Produced by Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)






[Illustration: _John H. George_]

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                ——THE——
                            GRANITE MONTHLY.
        _A MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, HISTORY, AND STATE PROGRESS._
                VOL. II.       APRIL, 1879.       NO. 7.




                        COL. JOHN HATCH GEORGE.


When a biographer encounters the duty of describing, in the abstract, a
character which demands greater elaboration in order to do it reasonable
justice, he must be excused for the roughness of the outlines, which,
with the proper shadings thrown in, would give his descriptive picture
more satisfactory approximation to its required fidelity. In the present
instance limitation of space, and partial opportunity to glean matters
of fact and incident suitable for biographical record, justify the claim
on the reader for such excuse. In so far as details are given, however,
they will be found correct.

JOHN HATCH GEORGE, son of John George, Esq., and Mary Hatch, his wife by
a second marriage, was born in the house in Concord, N. H., now the
Colonel’s residence in that city, on the twentieth day of November,
1824, and is now, therefore, in his fifty-fifth year. The native place
of his father was Hopkinton, but from his early manhood until the period
of his death he was a resident in Concord, where he held the common
respect of the citizens as a man of great energy and of unalloyed
integrity. He died in 1843. Mary Hatch, mother of the subject of this
sketch, survived her husband four years. She was a daughter of Samuel
Hatch, Esq., of Greenland. Of the same family were the father of Hon.
Albert R. Hatch of Portsmouth, and the mother of John S. H. Frink, Esq.,
both of whom stand high in professional and political relations in New
Hampshire—worthy descendants of a worthy ancestry, noted for great
native abilities, honesty, industry and perseverance.

The boyhood of Col. George, as contemporaries say, was unmarked by any
special indication of that decided description which sometimes heralds a
boy’s preference for a life pursuit. He was slow neither at learning or
at play. If he had a prevailing passion it was for the possession and
care of domestic animals, on which he lavished great wealth of kindness,
a quality which has grown with his growth and strengthened with his
strength. His farm manager is authority for the opinion that “he would
kill his animals with kindness were they so unfortunate as to have his
constant personal attendance.” His love for rural pursuits was a
hereditament, and also clings to him with increasing vigor unto this
day.

He was educated at the public schools in Concord, and was fitted for
college at the Old Academy in that city. He entered as a student at
Dartmouth college in 1840, without having any special profession in
future view, and deported himself with credit while there. When his
father died, some three years afterward, he had to resign his college
course, but his graduating degree, and that of Master of Arts, was
subsequently conferred on him by the Faculty of Dartmouth.

It was fortunate for him, and largely also due to the promising
character of young George, at this most important period of his life,
that his family enjoyed the friendship of Ex-President Franklin Pierce.
All who were privileged with the personal acquaintance of that eminent
man knew the peculiar skill he had in the discovery of latent merit
among the youth whom he honored with his friendship, and the more than
kindly interest he took in many, who, only for his encouragement, would
have lacked the spirit to aspire. Without previous consultation
concerning his inclination towards the study of law, Gen. Pierce invited
young George to enter his office and prepare for admission to the bar.
That the youth had what is called “a legal mind” had been a quiet
discovery made by his friend and patron, who was then at the head of the
law-firm, in Concord, of Pierce & Fowler. Here, for three years, Col.
George applied himself diligently to his studies, passed a reputable
examination, and was admitted to the bar in 1846, and at once entered
into partnership with Gen. Peaslee, and on the practice of law under the
firm-name of Peaslee and George, which united interest continued until
1851, when he formed a copartnership with Sidney Webster, Esq.

Prior to his majority Col. George had been hovering round the verge of
politics, and, at every circuit of the whirlpool he was drawn nearer to
its vortex. For many years, and with but few interruptions, the
Democracy had guided the politics of New Hampshire up to 1847, when the
Colonel held his first public office as clerk of the State Senate. This
office he filled in 1848, and again in 1850. In 1849 he was appointed
Solicitor for the county of Merrimack, re-appointed in 1854, and removed
by address, solely for political reasons, in 1856.

The same year in which he was made Solicitor for Merrimack county he was
married to Miss Susan Ann Brigham, daughter of Levi Brigham, Esq., of
Boston. Mrs. George died in 1863, leaving five children—three sons and
two daughters. In 1865 he was again married to Miss Salvadora Meade
Graham, daughter of Col. James D. Graham, of the United States
Engineers. He has had one daughter by this marriage. His eldest son,
John Paul, graduated last year at Dartmouth college, and is now studying
at Harvard Law School. His eldest daughter, Jane Pierce, is married to
Mr. H. E. Bacon, of Portland, Maine, and his second son, Charles
Peaslee, is at the United States Naval School at Annapolis, Md. A son
and daughter—Benjamin Pierce and Ann Brigham—are at home.

Famous as the bar of New Hampshire has been for its eminent men, few of
their number gained, so early in their legal career as did Col. George,
such reputation for skill and devotion to the interests of clients. His
success was remarkable, and yet it was simply the meet reward of the
most devoted study and perseverance in professional duty. Gifted with a
powerful physical organization he accomplished miracles of labor in the
legal and political fields. He was fortunate in the sympathy and aid he
received in both relations from his partners, Gen. Peaslee and Sidney
Webster, Esq., and until the latter gentleman, in 1852, became the
private Secretary of President Franklin Pierce, when the brief
copartnery was dissolved. In 1853 he formed another partnership with
Judge William L. Foster, with which Hon. Charles P. Sanborn, ex-Speaker
of the New Hampshire House of Representatives, subsequently became
associate. The firms thus severally constituted held high reputation in
the locality and state, and managed, with admirable skill, and great
success, many of the prominent civil and criminal cases in Merrimack,
Grafton, and other counties in the state. Our gleanings are defective in
their record of the leading cases—civil and criminal—in which Col.
George had prominence as leading counsel, as public prosecutor, or
otherwise. He was prosecutor in the case of State _v._ Haskell, a negro
man, and wife, in 1855, when sentence of death passed on Haskell for
murder, which doom was commuted to imprisonment for life. Being
officially engaged on this trial the memory of the writer enables him to
state that the conduct of this case by the prosecutor was managed with
great skill, and without that redundancy of immaterial testimony, and
surplusage of words in argument, which very often render trial
proceedings, which ought to be of grave and dignified character, almost
ludicrous. Other capital cases, defended by Col. George, and followed by
acquittals, were those of State _v._ Scammel, tried in Grafton county;
State _v._ Young, tried in Rockingham county, and State _v._ Sawyer,
decided in Grafton county. Among Col. George’s more memorable civil
cases were those of Smith _v._ the Boston, Concord and Montreal
railroad; Concord railroad _v._ Clough; Frost _v._ the city of Concord;
Tufts’ Brick Company _v._ Boston and Lowell railroad, and, recently, and
still unfinished, the suit Commonwealth of Massachusetts and the pier
accident case at Salem.

In 1851 and during the two succeeding years, and again in 1856, he was
chairman of the Democratic state committee, during which he did much
active service. He was especially prominent in organizing the
Presidential campaign which resulted in the election of his intimate
personal friend—Gen. Franklin Pierce. From 1852 until 1860 he was a
member of the national Democratic committee; and, from 1853 until 1858,
he was United States Attorney for New Hampshire. In 1853 he was elected
a member of the state legislature, but he resigned his seat on accepting
the appointment of U. S. Attorney.

It may properly be mentioned here that Col. George had a narrow escape
from becoming Secretary for the territory of Minnesota. That appointment
was offered him and accepted, and all arrangements were made to enable
him to go to the north-west. On going to Washington he was informed by
President Pierce that he need not hasten his departure for a couple of
weeks, nor until the President and he should have an opportunity to talk
over old home matters; but some business having been left undone in New
Hampshire by the colonel, he sought permission to return and complete
it, for which he had leave. On arriving at home such was the pressure
brought to bear on him by his old clients, and such the importance and
value of new encouragements presented him, as to induce him to give up
the Minnesota appointment and resume his profession in Concord, greatly
to the satisfaction of his friends in social, political and business
relations.

Although primarily, in his military career, he was a member of that
numerous body which hold colonelcies by a merely ornamental tenure, it
cannot be said of him that he “never set a squadron in the field;” for,
besides being aid-de-camp and chief of staff of Gov. Dinsmore during
three years, up to 1850, for several years from the organization he
commanded company A. of the “Governor’s Horse Guards,” one of the
finest, best equipped and most thoroughly drilled cavalry corps in New
England, and one in which the people of the state had just pride.

From 1847 until 1866, Col. George was clerk and counsel for the Concord
railroad. In 1867 he moved his office to Boston, he having accepted the
position of Solicitor for the Boston and Lowell and associate
railroads—a position he now holds. He has a peculiar fitness for this
office, through his being thoroughly conversant with railroads, their
laws and modes of their management. In February, 1870, at the special
request of the leading citizens of Concord, he delivered a public
address on “Railroads and their Management,” which was exhaustive of the
subject and created great local as well as wide national interest. It
was reported by a shorthand expert, published and extensively
circulated, and is held as reliable authority regarding the theory of
railroad management. His connection with railroads has been intimate and
extended. He is director of the Mount Washington, the Profile and
Franconia, and also of the Peterborough railways. He was one of the
originators and earliest advocates of the Concord and Claremont and
Contoocook Valley roads, and has aided largely in the construction of
the various lines which have conserved to Concord its centrality. There
are ways and means whereby men receive much popular reputation and
credit for services as hollow and objectless as those of Col. George
were substantial and valuable; yet it is but just to say in behalf of
the wise and discriminating among our people that they put the genuine
patriotic value on his efforts and esteem the man accordingly as a
people’s friend.

Last year Col. George was appointed a Trustee for the N. H. Asylum for
the Insane. He has largely and influentially participated in local
affairs in Concord. For many years he labored earnestly in the
improvement of the public schools, and took deep interest in the
elevation of the standard of education taught therein. He invariably
upheld that the perfection of the school buildings was essential, as a
precursor of the required improvement in the educational course. Because
of this sentiment, he was employed on building committees chosen to
manage the erection of several of our school buildings, which, for
completeness and adaptability to their uses, Concord is so justly noted.
In 1877 he was chosen a member of the Board of Education of the Union
District. In course of his very active service in these relations, he
has never made pecuniary charge on his fellow citizens for his labors,
whether rendered as a lawyer or as a citizen. If the city records bear
any evidence of such charge having been recognized, whatever it may be,
the amount was never received by the colonel, but went back to the city
schools in some shape or another, useful and necessary. When the effort
to remove the State Capitol was made, he exerted every energy in his
power to prevent the success of this design, and labored with great
diligence and self sacrifice in that direction.

As previously stated, Col. George entered the arena of politics almost
at the outset of his active life. Nature and mental acquirements
combined to give him prominence in politics while yet almost a youth.
His recognized energy and executive skill gave him the chairmanship of
the committee appointed to receive President Franklin Pierce on his
visit to his native State and home in 1854, and many will recollect the
success attending that great event. In 1859 he was the Democratic
nominee as candidate to represent the Second District in the House of
Representatives of the United States, but failed of an election. In 1863
he was again nominated for that office, and made a vigorous canvass of
the district—making twelve addresses per week during a month or more—but
was again defeated after a very close vote. In 1866 he was the nominee
of the Democratic members of the legislature of that year as candidate
for the United States Senate. His fellow Democrats gave him the full
strength of their vote, but the Republicans were largely in the majority
against him.

A man may be mistaken in his notions, and be very earnest and persistent
in their assertion, but he will be always respected when his views are
believed to be honestly entertained and pronounced. The people only hold
in contempt a man who has convictions, and who is afraid to express them
when circumstances demand their explanation. Col. George is no such man.
He is credited with thinking profoundly of what he says, and saying
firmly what he has thought. He may offend men’s opinions or prejudices
by what he says, but he seldom or ever loses their respect, because of
their conviction of his rigid honesty of argument or purpose. Socially
speaking, and notwithstanding his variance in political opinion with the
majority of his fellow citizens of Concord, no public man can count more
devoted personal friends and admirers amid his political opponents than
he. His experiences have proved the falsity of the poet’s contrary
assertion, and that honesty is not a ragged virtue, but a covering which
no good and patriotic man, and worthy citizen, can reputably refuse or
decline to wear. In all respects, aside from politics or matters of
public dispute, Col. George’s social character stands high among his
fellow citizens.

