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A writer in Philadelphia relates the following: “In one of our beautiful suburban cemeteries was employed a venerable man. For a number of years past he has prepared the last resting-place for those called from among us. Though poor, he raised four gallant boys, giving to each of them a moderate education and a good trade. The two elder went five years ago to New Orleans, where prosperity attended their industry.

The two younger brothers remained with their father. George and Frederick were their names. The latter is but seventeen years of age. When the war broke out, both left their employments and enlisted. The elder brothers had constantly written home, and frequent presents accompanied their letters. At the battle of Fredericksburg, in the very front of the line, at the church upon the rifle pits at the back of the town, were the two boys Frederick and George. A sortie was made by the rebel riflemen upon the retreating Federals, and among those who dropped were the two boys, the youngest sons of the old gravedigger. A minie ball had pierced the bodies of each.

The rebel soldiers, whose weapons had done the deed, were clad in rags of linsey. They ran with alacrity to secure the clothing, the canteens, and perhaps the money, of the men whom they had laid low. The foremost one reached the body of his dead enemy, turned it over–for the face was downward–and to his horror beheld the corpse of his youngest brother, his woollen shirt stained with a stream of blood that oozed from a bullet hole above the heart. Our informant, a chaplain of the army, could tell us nothing of the other rebel brother. But this one made his way into the Union lines, and is now in the hospital at Alexandria a hopeless maniac. We learn that in their childhood this younging of the flock had been the especial charge of the eldest brother. When he left for New Orleans it was in the expectation of entering business to which he could bring up the boy. That boy he lived to shoot down with his own hands. Unless the remaining rebel brother survive, the family are now extinct. The father died of a broken heart, and was buried last Sunday. This is a simple statement of fact. It is doubtless one of ten thousand never to be written.”

Originally posted 2008-09-15 03:22:17.

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Gen. Negley sent out a foraging expedition from Nashville, with orders to the commander to visit every habitation, mill, barn, and out-house, and seize upon everything fit for consumption by man and beast. During the expedition a squad made a break for a free school-house.

“Don’t disturb anything there!” cried one of the officers. “If there had been a few more such institutions in the South, there would have been no rebellion.”

Originally posted 2008-09-12 12:11:02.

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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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