Chapter IV: Part 4

John Hutchinson was paying a visit to Vinnie Ream, the sculptor, who designed the General Thomas monument in April, 1874. Among the guests were three ex-Confederate generals. At her request Hutchinson sang _The Blue and the Gray_; when he had finished singing the song, the three Confederates rose simultaneously, and one after the other shook his hand with great heartiness. "Mr. Hutchinson," they said, "that song is a passport to you anywhere in the South." Alexander H. Stephens, the ex-vice-president of the Confederacy, upon hearing from these gentlemen of Mr. Hutchinson's singing, sent a special request to him to come to his hotel and sing _The Blue and the Gray_. He was wheeled into the room in his chair to listen to the song. At the conclusion he declared that the country was safe when such sentiments became popular.

Mr. Hutchinson himself composed the music for Finch's famous song. At the great Atlanta Exposition in 1895, Mr. Hutchinson made the journey to Atlanta by special invitation of the management, and was present on "Blue and Gray" Day. He says of the experience: "Who can picture my thoughts on that notable occasion? To think that, at last, the man who had known what it was to be maligned and buffeted in the South, should be received with honor in its chief city, and witness the effects of reconstruction in the great cotton country! It was a 'New South,' indeed, that I saw. And there, to the great gathering of Union and Confederate soldiers, I sang the song that had so often in later years been a key to open the Southern heart to the Hutchinsons:--

"'No more shall the war cry sever,
Or the winding rivers be red;
They banish our anger forever,
When they laurel the graves of our dead!
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Love and tears for the Blue;
Tears and love for the Gray.'"

Perhaps no one thing has done so much to soften the bitterness which civil war left in our country as the beautiful ceremonies connected with Memorial Day. As the years have gone on, and every Memorial Day the Southern soldiers have been more and more wont to cover the graves of their dead foemen with wreaths of Southern flowers, and again and again gray-haired veterans from both the "Blue and the Gray" have met beside the Hudson to do honor to the great commander who at Appomattox said, "Let us have peace," the coldness of suspicion and distrust have blown away, until, now that the boys from the South as well as from the North have marched together again under the old flag to fight a foreign foe, we see eye to eye.

The birth of Decoration Day deserves to be held in everlasting remembrance. Mrs. John A. Logan, the wife of the great Volunteer General, in company with some friends, made a trip to Richmond in March, 1868. Mrs. Logan was particularly impressed by the evidences of desolation and destruction which she witnessed everywhere, but which seemed to her to be particularly emphasized by the innumerable graves which filled the cemeteries, many of which were those of Confederate soldiers. In the summer before they had all been decorated by wreaths of flowers and little flags, all of which were faded, but which seemed to the tender-hearted woman to be a mute evidence of the devotion and gratitude of those people to the men who had lost their lives to their cause.

On speaking of this to General Logan, on her return, he said it was a beautiful custom and one worthy to be copied, and, as he was then Commander-in-chief of the Grand Army of the Republic, that he intended issuing an order, asking the entire people of the nation to inaugurate the custom of annually decorating the graves of the patriotic dead as a memorial of their sacrifice and devotion to country. He issued the first order for May 30, 1868, and it was so enthusiastically received that Congress made it a national holiday.

It will thus be seen, that Memorial Day was born out of a partnership between a woman's tender heart and a man's noble purpose. It is also sweet to reflect that South and North united at its birth. The Southern mourners were the first to cover the graves of their dead with flowers, as they were the first to decorate the graves of their fallen foes; while their Northern brothers led in calling to it national attention, and made the custom as wide as the country. From henceforth we all unite in the closing couplet of Finch's noble song:--

"Love and tears for the Blue;
Tears and love for the Gray."

_RULE, BRITANNIA._

When Britain first, at heaven's command,
Arose from out the azure main,
This was the charter, the charter of the land,
And guardian angels sung the strain:
Rule, Britannia,
Britannia rule the waves,
Britons never shall be slaves.

