~'~ . . — _____—
VOL. 11.
“The Blue and the G-ray.”
[The ladies of Columbus, Miss., on last
Memorial Day, decorated the graves of
the Confederate and Federal dead. The
following beautiful lines appeared some
time afterwards in a New York paper.]
By the flow of the inland river,
Whence the fleets of iron have fled,
Where the blades of the grave grass quiver
Asleep are the ranks of the dead;
Under the sod and the dew*,
Waiting the Judgmen t day ;
Under the laurel the Blue;
Under the other the Gray.
These in the robings of glory,
Those in the gloom of defeat,
All with the battle-blood gory,
In the dusk of eternity meet;
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the Judgment day ;
Under the laurel, the Blue ;
Under the other, the Gray
From the silence of sorrowful hours
The desolate mourners go,
Lovingly laden with flowers
Alike for the friend and the foe;
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the Judgment day;
Under the roses, the Blue;
Under the lilies, the Gray.
So with an equal splendor
The morning sun-rays fall,
With a touch, impartially tender,
On the blossoms blooming for all;
Under the sod and the dew,
"Waiting the judgment day;
Broidered with gold, the Blue ;
Mellowed with gold, the Gray.
So, when the summer calleth.
On forest or field of grain,
With an equal murmur falleth
The cooling drip of the rain ;
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the Judgment day;
Wet with the rain, the Blue;
Wet with the rain, the Gray.
Sadly, but not with upbraiding,
The generous deed was done;
In the storm of the years that are lading,
No braver battle was won;
Under the sod and the dew,
W aiting the Judgment day ;
Under the blossoms, the Blue ;
Under the garlands, the Gray.
No more shall the war-clouds sever
Or the winding rivers he red;
They banish our anger forever,
When they laurel the graves of our dead.
Under the sod and they dew,
Waiting the Judgment day;
Love and tears for the Blue {
Tears and love for the Gray.
[From 41ie Overlaud Monthly.]
The Story of One who was
Hanged.
o
EXPLANATORY
. Many years ago the ordinary ruiitine
f business brought me in contact with
hharles Roden, a young man of respec
udde family, some education, more
i dental capacity, but of loose morals, and
somewhat wayward habits of life. 1 found
him in jail, charged with murder. He
was indicted, tried convicted, and exeeut
d for the crime of which he was char-
y ed - 11 is family soon after removed from
the Mate, and they and Charles Rodon,
; ,he 111 an y others before and since,
became of those who “have been” in my
working world of practical active life.
ears after the execution, and when
the , circumstance—if not forgotten— had
a ; iGas f been long unthought of by rue I
visited New Orleans, partly for business
partly for pastime—and on one of my ex
cursions—this day toward the lake—l en
ountered several men engaged in a
semi-public work. The way being block
• by tne work, I stopped and care
looked upon what was be in"
_! one - and with equal carelessness upon
\ bose who were doing it. Os the men.
-ere was one—a kind of “boss”
uose hace fixed my attention as one
with which I had been familiar at
some other time and place. It was
not the face I had known, but it was
a face which the one I had known
would be when tried by years and
misfortunes and sorrows. The man,
noticed my attention, was at first embar
rassed, hesitated, then frankly approach
ed and spoke to me.
“I see,’ , said, he “you doubt whether
you know me or not; but I am sure
you will not betray me, and indeed, it
would be of no consequence if you
did, and I have no desire to permit
you to remain in uncertainty. Do you
pot remember the trial which was had
in the Court House of W. in Septem
ber, 184—, and what transpired in the
jail-yard on the second Friday of the
October following?” The reference
was to the trial and execution ot Char
les Rodon, and it was the living Charles
Rodon w T ho recalled them to me.
Men of my avocation are not apt to be
taken by surprise, but in this instance
my surprise was too evident to. eonceal
and I did not attempt to do so. The
return of the sheriff upon the warrant
of execution was thus : “In accordance
with the commands of the within war
rant, I did, on the fifteenth day of Oc
tober, A. D. 184—, between the hours
of twelve o’clock M., and two o’clock P.
