A MEMORIAL DAY MEDITATION.

By Rev. H. H. Proctor, D.D., of Atlanta, Ga., in The Congregationalist of May 2, 1905.

“The thirtieth of May is sacred to the nation. With its return the heart of the country instinctively turns to those eighty-three national cemeteries, mostly on Southern soil, where in 194,492 known and 151,710 unknown graves lie 346,202 men who fell fighting for the flag. And in all the land, fittingly enough, there are no spots more beautiful than these. For their care and improvement the national government spends $100,000 a year.

The cemetery at Andersonville, Ga., gains additional interest in view of the famous prison connected with it. Of these I wish to speak. No one can spend a day there, as I did lately, without drinking deep of the patriotic spirit. The very ground on which you stand seems holy, when you think how brave men suffered and died there. The very air seems charged with their spirit still.

Some disappointment is felt when over one hundred miles south of Atlanta you get off at a little station, with a few straggling houses here and there. But in the distance, a mile away, the national flag waving invitingly bids reassurance. At length you stand at the entrance of the cemetery, entering through the strong iron gates of the thick ivy-covered brick wall, 12,782 known and 923 unknown men are buried within.

Many things at once interest you. Walks lead to every part of the grounds. Trees, shrubbery and flowers enhance the natural beauty of the place. Feathered songers of the South chant daily requiems. Each grave is marked by a white marble headstone, on which is generally carved the number, rank, name and state of the dead soldier. Here and there we read the sad inscription, “Unknown.” The white stones contrasting with the fine greensward under the soft Southern sky make an impressive scene. This is especially true in that part of the grounds where stands the splendid monument of New Jersey, as shown by the accompanying illustration.

In a convenient place there is located an octagonal rostrum, where every Memorial Day gathers a large concourse of people to pay homage to the sacred dead. After the exercises the most impressive act of all follows. Each grave, officers or private, white or black, known or unknown, is decorated with a miniature flag. And what a transformation! Instead of the monotonous rows of bare white stone a field of flags, by the magic of loving remembrance, appears!

But as impressive as is this cemetery, more impressive still to me was the prison. It is only a few rods away. Its notoriety is universal. Blaine, in his memorable speech in Congress, immortalized its more than Siberian horrors.

Some of the posts of the old stockade fence, survivors of that dread prison will be interested to know, still stand. There, within a space of thirteen acres, 52,345 men, the very flower of the Republic, were kept in a pen. For thirteen months they were exposed in that rude stockade to the heat in summer and the cold in winter, to blistering sun and chilling blasts. From cruelty and exposure, hunger and thirst, disease and dirt, they died like sheep. Every fourth man died!

The story of “Providence Spring” is universally familiar. It proves that God is yet with men as of old. The water supply for these thousands in that small space consisted of but one little brook which of course soon became unspeakably foul. In their thirst they cried unto God for water. He who hears the cry of the raven could not be dumb to the prayer of the suffering soldier. It was night. Soon the sky was overcast with clouds, the lightnings flashed, the thunders rolled, and a great rain came that night. Next morning a fountain of living water sparkled in God’s sunshine near where the devout soldier had knelt in prayer the night before.

In recognition of God’s providential gift they christened it “Providence Spring.” Today a pavilion of stone, erected by the Woman’s National Relief Corps, commemorates the spot. Two significant utterances are carved on marble tablets in the pavilion. On one we read these words: “The prisoner’s cry of thirst rang up to heaven. God heard and with his thunders cleft the earth, and poured forth his sweetest waters gushing here.” Over the fountain, which has never ceased from that day to this, carved in Georgia marble are the great words of that great man in whose big soul the nation was born again: “With charity to all and malice toward none.”

As I stood by this spot and looked up on the hill I felt a new love of country stir within my heart. I could but say in my heart I would rather be a plain American citizen, though black, than a knighted Roman under CÆsar.

As we think of that prison we are thankful for the cemetery. The prison typifies suffering. The cemetery is the symbol of peace. Through that gateway of suffering our martyrs entered into peace. How typical of the nation! Through the crucible of suffering it entered into peace.”