continent, by the shores of the same ocean, to heroes of the same war, whose services and blood were a part of the price paid for our common freedom, these monuments should stand as effectual protests against sectional animosities, forever appealing, in their impressive silence, for a republic of concordant hearts as of equal States. JOHN BROWN GORDON. THE JASPER TABLET IN MADISON SQUARE, SAVANNAH. To the Heroic Memory of SERGEANT WILLIAM JASPER, Who, Though Mortally Wounded, On the British Lines about the City, A Century Has Not Dimmed the Glory 1779-1879. THE PUTNAM MONUMENT DEDICATED. (From Address delivered June 14, 1888.) NINETY-EIGHT years ago the wasted form of an old soldier, scarred by tomahawk and bullet, was laid to rest in yonder graveyard. His epitaph was written by the foremost scholar of our State.* And here, to-day, above a handful of ashes, all that remains of that stalwart frame which in life was the inspiration of colonists, the hate of Frenchmen, the fear of Englishmen, and the awe of Indians, late, but not too late, a grateful State has built a seemly and enduring pedestal, has placed upon it his war-horse, and called again to his saddle, with his bronzed features saluting the morning, the Connecticut hero of the Revolution. . . Blessed is the State which has a history! Its present is the natural evolution of its past. Thermopylae was a perpetual *The Putnam Tablet, page 142, ante. legacy to the sons of Sparta; the atmosphere of the Academy was an everlasting inheritance to the men of Athens. The children of Israel sing the songs of Miriam and David, study the philosophy of Moses, and Ezra, and Hillel, fight over the battles of Saul and the Maccabees, and rightly say, they are all ours. The wars are over, the wisdom is written, the lyrics are sung, the laws are written on papyrus, are cut in stone, are printed on paper, but the lesson of them all is as fresh as a bubbling spring. A nation's characters may be read in its heroes. If men of blood and ambition are the ideals of a nation, we find a nation of warriors; if patriots are the heroes, be they on the battle-field or in the council-chamber, we find a nation proud of its nationality. It is not military greatness that we honor to-day; it is loyalty to manhood and to truth and to country. Salem had the honor of his birth, in 1718, and well did he repay the obligations of his Massachusetts nativity, by the defence and deliverance which he brought to her territory. He was of sturdy English blood, and, curiously enough, the family crest was a wolf's head. Like Washington and Hale, in his youth he was a conspicuous leader in athletic sports. When he visited the city of Boston for the first time, and his rural appearance excited uncomplimentary comment from a city youth of twice his size, who chaffed him in a way to which the country boy was not accustomed, the young Israel proceeded to amuse the Boston people by a thorough, if not a scientific, pounding of his antagonist. He was first married at twenty-one years of age, and at once removed to Pomfret. Here occurred the wolf's-den incident, a story which will be told to reverent and admiring boys as a classic as long as boys admire pluck and bravery, which may it be as long as grass grows. In the French and Indian War, beginning as a captain in 1753, he served until 1762. As an Indian-fighter Putnam had qualifications which have not been excelled in the long story of our conflicts with the red man. His career in these earliest wars was as romantic as the journeys and battles of Æneas, and as real as martyrdom. In the forests and swamps and fields, in rapids and creeks, and on the lakes, by night and by day, in reconnoitre, or bush-fight, or battle-line, as scout or as a company leader, in charge of a battalion or in single combat, he was tireless in action, fertile in expedients, absolutely insensible to fear, and almost invariably a victor. For the next twelve or more years he remained at home, was honored by civil office, and enjoyed the hearty esteem of the colonists. He had an intuition of the coming independence which few, even of the most radical of the fathers, dared hope for. When British officers reasoned with him on the folly of colonial resistance, and asked him "if he had any doubt that five thousand veterans could march through the continent?" "No doubt,” said he, "if they behaved civilly and paid well for everything they wanted; but," he continued, "if in a hostile manner, though the American men were out of the question, the women, with ladles and broomsticks, would knock them all on the head before they could get half through." Putnam expected to fight the mother-country and expected to win! The call came soon. It found him in the field. Leaving his oxen unloosened, and mounting his horse, he rode to Boston, to the fight which he saw had come, and had come to stay until it should be forever settled upon principles of freedom and right. It was but a few weeks from Lexington to Bunker Hill. The story of Putnam's career, from Bunker Hill until his paralysis in the winter of 1779-80, is deeply interesting. He had his share, and no more, of the ill fortunes of the campaigns, and he had his full share of success. Putnam's bravery was the bravery of thoughtfulness; his courage was of the kind that thinks. He was as sensitive to the sufferings of others as a mother. He guarded the honor of woman with the chivalry of a knight. He loved war, for the sake of peace and freedom, and the camp, because he saw through and beyond its tents the peace of home. He was a military leader rather than a great general, and his leadership was marked by enthusiasm and faith, by daring, and tenacity, and endurance. And he was, in every fibre of his being, a true man,-kind, honest, pure, conscientious, devout. He loved goodness, and good men, and good things; he hated jealousies, and envies, and bitterness, and injustice. The fibres of his being were neither by nature nor by culture delicate or refined; but his heart beat and his nerves thrilled with a patriotism as pure and true as the on-rushing waters of Niagara. If there was no place in his garden for tropical flowers, there was no room there for poisonous grasses. If he had little conception of the great universe of stars and planets, he knew there was to be a new day, and he stood and waited for the dawn with his sword in hand. "What went ye out into the wilderness to see? A reed shaken with the wind? "But what went ye out for to see? A man clothed in soft raiment? behold, they that wear soft raiment are in kings' houses. "But what went ye out for to see? A prophet? yea, I unto you, and much more than a prophet.” say HENRY CORNELIUS ROBINSON. THE SURRENDER OF BURGOYNE. (Extract from Centennial Poem, read October 17, 1877.) BROTHERS, this spot is holy! Look around! Before us flows our memory's sacred river, Whose banks are Freedom's shrines. This grassy mound, Yes, on this spot,-thanks to our gracious God,- JAMES WATTS DE PEYSTER. |