The Nation in Tears

Image from the New York Philharmonic

NOTE: The author’s math was off a year.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

Ten years ago to-day an assassin’s bullet let out the life blood of one of the noblest statesmen that the United States ever had the fortune to possess. Ten years ago, upon that memorable Friday, a people were hurled from the height of joy to the depths of grief. Scarce had the electric wires carried the inspiring words “Richmond has fallen!” from Maine to California, before the same wires were called upon to convey the sad news that J. Wilkes Booth had struck a cowardly, yet fatal blow at the energetic, beloved “Uncle Abe.” We well remember the pall that fell over a grief-stricken people; how strong men wept, and flags hung at half mast. The entire North felt as if it had lost a father, and that too at a moment when he was needed as much, if not more, than at any previous time.

The country, emerging from a cruel and unnatural war, needed such a master hand to guide it safely through the trying scenes which were to follow. But his race was run, his work was accomplished, and he fell at his post lamented by a nation. While the grateful North idolized the care-worn patriot who had steered the Ship of State through an internecene war, the South, though nominally his enemy, could but revere his strict integrity and wonderful executive ability, and each vied with the other in doing him homage as he lay prepared for burial. The 14th of April should be made a national holiday, by which the memories of this great, noble patriot should be perpetuated. It should be placed beside the 22d of February in the affections of a grateful people. While the Union lasts, and while an American citizen shall exist, there will be one page in his country’s history that will have a peculiar lustre and be to him an inspiration to follow the grand example set by Honest Old Abe, and that is the page that tells of Abraham Lincoln. May his memory be always and forever revered.

Daily Nevada State Journal (Reno, Nevada) Apr 14, 1876

Image from PBS

 

A DARK DAY.

Twelve years ago to-day was a dark, sad day to the United States. On the 14th of April, 1865, Abraham Lincoln, our beloved President, fell by an assassin’s hand and left a nation in tears. He fell when needed most. Though called to preside on the nation’s darkest hour, and having administered well the duties imposed upon him, still after four years his work was yet unfinished. A nation bleeding and torn needed his guiding hand to sooth sectional prejudices and alleviate the heart sores which still bled. Then of all times was Lincoln needed. But the assassin’s hand was not stayed and the un???ing ballet left the destiny of the people in the hands of a traitor. Had Lincoln lived President Grant would not have had to resort to military law to prevent murder and outrage in the South. Nor would President Hayes have found the perplexing Southern question hovering over and embarrassing his administration. The bitterness and hatred incident to the rebellion would have passed away, and to day North, South, East and West would rejoice in a mutual prosperity, brought about by fraternal feelings and industry.

We commend the history of Abraham Lincoln to the young men of our country. He never dreamed when splitting rails or towing a raft down the Mississippi, but one day he should be the leader of a mighty people — one to whom the world looked; but within him was a spirit to do and dare. Mark the result. Hard work, perseverance and honesty were the footsteps which carried him to the dizzy height which he occupied. Every young man can start with the same capital, and though he may not attain the Presidency he can hold a position far above the one he will occupy if his life is spent in debauchery and idleness.

Think of it young men, and determine to be like Lincoln — a leader of leaders. Every young man has a right to choose one of two things: either to be a man or a mouse. Judging from the actions of many we think they will be even very sickly mice. Boys, assert your manhood. Remember that Webster, Lincoln, Grant, Hayes, DeLong, and a host of others known to Nation and State, were poor boys when they started, but by the manly qualities have attained a name that will live long after they shall have passed away.

Daily Nevada State Journal (Reno, Nevada) Apr 14, 1877

A Queer Sort of Hymn

Image from Trees for Life

The Cherry Tree Carol (music and lyrics)

A Queer Sort of Hymn.

[From the Boston Watchman.]

The Baroness Coutts, whose charities are known all over the world, has built many churches, and among others St. Stephen’s, in Westminister, where a congregation of Ritualistic Episcopalians worship. Here is the hymn they sang on New Year’s Day. We almost hesitate to admit it to our columns, yet it illustrates a phase of religious life; it is a “sign of the times,” and therefore we print it:

Joseph was an old man,
An old man was he,
He married sweet Mary,
And a virgin was she.

As they went a-walking,
In the garden so gay,
Maid Mary spied cherries
Hanging over yon tree.

Mary said to Joseph,
With her sweet lip so mild,
“Pluck these cherries, Joseph,
For to give to my child.”

“Oh! then,” replied Joseph,
With words so unkind,
“I will pluck no cherries
For to give to thy child.”

Mary said to cherry tree,
“Bow down to my knee,
That I may pluck cherries
By one, two, and three.”

The uppermost sprig then
Bowed down to her knee;
“Thus you may see, Joseph,
These cherries are for me.”

“Oh! eat your cherries, Mary,
Oh! eat your cherries now;
Oh! eat your cherries, Mary,
That grow upon the bough.”

Galveston Daily News (Galveston, Texas) Mar 5, 1876

Fall of the Alamo – Anniversary Reminiscences

FALL OF THE ALAMO — ANNIVERSARY REMINISCENCES.

BY REV. H.S. THRALL.
SAN ANTONIO, March 3, 1876.

[excerpted from long article]

Forty years ago, the 6th of March, the Alamo fell, and the patriot blood of Travis and his brave companions consecrated the soil of Texas to the Goddess of Liberty. The Alamo was one of those church missions founded in Texas by the Franciscan Fathers, for the double purpose of holding the country for the King of Spain and for converting the Indians to Christianity. The corner stone of the edifice was laid May 8, 1744, though a slab in the front wall bears the date 1757.