The nations, not so blest as thee,
Must in their turn to tyrants fall,
While thou shalt flourish, great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.
Rule, Britannia,
Britannia rule the waves,
Britons never shall be slaves.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
More dreadful from each foreign stroke;
As the loud blast that rends the skies
Serves but to root thy native oak.
Rule, Britannia,
Britannia rule the waves,
Britons never shall be slaves.

Thee, haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;
All their attempts to bend thee down
Will but arouse thy generous flame,--
But work their woe and thy renown.
Rule, Britannia,
Britannia rule the waves,
Britons never shall be slaves.

To thee belongs the rural reign,
Thy cities shall with commerce shine;
All thine shall be the subject main,
And every shore encircles thine.
Rule, Britannia,
Britannia rule the waves,
Britons never shall be slaves.

The Muses, still with freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coasts repair,
Blessed Isle! With matchless beauty crowned,
And manly hearts to guard the fair.
Rule, Britannia,
Britannia rule the waves,
Britons never shall be slaves.

--_James Thomson._

The poet Southey declares that this noble ode in honor of Great Britain will be the political hymn of that country as long as she maintains her political power. It had a peculiar origin. Dr. Thomas Arne, the great musical composer, composed the music for his _Masque of Alfred_, and it was first performed at Cliefden House, near Maidenhead, on August 1, 1740. Cliefden was then the residence of Frederick, Prince of Wales, and the occasion was to commemorate the accession of George I. and in honor of the birthday of young Princess Augusta. Doctor Arne afterward altered it into an opera, and it was so performed at Drury Lane Theater on March 20, 1745, for the benefit of Mrs. Arne. In the advertisement of that performance Doctor Arne specially announces that _Rule Britannia_, which he calls "a celebrated ode," will be sung. We judge from this that it had even at that time gained great popularity.

Dr. Thomas Arne himself had a very interesting story. He was the son of a wealthy upholsterer in London and was born in 1704. He was educated at Eton, and his father intended him for the law, but while in school he had such a craving for music that he would often dress himself in servant's livery and sit in the upper gallery at the theaters. He learned to play with the strings of his spinet muffled in a handkerchief. One day his father attended a musicale at the house of a friend, and to his great astonishment and disgust, his own son occupied the place of first violinist. The father, however, decided to make the best of it, and not to fight against nature. From that time on the music-loving boy was allowed to play at home, and it was not very long before the whole family were proud of his achievements. He was the first English composer to rival Italian music in compass and difficulty. Doctor Arne lived and died absorbed in musical tones. Death came to him in the midst of his work, March 5, 1778. While attempting to illustrate a musical idea, he sang an air in faltering tones; the sound grew fainter, until song and breathing ceased together. Perhaps if he could have chosen his way to die this would have pleased him best of all.

The words for this _Masque of Alfred_, in which _Rule Britannia_ appears, were written jointly by James Thomson, the author of _The Seasons_, and David Mallet, a Scotch tutor. It is not certain who was the author of these verses, Thomson, or Mallet. During Thomson's life in the newspapers of the day he alone was mentioned as the author. He died in 1751, and Mallet brought out, in 1755, his _Masque of Britannia_, at Drury Lane Theater, and it was received with great applause. The _Monthly Review_, a Scottish magazine of the time, in noticing it says: "_Britannia_, a Masque set to music by Doctor Arne. Mr. David Mallet is its reputed author. His design is to animate the sons of Britannia to vindicate their country's rights, and avenge her wrongs." On the whole, the weight of evidence seems to be in favor of the famous ode having been written by Thomson, but no one will ever be able to prove certainly as to whether it originated in his brain or Mallet's.

_Rule Britannia_ soon became a favorite with the Jacobite party. Many parodies of it have been written, some of which were very famous in their time. One is to be found in _The True Royalist_, a collection of English songs long since out of print, which is perhaps worth repeating here:--

"Britannia, rouse at heav'n's command!
And crown thy native Prince again;
Then Peace shall bless thy happy land,
And Plenty pour in from the main:
Then shalt thou be--Britannia thou shalt be
From home and foreign tyrants free.

