Saturday, May 31, 2014

President McKinley's Speech at the Dedication of the Maryland Monument

Many of those who have visited Antietam before are no doubt familiar with the William McKinley monument that sits near the Burnside Bridge parking lot of Auto Tour stop 9 on the battlefield. The state of Ohio erected the monument in 1903 to honor one of her favorite sons, just two years after the assassination of President McKinley. Ohio placed the monument to McKinley at the same time the state honored its other citizens by placing regimental monuments across the Antietam landscape.

The link between McKinley and Antietam, symbolized by the McKinley monument, was a strong one for many years. During the battle, McKinley was a Commissary Sergeant in the 23rd Ohio, a regiment which was fiercely engaged late in the day on September 17, 1862. With his men pinned down by a stone wall near the Otto Farm, McKinley brought supplies forward for the men in his regiment, including food and coffee. While this feat may not seem heroic to us today, for the men in the ranks, it was certainly a welcome relief from the difficulties they experienced in battle that day.

For many, this is where McKinley's story at Antietam comes to an end. He is commonly known for having brought supplies forward in battle, but few may know that McKinley came back to Antietam years later in a much different capacity. On May 30, 1900, William McKinley returned as the 25th President of the United States. He came to Antietam when the park was but ten years old to deliver a speech for the dedication ceremonies of the Maryland Monument.

McKinley's remarks are typical of the era in which they were given. Even for veterans of the war such as the president, feelings of animosity had given way to a fraternal spirit of reconciliation. Absent from battlefield speeches were topics such as slavery and sectional hatred. Those sentiments had been replaced by a belief that all who fought were heroes to be remembered. The Maryland Monument was a perfect setting for such an atmosphere. As a border state, Maryland contributed men to both Union and Confederate forces at Antietam, and as such, the Maryland Monument is the only one on Antietam battlefield dedicated to the soldiers on both sides of the conflict.

McKinley's monuments at the dedication of this monument can be found below.

Images of the Maryland Monument at Antietam National Battlefield 

Mr. Chairman and my Fellow- Citizens:

I appear only for a moment that I may make acknowledgment of your courteous greeting and express in a single word my sympathy with the patriotic occasion for which we have assembled to-day.
In this presence and on this memorable field I am glad to meet the followers of Lee and Jackson and
Longstreet and Johnston with the followers of Grant and McClellan and Sherman and Sheridan, greeting each other, not with arms in their hands or malice in their souls, but with affection and respect for each other in their hearts. [Applause.] 

Standing here to-day, one reflection only has crowded my mind— the difference between this scene and that of thirty-eight years ago. Then the men who wore the blue and the men who wore the gray greeted each other with shot and shell, and visited death upon their respective ranks. We meet, after these intervening years, as friends, with a common sentiment,— that of loyalty to the government of the United States, love for our flag and our free institutions, —and determined, men of the North and men of the South, to make any sacrifice for the honor and perpetuity of the American nation. [Great applause.]

My countrymen, I am glad, and you are glad also, of that famous meeting between Grant and Lee at Appomattox Court-House. I am glad we were kept together —are n't you? [cries of ''Yes ! "]— glad that the Union was saved by the honorable terms made between Grant and Lee under the famous apple-tree ; and there is one glorious fact that must be gratifying to all of us— American soldiers never surrendered but to Americans ! [Enthusiastic applause.]

The past can never be undone. The new day brings its shining sun to light our duty now. I am glad to preside over a nation of nearly eighty million people, more united than they have ever been since the formation of the Federal Union. [Applause.] 

I account it a great honor to participate on this occasion with the State of Maryland in its tribute to the valor and heroism and sacrifices of the Confederate and Union armies. The valor of the one or the other, the valor of both, is the common heritage of us all. The achievements of that war, every one of them, are just as much the inheritance of those who failed as those who prevailed ; and when we went to war two years ago the men of the South and the men of the North vied with each other in showing their devotion to the United States. [Applause.] 

The followers of the Confederate generals with the followers of the Federal generals fought side by side in Cuba, in Porto Rico, and in the Philippines, and together in those far-off islands are standing to-day fighting and dying for the flag they love, the flag that represents more than any other banner in the world the best hopes and aspirations of mankind. 
[Great and long-continued applause.]

