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it was in the summer of '61. If I do say it, it was the bloodiest battle ever fought in human history; there is nothing approaching it for destruction of human life in the field, if you take in consideration the forces engaged, and the proportion of death to survival. And yet you do not even know the name of that battle. Neither do I. It had a name, but I have forgotten it. It is no use to keep private information which you can't show off. Now look at the way history does. It takes the battle of Boonville, fought near by, about the date of our slaughter and shouts its teeth loose over it, and yet never even mentions ours; doesn't even call it an "affair;" doesn't call it anything at all; never even heard of it. Whereas, what are the facts? Why, these: In the battle of Boonville there were two thousand men engaged on the Union side, and about as many on the other supposed to be. The casualties, all told, were two men killed; and not all of these were killed outright, but only half of them, for the other man died in hospital next day. I know that, because his great-uncle was second cousin to my grandfather, who spoke three languages, and was perfectly honorable and upright, though he had warts all over him, and used to — but never mind about that, the facts are just as I say, and I can prove it. Two men killed in that battle of Boonville, that's the whole result. All the others got away on both sides. Now then, in our battle there were just fifteen men engaged, on our side — all brigadier generals but me, and I was a second lieutenant. On the other side there was one man. He was a stranger. We killed him. It was night, and we thought he was an army of observation; he looked like an army of observation - in fact, he looked bigger than an army of observation would in the daytime; and some of us believed he was trying to surround us, and some thought he was going to try to turn our position, and so we shot him. Poor fellow, he probably wasn't an army of observation, after all; but that wasn't our fault; as I say, he had all the look of it in that dim light. It was a sorrowful circumstance, but he took the chances of war, and he drew the wrong card; he overestimated his fighting strength, and he suffered the likely result; but he fell as the brave should fall with his face to the foe and feet to the field so we buried him with the honors of war, and took his things. So began and ended the only battle in the history of the world where the opposing force WAS UTTERLY EXTERMINATED, swept from the face of the earth — to the last man. And yet, you don't know the name of that battle; you don't even know the name of that man. Now, then, for the argument. Suppose I had continued in the war, and gone on as I began, and exterminated the opposing force every time every two weeks where would your war have been? Why, you see yourself, the conflict would have been too one-sided. There was but one honorable course for me to pursue, and I pursued it. I withdrew to private life, and

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gave the Union cause a chance. There, now, you have the whole thing in a nutshell; it was not my presence in the Civil War that determined that tremendous contest it was my retirement from it that brought the crash. It left the Confederate side too weak. And yet, when I stop and think, I cannot regret my course. No, when I look abroad over this happy land, with its wounds healed and its enmities forgotten; this reunited sisterhood of majestic States; this freest of free commonwealths the sun in his course shines upon; this one sole country nameable in history or tradition where a man is a man and manhood the only royalty; this people ruled by the justest and wholesomest laws and government yet devised by the wisdom of men; this mightiest of the civilized empires of the earth, in numbers, in prosperity, in progress and in promise; and reflect that there is no North, no South any more, but that as in the old time, it is now and will remain forever, in the hearts and speech of Americans, our land, our country, our giant empire, and the flag floating in its firmament our flag, I would not wish it otherwise. No, when I look about me and contemplate these sublime results, I feel, deep down in my heart, that I acted for the best when I took my shoulder out from under the Confederacy and let it come down.

(Being an address delivered at the banquet of the Union Veterans in Baltimore.)

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Rural Life in the East.

By IRVING BACHELLER, of New York.
(Born 1859.)

REVOLUTION has been going on in the north of New England and New York the past decade. The homes of the farmers have been the scene of pathetic changes. I have heard much of the melancholy reverses that followed the war in the South; how the rich acres of the planter have become a squalid waste; how the negro dwells in the ruined mansion of his former master; how the country gentleman, with his horses and his hounds and all the splendid accessories of his social life, has abandoned his ancestral estate forever. But I tell you, gentlemen, there has been as great a change in the farms and firesides of the North. The sons of the Puritan, who settled in that stern climate, had simpler tastes and humbler homes than the sons of the Cavalier. Grace and reflection took the place of wine and wit at their tables, and the bread which they had earned in the sweat of the brow was often eaten in the sweat of the spirit. But who that has lived among them fails to remember their neat and hospitable homes, now going to decay. The house is shaky and unclean; the fence is half over, and no one cares to help it up or down; the stable is a ruin; the well sweep lies in the grass. The sons have scattered; the daughters have gone forth to the altar; the old folks have moved to town or cemetery; the farm has been sold and mortgaged and resold, and now it is the home of some new American who can accommodate his living to its diminished income. The present master of the house has no inconvenient burden of pride. He will live on what he cannot sell, and will prosper, while his predecessors would have gone to the wall. To understand the causes of this revolution, we must glance for a moment at the character of the men who, more than half a century ago, moved out of Vermont and settled the St. Lawrence Valley. They were the sons of the Puritans — a race of fighters, the like of which the world had never seen. Their forefathers had made the name of England terrible, and, coming to these inhospitable shores, routed the savage, and the forests fell before them as they turned their faces to the West Those who followed the star of empire to the mountain

barriers of Vermont were a set of rugged, daring pioneers - the hardiest of their race. They were the men of iron who fought at Bennington and Ticonderoga. They were the men of whom Burgoyne said, "Those Yankees don't know how to run." They were men who indulged in profanity and prayer — but their prayers were heartfelt and their profanity necessary. These men had some of the grace of God and the pride of the devil. It was an unconquerable pride of spirit that made them a thrifty people and a race of fighters who never fled before a foe. They did not suspect the existence of this affliction of pride. But, if I mistake not, it helped them win their successes in war, politics, and the schools, and it is that spirit which is driving the family from the farm because they can no longer maintain appearances on its income. Ships are bringing the impoverished hordes of every nation - men who can hold the plow and milk the cow as well as the Yankee, and have no need of pie. It matters not where he settles, whether east or west, his product reaches the same market, and his competition with the farmer of the St. Lawrence Valley is as direct as if he were in the same township. And it occurs to me that the Yankee farmer has but one hope before him, and it lies in the education of his children. I remember standing, last summer, in the ruins of my early home. The clapboards were falling from the house; the porch had sagged at one corner; some window-panes were missing, and the sash was stuffed with The neat and cleanly fireside, hallowed by the merriment and mourning. of those most dear to me, had come to evil days. The dooryard was a museum of rubbish. The pines that had whispered to my childish fancy in the hush of many a summer night were dying, and rank weeds nodded where the roses grew. A man stood on the piazza squinting at me. He was wearing one suspender and an ancient pair of trousers that probably covered the nakedness of his grandfather. His tongue had halted half-way between speech and expectoration. A smile filtered through his tangled beard. I recognized in him the seedy remnant of a once noble race.

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“Wouldn't a knowed ye," said he; "hitch in yer hoss."

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"They say ye've done noble down ther," said he.

"How've you done?" said I.

"Jus' livin'," said he.

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Suppose you can't raise anything but whiskers here, now," said I, "No," said he; "farmin's played out,"

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