"Behold, great Charles! thy godlike son,
With majesty and sweetness crown'd;
His worth th' admiring world doth own,
And fame's loud trump proclaims the sound.
Thy captain him, Britannia, him declare!
Of kings and heroes he's the heir.

"The second hope young Hero claims,
Th' extended empire of the main;
His breast with fire and courage flames,
With Nature's bounds to fix thy reign.
He (Neptune-like), Britannia, will defy
All but the thunder of the sky.

"The happiest states must yield to thee,
When free from dire corruption's thrall;
Of land and sea thou'lt Emp'ror be,
And ride triumphant round the ball:
Britannia, unite! Britannia must prevail,
Her powerful hand must guide the scale."

There is still another parody, also once very famous, contained in the book referred to. The first verse is as follows,--

"When our great Prince, with his choice band,
Arriv'd from o'er the azure main,
Heav'n smil'd with pleasure, with pleasure on the land,
And guardian angels sung this strain:
Go, brave hero; brave hero, boldly go,
And wrest thy scepter from thy foe."

In letting the parodies die, and in retaining the original song, succeeding generations have manifestly ensured the survival of the fittest. There has perhaps been no time since the Revolutionary War when Americans have listened to _Rule Britannia_ with as sympathetic ears as since the beginning of our war with Spain. The almost universal sympathy expressed for us by all classes in England has served to bring the two nations closer together than a hundred years of ordinary intercourse. Whether or no it brings about the Anglo-American alliance so widely discussed, it has made _Rule Britannia_ a grateful song to patriotic Americans.

_THE WATCH ON THE RHINE._

Like gathering thunder spreads a cry,
Like clash of arms when battle's nigh,
The Rhine! there's danger to the Rhine!
Who'll shield it from the foe's design?
Dear Fatherland, no fear be thine,
Dear Fatherland, no fear be thine,
Steadfast and true, we guard our German Rhine!
Steadfast and true, we guard our German Rhine!

The tidings flash through million hearts,
From million flaming eyes it darts;
Our valiant sons, in danger strong,
Will guard our hallow'd stream from wrong!

What though the foe my life should quench,
I know thy wave will ne'er be French;
And ample as thy tide of blue,
The living stream of heroes true.

The shades of heroes past and gone
Upon our deeds are looking down;
By home and Fatherland we swear
The foeman from thy banks to scare.

While through my veins the life is poured,
As long as I can hold a sword,
No stranger shall our land despoil,
No foeman desecrate our soil.

Proclaim the vow from shore to shore,
Let banners wave and cannons roar,
The Rhine! The lovely German Rhine,
To keep it Germans all combine.
Dear Fatherland, all fear resign,
Dear Fatherland, all fear resign,
Stout hearts and true will keep watch on the Rhine,
Stout hearts and true will keep watch on the Rhine.

--_Max Schneckenburger._
(_Translated by Lady Natalie MacFarren._)

_The Watch on the Rhine_ was written by Max Schneckenburger in 1840, and though not so fine a poem from a literary standpoint as many others that have embodied the same sentiment, it has about it that nameless charm which has enthralled the popular heart. Although it was thirty years old in 1870, it then struck its first great popularity and became by all odds the most popular war song in Germany.

Schneckenburger, like many another hymn writer, owes his entire reputation to a single song. He was an obscure Swabian merchant, quiet and unassuming, who never did anything in his life to attract public attention except to write this hymn. But it might well be said that in order to make a man's name immortal he need not do anything else than write one song that voices the soul's ambition or the heart's longing of a great people. Max Schneckenburger is perhaps the only writer of a popular national hymn who is not the author of other lesser songs; for we have not been able to discover that he ever published anything except _The Watch on the Rhine_. He died in Berne, in 1849, without the slightest thought that his song would ever make his name famous. Long after his death a handsome monument was built above his grave at Thalheim, in Wurtemberg.

