The scene was, indeed, an impressive one

SWMODave

Sergeant Major
Thread Medic
Joined
Jul 23, 2017
Location
Southwest Missouri
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Memoranda by Walt Whitman

Aug. 8.—Tonight, as I was trying to keep cool, sitting by a wounded soldier in Armory Square, I was attracted by some pleasant singing in an adjoining Ward. As my soldier was asleep, I left him, and entering the Ward where the music was, I walked half way down and took a seat by the cot of a young Brooklyn friend, S. R.. badly wounded in the hand at Chancellorsville, and who has suffered much, but who at that moment in the evening was wide awake and comparatively easy. He had turned over on his left side to get a better view of the singers, but the plentiful drapery of the mosquito curtains of the adjoining cots obstructed the sight. I stept round and looped them all up, so that be had a clear show, and then sat down again by him, and looked and listened.

The principal singer was a young lady nurse of one of the Wards, accompanying on a melodeon, and joined by the lady nurses of other Wards. They sat there, making a charming group, with their handsome, healthy faces; and standing up a little behind them were some ten or fifteen of the convalescent soldiers, young men, nurses, with books in their hands, taking part in the singing. Of course it was not such a performance as the great soloists at the New York Opera House take a hand in; but I am not sure but I received as much pleasure, under the circumstances, sitting there, as I have had from the best Italian compositions, expressed by world-famous performers.

The scene was, indeed, an impressive one. The men lying up and down the hospital, in their cots, (some badly wounded—some never to rise thence,) the cots themselves, with their drapery of white curtains, and the shadows down the lower and upper parts of the Ward; then the silence of the men, and the attitudes they took—the whole was a sight to look around upon again and again. And there, sweetly rose those female voices up to the high, whitewashed wooden roof, and pleasantly the roof sent it all back again. They sang very well ; mostly quaint old songs and declamatory hymns, to fitting tunes. Here, for instance, is one of the songs they sang :

SHINING SHORES.
My days are swiftly gliding by, and I a Pilgrim stranger,
Would not detain them as they fly, those hours of toil and danger ;
For O we stand on Jordan's strand, our friends are passing over,
And just before, the shining shores we may almost discover.
We'll gird our loins my brethren dear, our distant home discerning,
Our absent Lord has left us word, let every lamp be burning,
For O we stand on Jordan's strand, our friends are passing over,
And just before, the shining shores we may almost discover.

As the strains reverberated through the great edifice of boards, (an excellent place for musical performers,) it was plain to see how it all soothed and was grateful to the men.

I saw one near me turn over, and bury his face partially in his pillow; he was probably ashamed to be seen with wet eyes.
 
Ok - a little history behind the song mentioned by Whitman as being sung in the hospital. You are invited to listen while reading (picture a group of nurses singing to wounded soldiers and try to keep a dry eye)


The Story of A Musical Life by George F Roo

One day, I remember, I was working at a set of graded part-songs for singing classes, and mother, passing through the room, laid a slip from one of her religious newspapers before me, saying: "George, I think that would be good for music." I looked, and the poem began, " My days are gliding swiftly by." A simple melody sang itself along in my mind as I read, and I jotted it down, and went on with my work. That was the origin of " The Shining Shore."

Later, when I took up the melody to harmonize it, it seemed so very simple and commonplace that I hesitated about setting the other parts to it. But I finally decided that it might be useful to somebody, and completed it, though it was not printed until some months afterward. When, in after years, this song was sung in all the churches and Sunday-schools of the land, and in every land and tongue where our missionaries were at work, and so demonstrated that it had in it that mysterious life of which I have spoken, I tried to see why it should be so, but in vain. To the musician there is not one reason in melody or harmony, scientifically regarded, for such a fact. To him, hundreds of others now forgotten were better. I say so much about this little song because it is a particularly good illustration of the fact that the simplest music may have vitality as well as that which is higher, and that the composer knows no more about it in one case than in the other.

The newspaper slip containing this hymn which my mother handed me had no author's name attached. It was some years before I learned that it was the Rev. David Nelson who wrote it, and it was but recently that the following sketch of his life, taken from "Asa Turner and His Times," was sent to me: David Nelson was born in East Tennessee in 1793; graduated from Washington College in 1809. He at first studied medicine, but afterward entered the ministry and preached in Tennessee and Kentucky, and finally removed to Missouri. He was six feet and two inches high, and had a voice of great power and melody, which he used with great success, anticipating the singing evangelist of to day.

He opened a plantation in Missouri in true southern style, but an address by Theodore D. Weld changed his sentiments and led him to say, "I will live on roast potatoes and salt before I will hold slaves." He became an advocate of colonization, and, in 1831, at the close of a camp-meeting, read a notice calling people to meet to discuss the project. Disorder followed, and Dr. Nelson was driven from his home by a body of armed men. After three days and nights of wandering he came to the great river, and made known his condition to friends in Quincy, Illinois, on the opposite side—there, far away.