The accompanying diagram will give our readers a tolerably fair view of the Alamo and grounds as they were in 1836…

THE FALL — SUNDAY, MARCH 6.

A little after midnight, the different divisions of the Mexican army silently marched to their assigned positions. At 4 o’clock the bugle sounded, and the whole line advanced to the final assault. Santa Anna, with all the bands, was behind an adobe house, about 500 years south of the church. The Texans were ready, and, according to Fillisola, “poured upon the advancing columns a shower of grape and musket and rifle balls.” Twice the assailants re??ed and fell back in dismay. Rallied again by the heroic Castrillon (who fell at San Jacinto), they approached the walls the third time. We again quote from Fillisola: “The columns of the western and eastern attacks meeting with some difficulty in reaching the tops of the small houses forming the wall of the fort, did, by a simultaneous movement to the right and to the left, swing northward until the three columns formed one dense mass, which, under the guidance of their officers, finally succeeded in effecting an entrance into the inclosed yard.

About the same time the column on the south made a breach in the wall and captured one of the guns.” This gun, the eighteen pounder, was immediately turned upon the convent, to which some of the Texans had retreated. The carronade on the center of the west wall was still manned by the Texans, and did fearful execution upon the Mexicans who had ventured into the yard. But the feeble garrison could not long hold out against such overwhelming numbers. Travis fell early in the action, shot with a rifle ball in the head. After being shot he had sufficient strength to kill a Mexican who attempted to spear him. The bodies of most of the Texans were found in the building, where a hand-to-hand fight took place.

The body of Crockett, however, was in the yard, with a number of Mexicans lying near him. Bowie was slain in his bed, though it is said he killed two or three of the Mexicans with his pistol as they broke into his room. The church was the last place entered by the foe. It had been agreed that when further resistance seemed useless, any surviving Texan should blow up the magazine. Major Evans was applying the torch when he was killed in time to prevent the explosion. It was reported that two or three Texans, found in a room, appealed in vain for quarter. The sacrifice was complete. Every soldier had fallen in defense of the fort.

Three non-combatants were spared — a negro servant of Col. Travis, and Mrs. Alsbury and Mrs. Dickinson. Lieut. Dickinson, with a child on his back, leaped from an upper window in the east  end of the church; but their lifeless bodies fell to the ground riddled with bullets. One hundred and eighty bodies of the Texans were collected in a pile and partially burned. Well informed Texans put the loss of the Mexicans at about twice that number. The official report of the Mexican Adjutant General left in command at San Antonio, puts their loss at sixty killed and 251 wounded. On the 25th of February, 1837, the bones of their victims were collected by Col. John N. Seguin then in command at this place and decently and honorably interred.

HYMN OF  THE ALAMO.
——-
BY R. M. POTTER.
——-

“Rise, man the wall, our clarion’s blast
Now sounds its final reveille;
This dawning morn must be the last
Our fated band shall ever see.
To life, but not to hope, farewell.
Yon trumpet’s clang and cannon’s peal,
And storming shout and clash of steel,
Is ours, but not our country’s knell!
Welcome the Spartan’s death–
‘Tis no despairing strife—
We fall—we die!—but our expiring breath
Is freedom’s breath of life.

“Here on this new Thermopylae,
Our monument shall tower on high,
And, ‘Alamo’ hereafter be
In bloodier fields the battle cry.”
Thus Travis from the rampart cried;
And when his warriors saw the foe
Like whelming billows move below,
At once each dauntless heart replied:
“Welcome the Spartan’s death—
‘Tis no despairing strife—
We fall! –we die! — but our expiring breath
Is Freedom’s breath of life!

“They come — like autumn leaves they fall,
Yet hordes on hordes they onward rush,
With gory tramp they mount the wall,
Till numbers the defenders crush —
Till falls their flag when none remain!
Well may the ruffians quake to tell
How Travis and his hundred fell,
Amid a thousand foemen slain!
They died the Spartan’s death,
But not in hopeless strife —
Like brothers died, and their expiring breath
Was Freedom’s breath of life!”

Galveston Daily News (Galveston, Texas) Mar 5, 1876

John Quincy Adams – Patriot, Poet, Statesman, and Sage

[From the Baltimore Patriot.]
JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.

Wonderful man! whose mighty mind
Not even age itself can blight;
He is an honor to mankind,
And to the world a shining light;
His voice is heard in freedom’s halls,
As oft ’twas heard in olden time,
Echoing along the lofty walls,
In tones of eloquence sublime.

Patriot and poet, statesman, sage,
The friend of freedom and our race;
His fame shall live thro’ every age,
And millions yet unborn shall trace
The record of his bright renown,
And of his brilliant deeds sublime,
Which shall to mighty men go down
Upon the future tide of time.

To Ireland’s hero he the lyre
Has swept and sung of other days,
While listening ears poetic fire,
Perceivedin all his lofty lays;
The thunders of his touching tongue,
From which corruption shrinks in fear,
Thro’ freedom’s temple oft have rung,
When listening Senates’ lean’d to hear.

Had he in ancient Greece appeared,
Immortal would have been his name;
Statues to him would have been reared,
And by the golden pen of fame,
His glory on the mighty scroll,
High in her temple would be placed;
Almost on marble would his soul,
By Grecian gratitude be traced.

J.H.N.

The Ohio Repository (Canton, Ohio) Jul 8, 1847

JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.