The music for _The Watch on the Rhine_ was composed by Carl Wilhelm, who first arranged it as a chorus for male voices. Wilhelm was a music teacher and conductor. He was born at Schmalkalden and died in 1873. Carl Hauser says that Carl Wilhelm never dreamed of _The Watch on the Rhine_ turning out to be a national hymn at the time he composed the music. Wilhelm was a thorough Bohemian, a sort of typical German bandmaster, who was accustomed to write music on lager-beer tables amid the fumes of smoking pipes. He was not counted as a great musician, except among a few bosom friends, and was satisfied to get a very small price for his compositions, and what he received in that way usually went to pay his beer bills.

On a certain occasion a schoolmaster who was a friend of Wilhelm asked him as a personal favor to compose a chorus for his pupils to sing on Commencement Day. The school-teacher saw the value of the music, and treacherously sold it. Thousands of copies went all over the world, but Wilhelm received no benefit therefrom. But after his music became famous, in 1870, tardy recognition was granted him, and in 1871 he was granted an annual pension of seven hundred and fifty dollars. He only lived two years to enjoy it.

In the Franco-Prussian war of 1870, _The Watch on the Rhine_ had for a time a rival in a song the first verse of which ran:--

"It never shall be France's,
The free, the German Rhine,
Until its broad expanse is
Its last defender's shrine."

But when Von Moltke and old King William, with Bismarck and the Crown Prince Frederick, pushed their armies over the Rhine toward Paris, the war-like _Watch on the Rhine_ soon distanced all other songs in the affections of the soldiers, and became the song of the nation.

Perhaps this martial song was never sung under more splendid circumstances than at the unveiling of the great National Monument inaugurated in 1883 to commemorate the victories in the Franco-Prussian war and the foundation of the new German Empire in 1870-'71. This magnificent monument stands on the bank of the Rhine opposite the beautiful town of Bingen, famous in history and story, on a wooded hill nearly a thousand feet above the sea level, and flanked with glorious vineyards. No national monument is a more perfect expression of the spirit of a great people. The principal figure is a noble female form, thirty-three feet in height, Germania, wearing an imperial crown, and holding a sword wreathed with laurel as an emblem of the unity and strength of the empire. The figure is the embodiment of self-conscious dignity and strength. As a recent American traveler philosophizes, there is nothing vain or conceited about it, but the pride and confidence of one that knows and feels his power. The form erect and standing boldly forth as if before the face of the whole world, the head gracefully poised--thrown a little back, not haughtily nor disdainfully, but with steadfast and self-reliant courage--seems to say, "Behold in me the symbol of a great and mighty people!" On the right hand of the central figure, but far beneath its feet, is a symbolical figure of War, winged, with a helmet on its head, and a trumpet at its mouth, expressive of Titanic energy, as if a single blast of the trumpet would bring a million men in arms to the front. On the left is a symbolical figure of Peace, smiling benignantly, and holding in her arms the emblems of industry. These figures seem to say to the world, and especially to France, "War, terrible and destructive, if we must; but Peace, if you will."

In the hearts of the thousands of Germans gathered to unveil this great monument, there must have been a thrill of electric energy as they sang the popular song which it incarnated, for it stands as the crystallized representative of _The Watch on the Rhine_.

_THE MARSEILLAISE._

Ye sons of France, awake to glory,
Hark, hark what myriads bid you rise,
Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary,
Behold their tears and hear their cries!
Shall hateful tyrants, mischief breeding,
With hireling hosts, a ruffian band,
Affright and desolate the land,
While peace and liberty lie bleeding?
To arms! To arms, ye brave!
Th' avenging sword unsheath!
March on, march on, all hearts resolved
To victory or death.

Now, now the dangerous storm is scowling
Which treacherous kings, confederate, raise;
The dogs of war, let loose, are howling,
And lo! our fields and cities blaze.
And shall we basely view the ruin,
While lawless force, with guilty stride,
Spreads desolation far and wide,
With crimes and blood his hands embruing?

