« AnteriorContinuar »
upon oar American prejudices! The head of the great Catholic Church, surrounded by the ripest scholars of the age, listening to the eloquence"—of whom? —" of the despised negro; and thereby illustrating to the world "—what ? — " thereby illustrating to the world the common bond of brotherhood which binds the human race." [Roars of laughter.]
Mr. Speaker, I appeal to the House if it does not appear that the author of that pamphlet must have been corrupted by reading the work of my friend from Ohio.
But the gentleman goes on to say: "I confess that, at first, it seemed to me a sort of theatrical mummery, not being familiar with such admixtures of society." That was the first impression of my young and festive friend from Ohio, as he wandered through the gilded corridors of St. Peter's. [Laughter.] "But," says he, "on reflection, I discerned in it the same influence which, during the dark ages, conferred such inestimas ble blessings on mankind. History records that from the time of the revival of letters the influence of the Church of Rome had been generally favorable to science, to civilization, and to good government. Why?" Why, asks my friend from Ohio, is the Church of Rome so favorable to science, to civilization, and to good government? Let the gentleman answer: "Because her system held then, as it holds now, all distinctions of caste as odious." [Great laughter.] "She regards no man—bond or free, white or black—as disqualified for the priesthood. This doctrine has, as Macaulay develops in his introductory chapters to his English history, mitigated many of the worst evils of society; for where race tyrannized over race, or baron over villein, Catholicism came between them and created an aristocracy altogether independent of race or feudalism, compelling even the hereditary master to kneel before the spiritual tribunal of the hereditary bondsman. The childhood of Europe was passed under the guardianship of priestly teachers, who taught, as the scene in the Sistine Chapel of an Eihiop addressing the proud rulers of Catholic Christendom teaches, that no distinction is regarded at Rome save that which divides the priest from the people.
"The sermon of the Abyssinian"—that is, of this colored person, this Roman citizen of "African descent"— "in beautiful print, was distributed at the door. I bring one home as a trophy and as a souvenir of a great truth which Americans are prone to deny or contemn." [Laughter.]
Now, I ask my friend from Ohio if he has still got that trophy and souvenir to bring into this Hall?
A Stirring Appeal To The Women.—From copies of Savannah and Columbus (Ga.) papers is taken the following:
TO THE WOVEN OP GEORGIA.
Atlanta, Feb. 5, 1864.—A report has been put in circulation in various portions of the State, that the socks knit by the ladies of Georgia for this department have been sold by me to the troops on the field. Without entering into the details of this vile and malicious report, I hereby pronounce the whole tale to be a malicious Falskhood I I deny, and challenge the world for proof to the contrary, that there has ever been a sock told by this department to a soldier of the confederate army since my first appeal to the women of Georgia to knit for their destitute defenders. I hereby bind myself to present One Thocsand
Dollars to any person—citizen or soldier—who will come forward and prove that he ever bought a sock from this department that was either knit by the ladies or purchased for issue to said troops.
This report has been invented, on the one hand, by the enemies of our noble boys, who rejoice in their sufferings, and are delighted when they suspend the efforts of our noble women in their behalf; on the other hand, by servile opponents of this department, who forget that in venting their unprovoked spite upon us, they are causing the troops of their State to march over frozen ground and the drifting snow with uncovered and bleeding feet
Women of Georgia! again I appeal to you. This time I call upon you to frown down these vile falsehoods. Demand of them who peddle (he tale, the evidence I call for above. Until that testimony is produced, I implore you, stay not your efforts. I assure you, in the name of all that is holy and noble— on the honor of a man and an officer—that myself or any of my assistants have never sold a pair of socks that were knit by you. Every pair has been issued to the destitute troops as a gift, as about seventeen thousand gallant sons of the Empire State will gladly bear testimony.
Daughters of Georgia, I still need socks. Requisitions for them are daily pouring in upon me. I still have yarn to furnish you. I earnestly desire to secure a pair of socks for every barefooted soldier from Georgia. You are my only reliance. Past experience teaches me I will not appeal to you in vain.
Ira R. Foster, Quartermaster-General of Georgia.
COLONEL LEWIS BENEDICT.
BT ALFRED B. STREET.
[The following lines on the death or Colonel Lewie Benedict, who fell while leading Ms brigade at the battle or Pleasant Hill, Louisiana, April 9, 1864, were recited hy James E. Murdoch, before the New-York Legislature, on the second of February, 1&6&.}
We laid him in his last and patriot rest;
Dark Death but couched him on Fame's living breast.