Dan Vermilya
Park Ranger


Monday, May 26, 2014

"Our Hearts were Touched with Fire": Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. on Memorial Day

On May 30, 1884, Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. delivered the following remarks to the John Sedgwick Post No. 4, Grand Army of the Republic chapter. This speech is best known for Holmes's famed quote, "in our youth our hearts were touched with fire," but the entire address is noteworthy for Holmes's moving eloquence and his ability to powerfully convey the meaning behind Memorial Day. 

Holmes himself was a seasoned veteran of the Civil War, having been wounded in several engagements, including the Battle of Antietam. On the morning of September 17, 1862, Holmes's regiment, the 20th Massachusetts, was engaged in a fierce fire fight in the West Woods. Amidst the melee and confusion of battle that morning, with Confederates sweeping up the Federal flank, Holmes was wounded in the neck. His story of suffering and survival is a harrowing one, and one perhaps best told in a separate blog post. For today, Holmes's address in 1884 describing the purpose behind Memorial Day will suffice, showing how one battle scarred veteran of the war felt about remembering those who did not survive some of the worst days in the history of this nation.

Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. (1841-1935), Associate Justice of the United States Supreme Court, veteran of the 20th Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry, and the survivor of a neck wound at the Battle of Antietam. Holmes Jr. is shown here in a photograph taken a few years before his death, sometime around 1930. 

Not long ago I heard a young man ask why people still kept up Memorial Day, and it set me thinking of the answer.  Not the answer that you and I should give to each other – not the expression of those feelings that, so long as you live, will make this day sacred to memories of love and grief and heroic youth – but an answer which should command the assent of those who do not share our memories, and in which we of the North and our brethren of the South could join in perfect accord.

So far as this last is concerned, to be sure, there is no trouble.  The soldiers who were doing their best to kill one another felt less of personal hostility, I am very certain, than some who were not imperilled by their mutual endeavors.  I have heard more than one of those who had been gallant and distinguished officers on the Confederate side say that they had had no such feeling.  I know that I and those whom I knew best had not. We believed that it was most desirable that the North should win; we believed in the principle that the Union is indissoluable; we, or many of us at least, also believed that the conflict was inevitable, and that slavery had lasted long enough.  But we equally believed that those who stood against us held just as sacred conviction that were the opposite of ours, and we respected them as every man with a heart must respect those who give all for their belief.  The experience of battle soon taught its lesson even to those who came into the field more bitterly disposed.  You could not stand up day after day in those indecisive contests where overwhelming victory was impossible because neither side would run as they ought when beaten, without getting at least something of the same brotherhood for the enemy that the north pole of a magnet has for the south–each working in an opposite sense to the other, but each unable to get along without the other.  As it was then, it is now.  The soldiers of the war need no explanations; they can join in commemorating a soldier’s death with feelings not different in kind, whether he fell toward them or by their side.

But Memorial Day may and ought to have a meaning also for those who do not share our memories.  When men have instinctively agreed to celebrate an anniversary, it will be found that there is some thought of feeling behind it which is too large to be dependent upon associations alone.  The Fourth of July, for instance, has still its serious aspect, although we no longer should think of rejoicing like children that we have escaped from an outgrown control, although we have achieved not only our national but our moral independence and know it far too profoundly to make a talk about it, and although an Englishman can join in the celebration without a scruple.  For, stripped of the temporary associations which gives rise to it, it is now the moment when by common consent we pause to become conscious of our national life and to rejoice in it, to recall what our country has done for each of us, and to ask ourselves what we can do for the country in return.

So to the indifferent inquirer who asks why Memorial Day is still kept up we may answer, it celebrates and solemnly reaffirms from year to year a national act of enthusiasm and faith.  It embodies in the most impressive form our belief that to act with enthusiam and faith is the condition of acting greatly.  To fight out a war, you must believe something and want something with all your might. So must you do to carry anything else to an end worth reaching.  More than that, you must be willing to commit yourself to a course, perhaps a long and hard one, without being able to foresee exactly where you will come out.  All that is required of you is that you should go somewhither as hard as ever you can.  The rest belongs to fate. One may fall at the beginning of the charge or at the top of the earthworks; but in no other way can he reach the rewards of victory.

When it was felt so deeply as it was on both sides that a man ought to take part in the war unless some conscientious scruple or strong practical reason made it impossible, was that feeling simply the requirement of a local majority that their neighbors should agree with them?  I think not: I think the feeling was right – in the South as in the North.  I think that, as life is action and passion, it is required of a man that he should share the passion and action of his time at peril of being judged not to have lived.