With luxury and pride surrounded,
The vile, insatiate despots dare,
Their thirst of power and gold unbounded,
To mete and vend the light and air;
Like beasts of burden would they load us,
Like gods would bid their slaves adore:
But man is man, and who is more?
Then, shall they longer lash and goad us?

O Liberty! can man resign thee!
Once having felt thy gen'rous flame?
Can dungeon, bolts, and bars confine thee,
Or whips thy noble spirit tame?
Too long the world has wept, bewailing
That falsehood's dagger tyrants wield;
But freedom is our sword and shield,
And all their arts are unavailing.

--_Claude Joseph Rouget de Lisle._

This is perhaps the most famous song in the world. Not because it is sung more frequently than any other song, but because it has about it in title, romantic story, and fervor, something that has touched the heart of mankind and inspired for it a respect and admiration in all civilized lands.

Its author, Rouget de Lisle, was a young artillery officer who had a fancy for newspaper writing, and had contributed a number of articles to a newspaper in Strasburg owned by the mayor of the city. He dined one evening at his great friend's house, and the conversation turned on the departure of several hundred volunteers from the town of Strasburg to the Army of the Rhine. There were to be public ceremonies connected with the departure of the troops, and Mayor Dietrich urged young De Lisle to write a martial song to be sung on that occasion. He consented and went at once from supper to his room. The weather was bitter cold, but he sat down at the piano, and between reciting and playing and singing, eventually composed the _Marseillaise_, and, thoroughly exhausted, fell asleep with his head on his desk.

In the morning he handed the song complete, with words and music, to his friend, Baron Dietrich. Every one was enchanted with the song, and was roused by it to the greatest enthusiasm. It was sung a few days later at the departure of the troops from Strasburg, and thence to the insurgents of Marseilles, and soon to all the nation. In six months it had been adopted by the people, the army, the legislature, and the whole country. Its appeal to liberty and glory voiced the hunger of the popular heart at the time, and never did song so completely charm and capture an entire people.

De Lisle's mother was a most ardent royalist, and when the hymn was on everybody's lips, asked of her son, "What do people mean by associating our name with the revolutionary hymn which those brigands sing?" De Lisle himself, proscribed as a royalist, when flying for his life in the Jura Mountains, heard it as a menace of death, and recognizing the air as that of his own song, asked his guide what it was called. It must have seemed to him that day like a Nemesis of his own creation. It had then been christened _The Marseillaise Hymn_.

De Lisle was reduced to great poverty in later years. It is characteristic of the French nation that, a short time before his death, when poverty and age had crushed out the hopes and ambitions of life and he was no longer capable of receiving great joy from any honor that might come to him, the National Government decorated him with the ribbon of the Legion of Honor. It will no doubt do the same thing for Émile Zola. Not long after this tardy recognition, several pensions were conferred upon him, which he lived to enjoy but for a few months. He died in 1836.

The English translation of the _Marseillaise_ as here given was published in 1795, only three years after the original was written. The translator's name is unknown, but it is considered the best English version.

The popularity of the song has naturally led to a great many claimants concerning it, especially the music. The author of a book entitled _An Englishman in Paris_, relates a very interesting story of a certain Alexandre Boucher, an eccentric violinist, who vowed that he (Boucher) wrote the _Marseillaise_ for the colonel of a regiment who was about to leave Marseilles the next day. According to this story, Boucher was seated next Rouget de Lisle at a dinner party in Paris some years after the _Marseillaise_ had become famous throughout the world. They had never met before, and the violinist was very much interested in the gentleman whom, with many others at the table, he complimented on his production; only Boucher confined himself to complimenting him on his poem. "You don't say a word about the music," Rouget replied, "and yet, being a celebrated musician, that ought to interest you. Do you not like it?" "Very much indeed," said Boucher, in a somewhat significant tone. "Well," continued de Lisle, "let me be frank with you; the music is not mine. It was that of a march which came heaven knows whence, and which they kept on playing at Marseilles during the Terror when I was a prisoner at the fortress of St. Jean. I made a few alterations necessitated by the words, and there it is." "Thereupon," says Boucher, "to his great surprise, I hummed the march as I had originally written it. 'Wonderful!' he exclaimed; 'How did you come by it?' When I told him," says the violinist, "he threw himself round my neck, but the next moment he said: 'I am very sorry, my dear Boucher, but I am afraid that you will be despoiled forever, do what you will; for your music and my words go so well together that they seem to have sprung simultaneously from the same brain, and the world, even if I proclaimed my indebtedness to you, would never believe it.'" "Keep the loan," was Boucher's magnanimous reply. "Without your genius, my march would be forgotten by now. You have given it a patent of nobility. It is yours forever."