The “brethren of the mystic tie” have in him an exalted member of their
most worthy fraternity. He exists among their number as a “Sovereign
Grand Inspector” of the 33d and final degree in Masonry, and as an
active member of the “Supreme Council of the Ancient and Accepted
Scottish Rite of the Northern Jurisdiction of the United States,” and
has taken all the lower degrees. He is a member of the Blazing Star
Lodge, and of the Mount Horeb Commandery of Concord, and was, for
several years, Commander of the latter organization. Of most of our
local charities, he is a quiet but liberal supporter; and the incidental
demands of benevolence find him always a ready friend.

Notwithstanding the great pressure of professional and other duties,
much attention is given by Col. George to agriculture, and those
improvements connected therewith, sanctioned alike by modern science and
experience. He owns a fine farm just over the western boundary of
Concord, in the town of Hopkinton, where the improvement and enrichment
of the soil, and the breeding and raising of horses and Jersey cattle
form part of his summer pursuits. It is not certain that he will add
largely to his fortune by his efforts as a “gentleman farmer;” but the
external aspects of his management are such as to make those efforts
valuable, at least, as examples. His rules providing for cleanliness,
comfort and kindness towards his farm animals are seen in their fine
condition, and reported to be profitably justified by their superior
produce. No better proof of a man’s nobility in the ranks of humanity
can be found than in his kindness towards his dumb animals.

And now, in conclusion, a few words as to Col. George’s status as a
politician and a lawyer. As has already been shown he is a Democrat.
Keeping always in view the foundation principles on which that policy
rests, he is what may be properly called a progressionist. He
recognizes—what many cannot do—the fact that the science of politics
advances, as does every other, and that, while fundamental principles
never vary, circumstances occur to change the rigid rule of their
application, though not to materially vitiate its force or shut it out
of due consideration. The political influences of today may not be fit
to govern in what those of tomorrow may demand; and he can only be a
narrow-minded man who can think otherwise and act accordingly. He
certainly can have no pure element of statesmanship within him. But
associated with this progressiveness there is no feature of vacillation
or radical change and departure from the organic principles of his party
in Col. George. He is as true as steel to both, and no man among the
Democracy of New Hampshire has a larger share of the confidence and
respect of his compatriots. His public addresses are held by his
admirers as models of honest, terse, pertinent and well-judged and
founded argument; and he certainly carries an audience along with him,
not by the use of clap-trap and sensationalism, but by the bold, acutely
analytical, and forcible representation of sound logical facts. He is
held to be one of the most solid, as well as most influential, stump
speakers in New Hampshire, and his political opponents do not deny this.
His memory acts as an encyclopedia of political history, state and
national, and this always gives him wonderful advantage as an impromptu
orator—a duty he has invariably to attend to when many or few are met
together for political deliberation.

When his reputation and character as a lawyer comes up the writer
confesses that the task of describing the latter puzzles him somewhat.
There is no room for hesitation in saying that, in eminence of ability,
determination in arranging the means of success, preparation to meet and
confute opposing arguments, and unwavering general devotion to what he
deems the just interests of his clients, no professional man in New
England is more than his peer. To gainsay this fact would be to
controvert the opinions of the best men on the bench and at the bar, and
to attribute solely to friendly admiration what is assuredly a well
recognized truth. So much for reputation; but what can, or should, be
said as to Col. George’s manner as a lawyer? It is confident,
aggressive, bold and independent of every consideration but directness;
it shows no aspect of favor for aught but the purpose in issue.
Something has been here recorded of the qualities of his political
addresses. The same bold fearlessness of men, and of opposing opinions,
the same integrity of sentiment and expression, the same disregard of
what offence the truth, as he views it, may give to the opposition, are
characteristic of him as a pleader at law. Here, also, what may, and
does seem to sound harshly from his lips is materially reconciled to the
listener’s favorable judgment by the pleader’s manifest earnestness,
honesty and unadulterated devotion to the truth, and the interest of his
client, founded on his views thereof. There is no surplusage of words in
Col. George’s legal prelections. He is a very Gradgrind for facts, and
uses them always with direct and sledge-hammer force, cultivating
catapult pith rather than the pelting of his opposition with roses.
Every energy is directed towards power and conquering effect. To use the
expression of one who thoroughly knows the subject of this imperfect
sketch: “the man in trouble who has Col. George for his friend and
advocate is lucky indeed: he who is in legal difficulty, and has him to
oppose him is assuredly to be pitied.”

Col. George is of robust build, about five feet ten inches in height,
approximates two hundred pounds weight, is of strong constitution,
enjoys excellent health, has immense working power of mind and body;
and, if all reports are true, it is not likely that he will live a long
and active life and go “over the hill to the poor-house” at its close.




                              _IN RUINS._


                         BY ABBA GOOLD WOOLSON.

                All through the summer’s rosy hours
                  I built my castle fine;
                And not a soul should dwell therein,
                  Save only mine and thine,
                        My Love,
                  In loneliness divine.

                No cost of make, or wealth of hue
                  I spared from base to dome;
                Where lordly monarchs choose to bide
                  They rear a kingly home;
                        And so
                  This rose like silver foam.

                Stand here upon the sunlit plain
                  And see how fair it shines;
                Untaught I planned its airy towers
                  And shaped its perfect lines;
                        For love
                  All excellence divines.

                But while I gaze, a dusky film
                  Across its splendor falls;
                My purples and my gold are dim—
                  What ails the reeling walls?
                        What doom
                  Sends terror through its halls?

                The keen air sweeps adown the hill:
                  Give me a hand to hold;
                I shiver in these breezes chill
                  That grow so fierce and bold,
                        Yet hearts
                  May laugh at Winter’s cold.

                That hand of thine, so fair and strong,
                  I thought could clasp me warm;
                It melts within my burning grasp
                  Like touch of ghostly form;
                        I hear
                  No heart-beat through the storm.

                Great winds from out the heavens leap;
                  No castle-dome appears;
                Rain dashes on mine upturned face,
                  To quench the hope of years:
                        Pour, floods;
                  Yet faster flow my tears.




                                _MARCH._


                        BY ALICE ESTELLE FRIESE.

It was a fierce, wild March night. One can fancy such scenes quite
comfortably in cheerful, well-lighted, close-curtained rooms; but to
breast the driving storm of sleet and rain outside, is quite another
matter. So thought Mr. Thorpe, a respectable tradesman in the thriving,
bustling town of L—— as he hurried on through the darkness, and the ever
increasing violence of the gale.

Visions of the cosy parlor, with its tempting tea-table so daintily
arranged, and the pretty, charming wife who presides so gracefully, flit
across his brain; but even their alluring promises cannot blind him as
to the discomforts of the present; and with a gasp of despair he tucks
the wreck of an umbrella under his arm, buttons his heavy coat closer
around him, and strides on through the gloom. No one is astir tonight;
no sign of life meets him in the usually well-filled streets. “Everyone
is safely housed, but myself,” he mutters to the unpitying darkness. But
even as he is speaking, a form, tall and slight, starts out from the
shadows a few paces ahead, and pauses for a flash of time under the
uncertain light of the solitary street-lamp, which lamps in our aspiring
villages are placed at undeterminable distances from each other,
wherever one long straggling street happens to meet another, seeming to
say to the night pedestrian, “you have safely traversed the impenetrable
darkness thus far, behold I invite you to a continuation of the same.”

As the figure, evidently a woman’s, stands thus for a moment clearly
defined against the dark background, Mr. Thorpe is half inclined to
fancy that it turns to meet his advancing steps with a gesture of
entreaty; then suddenly and swiftly glides on, and is lost from sight.

I say he is inclined to fancy that she appealed to him for aid; but
being an extremely practical man, he never allows himself such vagaries;
so he banishes the fancy, and hurries on. At last he has reached his own
home. The cheery, welcoming light streaming out from the windows, sends
a cheerful, happy feeling through his entire being; and with a laugh of
defiance at the mad fury of the storm, he springs up the steps to the
sheltering porch, when suddenly at his very door his foot touches
something soft and yielding, while at the same time, a little troubled
cry is heard, mingled with the weird, uncanny voices of the wind. Half
in wonder, half in fear he seizes a mysterious bundle at his feet, and
presently appears before the astonished gaze of his wife, half drenched
with the storm, a hopeless expression of bewilderment and perplexity
upon his countenance, while in his arms he holds out for her inspection
the same mysterious bundle, from which various small cries issue, from
time to time, at irregular intervals. The contents of the aforesaid
bundle being duly examined, they prove none other than a round-faced,
charmingly beautiful, black eyed baby girl. There is nothing in the
“make-up” of the child or its wardrobe that even the most fastidious
might criticise; every article of clothing is of the finest texture, and
delicately wrought. Evidently this is a waif from the very lap of
luxury, and refinement; and yet an outcast and homeless.

Tenderly, lovingly, pretty Mrs. Thorpe touches and caresses the little
stranger, saying half hesitatingly, “we will care for her tonight,
Charles, and tomorrow we must make an effort to find her parents; or if
they cannot be found, perhaps the matron of the orphans’ home would take
her; she seems so unusually interesting, that I should like to be sure
she is well cared for, if no one is to claim her.”

“Claim her!” impatiently interrupts Mr. Thorpe; “You talk like a woman!
As if any one ever claimed what they were glad to be rid of.” “But,”—his
voice softening a little as he spoke, for in spite of himself the
remembrance of the unknown woman under the street-lamp, and her mute
appeal to him for sympathy and help, clings to him; and for once,
without arriving at his conclusion by a careful method of reasoning,
very unlike his usual self, he in some strange, undefined way, closely
associates in his mind the memory of this woman, and the presence of the
little stranger in his home—

“But, Mary, you might as well keep the child; she seems as well disposed
as such afflictions usually are, and although I don’t approve of babies,
and therefore wash my hands of the whole affair, still it might be a
good thing for you; the vacant place in the household, you know, will at
last be filled.”

Still later, after Mrs. Thorpe had succeeded in coaxing the smiles to
chase away the tears, and to play hide and seek among the convenient
dimples in the baby’s cheeks and chin, she ventures the question, “What
shall we call her?” for of course every baby must have a name.

“Call her March; it would be quite apropos,” suggests her husband
quickly. “Yes, but,” said Mrs. Thorpe, “it seems almost like an evil
omen to give her such a dreary, cheerless name.” “Nonsense, my love,”
returns Mr. Thorpe, “What’s in a name?” And so it is settled, and baby
March henceforth becomes an important member of the Thorpe household.

If I were giving a sermon, instead of attempting to write a story, I
should here remark that Mrs. Thorpe was of the type of women that many
men most desire for a wife—pretty, gentle, submissive, yielding, and for
the good of the human race in general. I would urge the fair sex to
fashion themselves in an entirely different mould; and, whether matron
or maid, to stand firm and self-reliant in their own true womanhood;
for, although these shy, helpless, clinging ways may seem to the
masterful lover the very embodiment of womanly grace, yet they only tend
to make the one selfish and arrogant, and the other abject and
unwomanly. But as such is not my purpose, I shall leave all this unsaid,
and proceed at once with the story.

Time drags wearily with the heavy-hearted, and all too quickly speeds
with the gay. To Mr. Thorpe’s quiet home it has brought no sudden
transformation. The head of the house has gone on in his matter-of-fact
way, adding, year by year, to his well-filled coffers, until he has come
to be acknowledged in business parlance, “one of the heaviest men of the
town,” which is quite as true literally. Mrs. Thorpe, the matron, is as
charming and pretty as the Mrs. Thorpe of earlier years; while March has
grown from babyhood past childhood into dawning womanhood, the pet and
idol of the home. No clue has ever been given as to her mysterious
advent among them; no trace of the unknown woman who, solitary and
alone, traversed the deserted streets on that wild March night.
Incredulous people have long since ceased to regard this phase of the
night’s experience. For how could any strange person, and a woman, go in
and out among them, without the fact being noted and commented upon by
some of the news-mongers. An utterly impracticable story! Thus the
matter has been satisfactorily settled to their minds. And even Mr.
Thorpe, from puzzling over the perplexing question so long, has been
inclined to doubt its reality, and has even allowed himself to think
that possibly it might have been a sort of optical illusion; or, more
improbable still, an unreal presence from the shadowy land, supposed to
be inhabited by the guardian attendants of finite creatures, and
conditions. But be that as it may, he has somehow during these years
fallen a victim to the strange lovableness and fascinating wiles of his
adopted daughter; and has grown fonder of her than he would be willing
to acknowledge.

