Winchester journal. [volume] (Winchester, Indiana) 1862-1863, 1863-01-23
From the Rural New Yorker.
THE UNWRITTEN HISTORY OF
WAR.

Not in the rolling drum, the
screeching fife, the rattle of mus
kerry, the bursting shell, or the
deep-tcned voice of cannon as
they belch forth their missiles of
destruction, not in those scenes
of which warriors tell, and histo-
rlans chronicle, lie so much the
horrors of war as in its Unwrit-
ten History.
"StllI waters flow deepest" and
so with that still and silent grief
that wears upon the mind, and
consumes the heart, unnotlced
and unnoticeable, save in the
sunken eye and pallid cheek
There is a charm inshe excite
ment of the battlefield which
dispels fear and robs Death of his
terrors. Bat who can tell the an
guish of a mothers heart, when
her son,-perhaps her only,-the
pride of her heart and the stay of
her declining years, is suddenly
snatched away. Perhaps, amid
the tumult. the excitement, the
glare of the battle field, be died
while nobly fighting in his couD-
try's cause. Perhaps, a lone
picket, he stood in the depth of
some Southern forest in the still
hour of night. He is thinking
of home-of the dear, anxious
ones vino wait and watch and
hope for his coming; and Fancy,
sweet, cruel deceiver, brings him
loving words and fond embraces.
There is a rustling in the thick
et,-he stoopS to listen. Crack !
A rebel bullet has pierced his
heart, the tide of life is stream
ing, and exclaiming, 90 God !
my mother - he falls to the
ground. A moon-beam steals
through the foliage ard rests upon
his countenance. A pallor mas
overspread it,-his lips tremble
and grow white,-a film creeps
over his eyes,-a rattle in his
throat, and the heart stands still.
No pomp or ceremony attend his
funeral. A picket is found dead
in the morning. His comrades
hastily shovel away a few feet of
earth all that is granted him of
the land tor which he ed,-and
he is laid down to rest. "Our
loss is rery small only one
picket killed last night" says the
Captain.
Let home in the dear North
land tell the loss. Perhaps an
aged father with silvery locks and
wrinkled brow, and whose steps
totter upon the verge of the grave,
has given hi- son. like Benjamin,
his Youngest and most beloved,
20 battle for freedom and the rights
of man. How fondIy did he
watch the development OF his
childish intellect. With what
anxious solicitude did he direct
his infant steps, and train the
youthful mind to habits of indus
try and virtue. He is proud OF
his boy. His hopes are centered
in him. Bat his country calls.
and with trembling voice he bids
him 60. In the gloomy ward of
q hospital in a distant city. sur
rounded by all thr horrors OF 81 Il
ness, woun Is. AMI death. he les
>tru I,ling with the King of Ter
rorS. No kind friend is near to I
administer consolation IN ms last I
moments. Even the physicians
are busy in other wards, and the .
brave soldier dies alone.
What misery is mseen-what T
sorrows are unchronicledl When I
human thoughts are visible, -
whom it is given to one to know /
the secret sorrows o. his fellow /
beings, and to explore the hidden
recesses of another soul, then, /
and not until then, can be known +
the "Unwritten History of War" I
A SOLDIER.
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