If this be so, the use of this day is obvious.  It is true that I cannot argue a man into a desire.  If he says to me, “Why should I seek to know the secrets of philosophy? Why seek to decipher the hidden laws of creation that are graven upon the tablets of the rocks, or to unravel the history of civilization that is woven in the tissue of our jurisprudence, or to do any great work, either of speculation or of practical affairs?”, I cannot answer him; or at least my answer is as little worth making for any effect it will have upon his wishes if he asked why I should eat this, or drink that.  You must begin by wanting to. But although desire cannot be imparted by argument, it can be by contagion. Feeling begets feeling, and great feeling begets great feeling.  We can hardly share the emotions that make this day to us the most sacred day of the year, and embody them in ceremonial pomp, without in some degree imparting them to those who come after us.  I believe from the bottom of my heart that our memorial halls and statues and tablets, the tattered flags of our regiments gathered in the Statehouses, are worth more to our young men by way of chastening and inspiration than the monuments of another hundred years of peaceful life could be.

But even if I am wrong, even if those who come after us are to forget all that we hold dear, and the future is to teach and kindle its children in ways as yet unrevealed, it is enough for us that this day is dear and sacred.

Accidents may call up the events of the war.  You see a battery of guns go by at a trot, and for a moment you are back at White Oak Swamp, or Antietam, or on the Jerusalem Road.  You hear a few shots fired in the distance, and for an instant your heart stops as you say to yourself, “The skirmishers are at it”, and listen for the long roll of fire from the main line.  You meet an old comrade after many years of absence; he recalls the moment that you were nearly surrounded by the enemy, and again there comes up to you that swift and cunning thinking on which once hung life and freedom – “Shall I stand the best chance if I try the pistol or the saber on that man who means to stop me? Will he get his carbine free before I reach him, or can I kill him first?”  These and the thousand other events we have known are called up, I say, by accident, and, apart from accident, they lie forgotten.

But as surely as this day comes round we are in the presence of the dead.  For one hour, twice a year at least – at the regimental dinner, where the ghosts sit at table more numerous than the living, and on this day when we decorate their graves – the dead come back and live with us.

I see them now, more than I can number, as once I saw them on this earth.  They are the same bright figures, or their counterparts, that come also before your eyes; and when I speak of those who were my brothers, the same words describe yours.

I see a fair-haired lad, a lieutenant, and a captain on whom life had begun somewhat to tell, but still young, sitting by the long mess-table in camp before the regiment left the State, and wondering how many of those who gathered in our tent could hope to see the end of what was then beginning.  For neither of them was that destiny reserved.  I remember, as I awoke from my first long stupor in the hospital after the battle of Ball’s Bluff, I heard the doctor say, “He was a beautiful boy”, and I knew that one of those two speakers was no more. The other, after passing through all the previous battles, went into Fredericksburg with a strange premonition of the end, and there met his fate.

I see another youthful lieutenant as I saw him in the Seven Days, when I looked down the line at Glendale.  The officers were at the head of their companies. The advance was beginning. We caught each other’s eye and saluted. When next I looked, he was gone.

I see the brother of the last – the flame of genius and daring on his face – as he rode before us into the wood of Antietam, out of which came only dead and deadly wounded men.  So, a little later, he rode to his death at the head of his cavalry in the Valley.

In the portraits of some of those who fell in the civil wars of England, Vandyke has fixed on canvas the type who stand before my memory.  Young and gracious faces, somewhat remote and proud, but with a melancholy and sweet kindness.  There is upon their faces the shadow of approaching fate, and the glory of generous acceptance of it. I may say of them, as I once heard it said of two Frenchmen, relics of the ancien regime, “They were very gentle. They cared nothing for their lives.”  High breeding, romantic chivalry – we who have seen these men can never believe that the power of money or the enervation of pleasure has put an end to them.  We know that life may still be lifted into poetry and lit with spiritual charm.

But the men, not less, perhaps even more, characteristic of New England, were the Puritans of our day.  For the Puritan still lives in New England, thank God! and will live there so long as New England lives and keeps her old renown.  New England is not dead yet.  She still is mother of a race of conquerors–stern men, little given to the expression of their feelings, sometimes careless of their graces, but fertile, tenacious, and knowing only duty.  Each of you, as I do, thinks of a hundred such that he has known.  I see one – grandson of a hard rider of the Revolution and bearer of his historic name – who was with us at Fair Oaks, and afterwards for five days and nights in front of the enemy the only sleep that he would take was what he could snatch sitting erect in his uniform and resting his back against a hut. He fell at Gettysburg.  His brother , a surgeon, who rode, as our surgeons so often did, wherever the troops would go, I saw kneeling in ministration to a wounded man just in rear of our line at Antietam, his horse’s bridle round his arm–the next moment his ministrations were ended. His senior associate survived all the wounds and perils of the war, but, not yet through with duty as he understood it, fell in helping the helpless poor who were dying of cholera in a Western city.

