Monthly Archives: October 2018


As soon as the West Virginia State bill passed Congress, Mr. Carlisle, true to his purpose, went at once to the President.

“Now, Mr. Lincoln,” said he, “you must veto that bill.”

“Well, said the honest president, with just the least bit in the world of humor, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll split the difference and say nothing about it.”

Originally posted 2008-12-10 22:22:22.

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Six bold riflemen clad in blue, with scarlet doublets over the left shoulder, bearing blazing torches; six glittering Zouaves, with brilliant trappings, sparkling in the light; and then the hollow square, where march the bridegroom and bride; then seven rows of six groomsmen in a row, all armed cap-a-ple, with burnished weapons, flashing back the lustre of the Zouave uniform; and all around the grand regiment darkening the white tent-folds, as their ruddy faces are but half disclosed between the red and yellow glare of the fires, and the soft, silver light of the May-moon. (This is all you will bear in mind, out on the broad, open air. The encampment occupies a conically-shaped hill-top, flanked around the rear crescent by a wood of fan-leaved maples sprinkled with blossoming dogberries, and looking out at the cone upon the river-swards below. The plain is full of mounds and ridges, save where it bulges in the centre to a circular elevation perfectly flat, around which, like facades about a court-yard, are arrayed the spiral tents, illuminated in honor of the coming nuptials.) The bride is the daughter of the regiment; the to-be-husband a favorite sergeant. Marching thus, preceded by two files of sixes, and followed by the glittering rows of groomsmen, the little cortege has moved out of the great tent on the edge of the circle, and comes slowly, amid the bold strains of the grand “Mid-summer-Night’s Dream,” towards the regimental chaplain.

You have seen the colored prints of Jenny Lind on the back of the music of “Vive la France.” You have noted the light-flowing hair, the soft Swiss eye, the military bodice, the coquettish red skirt, and the pretty buskined feet and ankles underneath. The print is not unlike the bride. She was fair-haired, blue eyed, rosy-checked, darkened in their hue by exposure to the sun, in just the dress worn by les filles du regiment. She was formed in that athletic mould which distinguishes the Amazon from her opposite extreme of frailty. You could not doubt her capacity to undergo the fatigues and hardships of a campaign, but your mind did not suggest to your eye those grosser and more masculine qualities which, whilst girting the woman with strength, disrobe her of the purer, more effeminate traits of body. You saw before you a young girl, apparently about eighteen years of age, with clear, courageous eye, quivering lip, and soldierly tread, a veritable daughter of the regiment. You have seen Caroline Richings and good old Peter (St. Peter!) march over the stage as the corporal and la fille. Well, this girl, barring the light flaxen hair, would remind you of the latter drilling a squad of grenadiers.

The bridegroom was of the same sanguine, Germanic temperament as the bride. As he marched, full six-feet in height, with long, light-colored beard, high cheek-bones, aquiline nose, piercing, deeply-studded blue eye, broad shoulders, long arms, sturdy legs, feet and hands of a laborious development, cocked hat with blue plume, dark blue frock, with bright scarlet blanket, tartan fashion over the shoulder, small sword, you would have taken him for a hero of Sir Walter. Faith, had Sir Walter seen him, he himself would have taken him. In default, however, of Sir Walter, I make bold to appropriate him as a hero on the present occasion. Indeed, he was a hero, and looked it, every inch of him, leading that self-sacrificing girl up to the regimental chaplain, with his robe, and surplice, and great book, amid the stare of a thousand anxious eyes, to the music of glorious old Mendelssohn, and the beating of a thousand earnest hearts!

The music ceased; a silence as calm as the silent moon held the strange, wild place; the fires seemed to sparkle less noisily in reverence; and a little white cloud paused in its course across the sky to look down on the group below; the clear voice of the preacher sounded above the suppressed breathing of the spectators, and the vague burning of the fagot heaps; a few short words, a few heartfelt prayers, the formal legal ceremonial and the happy “Amen.” It was done. The pair were man and wife. In rain or sunshine, joy or sorrow, for weal or woe, bone of one bone, and flesh of one flesh, forever and ever, amen!


Originally posted 2008-12-09 15:09:51.

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A Yankee captain, captured in the battles beyond Richmond, was brought to some brigadier’s headquarters. Being fatigued, he laid down under a tree to rest. Pretty soon Gen. Lee and staff rode up. The Yankee asked who he was, and when told, praised his soldierly appearance in extravagant terms. Not long after Jackson and his staff rode up. When told that that was Jackson, the Yankee bounced to his feet in great excitement, showing that he was much more anxious to see Old Stonewall than Lee. He gazed at him a long time. “And that’s Stonewall Jackson?” “Yes.” “Waal, I swan he ain’t much for looks;” and with that he laid down and went to sleep.

During the same battles, a straggler who had built a nice fire in the old field and was enjoying it all to himself, observed what he took to be a squad of cavalry. The man in front seemed to be reeling in his saddle. The straggler ran out to him and said, “Look here, old fellow, you are mighty happy. Where do you get your liquor from? Give me some, I’m as dry as a powder-horn.” Imagine his feelings when he found it was Jackson–the most ungraceful rider in the army, and who naturally sways from side to side.

Originally posted 2008-12-08 22:36:44.

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The lad–for he was but a stripling, though he had seen hard service–lay stretched out on the seat of the car. Another lad, of less than twenty summers, with his arm in a sling, came and took a seat behind him, gazing upon him with mournful interest. Looking up to me, for I was accompanying the sick boy to his home, he asked:

“Is he a soldier?”


“Of what regiment?”

“The thirteenth Illinois Cavalry. Are you a soldier?”


“Where do you belong?” In the one-hundred and fifth Regiment of Illinois Volunteers.”

“The one-hundred and fifth Regiment! That sounds well. Illinois is doing nobly.”

“I did belong to the eleventh Illinois Infantry.”

“Then how came you in the one-hundred and fifth?”

“I was wounded at the battle of Fort Donelson so that I was pronounced unfit for service and discharged. But I recovered from my wound, and when they commenced raising this regiment in my neighborhood, I again enlisted.

Hitherto the sick boy had been perfectly still; now he slowly turned over, looked up with glistening eyes, stretched forth his hand with the slow movement of a sick man to the top of the seat and without saying a word eagerly grasped the hand of the new recruit. The patriotism that glowed in those wan features and prompted those slow, tremulous movements, like electricity ran through every heart. The twice-enlisted youth, as soon as he saw his intention, delighted at the appreciation and reflect on of his own spirit, grasped the outstretched hand, exclaiming “Bully for you!”

Words cannot describe the effect upon the passengers as they saw those hands clasped in token of mutual esteem for love of country; a mutual pledge that each was ready to give his life, his all, for that country. They felt that the spirit of ’76’ still survived.

Originally posted 2008-12-06 12:59:13.

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