The October Number of the “Democratic Review,” published at Washington, contains some very interesting “glances at Congress,” in which several of the most prominent members are described in a graphic and somewhat impartial manner. The following sketch of that extraordinary man, JOHN Q. ADAMS, will be read with much interest:
Cum. Pres.

“Our attention is now attracted to a ray of light that glitters on the appex of a balk and noble head located on the left of the House, in the neighborhood of the speaker’s chair. It proceeds from that wonderful man who in his person combines the agitator, poet, philosopher, statesman, critic and orator — John Quincy Adams. There he sits, hour after hour, day after day, with untiring patience, never absent from his seat, never voting for an adjournment of the House, his ear ever on the alert always prepared to go at once into the profoundest questions of state or the minutest points or order. We look at him and mark his cold and fearless eye, his stern and abstracted gaze, and conjure up phantoms of other scenes. We look upon a more than king, who has filled every department of honor in his native land, still at his post; he who was the president of millions, now the representative of forty odd thousand, quarrelling about trifles or advocating high principles; to day growling and sneering at the House, with an abolition petition in his trembling hand, and anon lording it over the passions, and lashing the members into the wildest state of enthusiasm by his indignant and emphatic eloquence. Alone unspoken to, unconsulted with others, he sits apart, wrapped in his reveries, or probably he is writing, his almost perpetual employment. He looks enfeebled, but yet he is never tired; worn out, but ever ready for the combat; melancholy, but let a witty thing fall from any member that hazards an arrow at him — the eagle is not swifter in its flight than Mr. Adams; with his agitated finger quivering in sarcastic gesticulation, he seizes upon his foe, and, amid the amazement of the House, rarely fails to take signal vengeance. His stores of knowledge on every subject, garnered up through the course of his extraordinary life, in the well arraigned store house of a memory which is said never to have permitted a single fact to escape it, give him a great advantage over all comers in encounters of this kind. He is a wonderful eccentric genius. He belongs to no party, nor does any party belong to him. He is original, of very peculiar ideas, and perfectly fearless and independent in expressing and maintaining them. His manner of speaking is peculiar; he rises abruptly, his face reddens, and in a moment, throwing himself into the attitude of  a veteran gladiator, he prepares for the attack; then he becomes full of gesticulation, his body sways to and fro self command seems lost, his head is bent forward in his earnestness till it sometimes touches the desk; his voice frequently breaks, but he pursues his subject through all its bearings — nothing daunts him — the House may ring with cries of order — order! unmoved, contemptuous he stands amid the tempest, and like an oak that knows its gnarled and knotted strength, stretches his arm forth and defies the blast.

Alton Observer (Alton, Illinois) Jan 4, 1838

REMINISCENCE OF J.Q. ADAMS.

The Hon. John Quincy Adams concluded his argument before the United States Supreme Court, in the Amistad case, with the following touching reminiscence:

May it please your Honor: On the 7th of February, 1804, now more than thirty-seven years past, my name was entered, and yet stands recorded on both the rolls, as one of the attorneys and counselors of this Court. Five years later, in February and March, 1809, I appeared for the last time before this Court, in defense of the cause of justice, and of important rights, in which many of my fellow citizens had property to a large amount at stake. Very shortly afterwards, I was called to the discharge of other duties; first in distant lands, and in later years, within our own country, but in different departments of her Government. —

Little did I imagine that I should ever be required to claim the right of appearing in the capacity of an officer of this Court. Yet such has been the dictate of my destiny; and I appear again to plead the cause of justice, and now of liberty and life, in behalf of many of my fellow-men, before that same Court, which, in a former age, I had addressed in support of rights of property. I stand again, I trust for the last time, before the same Court, “hic castus artemque repeno.” I stand before the same Court, but not before the same judges, nor aided by the same associates, nor resisted by the same opponents. As I cast my eyes along those seats of honor and of public trust, now occupied by you, they seek in vain for one of those honored and honorable persons whose indulgence listened then to to my voice. Marshall, Cushing, Case, Washington, Johnson, Livingston, Todd: where are they? Where is that eloquent statesman and learned lawyer who was my associate counsel in the management of that cause — Robert Goodloe Harper? Where is that brilliant luminary, so long the pride of Maryland and of the American bar, then my opposing counsel — Luther Martin? Where is the excellent clerk of that day, whose name has been inscribed on the shores of Africa, as a monument of his abhorrence to the African slave trade — Elias B. Caldwell? Where is the marshal? Where are the criers of the Court? Alas! where is one of the very judges of the Court, arbiters of life or death, before whom I commenced this anxious argument? Gone! — gone from a world of sin and sorrow, I trust — to that blest abode, “where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.” And it is my ardent wish, and fervent prayer, that each and every one of you, may go to this final account with as little of earthly frailty to answer for, as those illustrious dead; and that you may every one, after the close of a long and virtuous career in this world, be received at the portals of the next with the approving sentence: Well done, good and faithful servant; enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.”

