Oxford Democrat. [volume] (Paris, Me.) 1833-1933, 1881-05-17
A WORD PAINTING.

ble man, man who conscientiously be-
lieves he has mission TO perform in lib
Grating modern minds from the bonds of
ancient superstition. His methods and
teachings are widely open to criticism,
and while many cannot accept his views
on religious matters. one can but ad-
mire the beautiful rhetoric with which he
embelliShes many of his addresses
Among the eloquent words that have
fallen from lngersoll's lips, the following
is said to be the most vivid efforts in the
way of word painting. II is an extract
from a speech delivered in 1876, and we
publish it as a beautiful specimen Of
English composition.
The past rises before me, as it were,
like a dream. Again we are in the great
struggle for national life. We hear the
sounds Of prepaailon-the music OF
boisteTous drums-the silver voices OF
heroic bugles. We see thousands Of as
semblages, and hear the appeals OF ora
tors we see the pale checks OF women,
and the flushed faces OF the men; and in
those assemblagcs we see all the dead
whose dust we have covered with flowers.
We lose sight Of them no more We
are with them when they enlist in the
great army of freedom. We see them
part with those they love. Some are
walking for the last time in quiet, woody
places, with the maidens they adore.
We hear the wisperings and sweet vows
Of eternal love as they lingeringly part
forever. Others are bending over cradles,
kissing babies tina, aIc asleep. Some
are receiving the blessings Of old men.
Some are parting with mothers who hold
them to their hearts again aud again, and
say nothing. And some arc talking to
wives, and endeavoring with brave words,
spoken in the old tones, to drive from
their hearts the awful fear. We see
them part. We see the wife standing in
the door with the babe in her arms
standing in the sunlight sobbing-at the
turn of the road hand wayes-she an.
swers by holding high in her-loving arms
the child. He is gone, and forever.
We see them all as they march proud
~ away under the Haunting flags, keep
ing time to the grand, wild music of war
marching down the streets of the great
cities through the towns ant across the
prairies-down to the fields Of glory, TO do
and to die for the eternal right.
We 90 with them, one and all. We
are by their side on all the CORY fields
in all the hospitals of pain-on all the
weary marches. We stand guard with
them in the wild storm and under the
quiet stars. We are with them in ra-
vines running with blood-in the fur
rows of old fields. We are with them
between contending hosts, unable to
move. wild with thirst, the life ebbing
slowly away among the withered leaves.
We see them pierced by balls and torn
with shells, in the trenches, by fort sand
in the whirlwind of the charge, where
men become iron, with nerves of steel.
We are with them in the prisons of
hatred and famine but human speech
can never tell what they endured.
We are at home when the news comes
that they are dead. We see the maiden
in the shadow of her first sorrow. We
see silvered head Of the old man bowed
under his last grief.
The past rises before US, and we see
four millions of human beings governed
by the lash-we see them bound hand
and foot-we hear the strokes Of cruel
whips-we see the hounds tracking wo-
men through tangled swamps. We see
babies sold from the breasts OF mothers
Cruelty unspeakable. Outrage infinite! !
Four million bodies in chains-four
millions souls in fetters. All the sacred
relations of wife, mother, father and
child, trampled beneath the brutal foot
Of might. And all this was done under
our own beautiful banner OF the free.
The past rises before us. We hear
the roar and shrek Of the bursting shell.
The broken fetters fall These heroes
die. We look-instead of slaves we see
men and woman and children. The
wand of progress touches the auction
block, the slave-pen, the whiPping-post,
and we see homes and fresides and
school. houses and books, and where all was
want and crime and cruelty and fear, we
sae the faces of the free
These heroes are dead They died for
liberty-they died for US. They are at
rest They sleep in the land they made
free, under the flag they rendered stain
less, under the solemn pines, the sad
hemlocks, the fearful willows, and the
embracing vines. They sleep beneath
the shadows of the clouds, careless alike
of sunshine or of storm, each in the win
dowless palace OF Rest. Earth may run
red with other wars-they are at peace.
In the midst of battle, in the roar of
conflict, they found serenity in death. |
have one sentiment for soldiers living or
dead cheers for the living; tears for the
dead -