All this is very interesting, but, unfortunately for Boucher's claim, De Lisle had put the music and the words together before the Reign of Terror began, and the story must fall to the ground.

Under the monarchical governments in France the song has always been held seditious, because of its extraordinary influence upon the French people. The first time since the Revolution that it was not regarded as treasonable by those in authority was at the opening of the World's Fair in 1878.

_THE BLUE BELLS OF SCOTLAND._

Oh! where, tell me where, is your Highland laddie gone?
Oh! where, tell me where is your Highland laddie gone?
"He's gone with streaming banners where noble deeds are done,
And my sad heart will tremble till he come safely home,
He's gone with streaming banners where noble deeds are done,
And my sad heart will tremble till he come safely home."

Oh! where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie stay?
Oh! where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie stay?
"He dwelt among the holly trees, beside the rapid Spey,
And many a blessing followed him the day he went away,
He dwelt beneath the holly trees, beside the river Spey,
And many a blessing followed him the day he went away."

Oh! what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie wear?
Oh! what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie wear?
"A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war,
And a plaid across the manly breast, that yet shall wear a star,
A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war,
And a plaid across the manly breast, that yet shall wear a star."

Suppose, ah, suppose, that some cruel, cruel wound
Should pierce your Highland laddie, and all your hopes confound;
"The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly,
And for his king and country dear, with pleasure would he die,
The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly,
And for his king and country dear, with pleasure would he die.

"But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's bonnie bounds,
But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's bonnie bounds;
His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds,
While wide through all our Highland hills his war-like name resounds,
His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds,
While wide through all our Highland hills his war-like name resounds."

--_Annie McVicar Grant._

The father of Annie McVicar was an officer in the British army and was transferred to this country for service in the American Colonies in 1757. When he left the old country with his troops his little daughter was but two years old. Soon after he went away the little girl wandered from home one day, greatly to the alarm of her family. She was overtaken by a friend, and when asked where she was going said, "I am going to America to see papa."

In 1758, the mother and little girl crossed the ocean and landed at Charleston, finding still a long, tiresome trip to make before they rejoined the beloved soldier father, who was stationed at Albany, New York. Here it was, in this then frontier land, that Annie grew to girlhood. She had only two treasures besides Indian trinkets and relics of Scotland, and these were Milton and a dictionary. She committed _Paradise Lost_ to memory, and the blind poet's good and evil angels became as real to her as the soldiers about the fort. One day, when in the presence of Madame Schuyler, who was the great lady of Albany at that time, the little girl made a very appropriate quotation from Milton which so delighted the fashionable woman that thereafter she showed the child much kindness and regarded her as though she had been her own daughter.

When Annie was thirteen years old her father was transferred again to Scotland, and a few years later, at Fort Augustus, Annie McVicar fell in love with James Grant, the chaplain of the fort. She did her duty as a minister's wife, and one can imagine that she had plenty to do, as eight children came to their fireside, one after another, in rapid succession. Mr. Grant died poor, leaving his wife with these eight children dependent upon her. She must do something to make a living and keep the wolf from the door, and in her sore straits she gathered up the poems which she had written from time to time, and successfully published them by subscription. Afterward she brought out several volumes entitled _Letters from the Mountains_, which passed through several editions and brought her considerable profit. These fairly launched her on the sea of authorship, and many volumes of prose and verse followed, which, together with a pension granted her by the government, placed her in most comfortable circumstances, and she reached the ripe age of eighty-four, surrounded by a large circle of admiring friends in the city of Edinburgh.