Alton Telegraph And Democratic Review (Alton, Illinois) Mar 17, 1848

MR. ADAMS’ KINDNESS

The anecdotes of he ‘old man eloquent,’ would fill a volume. One of the most touching, and eminently illustrative of the devotedness which his domestic virtues called forth from those in his service, was recently narrated to us in substance as follows:

‘A few years ago, as John Quincy Adams was riding to the capitol, his horses became unmanageable and overturned his coach, dashing the driver, and Irishman, who had long been in Mr. Adams’ employ, with great violence against a post or the corner of a building. He was taken up for dead, and carried to an apartment in the capitol, under the room in which Mr. Adams breathed his last, followed by many persons among them Mr. Adams himself. After some time the injured man was restored to consciousness, and, apparently regardless of his own sufferings, turning his eyes anxiously around, his first words were — ‘Is Mr. Adams safe?’ Mr. Adams replied that he was unhurt. The poor fellow exclaimed, ‘Then I am content,’ and relapsed into an unconscious state. The venerable statesman was deeply moved at his evidence of affectionate regard for his welfare, and tears flowed down his cheeks. The wounded and suffering man was taken to the Patriot’s house, but did not survive until morning. Mr. Adams was engaged to speak in some important cause before the Supreme Court of the United States on that day — it is believed in the Amistad case; but his feelings were such that he went to he Court, and stating the circumstances that had occurred, solicited, as a personal favor, the postponement of the case until the next day, which was accordingly granted. The tokens of mourning were placed on Mr. Adams’ door, as if one of his own family had deceased; and the funeral took place from his house, and under his personal superintendence. Truly has it been said of the illustrious sage, ‘that he concentrated affection at home.’

Salem (Mass.) Register.

American Freeman (Prairieville, Wisconsin) Apr 5, 1848

JOHN QUINCY ADAMS ON EDITORS. 

In July, 1822, a plan for an independent newspaper was proposed to John Quincy Adams by some members of Congress, and the necessity of such a paper was urged upon him with great earnestness. He replied:

“An independent newspaper is very necessary to make truth known to the people; but an editor really independent must have a heart of oak, nerves of iron, and a soul of adamant to carry it through. His first attempt will bring a hornet’s nest about his head; and, if they do not sting him to death or to blindness, he will have to pursue his march with them continually swarming over him, and be beset on all sides with obloquy and slander.”

The Berkshire County Eagle (Pittsfield, Massachusetts) Jan 26, 1860

When John Quincy Adams was elected to the House of Representatives he found that he was the owner of some shares in the United States Bank. Before taking his seat he sold his shares, on the ground that, as a representative of the people, he should not have an interest in any matter that might come before the House for legislation.

What a blessed thing it would be if our members to-day were to be governed by the same sense of honor.

Allen County Democrat (Lima, Ohio) Mar 16, 1876

Image from Ancient Faces

The late Charles Francis Adams believed in himself as well as in his ancestors. Introduced to speak at a political meeting as the grandson of President John Adams, and the son of John Quincy Adams, he at once said: “The fact of my ancestry has been referred to several times during the evening. I am proud of my father and grandfather, but I wish it distinctly understood that I appear before you as myself, and not as the son and grandson of any man.”

He then went on and made one of the most powerful speeches of the day. The moral is obvious. Every tub has its own bottom. Every American it his own ancestor.

Bangor Daily Whig and Courier (Bangor, Maine) Dec 15, 1886

Didn’t Inspire Him.

When Lafayette visited Virginia he was entertained with other eminent guests by President Monroe at Oak Hill. Leesburg, too, the historic town nine miles from Monroe’s country seat, accorded him honors on that occasion, and at a dinner at that town John Quincy Adams delivered a famous toast to the surviving patriots of the Revolution, who, he said, were like the sibylline leaves — the fewer they became the more precious they were.

On the return to Oak Hill another of Monroe’s guests said to Mr. Adams:

“Excuse the impertinence, but would you not tell me what inspired the beautiful sentiment of your toast today?”

“Why,” replied Mr. Adams, “it was suggested this morning by the picture of the sibyl that hangs in the hall of the Oak Hill mansion.”

“How strange!” remarked the less brilliant guest. “I have looked at that picture many times during the past years, and that thought never occurred to me.”

Adams County News (Gettysburg, Pennsylvania) Jun 25, 1910

*****

Previously Posted:

The Life and Death of John Quincy Adams

Sitting Bull, Great Chief of the Sioux

A FAMOUS INDIAN CHIEF.

Sitting Bull, the Great Chief of the Sioux, His Peculiar Character.
[Special Correspondence]

ST PAUL, Sept. 18 — Probably when the facts are all known it will be discovered that Sitting Bull had more to do in influencing the Indians against signing the treaty at Standing Rock than any other man. Bull is an Indian of large brain, as the writer ascertained while traveling with him for three months in the east. He is diplomatic in his nature, not a great warrior, but rather a safe counselor, and as such he has great influence with the Indians. He is a thoughtful savage, and his travels in New York, Philadelphia and Brooklyn, in 1884, taught him the ways of the whites to such an extent that he is now well able to cope with them. He is especially good in making a bargain. Indeed, the writer considers him intellectually one of the most powerful Indians on the American continent. That he has had much to do in shaping the opinions of the tribe there can be no doubt.

Sitting Bull’s Indian name is Ta-ton Ka-i-o-ton Ka, and he was born on the banks of Grand river within the boundaries of the great Sioux reservation and about forty five miles southwest from the present Standing Rock agency in Dakota. He is 55 years of age, has a very large head, is cool and thoughtful, very decided in his ways, and yet will listen to argument and will answer with argument. His original name was Wa-Kan-you na gin, or Standing Holy, which name he retained until he was 14 years old, when his father, whose name was Sitting Bull, took him along with him on the warpath into the Crow country (the inveterate enemies of the Sioux), and he, the 14-year-old boy, counted his first victory by killing a Crow Indian. After returning to their home his father “threw away” three ponies, i.e. killed them in honor of his brave son’s achievement, at the same time announcing that he had changed the name of his son from Standing Holy to that of Sitting Bull, bestowing his own name upon him.

