Mr. Reid is a small man, and has not sufficient voice to make himself heard distinctly in so large a hall. In a parlor his recitations would be capital. He read from his own poem, "The Wagoner," a description of the battle of Brandywine. It is possibly a very good representation of that battle; but, if so, the battle of Brandywine was very unlike that of Stone river. At Brandywine, it appears, the generals slashed around among the enemy's infantry with drawn swords, doing most of the hard fighting and most of the killing themselves. I did not discover anything of that kind at Stone river. It is possible the style went out of fashion before the rebellion began. It would, however, be very satisfactory to the rank and file to see it restored. Mr. Reid said some good things in his lecture, and was well applauded; but, in the main, he was too ethereal, vapory, and fanciful for the most of us leather-heads. When he puts a soldier-boy on the top of a high mountain to sing patriotic songs, and bid defiance to King George because "Eagle is King," we are impressed with the idea that that soldier could have been put to better use; that, in fact, he is entirely out of the line of duty. The position assigned him is unnatural, and the modern soldier-boy will be apt to conclude that nobody but a simpleton would be likely to wander about in solitary places, extemporizing in measured sentences; besides it is hard work, as I know from experience. I tried my hand at it the other day until my head ached, and this is the best I could do:
O! Lord, when will this war end? These days of marchings, nights of lonely guard? This terrible expenditure of health and life? Where is the glory? Where is the reward, For sacrifice of comfort, quiet, peace? For sacrifice of children, wife, and friends? For sacrifice of firesides--genial homes? What hour, what gift, will ever make amends For broken health, for bruised flesh and bones, For lives cut short by bullet, blade, disease? Where balm to heal the widow's heart, or what Shall soothe a mother's grief for woes like these? Hold, murmurer, hold! Is country naught to thee? Is freedom nothing? Naught an honored name? What though the days be cold, or the nights dark, The brave heart kindles for itself a flame That warms and lightens up the world! Home! What's home, if in craven shame We seek its hearthstone? Bitterest of cold. Better creep thither bruised, and torn, and lame, Than seek it in health when justice needs our aid. Where is the glory? Where is the reward? Think of the generations that will come To praise and bless the hero. Think of God, Who in due time will call His soldiers home. How comfort mother for the loss of son? What balm to which her heaviest grief must yield? Ah! the plain, simple, ever-glorious words: "Your son died nobly on the battle-field!" What balm to soothe a widow's aching heart? The grand assurance that in the battle shock Foremost her husband stood, defying all, For freedom and truth, unyielding as the rock. Then, courage, all, and when the strife is past, And grief for lost ones takes a milder hue, This thought shall crown the living and the dead: "He lived, he died, to God and duty true."