Mrs. Grant wrote _The Blue Bells of Scotland_ on the occasion of the departure of the Marquis of Huntly for the Continent with his regiment of Highland troops in 1799. A book entitled _The North Country Chorister_, printed in 1802, included this song under the title _The New Highland Lad_. Ritson, the editor of this book, says: "The song has been lately introduced upon the stage. It was originally _The Bells of Scotland_, but was revised by Mrs. Jordan, who altered the words and sang them to a tune of her own which superseded the old air." When Charles Mackay and Sir Henry Rowley Bishop were arranging old English airs, this song came under discussion. Mackay says: "_The Blue Bells of Scotland_ is almost invariably spoken of as a Scottish air; but Sir Henry found reason to suspect that it was English, and urged me to write new words to it, to dispossess, if possible, the old song of Mrs. Jordan. He was induced to form this opinion by receiving from Mr. Fitzgerald 'a Sussex tune' to a song commencing: 'Oh, I have been forester this many a long day.' Three or four bars of the melody were almost identical with the second part of _The Blue Bells of Scotland_, but as the remainder bore no resemblance to that popular favorite, and the whole tune was so beautiful that it was well worth preserving, I so far complied with Sir Henry's wish as to write _The Magic Harp_ to Mr. Fitzgerald's kind contribution to our work. Sir Henry wrote under date of the 22nd of October, 1852, 'I am strongly of the opinion that when Mrs. Jordan composed the music of _The Blue Bells of Scotland_, she founded the air upon that rescued from oblivion for us by Mr. Fitzgerald--or rather that she originally intended to sing it to that tune, but finding some parts of it too high for her voice, which was of a very limited compass, she altered them, and the air became that of _The Blue Bells of Scotland_.'"

Mrs. Grant's _Highland Laddie_ and Mrs. Jordan's _Blue Bells of Scotland_ have kept time together so long now, that it is not likely any musical critic will ever disturb them again. The following altered version of Mrs. Grant's song has in some places been even more popular than the original:--

"Oh where, and oh where is your Highland laddie gone?
'He's gone to fight the French for King George upon the throne;
And it's oh! in my heart, how I wish him safe at home.'

"Oh where, and oh where does your Highland laddie dwell?
'He dwells in merrie Scotland, at the sign of the Blue Bell;
And it's oh, in my heart, that I love my laddie well.'

"What clothes, in what clothes is your Highland laddie clad?
'His bonnet's of the Saxon green, his waistcoat's of the plaid;
And it's oh! in my heart, that I love my Highland lad.'

"Suppose, oh, suppose that your Highland lad should die?
'The bagpipes shall play over him, I'll lay me down and cry;
And it's oh! in my heart, that I wish he may not die!'"

_RECESSIONAL._

God of our fathers, known of old--
Lord of our far-flung battle line--
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies--
The captains and the kings depart;
Still stands thine ancient sacrifice,
A humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!

Far-called our navies melt away--
On dune and headland sinks the fire--
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not thee in awe;
Such boasting as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard--
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And, guarding, calls not thee to guard--
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy mercy on thy people, Lord!
Amen.

--_Rudyard Kipling._

Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee, celebrated on the 22nd of June, 1897, has gone into history as the greatest human pageant in the whole story of humanity. As sovereign of Great Britain and Ireland and Empress of India, she occupies the most powerful position on earth. In addition to the material power represented, the admiration and love in which she is held by the truest people of every nation and kindred, because of her wise reign as well as her long and pure life, swelled her jubilee into a tribute of the united affection of civilized mankind. Preparations were made for months beforehand. Representatives from kings and presidents, as well as from the army and navy of every country in the world, came to do her homage.