In person, Sitting Bull is a solidly built Indian, not quite so tall as an ordinary savage, yet heavier in many respects. His features are strong, and when he walks he turns his toes inward, strikes the ground with a heavy, jarring tread, and moves rapidly like a man of business. His general look is heavy, while that of Little Crow, the leader of the great Indian outbreak in Minnesota in 1861, and Hole-in-the-Day, the great Chippewa chief, were more refined, but none the less true Indians. The Dakotas believe that they must imitate Hay-o-Kah, or the undemonstrative god, who inculcates the idea that it is not dignified, or manly, or great to evince lively emotions of grief or joy, but under all circumstances, even of torture and death itself, the Indian must show a stoical, impassive face, and hence the immovable features of Sitting Bull, or any other Indian who lays claim to power among his tribe. The principal characteristic of this great medicine man — for he is known among his tribe as such — is his stubbornness of character, the same element which made Grant the greatest warrior of modern times. With judicious management Bull could, no doubt, be won over to the whites, but you can’t drive him.

F.M. NEWSON

Decatur Republican (Decatur, Illinois) Sep 27, 1888

Image from the Arlington National Cemetery website

FOR THE REPUBLICAN.
THE LAST BATTLE OF THE CENTURY.

Fought June 25th, 1876.

BY KENT LINTON.

Roll on oh! cruel time; close up the year,
That marks the rounding of a century,
Since first our forefathers rejoic’d to hear,
The declaration, that all men are free.

We honor the names of the minute-men,
Who fought in the revolutionary strife,
And fell, at Lexington and Concord then,
To give the nation liberty and life.

But now the last battle-field comes in sight,
And casts its shadow o’er our peaceful land,
Like the death-angel who took his swift flight,
The clouds of war had been thickening fast,
And Sitting Bull with his wild Sioux bands,
Were gath’ring for war, for a fortnight past,
In the Maucaises terres or Bad Lands.
And the came the first bloody fray,
With the Sioux, who swept down like a sea,
How Custer’s and Reno’s command that day,
Had fought as they did at Thermopyke.

How Custer, surrounded on every side,
Like Leonidas still cheered his men,
Who fought ’till swept away by the fierce tide,
That roll’d over them again and again.

Three hundred strong they were before the fight,
Three hundred they follow’d the new-made trail,
Three hundred they fell to the left and to the right,
And not a man returned to tell the tale.

Close up the grave of the heroic dead,
Question not, till the resurrection morn’.
The last patriot’s blood was freely shed,
At the battle of Little Big Horn.

Strengthen the sacred ties of our nation.
Stand shoulder to shoulder in every fight,
Against the foes of civilization.
The enemies of true freedom and Right.

Decatur Republican (Decatur, Illinois) Jul 20, 1876

SITTING BULL has given his version of the Custer massacre. He states that the battle lasted only thirty minutes, and that Custer with a few men and officers had cut through the Indian line when he turned and charged back. The Indians were bewildered by this unlooked-for desperate charge, but closed in on the few men and killed them all. Custer, it is said, shot five Indians, and went down beating another with the butt of his revolver. This account corresponds with others coming from Indian sources.

Decatur Republican (Decatur, Illinois) Jul 12, 1877

Image from the Prints Old & Rare website

THE celebrated prescription formulated by Gen. Dix, “If any man attempt to tear down the American flag, shoot him on spot,” was not attempted at the Red Cloud Agency a few days ago for certain reasons, whereof the particulars are interesting. Dr. Saville, the Government Agent at the Red Cloud Agency, with a sudden and unaccountable gush of patriotism, hoisted the American flag at his agency, — a custom, we are informed, prevailing since the agencies have been established in this country.

The sight of the star-spangled had the same effect upon the Sioux that the traditional scarlet rag has upon the bull, for at noon the braves rushed upon the agency buildings, tore down the American flag, and ornamented their handsome persons with portions of the bunting. Dr. Saville sent to Red Cloud to stop the outrage, but no answer was given, it being rumored that this pleasant gentleman was enjoying his Indian summer vacation.

There was every prospect of a severe fight before the respectable Agent, when he received unexpected aid from Camp Robinson. Between the honeyed words of Sitting Bull, a Sioux renegade, and the sabres of United States cavalry, the Agency buildings were rid of their visitors; but the man who hauled down the American flag lives to boast of his feat in Indian gibberish, in defiance of Gen. Dix.

Decatur Republican (Decatur, Illinois) Nov 5, 1874

California

From Maps of San Francisco and California on Steve Haughey’s website

{Written for the Oakland Daily Evening TRIBUNE.}

CALIFORNIA.

Oh, California! On thy rock-bound, misty shore,
I watch, and hear the surging breakers roar,
And wonder if their restless, seeming endless flow
Was just the same one hundred years ago!

As through the Golden Gate the briny, ebbing tide,
Recedes to mingle with the Ocean, fair and wide,
I watch the vessels passing to and fro,
And wonder if ‘t were thus one hundred years ago!

I see upon the shore fair beings, walking light,
With manly brow, complexion fair and white,
And from their lips sweet words of wisdom flow.
I ask, could this be seen one hundred years ago?

I see, where Ocean piled its golden sands,
A noble city in rich grandeur stands,
Where fireside joys are lit with genial glow,
Oh, was it thus one hundred years ago?

On spiral domes that seem to reach the sky,
Our Nation’s Flag is streaming bold and high.
It seems to say, while waving to and fro,
“I waved not here one hundred years ago!”

I hear the cannons’ boom as thunders loud,
And from their mouths I see the smoky cloud
Rise up to mingle with the winds that blow —
Blow now as then, one hundred years ago.