We twine the sorrowing cypress o'er his grave,
And let the star-bright banner loftier wave
At mention of his deeds! In manhood's prime,
Blossoms the pinions waved by smiling Time,
He left life's warbling bowers for duty's path,
Where the fierce war-storm flashed its reddest wrath;
Path proud, though rough; outrang the trumpet's
blast: "To arms, to arms! down to the dust iB east The flag, the dear old flag, by treason's hand!" And the deep thundering sound rolled ouward through
In the quick throngs of fiery life that rushed
Pent in close prison-walls long, long black hours,
To naught; that steel-nerved will the loftier towers,
Treading the painful thorns like pleasant flowers.
Free once again, war's trumpet-clangors ring
The warrior to the birthplace of the Spring.
Where the stern Mississippi sea-like sweeps,
To summer flowers, pine cones of wintry steeps,
Into Death's eyes again he fixed his gaze.
Lo '. where Port Hudson's deadly batteries blaze,
Whose that tall form that towers when all lie low,
Brow to the sun and bosom to the foe?
Brow to the sun, his brave sword in his hand,
Pointing "There—up and onward, patriot band!"
Again! red batteries' hurling awful hail
Like the fierce sleet that loads the thundering gale.
Ranks crushed beneath showered shot and shell, like
Once more in other scenes he meets the foe.
Then, the dread last—0 woful, woful day!
He fell in conflict's fiercest, wildest flame;
* Colonel Benedict fell literally on a bed of crirasou the wild Louisiana rose.
Vol. VIII.—Poetry 4
Our heartfelt sorrow! for among the brave,
None braver; and when battle left his eye,
None softer! Let the stricken nation sigh
For such as he who perish by the way,
While up on crimson feet she toils to greet the day.
Ah! the bright hour he came, though weak and low
We bore him to his sylvan home; there flowers
Blessed is he who suffers,* and we know
OUR FLAG IN '64.
BT D. B. DUFFIELD.
Fling, fling our banner out,
The foe is striking hard;
With all its muttering thunders,
* Bentdictits qui patitur. Motto of the Benedict family*
Ay! when our soldiers brave, On battle-field and wave, Sprang forth with deadly stroke Through battle's blazing smoke, Our standard to uphold, And save its every fold, These home-born traitors cry, "God grant no victory /"
Though scores of gallant heroes Round the old flag bravely die.
Rise, then, each loyal man,
Swore a fealty to the flag
The flag, the flag bends low,
Till stormy Treason's rage
THE HYMN OF FREEDOM.
OCR FLAG SHALL STAT UHFURLED.*
All hail the land where Freedom dwells and lifts her
starry shield! Here gaze all nations, bond and free—this is their
battle-field! Humanity and Liberty throughout the struggling
world, Proclaim her cause their own, and cry, Our Flag shall stay unfurled!
Our Flag shall stay unfurled,
What hands dare strike that hopeful Flag, for which
our fathers bled? Who mocks the wisdom of the past, the counsels of
the Dead? Shall Faction spoil our heritage? Nay, shout it to
the world— The progress of our race depends—Our Flag shall stay unfurled 1
Our Flag shall stay unfurled,
• Written In 1S61. The authorities of Baltimore city had forbidden the display of the American ftai, but In many Instances It wa* kept afloat, till torn down by the police. After several week.-' of trouble and anxiety, the I'nion people prevailed, the rebel ensl.-rns were secreted or destroyed, and the beautiful Flasr of our Nation w;n thm^ out on the breeze from a thousand windows and spires all over the city.
Ilere God has smiled—here Peace has reigned—all
tongues have utterance here; Here Faith is free to choose her creed—no despot's
stake is near; Here reigns an empire without walls, a wonder to the
world: And shall this fabric be dissolved? Columbia's Flag be furled ♦
Our Flag shall stay unfurled,
Float on, thou emblem of the age—defence on land
and sea! 0 God of hosts! in humble faith, we trust our cause
to thee! Then traitor's plots and tyrant hordes against us may
lie hurled— Yet shall our Flag victorious wave, the hope of all the world!
Our Flag shall stay unfurled,
TOE TATTEUED FLAGS.
FEBRUARY 22, 1S64.
Stirring music thrilled the air,
Fancy then might faintly hear
IS THIS THE LAND OF WASHINGTON?
BY I. \. A. WOOD.
Is this the land of Washington,
For which our patriot-fathers bled,
The continent beneath their tread?
Of Marion, Stark, and mighty Wayne,
And dashed to earth his galling chain?
Of men whose fame hath filled the earth?
To mock the majesty of birth?
Where mould your bones by many a steep,
Behold your progeny and weep!