A rare, beautiful creature she certainly has become, with a dusky,
richly colored style of beauty quite unknown among the passionless,
phlegmatic people of our sturdy north. A form, slight, childlike, with a
peculiar undulating grace of movement, a complexion brown as the nuts of
our own forests, yet crimson as the reddest rose; wavy masses of ebon
hair, catching odd gleams in the sunlight, blue-black and purplish like
a raven’s wing, eyes capable of wonderful transitions, now full of joy,
laughter, and sunshine, now flashing scorn and defiance, or heavy with
midnight gloom. A strange child, full of wild vagaries and incontrolable
impulses. Mrs. Thorpe could no more understand her nature or check her
fierce impetuosity, than she could with her weak hands stay the torrent
of the mountain stream, or control the headlong speed of the wind, as it
eddies and whirls in its mad dance. And so, unchecked and unrestrained,
March has entered upon her regal, imperious womanhood.

Naturally, of course, there are many manly hearts eager to pay homage at
so fair a shrine; but Mr. Thorpe with paternal pride, has set his heart
on securing an eligible partner for his darling. And so it begins to be
rumored around town, that Hon. Elwyn Reeves has out-distanced all
competitors, and is in fact, the betrothed husband of the beautiful
March. To be sure, he is her senior by many years, but he comes from a
long line of aristocratic ancestors, and has added to his proud name a
princely fortune, as his solid, elegant home, away upon the hill,
frowning in its imposing stateliness upon its humbler, less aspiring
neighbors, attests.

“A very good match indeed, considering her mysterious and somewhat
doubtful parentage, a remarkable _chef-d’œuvre_ of fortune for her;” say
anxious mammas and disappointed maidens. Mr. Thorpe is pre-eminently
satisfied, and if March herself shows no gratification in regard to her
good fortune, it is to be attributed to her peculiar disposition, at
times so reticent and reserved. Thus Mr. Thorpe quiets any scruples he
may have entertained as he remembers how listlessly and wearily March
replied, when he had mentioned Mr. Reeves’ proposal, and dwelt warmly
upon the happiness in store for her as his wife. “It shall be as you
wish, papa, you may, if you desire it, give Mr. Reeves a favorable
answer when he calls.” But of course she was happy; any sensible person
would be with such a future in anticipation.

All are therefore quite unprepared for the announcement that Mrs. Thorpe
with ashen face, and broken, quivering voice, first communicates to her
husband, that the servants quickly catch up and carry into the streets;
that in an incredibly short time is upon every tongue—March has left
them, as mysteriously and silently as she came among them.

“Where had she gone, and why?” These were questions with which
speculative minds were for sometime busy, and anxious. Questions which
were never answered to them. She had gone, leaving no trace behind. In a
little note addressed to her foster-parents, she left them her dear love
and a farewell. She should never, never forget their goodness and
tenderness to her; she had been happy with them, but she had chosen for
herself another life, and a happier, and she must needs live it. That
was all. After a while other faces came, and crowded the memory of hers
away. The house on the hill soon found a mistress, who brought to her
husband as a dower in the place of March’s queenly beauty, a fortune
equal in magnificence to that of its owner, and so he was content. It is
one of the laws of compensation that gives one good in the place of
another taken. Only Mr. and Mrs. Thorpe long remembered, loved, and
waited for the lost one.

Every story must have its sequel, so has mine. I think it was five years
before it came.

In a tiny cottage, embowered and hidden by luxuriant vines and thick,
swaying foliage, in a quaint little town, in a clime where the warmth
and glory and brightness of the midday sun is never paled and dimmed by
snow-hung clouds, where the air is heavy with the perfume of a thousand
flowers, and balmy with the luscious breath of tropical fruits; where
over the senses, and into the soul, steal a dreamy, blissful languor,
and a strange, beautiful peace, a woman in all her glorious womanhood
lay dying. And yet, death does not seem very near to that young creature
who reclines on a low couch by the open window, watching and dreaming
with a far away look in the shadowy eyes, and a beautiful smile upon the
radiant face. A man with blue eyes, full of woman’s tenderness, and hair
and beard of silvery whiteness, is standing at her side. And now the
woman, turning her large, dark eyes full upon him, speaks in a low,
musical voice that thrills the listener with a subtile sense of pleasure
and of pain. “Dearest and best of friends, I am come very near to the
place where the finite and the infinite meet, and blend together, and
are lost in one. The past is vanishing like a glad dream, so brief, and
yet so full of joy and completeness. All the unrest, and wild,
passionate longing seem very far away from me now, such a strange,
restful life has come to me. I have been thinking, perhaps it may be
that some lives gather their full measure of sunshine and beauty in a
very little time, while others are longer upon the way. And so, I have
taken my happiness in one delicious draught, and now hold life’s empty
goblet in my hands. I have been waiting for this; my fate was sealed
when, a twelve-month ago, they told me that my voice was irrecoverably
gone; for with it I had lost my art, and that to me was simply life.
Well, it is best so. It may be in that unknown beyond, whither I am
hastening, I shall find mine own again, and my soul shall be satisfied.
Today I have been living again my old life, a stranger and an alien, and
yet tenderly cared for by warm, loving hearts. I suppose they mourned
when they discovered that their wild, willful March had flown. The
remembrance of the pain I caused them has been my only regret in this
new life of mine—this wonderful, grand life—and I owe it all to you, my
mother’s friend and mine. After I am gone, you will send to my dear
foster-parents my good-bye message. I have told them all. Of my vain
struggles to find my place among the eager, restless throng in the
great, busy world, with only a wild, untrained voice and an
unconquerable will to aid me. Of my finding a friend, the dearest friend
of my angel mother, who patiently, lovingly bore with my capricious,
impetuous nature, and with lavish prodigality helped me on toward the
wished for golden goal. And then how destiny pressed close upon me, with
his black pinions o’ershadowing me, and the fiat was—“Thus far shalt
thou go, and no farther.” Possibly they may not understand it all. They
will think sadly that my life has been a failure, and it may have been;
still I am glad to have lived it. It has been grand, glorious, and yet I
am a little weary, and am impatient for the end.

And very soon it came, and March went from the storm, and the tempest,
the longing and the pain, into light ineffable, and peace eternal.




                         _PURE AS THE LILIES._


                         BY HENRIETTA E. PAGE.

                    She held out her hands for the lilies,
                      Her blue eyes so eager and bright,
                    And holding them close to her bosom,
                      She murmured her soft toned “Dood night.”

                    “Ah! baby, my own little darling,
                      Though the lilies be never so fair,
                    The gold at their hearts is no brighter
                      Than the glinting strands of your hair.”

                    As you in my arms slumber lightly,
                      Your bright lashes kiss your fair cheek,
                    I pray the kind God to keep safely
                      My own little blossom so meek.

                    Then laying her safe in her cradle,
                      The lilies clasped close to her breast,
                    And kissing her dewy lips softly,
                      I leave her alone to her rest.

                    The breath of the flowers is no sweeter
                      Than the breath of my babe I ween,
                    The petals no whiter or purer
                      Than the soul of my wee heart’s queen.

        South Boston, Mass.




         _MEN OF OLD NOTTINGHAM AT THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL._


                      BY JOHN SCALES, DOVER, N. H.

That old Roman, Sallust, says: “Surely fortune rules all things. She
makes everything famous or obscure rather from caprice than in
conformity with truth. The exploits of the Athenians, as far as I can
judge, were very great and glorious, something inferior, however, to
what fame has represented them. But because writers of great talent
flourished there, the actions of the Athenians are celebrated over the
world as the most splendid achievements. Thus the merit of those who
have acted is estimated at the highest point to which illustrious
intellects could exalt it in their writings.”

Also, that latest of classical authors, Josh Billings, says: “Young man,
blow your own horn!” These quotations express exactly the way in which
the illustrious intellects of authors in Modern Athens (of America) have
exalted the deeds of Massachusetts’ heroes to such a degree that most
people, outside of New Hampshire, do not suppose our state had much to
do at the battle of Bunker Hill, whereas New Hampshire men constituted
nearly four fifths of all the men and officers in that battle. Therefore
I think I have just cause to “blow my horn” for my native town, and my
ancestors who fought in that battle.

Old Nottingham comprised a tract of land supposed to be ten miles
square, and which is now Nottingham, Deerfield and Northwood. It was
incorporated in 1722, and settlements commenced in it soon after, at the
“Square,” a beautiful ridge of land about 450 feet above the sea level.
At the beginning of the Revolution, Nottingham had 999 inhabitants,
Deerfield 929, and Northwood 313. The records show that the people were
making preparations for the coming conflict, and had sent generous
assistance to the “Industrious Poor sufferers of the town of Boston”
during the siege. During the winter of 1774–5, Dr. Henry Dearborn had a
company of men which met at the Square to drill from time to time. In
November, 1774, a town-meeting was held and a committee appointed to
“Inspect into any Person,” suspected of being a Tory.

On the 20th of April, 1775, news reached the Square that a battle had
been fought the day before, and in the evening a large number of
citizens assembled at the store of Thomas Bartlett. On the 21st, at 4
o’clock, a company of nearly one hundred men commenced their march for
Boston, being armed and equipped as best they could at such short
notice.

Some say that Joseph Cilley was the leader of this band of heroes, but
others say Dr. Henry Dearborn was captain, and probably he was, as he
had been drill-master all winter, and was captain of the company after
they arrived in Cambridge. They marched on foot all night, and arrived
in Medford at eight o’clock on the morning of the 22d, some of the
company having traveled, on foot, more than eighty miles since the
previous noon, and over roads which were far from being in the best
condition for rapid traveling.

I have searched records a great deal and inquired of the “oldest
inhabitant,” whenever I could find him, that I might secure a complete
list of the men who constituted this company, but of the hundred I can
only give the following names with certainty. If any reader of this
article can add a name he will do me a great favor by forwarding it to
me:

Dr. Henry Dearborn, Joseph Cilley, Jr., Thomas Bartlett, Henry Butler,
Zephaniah Butler, John Simpson, Nathaniel Batchelder, Daniel Moore,
Peter Thurston, Maj. Andrew McClary, Benjamin Johnson, Cutting Cilley,
Joseph Jackson, Andrew Neally, Samuel Johnson, Robert Morrison, William
Woolis, Eliphlet Taylor, William Blake, Nathaniel Twombly, Simon
Batchelder, Abraham Batchelder, Simon Marston, Moses Gilman, William
Simpson, John Nealey, and Samuel Sias. Let us briefly glance at the
record of some of these men in the years that came after.

Henry Dearborn was born in Hampton, Feb. 23, 1751. He studied medicine
and settled at Nottingham Square as a physician, in 1772. He married
Mary D. Bartlett, daughter of Israel, and sister of Thomas Bartlett of
Nottingham. He was always fond of military affairs, and is said to have
been a skilful drill-master and well posted in the tactics in use
previous to the Revolution. He fought with his company at the battle of
Bunker Hill. In the September following, he joined Arnold’s expedition
to Quebec, accompanied by these Nottingham men,—James Beverly, John P.
Hilton, Samuel Sias and Moses Gilman. They marched up the Kenebec river,
through the wilds of Maine and Canada. In the assault upon that city,
Captain Dearborn was taken prisoner. Peter Livias, the Tory councilor at
Quebec, influenced the authorities to parole and send him home, on
condition that Dearborn should forward his wife and children to him from
Portsmouth to Quebec, which was done as agreed. In April, 1777, Capt.
Dearborn was appointed Major in Scammel’s regiment. He was in the
battles of Stillwater and Saratoga and fought with such bravery, having
command of a distinct corps, as to win the special commendation of Gen.
Gates. In 1778, he was in the battle of Monmouth, with Col. Cilley
acting as Lieut. Col., and helped retrieve Lee’s disgraceful retreat. He
was with Gen. Sullivan in his expedition against the Indians, in 1779,
and was at Yorktown at the surrender of Cornwallis in 1781. Upon the
death of Scammel, the gallant Colonel of the Third N. H. Reg., at the
hands of a barbarous foe, Dearborn was made Colonel and held that
position to the end of the war. After the war, he settled in Maine,
where he was Marshal by appointment of Washington. He was two terms a
member of Congress; Sec’y of War under Jefferson from 1801 to 1809;
collector of the port of Boston between 1809–12; senior Maj. General in
U. S. Army, 1812–13,and captured York in Canada, and Fort George, at the
mouth of Niagara. He was recalled by the President, July 6, 1813, and
put in command of the military district of N. Y. City, which recall was,
no doubt, a great mistake. In 1822 he was appointed Minister
Plenipotentiary to Portugal; recalled in 1824, at his own request: died
at Roxbury, Mass. June 6, 1829. General Dearborn was a man of large
size, gentlemanly deportment, and one of the bravest and most gallant
men of his time.