Yes, here amid the fog which has enshrined
Thy shore, these visions flit across my mind,
And to my queries come the answer, “No!
These things were not, one hundred years ago.”

The Golden City, as it stands to-day,
Bears witness of a rich, progressive sway;
The cannons’ boom that falls upon our ears
Speaks of the change in one short hundred years,

And thus it is our State, with prospect bright,
Becomes a nation’s glory and her proud delight;
The comforts gained through labors fraught with tears,
Oh, may our nation share them many hundred years!

–[Charlie F****
WASHINGTON CORNERS, July 9th, 1876.

Oakland Daily Evening Tribune (Oakland, California) Jul 12, 1876

The subjoined poem which recently appeared in the Washington, D.C., Capital was written by Mary M. Clemons, fourteen years old, and a daughter of Dr. Clemons, formerly of Sandusky. It would do credit to a much older head. Dr. Clemons is in the pension service at Washington, having been transferred from the southwest, and his family have been in Southern California for the past winter. Here is the poem:

CALIFORNIA.

Bright blue skies above us,
Grass so green and sweet,
Around are friends that love us,
And flowers at our feet.

Oh! this is California,
The land of sunshine blest,
Where every one, tho’ rich or poor
Can have a chance to rest.

Oh! this is California,
Where hearts are light and gay,
Where every one you chance to meet;
Have pleasant words to say.

Oh! this is California,
Where everybody sees
The glorious sunshine all the year,
And all the flowers and trees.

Oh! this is California,
Where every one doth sing
No matter if ’tis summer,
Or winter, fall or spring.

Oh! this is California,
Where all my friends should be,
And if you don’t believe me,
Why, just come out and see.

Fullerton, Los Angeles, Co., Cal., April, 30, 1889.

Sandusky Daily Register (Sandusky, Ohio) Jan 11, 1890

Image from the Aztec Club of 1847 website

CALIFORNIA.
From the New York Sun

The brown man’s foot is on thy shore, California!
His hand is at thy people’s door, California!
Say, bang him one and draw his gore
And with his face mop up the floor,
So he won’t trouble you no more,
California, oh, California!

Thou wilt not cower in the dust, California!
Thy yellow boycott shall not rust, California!
Remember Kearney’s sacred trust
To do the mongols up or bust.
And let them have the knock-out thrust
California, oh, California!

Rise ’tis the red dawn of the day, California!
When low-browed leaders point the way, California!
With Grove L. Johnson in the fray,
And friends of Schmitz in bold array,
The Japs must go, but they must stay,
California, oh, California!

We see the blush upon thy cheek, California!
For thou wert every bravely meek, California!
But lo’ there surges forth a shriek —
From vale to vale, from peak to peak —
Pacific calls to Bitter Creek,
California, oh, California!

We hear the old-time Sand Lots hum, California!
We hear the hoodlum and the bum, California!
They call the Golden State to come
And join the rabble and the scum.
But will she do it? Say, by gum?
California, oh, California!

Washington Post — Feb 5, 1909

Nonagenarian Writes Poetically Of Woodland as State’s Fairest

S.H. Hancock, 90 years of age, with Mrs. Hancock has been visiting Mr. and Mrs. W.H. Eakle in this city. Although a nonagenarian, Mr. Hancock’s mind is as clear as a bell and his muse still retains all the fire and beauty of youth, as will be realized after a perusal of the following appraisement of Woodland, which was composed on the front porch of the Eakle home before the honorable couple departed for their home in Oakland:

WOODLAND AS I SAW IT.

A beautiful picture drawn with a free hand,
One of the fairest in our broad land;
Hedged in by trees forming a lovely frame,
Nothing seems amiss — not even the name.
Nature has put forth her wonderful power,
Calling her maidens from the leafy bower;
Planting a carpet in colors bright
From the deepest blue to the snowy white;
Weaving in flowers with a prodigal hand,
None were too lovely to beautify the land.
Her noble trees so lofty and fair
Waving to and fro in the summer air,
Casting a shade deep and profound,
Tracing their shadow on the grass grown ground.
A ride through her streets fills one with amaze.
We break forth in melody to sing their praise.
Men accomplished much but Nature was at the fore,
At each angle you turn, new beauties galore.
Oh, California, you should be proud of this spot,
One of the fairest that fell to your lot.
Fairy-land! Flower-land! Woodland!
Names will only fail.
I shall not forget you, even at the end of the trail.

— S.H. HANCOCK.

Woodland Daily Democrat (Woodland, California) Dec 4, 1922

Dig for it at Home

DIG FOR IT AT HOME.

Would you have the shining metal?
Do not o’er the wide world roam,
Following a fleeting phantom —
Stay and dig for it at home.

Do not heed the luring story,
Treasurers distant hillsides hold,
Ten adventures disappointed,
Stand for every ounce of gold.

Wishing still for something better,
Many fancies you will rear;
Mountains of the yellow mica,
In the distant gold appear.

And the longing is contagious,
Drinking from a leaded cup,
For the means for grander living,
On highways to pick it up.

But dame fortune is too fickle,
In her train afar to roam;
Would you dig her golden treasures,
Stay and dig for them at home.

In the land that lies before you,
Find your wealth by honest toil;
Never votary disappointed,
Rightly sought the generous soil.

Only faint, weak hearts repining,
Cast away the good at hand;
Fortune’s smiles will rarely crown them,
Sought for a distant land.

But success rides on before you!
Grapple it and you will win;
Lo! e’en now, the mists are lifting,
And the tides are rushing in.