Hiding in the bushes, with the Mississippi at the foot of the bluff " gliding swiftly by," and " friends passing over" to and from a free state—a safe landing on which he could " almost discover," he wrote on the backs of letters the Christian psalm of life, " My days are gliding swiftly by."

Two members of the Congregational Church in Quincy, at dusk paddled a " dug-out " across the river and fished in the slough near the western shore. Learning by signs just where Dr. Nelson was, they let their boat float down toward the Missouri " strand." With huge strides the fugitive evangelist came down, and the slaveholding scouts were foiled.

Dr. Nelson, well-nigh starved, asked if they had brought him anything to eat. " Something in the bag," replied one of the brethren, rowing with all his might. The brave but famished man brought up from the bag at the stern only dried codfish and crackers. Laughing heartily he said, " Well, I'm dependent on Yankees, and shall have to be a Yankee myself after this, and I may as well begin on codfish and crackers."

The chivalry crossed the river and demanded that Dr. Nelson should be given up, but were told that he was under the laws of Illinois, and slaveholders could not have him.

Dr. Nelson was commissioned by the Home Missionary Society in Illinois, and, in addition to his regular work, made powerful and touching anti-slavery addresses. He died in October, 1844.
 
Ok - a little history behind the song mentioned by Whitman as being sung in the hospital. You are invited to listen while reading (picture a group of nurses singing to wounded soldiers and try to keep a dry eye)


The Story of A Musical Life by George F Roo

One day, I remember, I was working at a set of graded part-songs for singing classes, and mother, passing through the room, laid a slip from one of her religious newspapers before me, saying: "George, I think that would be good for music." I looked, and the poem began, " My days are gliding swiftly by." A simple melody sang itself along in my mind as I read, and I jotted it down, and went on with my work. That was the origin of " The Shining Shore."

Later, when I took up the melody to harmonize it, it seemed so very simple and commonplace that I hesitated about setting the other parts to it. But I finally decided that it might be useful to somebody, and completed it, though it was not printed until some months afterward. When, in after years, this song was sung in all the churches and Sunday-schools of the land, and in every land and tongue where our missionaries were at work, and so demonstrated that it had in it that mysterious life of which I have spoken, I tried to see why it should be so, but in vain. To the musician there is not one reason in melody or harmony, scientifically regarded, for such a fact. To him, hundreds of others now forgotten were better. I say so much about this little song because it is a particularly good illustration of the fact that the simplest music may have vitality as well as that which is higher, and that the composer knows no more about it in one case than in the other.

The newspaper slip containing this hymn which my mother handed me had no author's name attached. It was some years before I learned that it was the Rev. David Nelson who wrote it, and it was but recently that the following sketch of his life, taken from "Asa Turner and His Times," was sent to me: David Nelson was born in East Tennessee in 1793; graduated from Washington College in 1809. He at first studied medicine, but afterward entered the ministry and preached in Tennessee and Kentucky, and finally removed to Missouri. He was six feet and two inches high, and had a voice of great power and melody, which he used with great success, anticipating the singing evangelist of to day.

He opened a plantation in Missouri in true southern style, but an address by Theodore D. Weld changed his sentiments and led him to say, "I will live on roast potatoes and salt before I will hold slaves." He became an advocate of colonization, and, in 1831, at the close of a camp-meeting, read a notice calling people to meet to discuss the project. Disorder followed, and Dr. Nelson was driven from his home by a body of armed men. After three days and nights of wandering he came to the great river, and made known his condition to friends in Quincy, Illinois, on the opposite side—there, far away.

Hiding in the bushes, with the Mississippi at the foot of the bluff " gliding swiftly by," and " friends passing over" to and from a free state—a safe landing on which he could " almost discover," he wrote on the backs of letters the Christian psalm of life, " My days are gliding swiftly by."

Two members of the Congregational Church in Quincy, at dusk paddled a " dug-out " across the river and fished in the slough near the western shore. Learning by signs just where Dr. Nelson was, they let their boat float down toward the Missouri " strand." With huge strides the fugitive evangelist came down, and the slaveholding scouts were foiled.

Dr. Nelson, well-nigh starved, asked if they had brought him anything to eat. " Something in the bag," replied one of the brethren, rowing with all his might. The brave but famished man brought up from the bag at the stern only dried codfish and crackers. Laughing heartily he said, " Well, I'm dependent on Yankees, and shall have to be a Yankee myself after this, and I may as well begin on codfish and crackers."

The chivalry crossed the river and demanded that Dr. Nelson should be given up, but were told that he was under the laws of Illinois, and slaveholders could not have him.

Dr. Nelson was commissioned by the Home Missionary Society in Illinois, and, in addition to his regular work, made powerful and touching anti-slavery addresses. He died in October, 1844.

That's a beautiful rendition! Thanks for sharing the music and the story!
 