Joseph Cilley, son of Capt. Joseph Cilley of Nottingham, was born in
1734; died 1799. He was engaged in the attack upon Fort William and
Mary, in 1774; appointed Major in Col. Poor’s regiment by the Assembly
of N. H. in 1775; he was not present in the battle of Bunker Hill, as
his regiment was engaged in home defence. He was made Lieut. Col. in
1776, and April 2, 1777, was appointed Colonel of the 1st. N. H. Reg. of
three years’ men, in place of Col. Stark, resigned. He fought his
regiment bravely at Bemis’s Heights, near Saratoga; and two weeks later
was among the bravest of the brave, when Burgoyne made his final attack
before surrendering his entire army of six thousand men. So fierce was
the battle, that a single cannon was taken and retaken five times;
finally, Col. Cilley leaped upon it, waved his sword, and “dedicating
the gun to the American cause,” opened it upon the enemy with their own
ammunition. He was with Washington’s army at Valley Forge, 1777–8; was
at the storming of Stony Point; at Monmouth he was one of the heroes in
retrieving Gen. Lee’s retreat; was at the surrender of Cornwallis at
Yorktown, and in other hard-fought battles of the Revolution. After the
war he was Major-General of the 1st Div. N. H. militia, and as such
headed the troops which quelled the insurrection at Exeter in 1786, with
his own hand arresting the leader in the midst of his armed followers.
Gen. Cilley was a man of great energy and industry, of strong passion,
yet generous and humane. He was repeatedly elected representative,
senator and councillor.

Thomas Bartlett was born Oct. 22, 1745; married Sarah, daughter of Gen.
Joseph Cilley; was town-clerk twenty-six years; selectman thirty years;
was the first representative from Nottingham to the General Court in
1784; was one of the Committee of Safety which managed the colonial
affairs of New Hampshire during part of the Revolution; was captain of
the 5th company of “six weeks” men at Winter Hill in 1775; was Lieut.
Col. in Col. Gilman’s regiment, in 1776; Lieut. Col. in Col. Whipple’s
regiment at Rhode Island, in 1778; also was Lieut. Colonel under Stark
at the capture of Burgoyne. In 1780 he was Colonel of a regiment at West
Point, when Arnold betrayed that fort. In 1790 he was appointed Justice
of the Court of Common Pleas, and retained that office till his death in
1805. He was Major-General of first division of New Hampshire militia
from 1799 to 1805, in which office he was preceded by Gen. Joseph
Cilley, and followed by Gen. Henry Butler.

Henry Butler was a son of Rev. Benjamin Butler, the first settled
minister in Nottingham, and was born April 27, 1754. He was captain of a
company in Col. Thomas Bartlett’s regiment at West Point, in 1780. He
held many town and state offices; was the first postmaster in
Nottingham, when Gideon Granger was Postmaster-General; and was
Major-General of the first division of New Hampshire militia from 1805,
for several years.

Zephaniah Butler, brother to Rev. Benjamin, was a school teacher in
Nottingham for many years preceding the Revolution, and was one of Col.
Cilley’s staff officers during several campaigns. He married a sister of
Col. Cilley; Gen. B. F. Butler, whom everybody knows, is his grandson,
he being son of Capt. John Butler of Deerfield, who was son of
Zephaniah.

Cutting Cilley, brother of Col. Joseph Cilley, was born in 1738, and
died in 1825; he held many town offices, and was captain of a company in
one of the New Hampshire regiments during the Revolution.

John Simpson, born in 1748, and dying in 1810, is said to have been the
man who fired the first gun at the battle of Bunker Hill. In 1778, he
was lieutenant in Capt. Simon Marston’s company, Col. Peabody’s
regiment; and was subsequently promoted to major. His brother, Robert,
who also served in the Revolutionary army, is the great grandfather of
General Ulysses Simpson Grant.

Nathaniel Batchelder, who was a brother-in-law of Col. Cilley, fought in
the battle of Bunker Hill, under Capt. Dearborn, and was adjutant in
Col. Drake’s regiment, which did brave service in the battle of
Stillwater, Saratoga, and the surrender of Burgoyne. He died of fever at
Valley Forge, March 28, 1778.

Daniel Moore kept the first tavern at Deerfield Parade; fought at Bunker
Hill and in subsequent battles; was captain in Col. Stark’s regiment,
and did valiant service during the war.

Andrew McClary was from Epsom and belonged to a family distinguished for
its military men. He was plowing in his field on the 20th of April,
1775, when he _heard a horn blow_, which, on the instant, he knew was
the tocsin of war; he left his plow in the furrow, and after the
speediest preparation, hastened to Deerfield Parade and thence to
Nottingham Square, where he joined Capt. Dearborn’s company. After they
arrived in Cambridge he was active in helping organize the New Hampshire
men into companies and was himself appointed major in Col. Stark’s
regiment. He fought with his regiment at Bunker Hill, and was killed
after the battle, in attempting to have “another shot at the enemy.”

Robert Morrison was born and lived on the Square; he was a member of Dr.
Dearborn’s company, which drilled during the winter of 1774–5, and a
private in Capt. Dearborn’s company in the battle of Bunker Hill. In the
September following he was bearer of dispatches from Washington to the
Committee of Safety in New Hampshire, by whom he was treated with
distinguished honors. In 1777 he was a private in Col. Stark’s regiment,
and fought bravely in all the battles till the surrender of Burgoyne.
His son, Robert Morrison, Esq., resides in Northwood at the present
time.

Joseph Jackson was sergeant in Capt. Dearborn’s company at Bunker Hill,
afterwards served in several campaigns and was captain of a company.

Samuel Johnson was not in the Bunker Hill fight, but was in the campaign
of 1777, at Bennington, Stillwater and Saratoga, and took an active part
under a commission which gave him the rank of colonel. He was one of the
first settlers of Northwood at the Narrows, and was one of the selectmen
of the town for fifteen years.

Simon Marston was from Deerfield, having settled on the Longfellow farm
in 1763; he lived in the garrison house, erected by Jonathan Longfellow.
He was sowing wheat when the courier, shouting the news of the battle of
Lexington, rode past the field where he was at work. Marston left the
measure, from which he was sowing, rushed to the house, filled his
knapsack with pork and other necessaries, seized his gun, and hurried
down to the Square. He acted in the capacity of an officer in Col.
Reed’s regiment at Bunker Hill; was an officer under Lieut. Col. Senter;
was captain of 1st Co. Col. Peabody’s regiment; was afterwards
commissioned major and fought at Bennington, Stillwater and Saratoga. He
was a brave man in war and energetic in peace. The others named,
although they held no office of rank, were no less brave and faithful in
performing perilous duties, and deserve to have their names recorded
where they will never be forgotten.

After the Nottingham men arrived in Cambridge, and saw there was no
danger of another attack immediately by the troops in Boston, several
returned home and commenced more thorough preparation for the coming
conflict, but Dr. Dearborn and most of the men remained and were
organized into a company, and Dearborn was elected captain the company
became a part of Col. Stark’s regiment and was stationed at Medford,
whence they marched on the 17th of June and participated in the glories
of “Breed’s Hill.” Captain Dearborn’s company was No. 8, but he marched
from Medford to the “Railfence,” by the side of Col. Stark.

The following list of men comprising this company is no doubt correct,
as it was furnished by Judge Nesmith for Cogswell’s “History of
Nottingham, Deerfield and Northwood,” and the Judge is one of the best
authorities in the State in such matters. The men were nearly all from
old Nottingham:

                Captain,    Henry Dearborn, Nottingham.
                1st Lieut., Amos Morrill, Epsom.
                2d Lieut.,  Michael McClary, Epsom.
                1st Sergt., Jona. Clarke, Nottingham.
                2d Sergt.,  And. McGaffey, Epsom.
                3d Sergt.,  Jos. Jackson, Nottingham.
                1st Corp.,  Jonah Moody, Nottingham.
                2d Corp.,   Andrew Field, Nottingham.
                3d Corp.,   Jona. Gilman, Deerfield.
                4th Corp.,  And. Bickford, Deerfield.

Privates.—Simon Dearborn, Gideon Glidden, James Garland, John Harvey,
David Mudgett (of Gilmanton), Simon Sanborn, Robt. Morrison, John
Runnels, John Neally, Joseph Place, Abram Pettengale, Andrew Nealley,
Peter Severance, John Wallace, Theop. Cass (of Epsom), Israel Clifford,
Nathaniel Batchelder (of Deerfield), Jacob Morrill, John Simpson, John
Wallace, Jr., Neal McGaffey (of Epsom), Jonah Libbey, Moses Locke,
Francis Locke, Zebulon Marsh, Solomon Moody, Chas. Whitcher, Marsh
Whitten, Noah Sinclair (drummer), James Randell (fifer), Nich. Brown,
Benj. Berry (of Epsom), John Casey, Jona. Cram (of Deerfield), Jeremiah
Conner, Elisha Hutchinson, Dudley Hutchinson, Benj. Judkins, Josh.
Wells, Jere. Dowe, Jona. Dowe, John Dwyer, David Page, Jr., Beniah
Libbey, William Rowell, Weymouth Wallace (of Epsom), Thomas Walsh and
William McCrellis (of Epsom).




                   _THE N. H. SEVENTH AT FT. WAGNER._


 [From sketch of Lieut. HENRY W. BAKER, in Coffin’s History of Boscawen.]

The command had been entrusted to Gen. Trueman H. Seymour, who
determined to make an assault. He knew nothing of the construction of
Ft. Wagner. No information of the impediments to be overcome had reached
him. Col. Putnam of the 7th, commanding the second brigade, opposed the
contemplated movement.

“I do not think that we can take the fort,” he said; and when Gen.
Seymour reiterated his determination to make the attempt, Col. Putnam
said, “We shall go like a flock of sheep.”

The sun had set, and the twilight faded. The soldiers were ordered to
remove the caps from the nipples of their rifles, and were told that
they must depend upon the bayonet alone. In the 100th N. Y., which
formed behind the 7th, this order was neglected.

In the darkness the assaulting column moved forward. The iron-clads, and
the Union batteries opened a heavy fire, which was continued till the
column was so near that further firing would endanger it, when, at a
signal, all the Union batteries became silent. In an instant Ft. Wagner
was aflame. Its heavy siege guns, howitzers, and forty-two pounder
carronades burst forth, pouring a stream of shot and shell into the
advancing troops. And now, in addition, the parapet of the fort swarmed
with men, who, through the terrible cannonade of the day had been lying
securely beneath the bomb proofs. Mingled with the roar of the cannon
were their volleys of musketry.

The first brigade had the advance. Its ranks went down like grass before
the mower. Some of the soldiers fled, panic stricken. The second
brigade, led by the 7th N. H., pressed on and filled the decimated
ranks. Suddenly they found themselves confronted by a ditch fifty feet
wide and ten feet deep, with four feet of water flowing into it. Only at
the south-eastern angle was it dry. It was enfiladed by howitzers. Into
the ditch leaped the soldiers. Grape and canister mowed them down, but
others crowded on. The 7th N. H., led by Lt. Col. Joseph C. Abbott, made
its way unfalteringly into the ditch, through it, and up the slope of
the parapet. Cannon and musketry blazed in their faces; and now there
was a flash behind them—the 100th N. Y., not having removed their caps,
were firing into the dark mass, not knowing who was friend, who foe. All
was confusion. All order disappeared. In the darkness no one could be
recognized. Amid the groans of the wounded, the shouting of officers,
the rattle of rifles, the roar of cannon, the bursting of shells, it was
impossible to maintain discipline. Col. Putnam, a few of his
subordinates, and one or two hundred men entered the fort. The enemy
charged, but were driven back. Col. Putnam was killed; one officer after
another went down. The reserve, which should have rushed up, did not
come. The assault had lost its force. Like sheep the Union soldiers fled
as best they could through the devastating fire, leaving a ghastly heap
of dead and wounded in the ditch, and on the parapet of the fort. Among
the killed was Henry W. Baker. By his side were Dexter Pritchard,
Liberty G. Raymond, and Alexander F. Stevens, from Boscawen, and of his
company, also killed.