Let no foreign expedition,
Lure your restless steps to roam;
Gold is nearer than the mountains,
Stay and dig for it at home.

Allen County Democrat (Lima, Ohio) Jul 6, 1876

IT NEVER PAYS.

It never pays to fret and growl
When fortune seems our foe;
The better bred will push ahead
And strike the braver blow.

For luck is work,
And those who shirk
Should not lament their doom,
And yield the play
And clear the way,
That better men have room.

It never pays to wreck the health
In drudging after gain,
And he is sold who thinks that gold
Is cheapest bought with pain.

An humble lot,
A cosy cot,
Have tempted even Kings,
For station high,
That wealth can buy,
Not oft contentment brings.

It never pays! a blunt refrain
Well worthy of a song,
For age and youth must learn the truth,
That nothing pays that’s wrong.

The good and pure
Alone are sure
To bring prolonged success,
While what is right
In Heaven’s sight,
Is always sure to bless.

Allen County Democrat (Lima, Ohio) Jun 24, 1875

Image from the State Historical Society of North Dakota website

“PLOW DEEP TO FIND THE GOLD.”

(The following song we remember having seen in an English journal some years since, but it is well adapted to this country at the present time. — O. Call.)

Plow deep to find the gold, my boys!
Plow deep to find the gold!
The earth has treasures in her breast
Unmeasured and untold.

Clothe the mountain tops with trees,
The sides with waving grain;
Why bring over stormy seas
What here we may obtain?

Oh, Britain need not bring her bread
From countries new or old,
Would she but give the plowshare speed
And DEPTH to find the gold!

Earth is grateful to her sons
For all their care and toil;
Nothing yields such large returns
As drained and deepened soil.

Science lend thy kindly aid;
Her riches to unfold;
Moved by the plow or moved by spade
Stir deep to find the gold.

Dig deep to find the gold my boys!
Dig deep to find the gold!
The earth hath treasures in her breast,
Unmeasured and untold.

Alton Telegraph and Review (Alton, Illinois) Oct 4, 1850

Celebrating Freedom and Independence

Letter from Senator Oldham.

RICHMOND, VA., January, 20th, 1865
[Excerpt]

Thus might the patriot manfully say:
“So freedom now so seldom makes
The only throb she gives,
As when some heart indignant breaks,
To tell that still she lives.”

No, better die ten thousand deaths battling for Liberty and right, than live a life so pregnant with ignominious shame.”

W.S. OLDHAM

Galveston Daily News (Galveston, Texas) Feb 21, 1865

Centennial Poem.

Delivered by Hon. H.H. Hogan, at Reno, Nevada, July 4th, 1876.

With joy we hail our natal day!
Again we meet to homage pay,
And our exultant voices raise
In never ceasing songs of praise,
Unto the men so true and brave,
Those who to us our country gave;
And to give thanks to Him above,
For His great mercy and the love
He unto us has ever shown,
Since we a nation have been known.
Again the deeds of valor tell,
Of those who fought and those who fell;
Again recall the names of those
Who dealt destruction to their foes,
On battle field, on raging sea,
Their war-cry always victory.
Of Warren tell, so true and brave,
Who’d sooner die than be a slave;
He, when offer’d supreme command
Quickly grasped his gun in hand,
And to his gen’ral firmly said,
I fight where falls the thickest lead.
Of Washington, whose name will be
Revered unto Eternity,
In every clime, in every land
Where freemen breathe and freemen stand,
Upon the rights of man to man.
Of Henry bold, whose clarion tongue
Loud out in House of Burgess rung,
With stentorian eager cry,
Give to me death or liberty.
Not only men but women too,
In those days were staunch and true.
Moll Pitcher fought with bated breath
T’ avenge with blood her husband’s death,
On Monmouth’s field neath sweltering sun
By foes outnumbered two to one;
With form erect, and fearless mien,
None braver on that field were seen.
That widow in the old North State,
Whose age was nearly sixty-eight,
When asked by him who had command
For food himself with all his band,
She by herself did food prepare,
Of coarse but good substantial fare.
When they had finished their repast,
Each sated full his long felt fast,
To her again their leader then
Advanced to pay for all his men.
To you dear dame our gold we bring,
You serve of course our honored King.
Take back your gold ne’er be it said
That I for gold gave to you bread,
I gave you food as way my duty,
But not for gold, nor spoil, nor booty.
I serve your King! can such things be?
A charge like that and that of me?
In me, young man, in me behold,
A widow childless, worn and old;
Yet I was blessed with seven sons,
None ever bore more manly ones,
Who with their sire went forth to fight,
In Honor’s cause, for truth and right;
But non returned, all, all were lain
In graves unmarked upon the plain.
Look on this hand, so thin and poor,
These trembling limbs so near death’s door.
Had they the vigored strength of youth,
I, even I, would fight for truth.
But still to me ’tis thought most dear,
That when I’m called to leave this sphere,
Him shall I meet, him with the seven,
With their Maker, God, in Heaven.
Why speak of these, or names recall,
When all were heroes, each and all,
Each Mother offered up her prayer
That God would make his special care,
And safe return to her her son
As soon as freedom’s boon was won.
Each father with determined stand
Grasped his musket firm in hand,
And swore by Him above the sky
That he would conquer or would die.
For seven years amid toil and strife,
They fought exposing health and life;
They fought as brave men ever fight,
For God, Humanity and Right;
For parents, freedom, home and wife,
For children, liberty and life;
At times with hunger sore oppressed,
At times with clothing thinly dressed,
At Morristown for miles around
Their bare footprints in snow were found,
With sinews like the tempered steel,
These men seemed not to hardships feel,
But always eager for the fray
Came it by night, came it by day;
Not for vengeance, but with the thought
Each victory won the nearer brought
The time when Peace would them restore
To home, with friends, to part no more.
Nor were their toils and suff’ring vain,
They in the end did vict’ry gain
And have to us their children given
A boon, the dearest under Heaven;
A country vast, of wide domain
Made up of valley, hill and plain.
Where freemen live by honest toil
In happiness, and own the soil.
Where virtue brings its own reward,
Where every man stands out a lord.
Our land of every land most blessed,
Our Government the very best,
Here meet all nations of the earth
To celebrate our country’s birth.
No Oligarchs with titles old
Can tithings take, or rob our fold,
For us no tax for King remains,
For us no tyrant forges chains;
We can exclaim o’er land and sea,
In tones exultant, we are free.
For us n North, no South, shall be,
No East, no West, but unity;
With stern resolve to guard our land
From ruthless grasp of foreign hand;
And may that emblem of the free
To unborn nations yet to be.
Stand as did those pillar’d lights
To Moses and the Israelites,
When storms assail our Ship of State.
Do thou, Oh, God! Almighty! Great!
Avert the storm at Thy command,
Or guard us with Thy shelt’ring hand;
And may this our first Centennial
Be to others as perennial,
Till shall come the day Millennial.