M., to wit : at oue o’clock and thirity
minutes P. M. of said day, do execution
upon the body of the within named Char
les Iloden, by hanging him by the neck
until he was dead, in the yard of the jail
in W., in the county of A., and State of
I had read this return at the time it
was made, and remembered its form. By
the records of the court and the return
of its faithful officer, Charles Rodon was
done to death long ago; yet; here he was
alive, in person recalling himself to my
memory by a reference to his own ter
rible death.
M any questions and answers quickly
passed between us, but seeing we were
observed the laborers, I invited him
to call upon me at my hotel in the even
ing. which he did.
He had many subjects of which to
speak, and much to say. Among othea
things he entered into a detailed history
of his own terrible experience of and es
cape from death. It is these experien
ces, thoughts, impulses and feelings, as
related by him and reduced to writing by
me after he left, which I now* give tcT the
public as.
THE STORY OF ONE WHO WAS HANGED.
The trial and all its stirring incidents,
and war of words, and strife of intellec
tual skill was ended the juryhad return
ed their verdict of guilty, the judge ha 1
pronounced the judgment of the law
upon the verdict, and 1 had been recon
veyed to my prison cell a condemned
criminal—condemned to die in less than
one month from that day. I had no fault
to find with either the court, counsel or
jury. I was not even taken by surprise
at the result. Ido not see even now how
a different result could have been attain
ed; 1 had in fact expected it—looked for
it, did not dare to hope for anything
otherwise; yet, when I attempted to
comprehend the actual fact, the real
condition in which i stood to the laws
to my family, to myself; and more than
all these, to the great hereafter, I was
appalled, stunned, and found my mind
utterly incapable of grasping the situa
tion with vigor of distinctness. This
may have been an exhibition of weak
ness in me, or it may not—l do not
know; but I seemed to be intellectually
in the same situation as the man who
receives a stunning blow upon the head,
Iby which his physical powers are for a
j time suspended. Thus it was with me
: all of that long night; I saw—knew the
simple uaked fact that on the fifteenth
oay of October I must die a shameful
eat T’ Ido no “ think that 1 knew or
tor anything else for many hours,
r aid not moan, I aid not weep, there was
AUGUSTA, GAI., JULY 24, 1869.
not the tremor of a nerve, or the twitch
ing of a muscle, in my frame. It was
not physical weakness; I do not think it
was want of mental strength; I was simp
ly benumbed by the facts which lay be
fore, me, that in strong health, animat
ed by the vigor of young life, I should be
held in duress until the appointed day
that these men whom I had known for
years, to whom I had done no wrong,
who were not animated to their action
by any feeling of ill-will towards me,
should bind me with cords, should take
me, thus bound, into the presence of
many people, and there, thus boi ad and
helpless, they should strangle me to
death. All this was so cold blot led, so
cowardly, so execrable, as to be entirely
incomprehensible; yet I felt am* knew
this was to be done—was to be a s n-ies of
fatal facts to me—was really to occur,
and beyond this, for a time, I knew noth
ing. Reflecting upon it since and now,
it seems to me that I had an indistinct
idea of dissatisfaction arising from the
fact that I should be only a passive actor
in the thrilling drama in which I was to
be the principal performer. If I could
only have been an active, striving par
ticipant in the affair—if I could have ex
erted my own terrible energies—my
lithe activity—my great strength-in pro
ducing the catastrophe, I think I should
have felt otherwise—should fyave botier
endured—perhaps even enjoyed ' the
thing—but as it was, simply to endure
overwhelmed me. I may be wrong in
this idea, for all the phenomena of my
mind at that time are as indistinct to my
mental vision as would be a form
moving in the darkness to the physical
sight. »
I mention this my condition during the
first night after condemnation, not as
a circumstance of any material impor
tance, but as one of the links in the chain
of strange mental phenomena which con
tinued to present themselves during the
intervening time at and after the suppos
ed final catastrophe.
