Chapter I: NOW come to what I have always regarded--shall ever regard as the most

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

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

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

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

THE CONQUERED BANNER

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

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

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

He bowed his head upon the table and wept bitterly.

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

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

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

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

THE CONQUERED BANNER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN.

DEATH OF GRANT

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

WALT WHITMAN.

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

U. S. GRANT.

ROBERT E. LEE

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

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

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

JULIA WARD HOWE.

OLD GLORY ON THE ISLAND

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WHEELER'S BRIGADE AT SANTIAGO

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

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

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

WALLACE RICE.

SOLDIERS

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

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

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

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

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

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

WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLE.

* * * * *

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

JOHN HOWARD JEWETT.

* * * * *

Printed in the United States of America.

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Transcriber's Note:

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

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

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End of Project Gutenberg's How the Flag Became Old Glory, by Emma Look Scott