now, in an hour of excitement, with a large majority having preferred another man for president, when the bullet of the assassin has laid our president prostrate, has there been a mutiny? Has any rival proffered his claims? Out of an army of near a million, no officer or soldier uttered one note of dissent, and, in an hour or two after Mr. Lincoln's death, another leader under constitutional forms, occupied his chair, and the government moved forward without one single jar. The world will learn that republics are the strongest governments on earth.

And now, my friends, in the words of the departed, "with malice towards none," free from all feelings of personal vengeance, yet believing that the sword must not be borne in vain, let us go forward even in painful duty. Let every man who was a Senator or Representative in Congress, and who aided in beginning this rebellion, and thus led to the slaughter of our sons and daughters, be brought to speedy and to certain punishment. Let every officer educated at the public expense, and who, having been advanced to position, perjured himself and turned his sword against the vitals of his country, be doomed to a traitor's death. This, I believe, is the will of the American people. Men may attempt to compromise, and to restore these traitors and murderers to society again. Vainly may they talk of the fancied honor or chivalry of these murderers of our sonsthese starvers of our prisoners-these officers who mined their prison and placed kegs of powder to destroy our captive officers. But the American people will rise in their majesty and sweep all such compromises and compromisers away, and will declare that there shall be no safety for rebel leaders. But to the deluded masses we will extend the arms of forgiveness. We will take them to our hearts, and walk with them side by side: as we go forward to work out a glorious destiny.

The time will come when, in the beautiful words of him whose lips are now forever sealed, the mystic chords of memory which stretch from every battle-field, and from every patriot's grave, shall yield a sweeter music when touched by the angels of our better nature.

Chieftain farewell! The nation mourns thee. Mothers shall teach thy name to their lisping children. The youth of our land shall emulate thy virtues. Statesmen shall study thy record and learn lessons of wisdom. Mute though thy lips be, yet they still speak. Hushed is thy voice, but its echoes of liberty are ringing through the world, and the sons of bondage listen with joy. Prisoned thou art in death, and yet thou art marching abroad, and chains and manacles are bursting at thy touch. Thou didst fall not for thyself. The assassin had no hate for thee. Our hearts were aimed at, our national life was sought. We crown thee as our martyr-and humanity enthrones thee as her triumphant son. Hero, Martyr, Friend, FAREWELL!

THE DOUBLE ANNIVERSARY; '76 AND '63.
CHARLES FRANCIS ADAMS, JR.

Quincy, Massachusetes, July 4, 1869.

Six years ago on this anniversary we-and not only we who stood upon the scared and furrowed field of battle, but you and our whole country were drawing breath after the struggle of Gettysburg. For three long days we had stood the strain of conflict, and now, at last, when the nation's birthday dawned, the shattered rebel columns had sullenly withdrawn from our front, and we drew that long breath of deep relief which none have ever drawn who have not passed in safety through the shock of doubtful battle. Nor was our country gladdened then by news from Gettysburg alone. The army that day twined noble laurel garlands round the proud brow of the mother land, Vicksburg was, thereafter, to be forever associated with the Declaration of Independence, and the glad anniversary rejoicings as they rose from every town and village and city of the loyal North mingled with the last sullen echoes that died away from our cannon over the Cemetery Ridge, and were answered by glad shouts of victory from the far Southwest. To all of us of this generation-and especially to such of us as were ourselves part of those great events-this celebration, therefore, now has and must ever retain a special significance. It belongs to us; as well as to our fathers. As upon this day ninetythree years ago this nation was brought into existence through the efforts of others, so, upon this day six years ago, I am disposed to believe, through our own efforts, it dramatically touched the climax of its great argument.

