manoeuvres, a
sudden movement of the enemy necessitated immediate action. The review
was discontinued, and we saw a detachment of soldiers gallop to the
assistance of a small body of our men who were in imminent danger of
being surrounded and cut off from retreat. The regiments remaining on
the field were ordered to march to their cantonments. We returned to the
city very slowly, of necessity, for the troops nearly filled the road.
My dear minister was in the carriage with me, as were several other
friends. To beguile the rather tedious drive, we sang from time to time
snatches of the army songs so popular at that time, concluding, I think,
with

"John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the ground;
His soul is marching on."

The soldiers seemed to like this, and answered back, "Good for you!" Mr.
Clarke said, "Mrs. Howe, why do you not write some good words for that
stirring tune?" I replied that I had often wished to do this, but had
not as yet found in my mind any leading toward it.

I went to bed that night as usual, and slept, according to my wont,
quite soundly. I awoke in the gray of the morning twilight; and as I lay
waiting for the dawn, the long lines of the desired poem began to twine
themselves in my mind. Having thought out all the stanzas, I said to
myself, "I must get up and write these verses down, lest I fall asleep
again and forget them." So, with a sudden effort, I sprang out of bed,
and found in the dimness an old stump of a pen which I remembered to
have used the day before. I scrawled the verses almost without looking
at the paper. I had learned to do this when, on previous occasions,
attacks of versification had visited me in the night, and I feared to
have recourse to a light lest I should wake the baby, who slept near me.
I was always obliged to decipher my scrawl before another night should
intervene, as it was only legible while the matter was fresh in my mind.
At this time, having completed my writing, I returned to bed and fell
asleep, saying to myself, "I like this better than most things that I
have written."

The poem, which was soon after published in the "Atlantic Monthly," was
somewhat praised on its appearance, but the vicissitudes of the war so
engrossed public attention that small heed was taken of literary
matters. I knew, and was content to know, that the poem soon found its
way to the camps, as I heard from time to time of its being sung in
chorus by the soldiers.

As