It was not only Queen Victoria's day, it was Great Britain's day. Not only in London, where the great procession of representatives and soldiers from all the Colonies marched in honor of the gracious queen, but the services in honor of the day belted the globe. They began in the Colonies of New Zealand and Australia; afterward in South Africa; and so they followed the sun westward. When his light had crossed the ocean and reached the continent of America, the citizens of St. John's, Newfoundland, recommenced the anthem which was taken up in succession, in town after town across the continent through Canada, from the Atlantic to the Pacific. The loyal dwellers at Victoria, British Columbia, tossed it across the Pacific, and on to India, throughout all the Colonies of the empire of the Union Jack.

It was a sublime and unparalleled occasion, and yet it is not too much to say that the most splendid and perhaps the most enduring souvenir of the Queen's Jubilee was Rudyard Kipling's poem--the _Recessional_. The editor of the London _Times_, in which journal it was first published, declares that it is the greatest poem of the century, and it is quite possible that such may be the verdict of the next generation.

This great poem came at the close of the Jubilee exercises and struck the world with a surprise. While Mr. Kipling has long been regarded as a great writer of fiction, and a strong poet, the deep note of strength, the undertone of volcanic earnestness, as well as the profound religious faith of the _Recessional_, were qualities which had not been attributed to Mr. Kipling by the majority of people. Yet, as Dr. George Horr, one of our brightest editors, has clearly set forth, Kipling, both as novelist and poet, has always portrayed the manly, strenuous side of life. He does not falter at putting before us ugly representations of vice, but beneath all the roughness and viciousness of men whom he describes, he reveals to us the real bedrock of genuine manliness. He never seeks to make us admire a cheat, a sneak, or a mountebank of any kind. Even in his most unconventional stories there is a Puritan strain in his temper, both in mental and moral quality, which holds him to the great essential moralities.

It is certainly appropriate that such a man should have eyes to see the profound religious side of the Queen's Jubilee, for at the bottom, everything that is real, that is manly and heroic, is also religious. It is not to be marveled at that this keen student of human nature and of human history should have been able to perceive that "the far-flung battle line," "the dominion over palm and pine," "the tumult and the shouting," "the captains and the kings," and "the far-called navies" are only dust and ashes, unless God lives in the hearts and controls the character of those who wield these instruments; and that "the frantic boast," and "the foolish word" may pull a national structure down upon the heads of a people drunken with their own power and riches. The sublime and solemn refrain of the poem,--

"Lest we forget--lest we forget,"

called back not only the British people in all parts of the world, but the conscience of all civilization, to the one abiding source of human power.

The fact that Kipling's poem touched the heart of the English-speaking world as nothing else connected with the Jubilee did, is, as Doctor Horr states, "a profound testimony to the existence and dominance of the religious instinct in the Anglo-Saxon race. We have often been told that luxury, and pride, and gross materialism, have quenched the Puritan spirit. We have never believed that, though it has been hard sometimes to maintain the contrary against almost overwhelming evidence. But under the breath of a moral issue the smouldering fire has leaped into flame. The poet who elicits this temper, interprets it to itself, and gives it form and voice, renders a service to the higher interests of the race that can hardly be computed. Religion has not lost its hold when such lines as these are universally recognized as the noblest feature of the Jubilee:--

"If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not thee in awe;
Such boasting as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!

"For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard--
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And, guarding, calls not thee to guard--
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy mercy on thy people, Lord."

Mr Edward Bok, the brilliant editor of the _Ladies' Home Journal_, secured the service of the celebrated composer Reginald de Koven to compose suitable music for this poem, and it was published in that magazine in the issue for May, 1898. De Koven's music promises to be a great success. On last Memorial Sunday, May 29, the _Recessional_ was sung to De Koven's music by church choirs in every large town and city in the United States. Surely nothing could be more appropriate for Americans to sing at the present time than the _Recessional_. It is a time when it is important that the citizens of our proud Republic shall remember that not in her vast territory, or inexhaustible wealth, or in mighty navy or splendid army, but in the blessing of Almighty God lies the real strength of a nation. Kipling's august prayer and refrain is as appropriate for us as for Great Britain:--

"Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!"

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

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