Monthly Archives: September 2018



THEY slept on the fields which their valor had won,
But arose with the first early blush of the sun,
For they know that a great deed remained to be done,
When they passed o’er the River!

They rose with the sun, and caught life from his light–
Those giants of courage, those Anaks in fight–
And they laughed out aloud in the joy of their night,
Marching swift for the River!

On! on! like the rushing of storms through the hills–
On! on! with a tramp that is firm, as their wills–
And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant and thrills
At the thought of the River!

O, the sheen of their swords! the fierce glean of their eyes!
It seemed as on earth a new sunlight would rise,
And king-like flash up to the sun in the skies,
O’er the path to the River.

But their banners, shot-scarred, and all darkened with gore,
On a strong wind of morning streamed wildly before,
Like the wings of death-angels swept fast to the shore,
The green shore of the River.

As they march–from the hill-side, the hamlet, the stream–
Gaunt throngs, whom the foeman had manacled, teem,
Like men just aroused from some terrible dream,
To pass o’er the River.

They behold the broad banners, blood-darkened, yet fair,
And a moment dissolves the last spell of despair,
While a peal as of victory swells on the air,
Rolling out to the River.

And that cry, with a thousand strange echoings spread,
Till the ashes of heroes seemed stirred in their bed,
And the deep voice of passion surged up from the dead–
Ay! press on to the River!

On! on! like the rushing of storms through the hills,
On! on! with a tramp that is firm as their wills,
And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant and thrills
As they pause by the River.

Then the wan face of Maryland, haggard and worn,
At that sight lost the touch of its aspect forlorn,
And she turned on the foeman, full statured in scorn,
Pointing stern to the River.

And Potomac flowed calm, scarcely heaving her breast,
With her low-lying billows all bright in the West,
For the hand of the Lord lulled the waters to rest
Of the fair rolling River.

Passed! passed! the glad thousands march safe through the tide,
(Hark, Despot! and hear the wild knell of our pride,
Ringing weird-like and wild, pealing up from the side
Of the calm flowing River!)

‘Neath a blow swift and mighty the Tyrant shall fall;
Vain! vain! to his God swells a desolate call,
For his grave has been hollowed, and woven his pall,
Since they passed o’er the River!

Originally posted 2008-09-11 13:59:09.

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It will be remembered that the little Count Mejan once frantically appealed to the Emperor Napoleon to send an armed force to protect the grog-shop-keepers of New Orlens from an “unconstitutional” tax Gen. Butler had levied upon them. The Emperor was so puzzled to know what his consul had to do with the American Constitution, and on what principles he made himself the champion of whiskey-venders in an American city, that he called the Count home to explain.

It will be seen, from what follows, that Gen. Butler’s tyranny did not stop at taxing grog-shops. It seems that after the expulsion of the rebels and their allies, the Thugs, from New Orleans, the dead walls of that city were suddenly covered with conspicuous bills containing the following sentence:

“Get your shirts at Moody’s 207 Canal Street.”

A planter, a secessionist, came to town some months after Butler had taken the reins in his hands, and marvelled much at the cleanliness and good order he found prevailing; also he was surprised at this notice, which everywhere stared him in the face.

“Get your shirts at Moody’s?” said he to an acquaintance he met in the street; “what does this mean? I see it everywhere posted up. What does it mean?”

“O,” was the reply, “that is another of the outrageous acts of this fellow Butler. This is one of the orders of which you hear so much. Don’t you see? he has ordered us to get our shirts at Moody’s, and we have to do so. It is, of course, suspected that he is a silent partner in the concern, and pockets the profits.”

The poor planter listened with eyes and mouth open and replied:

“I don’t need any shirts just now, and it’s a great piece of tyranny; but this Butler enforces his orders so savagely that it is better to give in at once,” and accordingly he went to “Moody’s” and purchased half a dozen shirts,–on compulsion.

Originally posted 2008-09-10 17:49:01.

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GEN. ROSECRASS indulges occasionally in a witticism. A lady called upon him for the purpose of procuring a pass, which was declined very politely. Tears came to the lady’s eyes as she remarked that her uncle was very ill, and might not recover. “Very sorry, indeed, madam,” replied the General. “My uncle has been indisposed for some time. As soon as Uncle Sam recovers a little, you shall have a pass to go where you please.”

Originally posted 2008-09-09 18:57:25.

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A war correspondent of a New Orleans paper wrote thus from Jackson, Tenn.:

“An officer of my acquaintance, who is inordinately fond of ‘fritters,’ just dropped into a dwelling at Jackson a day or two since, where this delicacy was smoking hot upon the table, and very politely asked to share the meal with the landlady. She graciously complied, and asked him to be seated. ‘Will you take the “twinkley twinkle,” or on the “dab”?’ My friend was entirely ignorant of the meaning of these terms, but at a venture chose the former. He was soon enlightened. The ancient female dipped her not over clean fingers into a tumbler of molasses standing beside her, and allowing the drippings to fall on the delicacy, presented it to him as ‘twinkley twinkle.’ ‘On the dab,’ was a spoonful of treacle upon the centre of the fritter.”

Originally posted 2008-09-08 11:58:02.

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