the war went on, it came to pass that Chaplain McCabe, newly released
from Libby Prison, gave a public lecture in Washington, and recounted
some of his recent experiences. Among them was the following: He and the
other Union prisoners occupied one large, comfortless room, in which the
floor was their only bed. An official in charge of them told them, one
evening, that the Union arms had just sustained a terrible defeat. While
they sat together in great sorrow, the negro who waited upon them
whispered to one man that the officer had given them false information,
and that the Union soldiers had, on the contrary, achieved an important
victory. At this good news they all rejoiced, and presently made the
walls ring with my Battle Hymn, which they sang in chorus, Chaplain
McCabe leading. The lecturer recited the poem with such effect that
those present began to inquire, "Who wrote this Battle Hymn?" It now
became one of the leading lyrics of the war. In view of its success, one
of my good friends said, "Mrs. Howe ought to die now, for she has done
the best that she will ever do." I was not of this opinion, feeling
myself still "full of days' works," although I did not guess at the new
experiences which then lay before me.

While the war was still at its height, I received a kind letter from
Hon. George Bancroft, conveying an invitation to attend a celebration of
the poet Bryant's seventieth birthday, to be given by the New York
Century Club, of which Mr. Bancroft was the newly-elected president. He
also expressed the hope that I would bring with me something in verse or
in prose, to add to the tributes of the occasion.

Having accepted the invitation and made ready my tribute, I repaired to
the station on the day appointed, to take the train for New York. Dr.
Holmes presently appeared, bound on the same errand. As we seated
ourselves in the car, he said to me, "Mrs. Howe, I will sit beside you,
but you must not expect me to talk, as I must spare my voice for this
evening, when I am to read a poem at the Bryant celebration." "By all
means let us keep silent," I replied. "I also have a poem to read at the
Bryant celebration." The dear Doctor, always my friend, overestimated
his power of abstinence from the interchange of thought which was so
congenial to him. He at once launched forth in his ever brilliant vein,
and we were within a few miles of our destination when we suddenly
remembered that we had not taken time to eat our