Among the wounded was Samuel McEvely, and among the prisoners was John
Clancy, who died in prison at Richmond.

In his first battle, Lieut. Baker gave his life to his country. Those
who served under him speak of him with affection. He was cool and brave,
and ever mindful of his duty. He was buried where he fell, with his
commander, Col. Putnam, and his subordinates, Pritchard, Raymond, and
Stevens.




                               _UPWARD._


                         BY MARY HELEN BOODEY.

               On the wings of my faith I aspire
               O God! to rise higher and higher,
                 And to quaff of the scintillate springs
               That flow all exhaustless from Thee,
               Who art fountain, and haven, and sea,
                 And canst satisfy all who aspire.

               I mount and I mount through the air,
               Borne up by the breath of my prayer,
                 Through waves of the sunshine of love;
               Thy presence, O God! is the light,
               Thou givest my spirit its flight,
                 Thou rulest below and above.

               I live in the glories of God,
               I know that His merciful rod
                 Extends o’er a sorrowful world;
               I see how His Providence glows
               With sweet hues of azure and rose,
                 His banner, the heavens unfurled.

               The universe sings to my soul,
               And I join with my voice in the whole,
                 And God is the spirit of Law;
               The Power of blessing and blight,
               The Giver of morning and night,
                 Whose judgments are all without flaw.

               Behold! I am given to see
               That the darkness and sorrow that be,
                 Lie low and cling closely to earth;
               But the light of God’s glory descends,
               And the might of His justice attends
                 The souls that are weeping in dearth.

               A Hand that is brilliant with truth,
               And gentle indeed in its ruth,
                 Shall point out the way and defend,
               And the gloom of each fearful abyss,
               The serpents that threaten and hiss,
                 Shall be conquered and slain to amend.




                       _IN BATTLE AND IN PRISON._
              A REMINISCENCE OF THE WAR OF THE REBELLION.


                         BY WILLIAM E. STEVENS.

The events I am about to describe took place at a critical period of
“the war to keep the Union whole,” and cover that date in the career of
the army of the Potomac beginning with Hooker’s flank movement against
Lee, entrenched on the heights of Fredericksburg, and ending with the
disastrous repulse which attended that finely planned, yet poorly
executed, and ill-starred campaign. Of course, I am not writing history,
except in a small way; nor do I essay to describe in detail or with
accuracy the events in question. My purpose is to give my own
observations and experiences, mainly from memory, reinforced by a few
scraps and half-illegible memoranda saved from the accidents by flood
and field.

I was a participant in many of the earlier battles fought by the army of
the Potomac; but my opportunities for acquiring accurate information
touching the general aspects of the field were necessarily limited to
that part of it within my own immediate range of vision, and even
here—so rigidly did our commanders aim to reduce us to mere
automatons—we were often in the dark as to the meaning of this or that
movement. I strove hard to master the situation, but not until the war
closed and the reports of commanders were given to the public, did I
have other than a very indefinite conception of much that transpired
about me. Why we made this or that change of front; why we were kept for
hours in line of battle beneath a broiling sun with no enemy in sight;
why we were rushed from one point to another in an apparently hap-hazard
manner, enduring fatigue and hunger and subsisting upon wormy
“hardtack;” why we were pushed against impregnable positions, when a
flank movement seemed to our inexperienced eyes the proper thing to
do—now fighting, now building corduroy roads, digging rifle-pits or
supporting batteries in our rear, which did more execution upon us, by
reason of defective ammunition, than upon the enemy—concerning all these
points, and many more we were anxious to be informed, but not one atom
of information could we get.

                       “Ours not to inquire why,
                       Ours but to do and die.”

Was this reticence in pursuance of the mistaken theory that machine
soldiers are best? Or was it because “some one had blundered,” and
ignorance or incapacity, or something still worse, could be the more
easily concealed? Whatever the reason, the fact remains that to the rank
and file much of the campaigning done up to 1863–64 seemed to them worse
than needless;—and looking back over that period with the light of
history thrown upon it, I am not prepared to say the rank and file were
mistaken in their estimate. I was impressed then, and the impression has
never been effaced, that the reticence observed toward the men in the
ranks touching what was going on about them, was a grievous error on the
part of our commanders. It is a question, certainly, whether it would
not have been better to have kept the “boys” informed of the real
military situation and of what they were expected to achieve. The belief
that much of the hardship endured was the result of blundering generals,
or, worse, of criminal indifference, did much to unman our soldiers and
cause them to lose faith and hope. Our volunteers were not machine
soldiers, as some of the West Pointers seemed to presume, but patriotic,
thinking and observing men who could fight best when they fought
understandingly. I am told that the rebel commanders pursued a different
policy, and although their soldiers were mentally inferior to ours, kept
them apprized of the general situation and of what they must do to
accomplish the end sought. Who shall say how many of the confederate
victories may be accredited to this fact, if it is a fact? But our
commanders, instead of trusting their men, either kept them in utter
ignorance of movements or foolishly deceived them. How well I remember
at the battle of Gaines’s Hill, where Jackson thrashed Porter so
soundly, and Sykes’s regulars failed to stand their ground, that the
story was industriously circulated along the thinned but unbroken ranks
of Bartlett’s Brigade, “McClellan’s in Richmond, boys. One more effort
and the day is ours!” And Meagher’s Irish Brigade, hastening to our
relief on the run, took up the cry and put on so determined a front that
Jackson’s veterans halted and reformed, giving our officers time to
re-establish their broken lines and hold their ground until night came
down and afforded them an opportunity to withdraw to the left bank of
the Chickahominy,—not to enter Richmond, but to begin that celebrated
“flank movement” which ended at Harrison’s Landing. Again, at second
Bull Run, when, after dawdling along all day on the road from Alexandria
to Centreville, with the sounds of conflict in our front (making a long
two hours’ rest at Annandale, and then marching at full speed in a hot
sun), we reached Centreville, we were told that Pope had whipped
Jackson, and that Lee with his whole army was in full retreat. But when
we reached Bull Run, “Linden saw another sight.” Heavens, what a
stampede! McDowell’s and Sigel’s corps in disastrous retreat,—cavalry,
artillery, infantry, ammunition and baggage wagons in one confused,
struggling mass, intent upon reaching the heights of Centreville. Our
corps (Franklin’s, 6th) had just halted to rest, as the stragglers came
into view. Deploying, we stopped the rout, and ended the retreat.
Seizing the infantry stragglers, we placed them in our own ranks until
our brigade swelled to twice its usual size. Night closed in, and we
were marched to the front across Cub Run, and ordered to hold our
position at all hazards. In that march every straggler deserted! Poor
fellows, who could blame them? Had they been killed then and there who
could have accounted for them? Most of them returned to their own
regiments and thereafter did good service no doubt. Panics are liable to
seize upon the best of troops. I cite these instances as partial
corroboration of my point. What wonder if our troops came to distrust
all reports and to depend only upon established facts. But perhaps our
commanders were right in concealing information from the army in
general, and Moore may have hit the nail on the head when he wrote:

                “A captain has been known to think,
                Even colonels have been heard to reason;
                  And reasoners whether clad in pink,
                  Or red or blue, are on the brink,
                Nine cases out of ten—of treason.”

At any rate they conducted the war in harmony with such a belief.

One battle only did I witness from the vantage ground of a
non-combatant, the first Fredericksburg fight, and I found it vastly
more interesting and conducive to personal ease and safety, if less
glorious. But this is not what I started out to tell the readers of this
Magazine. I am to relate my experience during that memorable episode
referred to in my opening paragraph. I must say at the outset that it
was an exceedingly checkered episode, so far as my memory serves me, for
within the time outlined I ran the gamut of a soldier’s
emotions—anxiety, uncertainty, fear, hope, the thrill of victory
succeeded all too quickly by the blackest despair; for success was
followed by repulse, and from an elated victor I became almost in a
twinkling, a captive in the hands of as ragged and as dirty a lot of
Johnny Rebs as ever fought with a courage worthy of a better cause,—a
part of Wilcox’s Alabama brigade, McLaw’s division. But I must not
anticipate.

During the winter of 1862–63, our brigade lay encamped near White Oak
church, a locality about equi-distant, if my memory serves me, between
Falmouth on the Rappahannock and Belle Plain on the Potomac. It had had
ample time to recuperate from the fatigue of the “mud march,” as
Burnside’s second futile attempt to dislodge Lee from his entrenchments
about Fredericksburg, was facetiously termed, and as spring opened the
routine of life in cantonment was relieved by parades, reviews,
inspections, drills, and, occasionally, target practice. Meantime Hooker
had superceded Burnside in chief command, and a new and more vigorous
life had been infused into all branches of the service. This was
particularly true of the cavalry, which had fallen into general
disfavor. Under Hooker’s discipline it became very effective. The
high-sounding grand divisions had been broken up, and the over-cautious,
phlegmatic Franklin, relieved. With other changes, came Sedgwick to the
command of our corps—a great improvement in some respects on Franklin.
The cool and sagacious Slocum, so long at the head of the red-cross
division, had been promoted to the command of a corps, and Gen. Brooks,
as brave, perhaps, but a far less skilful soldier, had succeeded him,
having been promoted from the Vermont brigade. Gen. Joe Bartlett of New
York, commanded our brigade—a fine officer, and a lion in battle. A
brave man, too, was our Colonel, but deficient in tactical skill. He
might not “set a squadron in the field,” but he could face the enemy’s
line of battle without flinching. In action he was the embodiment of
pluck, and at such times he looked as if he might be the very

                                       “——Colonel
         Who galloped through the white infernal powder cloud.”

in continental days. But he did not appear to advantage on parade, being
undersized and awkward gaited, with a shrill, piercing voice, not unlike
that of the late Isaac O. Barnes, or the irrepressible Mel. Weston, and
totally indifferent to all the niceties of drill so pleasing to the
holiday soldier. On one occasion he forgot his place at a Brigade dress
parade, and was then and there rebuked sharply by the general. Meeting
the latter at headquarters the same evening, where a “reception” to the
officers of the brigade was in full career and good fellowship, aided by
copious draughts of “commissary,” abounded, the Colonel extended his
hand and piped out in a high key which attracted the attention of all
present: “Gineral, I’m not much at drill I confess, but I’ve got a
hell-fired stomach for a fight!”