I see another quiet figure, of virtuous life and quiet ways, not much heard of until our left was turned at Petersburg.  He was in command of the regiment as he saw our comrades driven in.  He threw back our left wing, and the advancing tide of defeat was shattered against his iron wall. He saved an army corps from disaster, and then a round shot ended all for him.

There is one who on this day is always present on my mind.  He entered the army at nineteen, a second lieutenant.  In the Wilderness, already at the head of his regiment, he fell, using the moment that was left him of life to give all of his little fortune to his soldiers.  I saw him in camp, on the march, in action.  I crossed debatable land with him when we were rejoining the Army together. I observed him in every kind of duty, and never in all the time I knew him did I see him fail to choose that alternative of conduct which was most disagreeable to himself.  He was indeed a Puritan in all his virtues, without the Puritan austerity; for, when duty was at an end, he who had been the master and leader became the chosen companion in every pleasure that a man might honestly enjoy. His few surviving companions will never forget the awful spectacle of his advance alone with his company in the streets of Fredericksburg.  In less than sixty seconds he would become the focus of a hidden and annihilating fire from a semicircle of houses. His first platoon had vanished under it in an instant, ten men falling dead by his side. He had quietly turned back to where the other half of his company was waiting, had given the order, “Second Platoon, forward!” and was again moving on, in obedience to superior command, to certain and useless death, when the order he was obeying was countermanded.  The end was distant only a few seconds; but if you had seen him with his indifferent carriage, and sword swinging from his finger like a cane, you would never have suspected that he was doing more than conducting a company drill on the camp parade ground.  He was little more than a boy, but the grizzled corps commanders knew and admired him; and for us, who not only admired, but loved, his death seemed to end a portion of our life also.

There is one grave and commanding presence that you all would recognize, for his life has become a part of our common history.  Who does not remember the leader of the assault of the mine at Petersburg? The solitary horseman in front of Port Hudson, whom a foeman worthy of him bade his soldiers spare, from love and admiration of such gallant bearing? Who does not still hear the echo of those eloquent lips after the war, teaching reconciliation and peace? I may not do more than allude to his death, fit ending of his life. All that the world has a right to know has been told by a beloved friend in a book wherein friendship has found no need to exaggerate facts that speak for themselves. I knew him, and I may even say I knew him well; yet, until that book appeared, I had not known the governing motive of his soul. I had admired him as a hero. When I read, I learned to revere him as a saint. His strength was not in honor alone, but in religion; and those who do not share his creed must see that it was on the wings of religious faith that he mounted above even valiant deeds into an empyrean of ideal life.

I have spoken of some of the men who were near to me among others very near and dear, not because their lives have become historic, but because their lives are the type of what every soldier has known and seen in his own company. In the great democracy of self-devotion private and general stand side by side. Unmarshalled save by their own deeds, the army of the dead sweep before us, “wearing their wounds like stars.” It is not because the men I have mentioned were my friends that I have spoken of them, but, I repeat, because they are types. I speak of those whom I have seen. But you all have known such; you, too, remember!

It is not of the dead alone that we think on this day. There are those still living whose sex forbade them to offer their lives, but who gave instead their happiness. Which of us has not been lifted above himself by the sight of one of those lovely, lonely women, around whom the wand of sorrow has traced its excluding circle–set apart, even when surrounded by loving friends who would fain bring back joy to their lives? I think of one whom the poor of a great city know as their benefactress and friend. I think of one who has lived not less greatly in the midst of her children, to whom she has taught such lessons as may not be heard elsewhere from mortal lips. The story of these and her sisters we must pass in reverent silence. All that may be said has been said by one of their own sex -

But when the days of golden dreams had perished,
And even despair was powerless to destroy,
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.
Then did I check the tears of useless passion,
weaned my young soul from yearning after thine
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
Down to that tomb already more than mine.

Comrades, some of the associations of this day are not only triumphant, but joyful.  Not all of those with whom we once stood shoulder to shoulder–not all of those whom we once loved and revered–are gone.  On this day we still meet our companions in the freezing winter bivouacs and in those dreadful summer marches where every faculty of the soul seemed to depart one after another, leaving only a dumb animal power to set the teeth and to persist – a blind belief that somewhere and at last there was bread and water.  On this day, at least, we still meet and rejoice in the closest tie which is possible between men – a tie which suffering has made indissoluble for better, for worse.