The time that has since elapsed enables us now to look back and to see things in their true proportions. We begin to realize that the years we have so recently passed through, though we did not appreciate it at the time, were the heroic years of American history. Now that their passionate excitement is over, it is pleasnt to dwell upon them -to recall the rising of a great people-the call to arms as it boomed from our hill tops and clashed from our steeples-the eager patriotism of that fierce April which kindled new sympathies in every bosom, which caused the miser to give freely of his wealth, the wife with eager hands to pack the knapsack of her husband, and mothers, with eyes glistening with tears of pride, to look out upon the glistening bayonets of their boys; then came the frenzy of impatience and the defeat entailed upon us by rashness and inexperience, before our nation settled down, solidly and patiently, to its work, determined to save itself from destruction; and then followed the long weary years of doubt and mingled fear and hope, until at last that day came six A. P.-22.

years ago which we now celebrate-the day which saw the flood-tide
of rebellion reach high-water mark, whence it never after ceased to
recede. At the moment, probably, none of us, either at home or at the
seat of war, realized the grandeur of the situation-the dramatic
power of the incidents, or the Titanic nature of the conflict.
To you
who were at home-mothers, fathers, wives, sisters, brothers, citizens
of the common country if nothing else—the agony of suspense, the
anxiety, the joy and, too often, the grief which was to know no end,
which marked the passage of those days, left little either of time or
inclination to dwell upon aught save the horrid reality of the drama.
To others, who more immediately participated in those great events,
the daily vexations and annoyances-the hot and dusty day-the
sleepless, anxious night-the rain upon the unsheltered bivouac-the
dead lassitude which succeeded the excitement of action-the cruel
orders which recognized no fatigue and made no allowance for labors
undergone all these small trials of the soldier's life made it possible
to but few to realize the grandeur of the drama in which they were
playing a part. Yet we were not wholly oblivious of it. Now and
then I come across strange evidences of this in turning over the leaves of
the few weather-stained, dog-eared volumes which were the companions
of my life in camp. The title page of one bears witness to the fact
that it was my companion at Gettysburg, and in it I recently found
some lines of Browning's noble poem of Saul marked and altered to
express my sense of our sitiuation, and bearing date upon this very
5th of July. The poet had described in them the fall of snow in the
spring time from a mountain, under which nestled a valley; the alter-
ing of a few words made them well describe the approach of our army
to Gettysburg.

"Fold on fold, all at once, we crowd thundrously down to your feet,
And there fronts you, stark, black but alive yet, your army of old
With its rents, the successive bequeathing of conflicts untold,
Yea!-cach harm got in fighting your battles, each furrow and scar
Of its head thrust twixt you and the tempest-all hail! here we are!"

And there we were, indeed, and then and there was enacted such a celebration as I hope may never again be witnessed there or elsewhere on another 4th of July. Even as I stand here before you, through the lapse of years and the shifting experiences of the recent past visions and memories of those days rise thick and fast before me. We did indeed crowd thundrously down to their feet! Of the events of those three terrible days I may speak with feeling and yet with modesty, for small indeed was the part which those with whom I served were called upon to play. When those great bodies of infantry drove together in the crash of battle, the clouds of cavalry which had hitherto covered up their movements were swept aside to the flanks. Our work for the time was done, nor had it been an easy or a pleasant work. The road to Gettysburg had been paved with our bodies and watered with

our blood.