On the morning of the 28th of April, 1863, our regiment was ordered on
picket duty, but scarcely had we relieved the old picket guard when
orders came to return to camp, strike tents, and prepare to move at once
in heavy marching order. This meant work, but was an agreeable change. I
had only joined my regiment the day previous, after a brief leave of
absence, and was resplendent in a new uniform, sword, etc. Of course I
packed the uniform away, and left it in care of the sutler, while I
donned a knit blouse, and with a due regard for sharpshooters of which
the Confederacy had, as it always seemed to me when on the skirmish
line, more than its share, put myself in condition for serious work,
having nothing in the way of wearing apparel save my side-arms to
indicate military rank. Meantime a great change had been effected in our
winter quarters. The tents had been removed from the log huts to which
they had served as roofs and windows, and now the bare interiors, with
the debris strewn about, and broken chimneys and blackened walls alone
remained. A more dismal or melancholy sight than a deserted cantonment
cannot be conceived. “Warm work ahead, boys,” gaily and cheerily
remarked our jovial, stout-hearted adjutant, as he rode up to the head
of the regiment. It proved to be particularly hot for him, for he
received a wound in his head, in the charge on Marye’s Heights, that he
will carry to his grave, and which ended his military career, but not
his usefulness; for he is now a popular clergyman, a true soldier of the
cross, settled in Philadelphia, I believe. Our progress was slow, and
darkness intervened just as we reached a ravine leading down to the
narrow valley which skirts the river on that side. We bivouacked in our
tracks, not being allowed to kindle fires. Back over the route we had
come could be heard the rumble of artillery wagons and the tramp, tramp,
of marching columns. In front, silence reigned. Orders are issued in a
low tone; and that stern composure which soldiers assume when about to
encounter the enemy was apparent in the bearing of all. The officers
gather around their adjutant, who is a favorite at brigade and division
headquarters, to learn his views touching the movement. He thinks we are
in for a fight, and gives his opinion as to Hooker’s intentions. He is
sanguine of success.—We have hardly closed our eyes in sleep, when some
one calls out in a voice seemingly loud enough for the rebel pickets to
hear, “Where is Colonel Blank?” “Here, sir,” responds that officer,
rubbing his eyes. “What’s wanted?” “Gen. B. directs me to say that you
are to march your regiment to the bank of the river, form in line of
battle, and await further orders. You are to move expeditiously, with as
little noise as possible, following the pontoons.” The order is obeyed;
the regiment marching away in almost spectral silence. Debouching from
the ravine, the darkness deepens, for a dense fog hangs over the valley
of the Rappahannock like a pall. We file past the pontoon train, from
which the engineer corps are detaching the boats, silently and with all
the celerity possible—and stand upon the river’s brink. In our rear come
other regiments, until our whole brigade is closed in line five
regiments deep.—It was a critical time. I recall it well. The silence
was almost oppressive; orders were given in low tones, and nothing but
the rattle of accoutrements broke the silence. The fog resembled a
mirage. Objects a little way off took on gigantic proportions. I
remember that a pontoon boat, borne on stout shoulders to the river’s
brink, resembled the immense hulk of a ship as it loomed into view,
while at the distance of a few feet men took on colossal dimensions.
Meantime we are tolled off in detachments to occupy the pontoons, along
with the engineers who are to do the navigation, and our orders are to
form instantly on reaching the other shore, dash forward and capture the
enemy’s picket line, or whatever force may be there to oppose us. At
length there are sounds of commotion on the other side. The Johnnies
suspect something. Splash! goes a pontoon into the water, followed by a
deep curse from the officer in charge, brave old Gen. Benham, who cannot
restrain his rage over the carelessness of his men. Meanwhile the fog
has been gradually rising, and the gray of dawn appears. More stir on
the other side, a rattling of equipments, hurried commands—then a sharp
challenge, (some of our scouts are nearly over), followed by a single
musket discharge, then a volley, and the whistle of bullets.
Instinctively we do them low obeisance; the lines waver for an instant,
then firmness and silence. So heavy a fire was not anticipated. It told
of a large reserve which must have been brought up in expectation of an
attack. All hope of a surprise was over. “Will the pontoons never be
launched?” Yes, Benham has done his duty, and into them we scramble and
push off, each boat for itself. The stream is narrow at this point, but
we are not swift enough to check another volley, which being better
directed than the first, killed and wounded a number of our boys in the
boats. Almost at the same instant our pontoon touches the shore. There
is a rush, a charge, a brief struggle, and that picket guard is _hors du
combat_. Quickly deploying on the bank we advance, but the enemy retires
more quickly;—and we have established a firm foothold, the pontoon
bridge is laid, and the whole corps is streaming across as the morning
sun rises above the horizon. The fog still clings, however, to the
rising ground on which Franklin fought at the first battle of
Fredericksburg, and we move with due caution, skirmishers well out, not
knowing what sort of a reception Stonewall Jackson, whose corps is known
to occupy the wooded heights beyond, may have in store for us. But no
serious opposition is offered after the affair of the pickets, and
gradually we occupy most of the ground previously held by the centre of
Franklin’s grand division. The fog lifts at last, and the sight revealed
is a picturesque one. Before us, a level plain, extending on the right
to the suburbs of Fredericksburg, and on the left, cut with ravines and
hillocks somewhat, for a long distance. Back of us, the river; fronting,
on either hand, the plain ending in a range of wooded hills,
semicircular in shape, and dotted with fortifications. The enemy’s
picket line is well out upon the plain but touching the river above us
near the city. Extending our left it soon came in contact with Reynolds’
corps, which had effected a crossing a mile or two lower down, after a
sharp artillery fight in which the enemy showed superior metal, but was
obliged to retire after the infantry got over. Midway from the river to
the range of hills, and parallel with the former, is a deep ravine where
partial shelter from the concentric fire from the artillery posted on
Marye’s Heights on the right and on the hills in front, was afforded
Franklin’s troops in the previous battle. A few artillery shots are
fired, soon after establishing our lines, and then all becomes quiet.
What does this inaction portend? Evidently, Lee is acting on the
defensive, and waiting for the development of Hooker’s strategy. He does
not have long to wait. Before us is the whole rebel army. Will it swoop
down upon us before Hooker can develop his left and crush us? This is
the conundrum with which we wrestle, as the hours wear away, varying it
with a conjecture as to whether we shall be ordered to assault the
enemy, in his chosen position, against which Burnside had thrown the
flower of his army only to be hurled back discomfited. Another artillery
duel between Reynolds and Jackson later in the day closes the fighting,
and a night of repose follows. The succeeding day proved to be one of
quiet, also, but there was a constant movement of troops in our rear on
the heights of Falmouth, the line of march being directly up river.

                 “You see them on their winding way,
                 About their ranks the sunbeams play.”

That night our regiment went on picket. Never shall I forget it. Strict
orders had been received, prohibiting fires, or conversation above a
whisper, and requiring the most vigilant watchfulness to prevent
surprise, as the enemy in heavy force was directly in our front. Our
eyes were kept constantly on the rebel sentinels moving ghost-like upon
their beats. A dense fog settled down, cold and damp. The hours seemed
leaden. The suspense became intense, unbearable. Suddenly a tremor
sweeps along the line. Our boys are doubly alert. What does it mean? A
message comes down the front line—“The enemy are advancing. Hold your
ground until the reserves are formed, then rally upon them!” With
muskets firmly grasped the Union pickets await the onset. A night attack
is always dreaded by soldiers, and nothing is more trying to the nerves
of veterans than the expectation of a conflict with an unseen foe. But
our boys do not flinch; they feel the responsibility imposed upon them
and resolve to do their duty. Minutes go by, and still no advance,
although the weird line of sentinels has been succeeded by a line of
battle. Momentarily we expect to see a sheet of flame burst from that
compact mass, the components of which are indistinguishable in the fog
and darkness, although hardly six rods distant. But it comes not. The
mass recedes and fades out, leaving the sentinels pacing their posts,
and we now know that the movement was only a reconnaissance. Morning
dawns at length, and we are relieved without firing a shot. As we gain
the shelter of the ravine near the bank of the river, we notice that
Reynolds has recrossed with his whole corps and is marching in the
direction taken by the main army. Looking toward the rebel position on
our left, dark masses of men are seen moving over the hills, as if in
retreat. Here again we have food for speculation. Has Hooker, whose guns
are now heard on the right, outflanked the enemy? Later on we learned
that these troops were Stonewall Jackson’s rear guard, that intrepid
commander being then in the process of executing that famous flank
movement which put the 11th corps to rout and turned a Union success
into a Confederate victory, the most signal ever achieved by its armies.
About noon our troops made a demonstration, driving back the enemy’s
pickets, and later in the day rifle-pits were dug under cover of army
blankets hung up as if to dry—a device so simple as to deceive the
Confederates, for otherwise, being commanded by their guns, it could not
have been effected without serious loss.

The next day (Saturday, May 2), was comparatively quiet, although far to
the right could be heard the deep, yet muffled sound of artillery
firing, telling that Hooker was engaged. We made demonstrations all
along our front, but did no real fighting. During the night, the firing
on the right became very heavy,—and I was called into line at about 2 a.
m., to go through ere another chance to sleep was afforded me, the most
exciting experiences of my life. We were marched to the front, and
posted in a ravine. With the first streaks of dawn came sounds of
musketry firing on our right. It was the Light Division in the streets
of Fredericksburg. Marching by the left flank we emerge from the ravine
and take a position on the left, the second, and third and light
divisions of our corps extending to the right. As we leave the ravine
the enemy opens a heavy fire upon our devoted regiment, the hills on our
front and right being aflame with the flashes of the “red artillery.” We
advance rapidly, our general leading; our batteries gallop to the rising
ground, and open on the enemy’s guns posted near the railroad embankment
and which are doing the most execution. Our guns are splendidly served,
and soon the rebel battery in front and its infantry supports are seen
making quick time for the fortifications in the woods at the base of the
hill. Now the guns on the hills redouble their fire, and the din is
terrible. Men are falling at every step, and so fierce is the concentric
artillery fire of the Confederates that our batteries have to be
withdrawn. Not so the infantry. It is our part to keep the rebel force
in front employed while the divisions on our right storm Marye’s
Heights. So we keep steadily on until a ravine is reached running at
right angles with the one we have left, and leading nearly up to the
rebel entrenchments. The air is full of screaming shot and whistling
shell, and as we near the entrance to the ravine, which is filled with a
thick undergrowth of trees and bushes, our boys are ready to insist that
at least five hundred rebel cannon have the range and are peppering us
accordingly. Through the hell of fire we go, marching by the left flank
and closing up our ranks with each breach, and into the ravine from
which the enemy’s sharpshooters are seen to scamper like so many rats,
as much to escape the range of their own cannon as that of our musketry,
for we had not as yet fired a shot.—Here, by hugging the steep sides, we
were partially sheltered and within half rifle practice of the foe
posted behind their breastworks at the base of the hill. A brisk
fusilade was kept up, and although we were unsupported and “in the air”
we kept the Johnnies so busy that they did not attempt a sortie. By this
time, also, the batteries on Marye’s Heights, which had enfiladed us,
had as much as they could do nearer home, for Howe and Newton had begun
their advance. It being deemed useless to attempt to do more than keep
the enemy in our front employed, our regiment was withdrawn from the
ravine and the Parrotts were again opened on the position, which we had,
supposed was to be stormed.—“The war which for a space did fail,” now
opens furiously on our right, and we watch the advance of the light
division with interest, although our regiment is still exposed to a
galling fire from riflemen behind the railroad embankment.—The spectacle
was a thrilling one. The 6th corps batteries were playing upon the
heights, with might and main, and up the steep ascent our brave boys
were climbing with all speed. Our hearts were in our throats as we
watched. Could the heights be stormed? Could Sedgwick with 10,000 men do
what Burnside failed to do with ten times that number? Our Colonel, who
has been watching the conflict through his field-glass, electrifies us
at last by exclaiming, “The heights are ours, boys!” “Our flag is
there!” Such a cheer as went up must have astonished our friends just
opposite. A rebel brigade, which had left the entrenchments near our
front and was making all speed to succor its friends, suddenly halted,
then taking in the situation turned about and ran back again, its pace
being accelerated by shots from cannon just taken. The victory was ours
thus far, but at what a cost! It was a brief triumph, alas! for disaster
had overtaken Hooker, and he was a beaten general at that moment. We
knew it not, however. Contrariwise it was announced that Hooker had been
even more successful, and that Lee’s routed army was in rapid retreat on
Richmond. Joy filled our hearts, even though we mourned the death of
many brave comrades whose last roll call on earth had been answered that
morning. Hence, when orders came for our brigade to fall in and take the
lead in the pursuit on our side, they were obeyed with alacrity, and up
and over the battle-stained heights we marched, munching our hardtack as
we went, and out upon the Chancellorsville pike, driving the enemy
before us like chaff before the wind. Two miles out, a battery opened
upon us, but we took little notice, pushing our skirmish line rapidly
forward. It was a fatal discharge, however, to an officer on Brooks’
staff, who fell from his horse, nearly decapitated by a shell.—One of
our batteries is hurried to the front and a single discharge causes the
enemy to retire on the double quick. We reach Salem church, nearly
exhausted by our rapid marching, hoping for rest. But the worst is yet
to come. Our skirmish line is held at bay. It cannot advance, and our
brigade is formed for a charge—my own regiment, through the negligence
of some one, going into the fight in heavy marching order, with
knapsacks strung, and blankets strapped. Meeting a heavy fire of
musketry at the edge of a piece of woods, the brigade halts. But Gen.
Brooks, who has orders to effect a junction with Hooker, and deeming the
enemy in front to be the same we have been driving, orders another
advance. Into the woods we go to be met by a terrific fire. We charge
and drive the foe from his breastworks, but can go no further. Heavily
reinforced he advances with yells. There is a continuous roll of
musketry. The Pennsylvania regiments on our right and left give ground.
We are outflanked and enfiladed. Then comes the order to fall back. It
must be done quickly if we would not be entirely cut off from the second
line. Burdened as many of our men are by their knapsacks, and fatigued
by the march, they can not run. Such is my condition. Although with only
a blanket to carry, I am quite used up physically. The double-quick is
beyond my powers, and with every disposition in the world to run I
cannot to save my life. Suddenly, one leg refuses to move, and I fall. A
call to my men is unheard, or if heard, unheeded. I try to regain my
feet, but cannot. My leg seems paralyzed. Am I hit? wounded? A brother
officer sees me; hears my call for assistance; and proffers aid; helps
me to my feet, and I stagger along for a few paces. Meantime, we have
been left far in the rear and are between two fires. The air is laden
with missiles. It is madness to proceed, and so we both hug the ground.
Doubtless our lives are saved by this device, but, although we had not
the faintest idea then that such was the case, it involved our capture
and imprisonment. “The combat deepens.” The din is awful. Line after
line of Lee’s veterans surges forward; they intermingle; halt, yell,
fire; then rush on like a mob. It is not until they have fairly run over
us that we realize our position—that capture is inevitable. Two lines
pass us unnoticed, when a squad of skirmishers who have hung on our
flank come up and demand our surrender. There is no alternative, and
that brand-new blade goes into the hands of a rebel sergeant whose
straight, black hair runs up through a rent in his hat like a plume. We
are taken to the rear amid a rain of shot from our batteries, three men
helping me along and two keeping close guard over my companion. They
seemed in a hurry to get out of range, and glad of the opportunity our
capture afforded them of retiring with eclat from the strife. Soon we
came upon Gen. Wilcox and staff nicely ensconced in a position not
accessible to Yankee bullets. He questioned us, but not getting
satisfactory replies, sent us still further to the rear (after his
Adjutant-General had purchased my sword of the hatless sergeant), where
we were placed under guard near a field hospital. Here I found, upon
examination, that I was not injured, but that my inability to walk
without help was due to fatigue and a slight abrasion on the hip,
occasioned probably by a spent ball. We were courteously treated by our
guards but could get no food, Stoneman’s raid having sadly interfered
with the rebel commissariat. Next day we were taken to Spottsylvania
court-house where we met nearly half of the 11th corps and learned for
the first time the disaster that had befallen “Fighting Joe” Hooker. Of
the kindness of one of my captors, Billy Peyton of Memphis, Tenn., but a
member of the 9th Alabama, and his peculiarities, I should like to
speak, but this sketch has grown on my hands, and I am compelled to omit
an account of my first visit to Richmond, introduction to Major Turner,
and incarceration in Libby. Should this sketch please the readers of
this Magazine, I may essay another describing my prison life, and how
near I came to being annihilated by a fierce Virginia home guard officer
who commanded the escort which conducted the detachment of prisoners, of
which I made one, to the flag of truce boat on the James, going by the
way of Petersburgh.