Towards morniug I had some disturb
ed and unrefreshing sleep, and not un
til the third night did I obtain sound
repose, and awake in the morning res
tored to something of my natural self.
In this interval I had’ been visited by
my relatives and neighbors, who sym
pathized with my parents, and, perhaps,
somewhat with me. But of what was
said by them to me, or to each other,
or by me to them, I have no knowledge
indeed, I never did distinctly know 7 who
they were. Those three days and nights
were a phantom world of mine, in which
nothing was substantial but my condem
nation.
When I had recovered from that semi
comatose state, i began to investigate, to
look subjects squarely in the face, and
after an impartial examination, to give
them a final dismissal.
I was condemned for the commission
of a gross crime, true; but I knew, and
perhaps a few others believed, that I was
not a premeditated homicide; that there
had been hot strife between me and my
opponent, who was of far greater strength
than I; that it was only a sudden instinc
tive exertion of agility which gave me the
victory and made him the victim; and
now was not he in a better position than
1? He had d’ed in a moment, without
painy without reflection, without mental
agono, with all his faculties, mental and
physical, in full employ; and I must be
almost a month in dying a shameful
death, with all its agonies and horrors
presented to me by others whom I could
not keep away, could not keep from
talking, if not by myself. I knew that
f was not a criminal in any moral sense,
but no one else knew it, and the jary had
said to the contrary. So be it. I
could do nothing to change my position,
and would make no futile effort.
Being condemned for crime involved
the standing of my family. This troub
led me. My father had always maintain
ed a sound, untainted name in the neigh-
borhood. Such lie had received from his
father, and pure as it came to him, he
desired to transmit it to his children.—
Yet knowing this honorable desire of my
farther, I, one of those who should have
been one of his heirs to this good inheri
tance, had trailed it in infamy, had coun
teracted in a few terrible moments the
careful labors of his long and honest life.
This my injury toward him was pain
ful; but it was not altogether without
consolation. True', I had violated the
great prohibition of the decalogue, but
not for the purpose of appropriating the
property of my victim. I had not been
prompted by cupidity; no vile desires or
shameless influences had actuated me. In
taking life, I had done no more than take
life.
Bad as it was, it was an incident which
might happen to any, an incident which
neither complaint on his part or protes
tations of sorrow on mine could in any
manner change. He was always an un
demonstrative, reticent man. 1 knew he
would not speak to me of it, and he never
did; but I saw and knew he felt it severe
ly, although his manner thenceforth was
very considerate toward me.
My situation toward my mother was
different and far worse. I know not how
or why it is that mothers display their
gratest attachment toward a froward and
erring child; but I have observed that
such is the fact with others, and it cer
tainly was with myself.
Toward me my mother was ever more
tender and forbearing than to her other
children. Her strong, yearning love
was my constant protection from the
stern and deserved rebukes of others; for
me her severest punishment was the
refusal of a caress. I knew I was the
very life of her being, and now I had
carelessly, almost wantonly struck this
true, tender and loving mother a mur
derous blow upon the heart. It was
terrible ! I knew she would not weep
—would not adandon herself to any
paroxysm of hysteria or outcry —her
heart was too sore for that; but I could
see her pale face and gentle yet scarce
reproachful eyes turned upon me. 1
could hear the suppressed sigh of anguish
could see the involuntary tremor of the
frame, the catching of the breath, the
general aspect of hopeless abandonment
which shows that to one human soul life
and joy and hope are gone forever.
Thinking of her thus, I first felt and
recognized my whole criminality; not
criminality in the immediate act for
which I was to suffer, but horrid crimi
nality in the course of waywardness and
vice in which I had long indulged, which
directly and indirectly led to the last
fatal act. I had sinned against humanity
against virtue, against God; but for none
of them did I then, nor do I now, feel the
deep, abasing contrition which I have
ever since felt for my heartless sin against
my mother.
lt devoured my soul during my re
maining prison days; it went with me to
the scaffold, was my last remembrance
there; it has been with me ever since, is
with me now. will not be appeased, can
not be at toned for or forgotten, but
consumes my heart with never-ceasing
remorse. For this aspect of my crime
I had not then, nor have I now, any
consolation.