Memoranda by Walt Whitman

Aug. 8.—Tonight, as I was trying to keep cool, sitting by a wounded soldier in Armory Square, I was attracted by some pleasant singing in an adjoining Ward. As my soldier was asleep, I left him, and entering the Ward where the music was, I walked half way down and took a seat by the cot of a young Brooklyn friend, S. R.. badly wounded in the hand at Chancellorsville, and who has suffered much, but who at that moment in the evening was wide awake and comparatively easy. He had turned over on his left side to get a better view of the singers, but the plentiful drapery of the mosquito curtains of the adjoining cots obstructed the sight. I stept round and looped them all up, so that be had a clear show, and then sat down again by him, and looked and listened.

The principal singer was a young lady nurse of one of the Wards, accompanying on a melodeon, and joined by the lady nurses of other Wards. They sat there, making a charming group, with their handsome, healthy faces; and standing up a little behind them were some ten or fifteen of the convalescent soldiers, young men, nurses, with books in their hands, taking part in the singing. Of course it was not such a performance as the great soloists at the New York Opera House take a hand in; but I am not sure but I received as much pleasure, under the circumstances, sitting there, as I have had from the best Italian compositions, expressed by world-famous performers.

The scene was, indeed, an impressive one. The men lying up and down the hospital, in their cots, (some badly wounded—some never to rise thence,) the cots themselves, with their drapery of white curtains, and the shadows down the lower and upper parts of the Ward; then the silence of the men, and the attitudes they took—the whole was a sight to look around upon again and again. And there, sweetly rose those female voices up to the high, whitewashed wooden roof, and pleasantly the roof sent it all back again. They sang very well ; mostly quaint old songs and declamatory hymns, to fitting tunes. Here, for instance, is one of the songs they sang :

SHINING SHORES.
My days are swiftly gliding by, and I a Pilgrim stranger,
Would not detain them as they fly, those hours of toil and danger ;
For O we stand on Jordan's strand, our friends are passing over,
And just before, the shining shores we may almost discover.
We'll gird our loins my brethren dear, our distant home discerning,
Our absent Lord has left us word, let every lamp be burning,
For O we stand on Jordan's strand, our friends are passing over,
And just before, the shining shores we may almost discover.

As the strains reverberated through the great edifice of boards, (an excellent place for musical performers,) it was plain to see how it all soothed and was grateful to the men.

I saw one near me turn over, and bury his face partially in his pillow; he was probably ashamed to be seen with wet eyes.
Thank you for this post. I really touches the heart.
 
Memoranda by Walt Whitman

Aug. 8.—Tonight, as I was trying to keep cool, sitting by a wounded soldier in Armory Square, I was attracted by some pleasant singing in an adjoining Ward. As my soldier was asleep, I left him, and entering the Ward where the music was, I walked half way down and took a seat by the cot of a young Brooklyn friend, S. R.. badly wounded in the hand at Chancellorsville, and who has suffered much, but who at that moment in the evening was wide awake and comparatively easy. He had turned over on his left side to get a better view of the singers, but the plentiful drapery of the mosquito curtains of the adjoining cots obstructed the sight. I stept round and looped them all up, so that be had a clear show, and then sat down again by him, and looked and listened.

The principal singer was a young lady nurse of one of the Wards, accompanying on a melodeon, and joined by the lady nurses of other Wards. They sat there, making a charming group, with their handsome, healthy faces; and standing up a little behind them were some ten or fifteen of the convalescent soldiers, young men, nurses, with books in their hands, taking part in the singing. Of course it was not such a performance as the great soloists at the New York Opera House take a hand in; but I am not sure but I received as much pleasure, under the circumstances, sitting there, as I have had from the best Italian compositions, expressed by world-famous performers.

The scene was, indeed, an impressive one. The men lying up and down the hospital, in their cots, (some badly wounded—some never to rise thence,) the cots themselves, with their drapery of white curtains, and the shadows down the lower and upper parts of the Ward; then the silence of the men, and the attitudes they took—the whole was a sight to look around upon again and again. And there, sweetly rose those female voices up to the high, whitewashed wooden roof, and pleasantly the roof sent it all back again. They sang very well ; mostly quaint old songs and declamatory hymns, to fitting tunes. Here, for instance, is one of the songs they sang :

SHINING SHORES.
My days are swiftly gliding by, and I a Pilgrim stranger,
Would not detain them as they fly, those hours of toil and danger ;
For O we stand on Jordan's strand, our friends are passing over,
And just before, the shining shores we may almost discover.
We'll gird our loins my brethren dear, our distant home discerning,
Our absent Lord has left us word, let every lamp be burning,
For O we stand on Jordan's strand, our friends are passing over,
And just before, the shining shores we may almost discover.

As the strains reverberated through the great edifice of boards, (an excellent place for musical performers,) it was plain to see how it all soothed and was grateful to the men.

I saw one near me turn over, and bury his face partially in his pillow; he was probably ashamed to be seen with wet eyes.
Nurses singing to the men at night was mentioned in Alcotts war diary..
 
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