               _MANNERS AND CUSTOMS IN HOPKINTON—No. 2._


                             BY C. C. LORD.


                               RELIGIOUS.

At first, worship, both private and public, was conducted in the
primative homes of the settlers of the township. On the erection of
military posts, or forts, such edifices became natural, social centres,
and worship was conducted in one or more of them. Rev. James Scales,
first minister of the town, was ordained in Putney’s Fort, in 1757.
During the ministry of Mr. Scales, public worship was sometimes
conducted at the Parsonage. The erection of a church determined a
permanent place of public religious services.

The first meeting-house in Hopkinton represented a much larger
territorial expanse of population than any church now extant.
Denominational controversies had not divided the ranks of the
worshipers, nor had local patrons of the one church demanded special
privileges of their own. The distance to church was long in many cases,
and the conveyances often only the locomotory means of nature.

In olden times in this vicinity, though people had the instinct of
personal adornment the same as now, they often lacked the means of
gratifying it. Extra articles of dress were so rare that people
frequently walked to church in their daily accustomed garb, or trod the
Sunday path with a most scrupulous care for their extra wardrobe. Women
sometimes carried the skirts of their Sunday dresses on their arms till
they arrived near or at the church door, when they let them fall. The
Sunday shoes were often carried in the hand till the journey to meeting
was nearly ended, when they were put on for entrance to the sanctuary.
Present readers can comprehend the necessity of such care, when they
reflect that in the olden time the price of a week’s work of a woman was
only equivalent to a yard of cloth, or a pair of shoes.

Church services in the former days were long, and savored of dogmatic
theology. The principal prayer was much longer than the present average
sermon, and the discourse proportionally extended. Such prolonged
services were conducted in winter, at first, without the favor of any
artificial warmth. In contemplating the situation of the worshipers in
those old wintry days, the bleakness of the characteristic meeting-house
of the times is to be taken into account. In the old Baptist church was
an open aperture in an upper wall, where the crows have been known to
perch while worship was in progress. The advent of foot-stoves gave much
relief to the chilly congregations of earlier times, and the
introduction of the general heater put an end to the extremer
experiences of the wintry Sunday.

The representative minister of the olden time was a person of eminent
scholarly culture and gentlemanly bearing. A thorough scholar and
rhetorician, his discourses were framed with strict regard to the
logical sequences of his subject. The numerical divisions of his theme
often carried him among units of the second order; firstly, secondly,
and thirdly were only preliminary to thirteenthly, fourteenthly, and
fifteenthly; the grand category of predications was terminated by a
“conclusion.” In his loftier intellectual schemes, he sometimes
elaborated whole volumes of disquisitional matter. Rev. Ethan Smith,
third minister in the town, was the author of several profound
theological treatises. There was a dignity and austerity of manner
pertaining to the characteristic primative clergyman that made him a
pattern of personified seriousness. His grave demeanor on his parochial
rounds, when he spoke directly upon the obligations of personal
religion, made his presence in the household a suggestion of profound
respect and awe. He impressed his personality upon the receptive social
element of his parish. The deacons became only minor pastors, and the
whole congregation of believers expressed in subdued form the character
of the shepherd of the flock.[1]

Footnote 1:

  The austere influence of religion upon society in the olden time was
  attested by the legal strictures upon traveling, idling, etc., on
  Sunday, of which conduct the tything-men were to take cognizance.
  Tything-men were chosen in this town as late as 1843, when Charles
  Barton, Samuel Frazier and Daniel Chase were selected. The law
  requiring such choice had even then become virtually a dead letter.

The support of a “learned and orthodox minister” was implied in the
original grant of this township. In the strict construction of the
text of the original compact, “orthodoxy” meant Calvinistic
Congregationalism. The disturbed condition of the early settlement
prevented the establishment of a permanent local pastorate till 1757.
On the 8th of September of that year, it was voted to settle the Rev.
James Scales, and that he should be ordained on the 23d of the
following November. His salary was to be sixty Spanish milled dollars,
or their equivalent in paper bills, a year. When the town became
incorporated in 1765, the formal acknowledgment of Mr. Scales as legal
pastor was renewed, it being the 4th of March, and his salary was
named at £13, 10s.

In progress of time different religious societies became established in
this town, but the Congregational alone drew support from any portion of
the populace by a direct tax. People were taxed for the support of the
Congregational ministry in this town as late as 1810. The warrant for a
town-meeting called for the 12th of March, 1811, contained this article:


“To see what method the town will take to raise money for the support of
the Congregational minister in town the ensuing year, how levied, and
how divided between the two meeting-houses.”


At this time a meeting-house had been, for about ten years, in existence
at Campbell’s Corner, in the westerly part of the town, and since its
erection the funds for the support of Congregational preaching derived
from taxes had been divided between the east and west meeting-houses, as
they were called. However, at the town-meeting called for the above
date, it was voted to “pass over the article” relating to the proposed
support of Congregational religious services by the town, and we think
the subject was never taken up again.

The minister’s tax was never collected of any person who acknowledged a
belief in the religious principles of any legalized society, other than
the Congregational. The following vote, passed on the 25th of March,
1799, illustrated the method of raising the minister’s tax:


“Voted to lay a ministerial tax on the Congregational inhabitants at
twenty cents each on the poll, and upon all ratable estate in the same
proportion, Congregational inhabitants to be ascertained by consent,
individually, to either of the selectmen at the time of taking the
inventory.”


People liable to pay a minister’s tax sometimes publicly, in
town-meeting, declared their adhesion to the principles of some one or
other of the societies exempted from the payment of that tax.

The lease of the parsonage lands in 1798, incurred an annual revenue
which was proportionately divided among the existing societies till the
year 1853. In the year 1842, when the town for the first time published
a printed report of its pecuniary transactions, the last division of
parsonage money was declared to be as follows:

                   1st Congregational society, $27.88
                   2d Congregational society,    4.39
                   Calvinist Baptist, society,  13.88
                   Union Baptist, society,      16.12
                   Episcopalian society,         9.64
                   1st Universalist society,     4.21
                   2d Universalist society,     10.31
                   Methodist society,            1.43

The round total was set down at $88.00.

The 2d Congregational society dropped out of the list in 1851. The last
allowance to this society was fifty-six cents. The town report of the
year 1853, contained the following and last list of apportionments of
parsonage money:

                   Congregational society,    $30.09
                   Union Baptist society,      19.04
                   Calvinist Baptist society,  15.72
                   Episcopalian society,        4.40
                   1st Universalist society,    7.57
                   2d Universalist society,     7.10
                   Methodist society,           4.18

The total of this list was also set down in round numbers as $88.

The above figures are suggestive in presenting a view of the relative
strength of the different societies at the specific times stated. It is
interesting to note that certain of the societies soon lost all traces
of even a nominal existence, after the suspension of the parsonage
revenues. For some time they had kept up a show of vitality by making
their portion of the parsonage fund a nucleus of an outlay for a few
days’ preaching in the year.

In the march of the years, the old peculiarities of local religious life
have given place to new features and forms. It is needless to say that
some of the old formalities died hard. Innovations were distrusted. The
experience in view of proposed changes was substantially uniform in all
the churches. Even the staid Episcopalians were ruffled by unaccustomed
ceremonies. When, for the first time, the choir of the Episcopal church
chanted the _Gloria Patri_, which before had been read only, an
indignant lady abruptly shut her prayer book in unfeigned disgust. The
greater jealousy formerly existing between different denominations is
well known. It is said this inharmonious feeling was once sought to
serve an innovating use. A person prominent in musical circles sought to
influence the leading minds of the Congregational church in favor of the
purchase of a bass viol. As an extreme argumentative resort he
suggested, “The poor, miserable Baptists have got one.” Tradition,
however, doesn’t relate the effect of this suggestion.


                              COMMERCIAL.

The country store of the earliest times was a more emphatic collection
of multitudinous varieties of articles, if possible, than the later
place of local public traffic. Then, as now, the local store was the
principal resort of the great commonalty. Men of special vocations
sometimes took a stock of products to the lower country and bartered for
goods to bring back and distribute among their neighbors, and the
itinerant merchant, or pedlar, reaped a much better harvest than now;
but the country store was a popular necessity and well patronized. At
first there was less trading in domestic luxuries; the goods in store
represented the common necessities. Since the popular idea of necessity
does not fully exclude the illusory principle, we have to admit rum,
gin, brandy, etc., into the former list of domestic staples. Cash and
barter were entertained by every tradesman, to whom the populace largely
looked for advantageous exchanges of substance. The progress of the
settlement was attended by the extension, and to some extent by the
classification, of trade till the time when Hopkinton assumed the
commercial importance described in a previous article.

The currency employed in the transaction of business was at first
nominally English, though Spanish milled dollars were in circulation.
One of the inconveniences of the early settlers of New England was a
scarcity of money. The different provincial governments sought to
relieve the public financial burdens by the issue of Bills of Credit, a
currency mentioned in the records of this town as “old tenor.” Such a
circulating medium in such a time could only depreciate in value, but,
following a custom obtaining in the old country, the purchasing value of
these bills could from time to time be fixed by the local legislatures.
About the year 1750, it was established throughout the provinces that £1
in the currency of the Bills of Credit should be equivalent to two
shillings and eight pence lawful money, and that six shillings should be
equal to one dollar.

The preliminary events of the Revolution involved the establishment of a
system of Continental currency. At the time of the first issue of a
paper circulating medium, in 1775, the Continental notes were nearly at
par with gold, but they soon fell to comparative nothingness in value.
The effect of this collapse in monetary matters was amply illustrated in
the public transactions of the town of Hopkinton. At a town meeting held
in 1781, it was voted that the price of a day’s work on the highway, by
a man, should be $30; the price of a day’s work by a yoke of oxen, $30;
the price of a plow and cart, $10 each. The salary of the Rev. Elijah
Fletcher, second minister of the town, was also voted to be $4000 for
the year, but the reverend pastor preferred to accept £70 in gold
equivalents, and declined the larger nominal sum. The success of the
American cause, and the permanent establishment of the public credit,
gave a correspondingly improved aspect to local affairs, and in later
times this town has experienced fluctuations in prices in common with
the general country.