Reno Evening Gazette (Reno, Nevada) Jul 5, 1876

Image from Find-A-Grave

The Passing of One of Reno’s Grand Old Men.

Dr. H.H. Hogan sleeps now. His noble life work is ended. Like the physician Ian McLaurin told us about in “Beside the Bonny Brier Bush,” Dr. Hogan was a willing servant of the poor. Many a time he accepted a less fee than was tendered him. Many a poor patient was tenderly and skillfully cared for and when asked for his bill, the good old physician would reply with a wave of his hand: “It is nothing.”

Henry Hardy Hogan closed his eyes at dawn yesterday morning. The light of the sun he did not see. His spirit eyes beheld the radiance of the city not built with hands.

He was the oldest physician in Nevada. Born in Alburg, Vermont, three score and eight years ago, he spent his boyhood days in the Green mountains. He had graduated from two medical colleges when Abraham Lincoln called him to arms.

The doctor enlisted in Co. G, 142d New York Infantry, and took part in many a battle for the flag.

After the war he came to Nevada and began the practice of medicine. He is survived by a wife, a son and an adopted daughter.

The funeral of this good man will take place from his late residence on Center street at 2 o’clock Thursday afternoon.

Daily Nevada State Journal (Reno, Nevada) Mar 18, 1902

From the History of Washoe County (PDF):

…Washoe County pioneer Henry Hardy Hogan, M. D. Hogan had been born in Vermont in 1834, attended a college in Albany, New York, and studied medicine at a medical school in Burlington, Vermont. He enlisted as a private in the New York infantry for service in the Civil War and was discharged honorably on account of disability in 1863. Arriving at Ophir, Nevada Territory, in 1864, he resided there until moving to Reno when that town became the county seat. Hogan took a great interest in politics, serving in the Nevada legislature from Washoe County during the 1871, 1875 and 1895 sessions. In 1881 he established and edited the Plaindealer, a weekly and later a twice weekly Greenback paper, which suspended operations in 1884. The newspaper was revived in 1895 and lasted until 1899. On his death in Reno in 1902, Hogan was one of the oldest physicians residing in Nevada….

The Wrong Room

Image from the Nelson’s Pictorial Guide Book – 1871 (University of Virginia website)

THE WRONG ROOM.

He told his wife that he must have immediate relief or he could not live; thought a mustard draft might relieve him. She hastily robed herself, went down stairs and found the watchman, who admitted her to the dining room, and she spread the mustard from the castor on her handkerchief and hastened up stairs.

Finding the bedroom door ajar, she rushed in, turned down the bed-clothes’ and immediately slapped the mustard draft on the unconscious man’s bowels.

He instantly sprang up in bed and in a strange voice said, “My God! madam, what are you doing?”

She had got it on the wrong man.

We leave the readers to imagine her feelings. She found her own room and in accents of horror told her husband of the facts.

The extreme ludicrousness of the incident sent him into a strong fit of laughter which relieved him as thoroughly as the mustard would have done.

Early the next morning, before many of the guest were up, a man, woman, trunk, bandboxes, etc. left a Salt Lake hotel very unostentatiously. The woman’s name was on the handkerchief.

Reno Evening Gazette (Reno, Nevada) Apr 25, 1876

Boiled Alive

Image from Saturday Action Matinee, Scouts to the Rescue (1939)

BOILED ALIVE.

Yesterday morning about 9 o’clock a horrible accident occurred in a tannery on the corner of Fifth and Railroad avenue, which resulted in the death of Joseph Braeg, a boy of 16 years. The lad was engaged at the time in skimming a large pot of boiling tallow, which was over a low furnace, and over which he was bending. At one moment his foot slipped and he fell head foremost into the pot.

His brother Francois, who was also working in the tannery, sprang forward upon hearing the splash, and succeeded after some difficulty and after severely scalding his hands and arms in pulling his unfortunate brother out of the pot. Some men who were in the tannery placed him in a vat of cold water, imprudently, until the arrival of a physician, who applied the proper remedies. He was terribly burned, however, and lingering throughout the day in most pitiable agony, died at 5 o’clock in the afternoon.

— S.F. Chronicle, April 29th.

Reno Evening Gazette (Reno, Nevada) May 1, 1876