in South Carolina, and no doubt it seemed to them the culmination of all their hopes; but could they have seen into the future with the eye of prophecy, their joy might have been turned into mourning. Who among them could have conceived that the Charleston they deemed so invincible, which they boasted would never be polluted by the footsteps of a Yankee invader until every son of the soil had shed the last drop of his blood in her defense—who could have imagined that this proud metropolis, after much privation and long-suffering from fire and bombardment, would finally surrender, without bloodshed, to a negro regiment, under a Massachusetts flag—the two most abhorred elements of the strife to the proud people of South Carolina? Who could have imagined that the race they had so despised was destined to govern them in the future, in the dense ignorance which the South itself had created, by prohibiting the education of the blacks?

My story is nearly done. We soon reached the Baltic, and were received with great sympathy and feeling by the army and navy officers present. Among the latter was Captain Fox, who afterward became the Assistant Secretary of the Navy.

We arrived in New York on the 19th, and were received with unbounded enthusiasm. All the passing steamers saluted us with their steam-whistles and bells, and cheer after cheer went up from the ferry-boats and vessels in the harbor. We did not attempt to land, but came to anchor in the stream, between Governor's Island and the Battery. Several distinguished citizens at once came on board, and Major Anderson was immediately carried off to dine with Mr. Lloyd Aspinwall. As somebody had to remain with the troops and attend to their wants, I accompanied them to Fort Hamilton, where we soon found ourselves in comfortable quarters. Nearly all of the officers obtained a furlough immediately; but I remained in command of the fort during the temporary absence of Major Anderson, who was soon after permanently detached from us.

Our captivity had deeply touched the hearts of the people, and every day the number of visitors almost amounted to an ovation. The principal city papers, the Tribune, Times, Herald, and Evening Post, gave us a hearty welcome. For a long time the enthusiasm in New York remained undiminished. It was impossible for us to venture into the main streets without being ridden on the shoulders of men, and torn to pieces by hand-shaking. Shortly after our arrival, Henry Ward Beecher came down to the fort to meet us, and made a ringing speech, full of fire and patriotism. It seemed as if every one of note called to express his devotion to the cause of the Union, and his sympathy with us, who had been its humble representatives amidst the perils of the first conflict of the war.