When we meet thus, when we do honor to the dead in terms that must sometimes embrace the living, we do not deceive ourselves.  We attribute no special merit to a man for having served when all were serving.  We know that, if the armies of our war did anything worth remembering, the credit belongs not mainly to the individuals who did it, but to average human nature.  We also know very well that we cannot live in associations with the past alone, and we admit that, if we would be worthy of the past, we must find new fields for action or thought, and make for ourselves new careers.

But, nevertheless, the generation that carried on the war has been set apart by its experience.  Through our great good fortune, in our youth our hearts were touched with fire.  It was given to us to learn at the outset that life is a profound and passionate thing. While we are permitted to scorn nothing but indifference, and do not pretend to undervalue the worldly rewards of ambition, we have seen with our own eyes, beyond and above the gold fields, the snowy heights of honor, and it is for us to bear the report to those who come after us.  But, above all, we have learned that whether a man accepts from Fortune her spade, and will look downward and dig, or from Aspiration her axe and cord, and will scale the ice, the one and only success which it is his to command is to bring to his work a mighty heart.

Such hearts – ah me, how many! – were stilled twenty years ago; and to us who remain behind is left this day of memories. Every year – in the full tide of spring, at the height of the symphony of flowers and love and life – there comes a pause, and through the silence we hear the lonely pipe of death. Year after year lovers, wandering under the apple trees and through the clover and deep grass, are surprised with sudden tears as they see black veiled figures stealing through the morning to a soldier’s grave. Year after year the comrades of the dead follow, with public honor, procession and commemorative flags and funeral march – honor and grief from us who stand almost alone, and have seen the best and noblest of our generation pass away.

But grief is not the end of all. I seem to hear the funeral march become a paean. I see beyond the forest the moving banners of a hidden column. Our dead brothers still live for us, and bid us think of life, not death – of life to which in their youth they lent the passion and joy of the spring. As I listen, the great chorus of life and joy begins again, and amid the awful orchestra of seen and unseen powers and destinies of good and evil our trumpets sound once more a note of daring, hope, and will.

Dan Vermilya

Park Ranger

Friday, May 23, 2014

Memorial Day Weekend at Antietam National Cemetery

Every year, local school children visit the Antietam National Cemetery in Sharpsburg, Maryland just before Memorial Day weekend to pay homage to those who gave their lives during the American Civil War. The students visit the cemetery to place small American flags next to the graves of American soldiers killed during the 1862 Battle of Antietam, the Battle of South Mountain, and some of those killed in the 1864 Battle of Monocacy, which took place just south of Frederick, Maryland. From these battles, there are 4,776 Civil War dead interred in the cemetery. The students also place flags next to the graves of those who have been killed in America's 20th century conflicts, as well as those who served in foreign wars and who are interred in the National Cemetery. While the cemetery was closed for further burials years ago, the most recent interment is that of Patrick Roy, a US Sailor killed in the terrorist attack on the USS Cole in 2000.

This act of placing flags next to graves in the cemetery lies at the heart of Memorial Day, a holiday which began in the immediate aftermath of the Civil War. From its origins, Memorial Day was meant to be a day honoring those who died in service of their country. When young students visit the cemetery each May to place flags next to the graves of American soldiers, they are fulfilling the true purpose of Memorial Day. They are pausing to say thank you for the sacrifices made many years ago by men they never knew, who, as Lincoln said at Gettysburg, "here gave their lives that that nation might live."

Here are a few images of the activities this morning in the Antietam National Cemetery...

"Old Simon" stands watch over the National Cemetery...

SCA Education Intern Mark Chaney assists the students with placing flags.

A few of the students who helped place the flags in the National Cemetery this morning...

Color Sergeant George Simpson, 125th PA, who was killed at Antietam while holding his regiment's flag, staining it with his blood, has his grave decorated with an American flag just in time for Memorial Day...

Perhaps the most fitting conclusion is found in the words of Abraham Lincoln's Gettysburg Address, which is posted inside the Antietam National Cemetery, describing the meaning of the sacrifice made by so many Americans through this nation's history...

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate — we can not consecrate — we can not hallow — this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us — that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion — that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain — that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom — and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

Dan Vermilya
Park Ranger