Os other temporal questions, the dis
position was easy. But by my death, the
Violated law would be avenged, and
society protected effectively from my'
violence; what could they ask more?
For death itself, I did not care as!
much as others. I had already struggled I
with him in his sternest aspect, and knew
his power of inflicting pain.
When the physical powers are enfeeb
led by disease, the hold cn life is so
slight that it is loosened by the smallest
effort, and in such cases to die is merely
to sleep. ith such there can be no
fierce struggle; as there is no strength
with which to contend; but when death |
attacks the man possessed of all vital'
energies, the strife is as fierce as the
rending of iron. This I knew, and
certainly it was not to be desired, but it
is inevitable in some form to all, must
again be experienced by me some time,
why not now as well as a few years
hence.
Mere vitality, life without that which
makes life beautiful, is not a great boon,
and often in ray quite moments I have
thought the dead in the best condition;
from me the beauty of life had depart
ed, let life itself follow; I should sleep
as soundly taken from the scaffold as
from the bed of disease.
Having thus disposed of all which de
manded questions in life, I next address
ed myself to the condition which succeeds
the death of the body.
My own ideas of the future condition
of man were not very distinct. I had in*
young life been instructed in the prin
ciples of the Christian religion, and the
faith and practices of my mother had
strongly impressed their correctness
upon my mind; but in recent years I
had indulged my crriminal propensities
grossly, and to the sensualist material
ism is so simple, so easy of satisfactory
solution, in fact, so much more gratify
ing than the stern doctrines of respon
sibility as taught by revelation, that I
had readily adopted them to some ex
tent, and would perhaps have done so
fully if I had not been restrained by the
force of my early instruction. I was,
therefore, neither one thing nor the other
nor had I allowed the question to serious
ly trouble me, as the day seemed far
distant when it would press its solution
upon me. The time had now unexpected
ly arrived, and I was compelled to ad
ress myself earnestly to the task.
In doing this I had all the assistance
desired. Many good and pious persons,
ministers and laymen visited me, reason
ed, lectured, preached, and prayed with
me. My mind was wholly turned to
the subject. It was ad-engrossing t<
me, yet I do not think I made any real
progress. My opinions were most ortho
dox on all questions of revelation, faith,
and repentance. I regretted, I yet re
gret, my idle and vicious life, but I never
was able to realize that peculiar state of
penitence which infinite sin is said to de
mand!*
Much has been said of death bed penit
ence and the sincerity of such late acts.
It may be that when mind and body are
weakened by wasting disease they become
more susceptible to influences than when
both are vigorous, and then instances of
penitence which display all the evidences
of sincerity have occurred and will again
occur, and when the individual, continu
ing to languish, dies, his penitence
remains until the last; or if health and
strength are regained, with returning
health the religious impressions fade
away, and finally disappear; but when
certain death approaches the strong and
vigorous, I ihink it doubtful if there ever
was an instance of a material change in
the religious sentiments. As they lived,
they died. 1 repeat, with firm convic
tions of the great truths of Christianity,
decided faith in God, with all His great
transcendant attributes, feeling that I
should in some way be responsible to
Him in everlasting liiV, I went to death
without any clear confirmed convictions
of what that great life would be; I might
almost say without serious concern. lu
credible as that may appear, it is true,
and can only be accounted for by some
inexplicable mental condition, in combi
nation with the feelings.
The last afternoon was spent with rela
tions and friendly visitors, and earily in
the evening the last farewell was said,
shat night I slept soundly. The morn
ing found me refreshed, and if not un
concerned, at least content. I breathed
a prayer, ate my breakfast, and then in
cuite and reflection sought control over
every feeling of sensibility or sense
which would tend toward a display of
weakness at the decisive act. 1 do not
