National Republican. (Washington City (D.C.)) 1872-1888, 1886-06-12

thinner ranks, your brows, upon which time
Is writing In palmer lines its autograph,
true indeed know II is that the number OF
the survivors is fast diminishing, and that
with the close Of the century few will
remain. But they will all still live in the
works that do follow them-in civilization
better, because purified by the searching fire
OF war from the droes Of human slavery and
political inequality, and in country lifted
up TO higher plane OF Justice, mercy, and
Righteousness. They will live, too, In his
tory--in the history Of a patriotic people, pic
t h IN pages more graphic than those OF
Plutarch or Macauley, In the songs OF poets
who shall sing nobier than virgil's man
and an epic loftier than the Had. They
VIII live too In these monuments OF stone
and bronze which we erect not more to
their memory than to the Indictment and
education OF coming generations. IL might
be said that we are now In our monumental
age. Time and your patience would fail an
enumeration OF the monuments which,
within few years. have dotted the land,
and In whose massive handwriting the CEN
fury is recording for centuries hence It's
story OF heroism so plain, so legible, that
though new Babel should arise and the
English tongue be lost the human heart
and eye would still read II at q glance.
these monuments and statues do not rise
summer and winter, In snow and sun, day
and night, TO tell how universal was the
response Of the loyal Union to the call Of
the patriots duty, whether II rang above
the city's din or broke the quiet OF the
farm. On city square and village green
stand the graceful figures Of student, clerk,
mechanic, farmer, In that endeared and
rto-be-forgotten war uniform OF the
soldier and the sailor, their stern young
faces TO the front, still on guard watching
the WORK they wrought In the flesh, and
teaching In eloquent silence the lesson OF
the citizens duty to the state. How our
children will study these How they will
search and read their namesl How quaint
and antique to them will seem their arms
and costumel How they will gather and
store up in their minds the fine insensibly-
altering percolation OF the sentiment OF
valor, Of loyalty, of fight for right, of re-
sistance against wrong, just as we inherited
all this from the revolutionary era, so that,
when some crisis shall In the future come to
them as IL came to us, they too Will spring
| to the rescue, as sprang our youth, In the
beauty and chiyalry OF the consciousness OF
| a noble descent.
have said more than enough. No words
| from my inadequate lips can meet the mem
| cries or the lessons Of this day. There are
chords dare not and cannot sweep. They
tremble In the hearts OF aged fathers and
mothers, who remember and mourn their
sons, and OF women who remember aud
| mourn their husbands whom the war In Its
slaughter, or In the lingering but fatal seeds
| Of death which II planted, tore from them
| and their little ones. There are soldiers
widows and orphans here who feel, more
| eloquently than tongue or pen can utter,
| the sadness and the sacrifice, but let us
hope, also, the glory. All what an lnspir-
alton Is In those tender and heroic memo
RIGS How they lift us to the heights OF
feeling and endeavor
| During the late Turco- Russian war ]
passed an evening in a modest home In q
| quiet country town. II was wild night
| The family circle sat by the open fire OF a
New England sitting room. They told me
| OF n son OF that house, q young mar
already known In literature and art
who, full Of spirit Of adventure, was al
that moment war-correspondent OF grea'
London daily with the head OF the Russian
army in Bulgaria. They read me his letters
In which he Intervene inquiries and mem
cries Of home with vivid descriptions oi
battles, OF wounds, of Turkish barbarities
OF desolated villages, Of murdered and mu
tilated peasants, OF long marches through
worse than Virginlan mud, Of wild blvouat
in rain and tempest, Of stirring incidents o
the Russian camp, OF the thousand shifting
scenes of the theater Of a campaign, TIL
suddenly that quiet room In which we ga
was TRANSPORTED and we, snug-sheltered
from the storm, were apace translated owe
the sea into the very stir and toss Of the war
our sympathies, our hopes, our interests
our very selves all there.
And SO 1t is with US always. Shut vi
within ourselves, our minds intent OF
nothing but the narrow limits Of immedi
ate place and time, our hearts and fist
closing tighter on our little own, We shrive
like dry leaves. But let the thrill OF tina
common humanity electrify us which link
together all men, oil time, past, present
and to come, and we spring into the uppe
air. Though we know 1t not, yet when W
do these honors to the deserving dead
when we revive not alone the fact but tn
idea OF their service, we strike chord tina
forever binds us and the world around u
with all great heroisms, with all grea
causes and sacrifices, with the throb OF tina
loftier moral atmosphere which is foun
only in the unision OF mans immortal sou
with the soul of God the Father.