Speech, at a Grand Army Camp-Fire, held in Topeka, February 13, 1885.

Comrades of the Grand Army: The Chairman of your committee called on me, on Wednesday evening last, and asked me to occupy five or six minutes, this evening, in a talk to you. I could not well refuse, though it seemed to me I had nothing of interest to say. But after he had gone, and the task I had assumed began to press itself upon my attention, my mind drifted back to the war period, with its fierce strifes and passionate excitement, and vivid pictures of many scenes presented themselves, some in keeping with the time, others more akin to the present era of peaceful prosperity and development. Then I thought that others who were to address you to-night would talk of war, and I might entertain you, for a few moments at least, with a picture of peace and good-will in the midst of war.

As vividly as if it was an event of yesterday, there is photographed on my memory a scene presented in the early autumn of 1862. Buell’s army was moving from Louisville to the battle-field of Perryville, and early one evening our corps went into camp on a beautiful farm in one of the loveliest regions of Kentucky. A clear, sparkling brook wound through a charming valley, from the hills to the west, and blue-grass pastures climbed gentle slopes on either side of the stream. As a background, south, north and west, were heavy forests of noble trees, while eastward an extended landscape, embracing a range of finely cultivated farms, stretched far away.

The evening shadows fell slowly upon the camp; so slowly you could scarce tell when day ended and the night began. Supper was over, and the soldiers, lying at full length on the luxuriant grass, or sitting around in groups, were lazily resting or chatting, after the day’s long and dusty march. Thousands of smouldering camp-fires dotted the hillsides and valleys in every direction; the wide firmament, cloudless and peaceful, glittered with stars; and the air, mild and balmy, had in it that indefinable and delicate perfume which belongs alone to trodden pastures or to meadows freshly mown. All the noise and bustle of the day and evening gradually died away. The camp-guards paced their posts slowly and noiselessly; the hum of conversation was faint and low; the rude mirth of the soldiers was hushed; the jokes, and gibes, and laughter of the camp had faded into silence; and a peaceful calm, resembling that of a quiet Sabbath, had fallen like a benediction over all the scene. Save the stacks of burnished guns, from which the light of the camp-fires fitfully glinted, and the parked cannon, and the groups of uniformed men, the picture presented was as peaceful and calm as it had been before war swept into this pastoral paradise.

But suddenly, from the edge of the woods across the intervening valley, half a mile away, a band began playing “Home, Sweet Home,” and as the touching chords of that familiar melody flooded all the camp, the hush grew deeper, and I know, though the darkness concealed their emotion, that moisture welled up in all eyes, and tender thoughts of far-away scenes filled all hearts in that great host of bronzed and stalwart men. For when the music at last ceased a silence so deep that it was almost oppressive succeeded; and then a mighty cheer, echoing and resounding for miles away, went up from 20,000 throats. Those who have heard the Union army hurrah know what it could do in that line, when it put its heart into its lungs and throat.

When the cheer ended, another band, far down the valley, made the hillsides echo with the patriotic strains of the “Star-Spangled Banner,” and again followed the great shout of applause, like the mingling roar of many winds. Then from the hill-tops, far off to the west, was wafted the music, low and sweet, of “Annie Laurie,” and again the hush of an almost oppressive silence fell upon the camp. But no cheer followed its rendering. Into the hearts of the listening soldiers had stolen thoughts of Annies who were christened with all sorts of names. This Scottish lassie represented all womankind, and the notes of the song which celebrated her beauty and her virtues had touched hidden founts of emotion in thousands of men.

The deep silence that followed was broken by the majestic music of “John Brown.” Then how the camp did cheer, and shout, and howl.

So, for hours, one after another, the bands filled the air with music, and the soldiers sat, rapt and thrilled, listening and cheering alternately. The camp-fires faded out, but the concert went on, and it seems to me I never heard such music, before or since. At least, I have never so appreciated music; never known it to exercise such a spell over listeners; never so appreciated its power to thrill and melt and sway men, as on that far-away autumn night, when the army rested in the blue-grass meadows of Kentucky, under the silent stars.

Others who speak to-night will, I have no doubt, tell you of marches and battles, of hardships patiently endured, and of dangers fearlessly faced. The life of a soldier had many phases. It was not devoid of pleasure. And this little picture of a delightful camp scene will, I know, recall memories of hundreds of others, equally entrancing, in the minds of my auditors.