334 HENRY HILL GOODELL 



be said, there is no life of a man faithfully recorded, but 

 is a heroic poem of its sort." Walter Dickinson was a man 

 like unto ourselves — a man of like weaknesses and passions, 

 but his biography is written in our hearts, and in our hearts 

 rings on forever the poem of his strong young life. 



Chaplain Trumbull in one of his "War Memories" has 

 a chapter devoted to "the soldier heart buttoned over by 

 the soldier coat," and tells the following incident: Be- 

 ing called upon one day to conduct burial services over 

 two men who had died in the hospital, he was greatly 

 shocked as he entered the hall where the bodies were lying, 

 at the apparently unfeeling manner of their comrades, 

 who were jesting and laughing as though nothing unusual 

 had occurred. But in the midst of their chattering, one 

 suddenly turned to the other and said: ''Jem, have you cut 

 a lock of Bill's hair? I reckon his mother would like it. 

 My mother would." It was a revelation to him, for under- 

 neath the rough exterior he recognized the soldier heart 

 beneath the coat, beating true to the mother-love of his 

 boyhood's days. Somebody's mother wanted a lock of her 

 boy's hair, and he remembered it because he too had a 

 mother. 



Soldiers do not like to display any emotion. Their rigid 

 discipline has taught them to be calm and self-contained, 

 and they carefully repress any signs of outward feeling. It 

 is not shame. Only a desire to conceal from the world the 

 aching heart. Walter Dickinson was no exception to this 

 rule. The deeper feelings of his nature seldom, if ever, came 

 to the surface. On the very eve of leaving for Cuba, with 

 all the uncertainties of an active campaign staring him 

 in the face, he could not bring himself to speak of it, and 



