THE DEAD OF THE ARMY OF THE JAMES.
ON the evening of Wednesday, Sept. 2, 1868, some two hundred ex-officers of the "Army of the James" were assembled in the dining-hall of the St. James Hotel, Boston, in delightful re-union, as comrades of camp and campaigning. The writer of this little sketch was called on to say words in tribute to "The memory of the honored dead" of that army, and in consequence the tenderest recollections were revived of those who fell in the long years of war with rebellion.
Hardly had the writer reached his home from that re-union, before word came to him of the death of another soldier of the Army of the James; one whose varied and thrilling experiences, peculiar services to the Union cause, and noble Christian character entitled him to special mention, as a noteworthy and satisfactory illustration of the bravery and worth of the enlisted men of that army. While on his death-bed, this young soldier had sent particular request to one who, as an army chaplain in his brigade, had known something of his personal character and history, to preach a commemorative discourse on the occasion of his decease. Thus called on again to pay just tribute to the memory of the dead of the Army of the James, the writer prepared this sketch as part of a sermon preached at Warwick, Mass., Sept. 13, 1868, and now gives it to the public at the request of those who, knowing something of the young soldier's history, naturally desire to know more.
COST OF THE SLAVEHOLDERS' WAR.
Others than his immediate comrades have reasons for an interest in this young soldier, and should join in honoring his memory, and recalling at his death the record of his army life. Dying though he did among the green hills of Massachusetts, in these days of palmy peace, with parents and sisters ministering to his comfort, as he wasted slowly before their loving gaze, he was really one of the dead of the war, one of the starved of Andersonville. His vigorous constitution was broken down under the malarial damps of the sea-island death-swamps, beneath the smiting sun-glare of the Carolina sands, in the fatigues of dreary marches and anxious picket service, and amid the excitements of battle and the crushing responsibilities of a mission of imminent peril within the lines of the enemy. His young life was really worn away, not here at the North, but there at the South, in dragging months of imprisonment, in teeming hours of attempted escape, in rapid flight from the swift pursuers, and in the death-clutch with the fierce-fanged hounds in the swamp of despair!
And he was but one of many—a representative youth; one out of thirteen thousand martyrs of Andersonville,—
| "The men who perished in swamp and fen, The slowly starved of the prison pen;"— |
a solitary soldier among fully three hundred thousand who gave their lives for the nation's life, the sodden mounds of whose graves, like an encircling earthwork, make secure that nation's proud though dearly-bought position among the kingdoms of the world. Surely, there is little danger that the story of such a man will be told too widely, or his services be too highly esteemed; small cause for fear, that, in the glad days of rest from war, there will be too vividly recalled those dark hours of the imperilled republic, when the bared right arms of two and a half millions of loyal and loving Union soldiers and sailors were essential to the preservation of a free and righteous government; and not only each blood-drop shed by those who stood or fell in battle for their country, but every heart-throb of their suffering or toil, and every tear of those who loved them, counted on the ransom of Liberty, and helped—
| "To make, for children yet to come, This land of their bequeathing, The imperial and the peerless home Of happiest beings breathing." |
A MASSACHUSETTS BOY.—FORESHADOWINGS OF A NOBLE LIFE.
Henry Hatch Manning was born in Warwick, Mass., May 17, 1844. He was ever a loving and dutiful son and brother. Just before his death, his mother remarked, "I cannot now recall any act of his disobedience."—"Our brightest earthly hopes will perish with him," added his sister. When young, his frequent wish was that he had been the eldest child, so as to lift burdens his sisters now must bear. At eight years old, he was at work for a neighbor, earning something beyond his board. While thus occupied, he was startled by the sudden death of his employer by accident. Hurrying to his home, he whispered the sad story to his mother, adding in almost the same breath, "But don't tell father. He wouldn't let me go back; and what would Mrs. Holmes do without me?" Thus early he showed his independence of character, and his desire to live for others.
Having the ordinary common-school advantages of a Massachusetts town—such as are now,