Three weeks before, in the middle days of June, I, a captain of cavalry, had taken the field at the head of one hundred mounted men, the joy and pride of my life. Through twenty days of almost incessant conflict the hand of death had been heavy upon us, and now, upon the eve of Gettysburg, thirty-four of the hundred only remained, and our comrades were dead on the field of battle, or languishing in hospitals, or prisoners in the hands of the enemy. Six brave young fellows we had buried in one grave where they fell on the heights of Aldie. It was late on the evening of the first of July, that there came to us rumors of heavy fighting at Gettysburg, near forty miles away. The regiment happened then to be detached, and its orders for the second were to move in the rear of Sedgwick's corps and see that no man left the column. All that day we marched to the sound of the cannon; Sedgwick, very grim and stern, was pressing forward his tired men, and we soon saw that for once there would be no stragglers from the ranks. As the day grew old and as we passed rapidly up from the rear to the head of the hurrying column, the roar of battle grew more distinct, until at last we crowned a hill, and the contest broke upon us. Across the deep valley, some two miles away, we could see the white smoke of the bursting shells, while below the sharp incessant_rattle of the musketry told of the fierce struggle that was going on. Before us ran the straight, white, dusty road, choked with artillery, ambulances, caissons, ammunition trains, all pressing forward to the field of battle, while mixed among them, their bayonets gleaming through the dust like wavelets on a river of steel, tired, foot-sore, hungry, thirsty, begrimed with sweat and dust, the gallant infantry of Sedgwick's corps hurried to the sound of the cannon as men might have flocked to a feast. Moving rapidly forward, we crossed the brook which runs so prominently across the map of the field of battle and halted on its further side to await our orders. Hardly had I dismounted from my horse when, looking back, I saw that the head of the column had reached the brook, and deployed and halted on its other bank, and already the stream was filled with naked men shouting with pleasure as they washed off the sweat of their long day's march. Even as I looked, the noise of the battle grew louder, and soon the symptoms of movement were evident. The rappel was heard, the bathers hurriedly clad themselves, the ranks were formed, and the sharp, quick snap of the percussion caps told us the men were preparing their weapons for action. Almost immediately a general officer rode rapidly to the front of the line, addressed to it a few brief energetic words, the short sharp order to move by the flank was given, followed immediately by the "double quick," the officer placed himself at the head of the column, and that brave infantry which had marched almost forty miles since the setting of yesterday's sun,which during that day had hardly known either sleep, or food, or rest, or shelter from the July heat,-now, as the shadows grew long, hur

ried forward on the run to take its place in the front of battle and to bear up the reeling fortunes of the day.

It is said that at the crisis of Solferino, Marshal McMahon appeared with his corps upon the field of battle, his men having run for seven miles. We need not go abroad for examples of endurance and soldierly bearing. The achievement of Sedgwick and the brave Sixth Corps, as they marched upon the field of Gettysburg on that second day of July, far excels the vaunted efforts of the French Zouaves.

Twenty-four hours later we stood on that same ground,—many dear friends had yielded up their young lives during the hours which had elapsed, but, though twenty thousand fellow creatures were wounded or dead around us, though the flood gates of heaven seemed open and the torrents fell upon the quick and the dead, yet the elements seemed electrified with a certain magnetic influence of victory, and, as the great army sank down overwearied in its tracks, it felt that the crisis and danger was passed, that Gettysburg was immortal.

May I not then well express the hope that never again may we or ours be called upon so to celebrate this anniversary? And yet now that the passionate hopes and fears of those days are all over,-now that the grief which can never be forgotten is softened and modified by the soothing hand of time,— -now that the distracting doubts and untold anxieties are buried and almost forgotten, we love to remember the gathering of the hosts,- -to hear again in memory the shock of battle, and to wonder at the magnificence of the drama. The passion and the excitement is gone and we can look at the work we have done and pronounce upon it. I do not fear the sober second judgment. Our work was a good work,-it was well done, and it was done thoroughly. Some one has said "Happy is the people which has no history.' Not so!-As it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, so it is better to have lived greatly, even though we have suffered greatly, than to have passed a long life of inglorious Our generation,-yes! we ourselves have been a part of great things. We have suffered greatly and greatly rejoiced; we have drunk deep of the cup of joy and of sorrow; we have tasted the agony of defeat and we have supped full with the pleasures of victory. We have proved ourselves equal to great deeds, and have learnt what qualities were in us, which, in more peaceful times, we ourselves did not suspect.

ease.

And, indeed, I would here in closing fain address a few words to such of you, if any such are here, who like myself may have been soldiers during the war of the Rebellion. We should never more be partizans. We have been a part of great events in the service of the common country, we have worn her uniform, we have received her pay, and devoted ourselves, to the death if need be, in her service. When we were blackened by the smoke of Antietam, we did not ask or care