During the period of Hopkinton’s greater importance as a commercial
station, a bank was maintained here for a few years. The institution was
known as the Franklin Bank, and was incorporated in 1833. The grantees
were Horace Chase, Nathaniel Gilman, Isaac Long, Jr., William Little,
Joseph Stanwood, Matthew Harvey, Andrew Leach, Moses Gould, Ebenezer
Dustin, Timothy Chandler, Stephen Darling, and James Huse. The
operations of this bank seem to have been exceedingly bungling during
the short term of its existence, and it finally settled with its
creditors at ninety cents on a dollar. The Franklin Bank occupied the
building now used by the Hopkinton Public Library.

The standard of quantities to be recognized in commercial transactions
has, from remote times, been a subject of legal regulation. The weights
and measures first used in this town were the standards of older
communities. In a record made in the year 1804, the town of Hopkinton
declared the local standard to be as follows:

                                WEIGHTS
                               OF IRON.

                               1 56 lbs.
                               1 28 lbs.
                               1 24 lbs.
                               1  7 lbs.


                                WEIGHTS
                               OF BRASS.

                               1  4 lbs.
                               1  2 lbs.
                               1   1 lb.
                               1   ½ lb.
                               1   2 oz.
                               1   1 oz.
                               1   ½ oz.
                               1   ¼ oz.

For the use of the above weights the town recognized “two small scale
beams with brass dishes,” and also “one large scale beam with boards,
and strung with iron wires.” The _wooden dry measures_ were specific as
1 half-bushel, 1 peck, 1 half-peck, 1 two-quart, and 1 quart; while the
_copper liquid measures_ were started to be 1 gallon, 1 two-quart, 1
quart, 1 pint, 1 half-pint, and 1 gill.

By legal requirement, the standard of weights and measures is regulated
by a town sealer to this day, such officer being chosen annually at the
town-meeting in March, but the modern improvements and facilities for
determining quantities have made a practically dead letter of the
present law requiring his selection.

For many years a public hay-scales occupied a site in the rear of the
Congregational meeting-house. It was simply an immense scale beam and
platform, the whole apparatus being covered with a roof. It long ago
passed away to give place to the modern hay-scales.


                               POLITICAL.

In the earlier history of this town, politics and religion were closely
related. For many years the affairs of the legally established, or
Congregational, church were arranged by vote of the town. The intimate
relation existing between the church and the town made the meeting-house
and town-house at first identical. The earliest town-meeting held in the
first meeting-house was on the 2d of March, 1767. Previously,
town-meetings had been held at private houses. Town-meetings continued
to be held in the church till 1799, when use was first made of the old
Hillsborough county Court House, the annual meeting of that year being
held in the upper room of the county edifice. Town-meeting has since
been held annually on the same spot.

At the time of the incorporation of the town, in 1765, annual
town-meetings were legally held only on the first Monday in March. In
the year 1803, the State legislature fixed the date of annual
town-meetings at the second Tuesday of the same month. Till the year
1813, when the State established a law requiring the use of an
alphabetical list of voters at town-meetings, public legal gatherings in
town had been conducted with less formality than has been maintained
since, but the regard for parliamentary proprieties had been sufficient
to prevent any disorder or unskillfulness of a serious nature.

The instincts of the people of this town have always largely partaken of
a Democratic character. There has been a prominent jealousy of
individual rights. This feature of local political life was exhibited in
the very earliest times, when individuals frequently appeared at the
moderator’s desk to record their names in opposition to some measure or
other passed by the majority. Even to this day the doctrine of
individual rights is strongly asserted by the mass of persons of
whatever party name. In the days of the prolonged supremacy of the
Democratic party, the lines of party distinction were drawn so clearly
that scarcely a Whig was ever permitted to represent the town at the
General Court. Once, in 1844, there was a kind of general compromise
between parties, and Moses Colby, a Whig, and Samuel Colby, a Democrat,
were sent to the legislature together. For quite a number of years there
was a compromise on the subject of selectmen, and a general consent gave
the Whigs annually one member in a board of three; but this arrangement
was broken up by a fancied or real attempt of the Whigs to take more
than their customarily allotted portion of the chosen.

Till the year 1855, when the Democrats lost the general control of
political affairs in town for the first time, the constantly prevailing
superiority had prevented the practice or necessity of much caucusing. A
few leading ones put their heads together and gave a definite impulse to
the party movement. The process worked very well, except when now and
then an accident would happen, as, for instance, when a refractory
candidate insisted in pushing his private claims at all hazards.
Caucusing, however, had been practiced more or less previously to 1855,
but since this date the closeness of the popular vote has often led to a
degree of figuring and planning that can be easily comprehended by all
accustomed to watch the movements of political leadership in New
Hampshire during the last quarter of a century.

We have shown, in a previous article, that the Democrats of this town
held a majority on the Governor’s vote till 1865. However, in 1855, the
American party elected two representatives—Paul R. George and Timothy
Colby—and three selectmen.




                               _MALAGA._


                          BY VIANNA A. CONNOR.

[This article from Miss Connor, written from Malaga last summer, having
been mislaid, after its reception, is published at this time as not
without interest, notwithstanding the delay.—ED.]

The streets of Malaga always present an animated appearance. One never
sees here that dead calm which pervades many of our northern cities in
midsummer. At all hours of the day the air resounds with the sonorous
voices of men and boys calling out whatever they may have to sell. Fish
of all kinds, fruits, live turkeys and many other things may be obtained
in this way, with the additional entertainment of listening to a loud
and heated discussion between the servant and vender regarding the
price. If the latter chances to be a boy, he summons a flood of tears to
his assistance, having acquired, as a part of his occupation, the
faculty of crying when occasion demands. The servant, accustomed to
mechanical weeping, is immovable and the youthful imposter is finally
compelled to receive a fair price for his wares.

Every afternoon at five o’clock, an old man with a bright, cheerful face
passes our window calling out “barquillos” in a clear, musical voice
which makes itself heard at a long distance. The children crowd around
him while he takes from a green box strapped over his shoulder, a tube
made of light paste, on one end of which he puts a white foamy
substance, composed of the whites of eggs and sugar. At this juncture,
the little ones become frantic and jostle each other in a most
unceremonious manner, in their eagerness to possess the delicate morsel.
Each one is served and the poor old man goes on his way rejoicing ever
the few quartas which will buy his daily bread. Barquillos are also
obtained at restaurants as an accompaniment for ices, and seem to be
relished by children of a larger growth, as well as others.

The business of the ware houses commences at an early hour and continues
through the day; carts drawn by mules are constantly passing while the
industrious little donkeys may be seen marching in a line, following
their leader, who has a bell to announce his coming. During the vintage,
long lines of donkeys laden with boxes of raisins come from the
vineyards, horses never being used except in cabs and private carriages.
The cab horses are poor, old animals which seem to have lived as long as
nature intended, but are kept alive by some mysterious agency, and by
dint of much urging and whipping manage to move at a slow pace. One day,
when we were taking a drive, the horse suddenly stopped and the driver
dismounted. To our inquiry, as to the cause of delay he replied, “_no es
nada_” (it is nothing), resumed his seat and we started again, but had
not proceeded far when the animal absolutely refused to go; this time we
insisted upon alighting and were coolly informed that the horse was only
a little _cansado_ (tired). Many more instances might be cited
illustrating the manner in which dumb animals are abused in a country
where there are no laws prohibiting it, or if such laws exist they are
not enforced.

The animation prevailing through the day by no means diminishes as night
approaches, although of a very different character. At twilight, the
higher classes sally forth to the Alameda or Muelle (mole), to enjoy the
refreshing breeze from the sea, while those of lower estate seek some
place of rendezvous and indulge in their idle gossip. An occasional
troubadour steals to some obscure corner and sends forth plaintive
sounds from his faithful guitar, not unfrequently some youthful swain is
inspired to add the charms of his voice, and the “Malaguenas” bursts
forth in all its primative sweetness. The enthusiasm of the Spaniards on
hearing their national airs is something remarkable, they become quite
wild with excitement and applaud in the most vociferous manner.
Foreigners, also, who have spent some time in the country, share this
enthusiasm, which seems to be caused more by a certain rhythmical
peculiarity, than by any extraordinary merit of the music itself.

The romantic days of Spain are past, when the lover stood beneath the
balcony of his sweetheart, wooing her with the gentle strains of his
guitar. To us it seems a matter of regret that this ancient custom no
longer exists, but it undoubtedly relieves many anxious parents as it
particularly favored clandestine courtships. A Spanish gentleman of our
acquaintance who is blessed with seven daughters, and occupies a house
containing twenty balconies, congratulates himself upon the change in
love-making as it would be impossible to keep watch over all, even by
constantly rushing from one balcony to another. At the present day the
suitor is admitted to the salon, where he may converse with the object
of his affections, but always in the presence of her parents. Spanish
mammas would be shocked at the freedom allowed American girls in
receiving visits from the opposite sex and accepting their escort to
places of entertainment.

The feast of Corpus Christi was celebrated in Malaga with much _eclat_.
For two weeks previous preparations were going on for the fair, which
takes place at this time, booths being arranged on one side of the
Alameda and filled with a variety of articles, useful and ornamental,
calculated to please the eye and lighten the pockets of passers-by,
while others were provided with these substantial things needful to
satisfy the wants of the inner man. At night the Alameda was most
brilliantly illuminated by long lines of lights extending the whole
length on either side, also across the centre at intervals, with
occasional circles and clusters, producing a most dazzling effect. At
each end, in front of the fountains were erected two pavillions, one
under the direction of a club styled the “Circulo Mercantil,” the other
by the members of the “Lycio” both of which were handsomely decorated
with flags and flowers and provided with comfortable seats. We availed
ourselves of the opportunity to attend the balls given in these
pavillions, and found them exceedingly diverting. In the centre, a space
was reserved for the dancers, who tripped the “light fantastic” with
apparent enjoyment, notwithstanding the disadvantages of little room and
much heat. The _toilettes_ of the ladies were varied and elegant,
displaying a taste which would do credit to Worth himself, while the
national costume, worn by a few young ladies, far exceeded the most
charming conceptions of that famous artist. This costume, called the
“_Maja_,” is extremely picturesque, especially when combined with the
piquant faces and nonchalant airs of the Spanish girls. It consists of a
skirt of bright red or blue satin, edged with a broad trimming of black
_chenille_; with this is worn a black velvet bodice, the hair is
arranged in finger puffs, with a high comb placed jauntily on one side,
and a few flowers gracefully twined among the dark tresses; a Spanish
mantilla, and laced slippers, just disclosed beneath the short skirt,
complete this beautiful costume, rich in fabric, but simple in design,
and above all allowing a graceful freedom which our present straight
laced fashions render impossible. Weary of the brilliancy and animation
of the ballroom, we passed to the garden where tables were arranged for
refreshments, and amid the sound of inspiring music and the gentle
murmur of the fountain, partook of delicate viands served by attentive
waiters. The arrangement of these pavillions was perfect in every
respect, contributing in the highest degree to the comfort of the
guests, and long shall we bear in remembrance the pleasant evenings they
afforded us.

On Corpus Christi day a long and imposing procession marched through the
principal streets, carrying an image of the “Virgin” robed in black
velvet elaborately embroidered in gold, and a large “_Custodia_” of
solid silver containing the “_host_.” The clergy, in their clerical
gowns, with their faces plump and glossy, walked along in a
self-satisfied manner, confident of good cheer in this world, whatever
may await them in another. The civil and military authorities added
their dignified presence, followed by a large concourse of people with
wax candles. The streets and balconies were filled with men, women, and
children of all ages and classes, every available space being occupied.
In the afternoon a bull fight took place, and a ball in the evening
ended the programme of the day.

In the midst of the festivities of the week, the Queen’s illness was
announced, causing a suspension of all gayety, and her subsequent death
was followed by a season of mourning. The Alameda was stripped of its
superfluous adornings, and the sound of music no longer filled the air
with its sweet harmonies. Funeral services were solemnized in the
Cathedral, and many a fervent prayer ascended to Heaven for the repose
of the dead, and the resignation of the bereaved young King.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
 2. Anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as
      printed.
 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.