Is this the land of Washington,
That warmed the patriot's sanguine dreams,
And nursed her eaglets in its gleams?
Shot terror to the oppressor's soul,
Their protests on a bloody scroll?
These creeds to alien tyrants taught,
Or bind the lightning of her thought?
To forge the insignia of her shame;
A flaming falsehood on her fame?
No! never while one spark remains
Unquenched of freedom's altar-fires,
Fanned by the memory of our sires;
Is poured upon the sword to rust,
Trails her bright garments in the dust;
Her offspring, with a zeal divine,
At Bunker Hill and Brandywine;
• iMConia'K Sm— In the early days of the discovery and ■ettlement of New-Ilarapshire, It wns called Luaonia. At the famous battle, or battles, of Beimlnjrton (for two w.;rc fbURht on the Lime day and on the same field) General Stark, of NewHampshire, commanded.
And not till this, and not till then,
Shall dawn that black and hateful hour
That dooms the patriot's tongue and pen
And then to shame our father's graves,
We shall deserve the brand of slaves.
OwEA'SDORO, KY., 1S<H.
TnE MANTLE OF ST. JOHN DE MATHA.
A LEGEND OF TUB " RED, WRITE, AND BLOB."
BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.
A strong and mighty angel,
Calm, terrible, and bright,
Upon his mantle white!
Two captives by him kneeling,
Each on his broken chain,
The dead to life again!
Dropping his cross-wrought mantle, "Wear this," the angel said; "Take thou, 0 Freedom's priest! its sign— The white, the blue, and red!"
Then rose up John De Maths
In the strength the Lord Christ gave, . And begged through all the laud of France The ransom of the slave.
The gates of tower and castle
Before him open flew,
The door-bolt backward drew.
For all men owned his errand,
And paid his righteous tax;
Were in his hands as wax.
At last, outbound from Tunis,
Freighted with seven score Christian souls
But, torn by Paynim hatred,
Her sails in tatters hung;
A shattered hulk she swung.
"God save us !" cried the captain,
"Behind us are the Moormen;
Then up spake John De Matha:
They raised the cross-wrought mantle,
And straight before the wind off shore
"God help us !" cried the somen,
Then up spake John De Hatha:
So on through storm and darkness
And lo! the third gray morning shone
And on the walls the watchers
The ship of mercy knew— They knew far off its holy cross,
The red, the white, and blue.
And the bells in all the steeples
Rang out in glad accord,
The ransomed of the Lord.
So runs the ancient legend
By bard and painter told; And lo! the cycle rounds again,
The new is as the old 1
With rudder foully broken,
And sails by traitors torn, Our Country on a midnight sea
Is wailing for the nioru.
Before her, nameless terror;
Behind, the pirate-foe;
The sea is white below.
The hope of all who suffer;
The dread of all who wrong;
How long, 0 Lord! how long?
But courage, 0 my mariners 1
Ye shall not suffer wreck While up to Cod the freedman'a prayers
Are rising from your deck.
Is not your sail the banner
Which God hath blest anew, The mantle that De Hatha wore,
The red, the white, the blue?
Its hues are all of heaven—
The red of sunset's dye,
The blue of morning's sky.
Wait cheerily, then, 0 mariners!
For daylight and for land;
Your rudder is his hand.
Sail on, sail on, deep-freighted
The saints of old, with shadowy hauds,
Behind ye holy martyrs
Uplift the palm and crown; Before ye unborn ages send
Their benedictions down.
Take heart from John De Matha!
God's errands never fail! Sweep on through storm and darkness,
The thunder and the hail!
Sail on! the morning cometb,
The port ye yet shall win;
The good ship bravely in!
THE CONFLICT OF AGES.
BT B. HATHAWAY.
All good awaits the ripened years: Above the Present's cry and moan, We catch the far-off undertone
Of coming Time, undimmed with tears;
And more this frailer life endears
Though sore begirt with peril-days,
And Evil's subtle, darkened ways
Be set in light. Yet still delays
While shrouded in impending gloom,
Comes up the cannon's awful boom;
Like near resounding trump of doom,
Alas! but discord's clang and jar
Hay Freedom nurse to larger growth;
Yet speed the earthquake shock that cleaves
Of crime that all the land bereaves;
The whirlwind lightning-wing, that leaves
It is not all a godless strife
That sets the longing captive free;
More dread than battle-thunders be
The despot's rod, the assassin's knife—
The dungeon's gloom, the death in life,
Of Peace, whose price is Liberty 1
THE YOUNG PATRIOT.
One more absent,
One more left us,
One more buried
One more standing
Lay him low, lay him low,
Sorrow not, sorrow not,