The Drummer Boy—H. K. D.
In the original sketches for “Yankee Doodle,” Willard depicted three grown men. When the humorous aspect faded from his conception, and he decided to depict his father seriously, he conceived the idea of including for his third figure a young lad instead of a grown man. In this way, the picture would present three generations of patriots, the grandfather in the center, the father at his side, and on his right, the grandson looking up into grandpa’s face with confidence and admiration.
In 1875, there was organized in Cleveland, Brooks School, a preparatory school for boys from ten years upward. It was so named after its inceptor, the Reverend John Brooks, who lost his life in a most tragic manner while in Boston to secure a principal for the school. It was a military school. In 1876, it was domiciled in its building on Carnegie Avenue (then Sibley Street) near the present East Thirty-sixth street. The spirit of the boys in the school was very military. They had for instructor the late Captain F. A. Kendall, who served with distinction during the Civil War. Three companies composed the Brooks School Battalion. The first company composed of the older boys; the second, of the intermediate; and the third, of the smaller boys in both age and stature. For some reason the third company, in competitive drills, always won over the other two. This was due undoubtedly to the natural sympathy older people always have for the younger and smaller when in competition. I was captain of the Third Company and it was my observation that the little fellows usually got most of any sympathy being given, yet, too, it was a noticeable fact that they tried harder, paid closer attention, and usually drilled more perfectly than the older boys. On the sixth of March, 1876, the Brooks School Battalion gave a competitive drill at their armory, in compliment to the Cleveland Grays, and as may be guessed every boy was on his toes to show the hero soldiers in gray what could be done. Mr. Willard, desiring a subject to use in his picture as a drummer boy, attended this drill. Why he selected me never has been explained to me. Maybe an incident in the drill of the Third Company had its effect. Anyway, to this day, although nearly fifty years have passed, recalling the happenings of that day brings to me a thrill for the earnest effort and perfection of drill of those little fellows. The two companies of larger boys had passed through their drill in a way to please everybody. When it came time for the little fellows to march out, every boy was keyed to the limit. They went through the set maneuvers perfectly and when about finished, it popped into my head to try something very difficult that the others had not tried. Marching down the side of the hall in column of fours, and wheeling to the left, at the end I gave the order “fours left into line and forward guide right double-quick march.” So perfect was the spacing between the fours that they wheeled into line in perfect alignment, broke into double quick as one, and went charging down the hall toward the spectators amid a burst of applause. That settled the day and the Third Company retained the honor of being the color company.
One thing that likely intensified this military spirit among us was the fact that just at this time there was on exhibition at Cleveland, a panorama of the Battle of Lookout Mountain. It was a splendid picture, aroused much enthusiasm, and the proceeds—in part at least—went to pay for the completion of the soldier’s monument at Dayton. A select squad from the Brooks School Battalion gave an exhibition drill in front of the picture to help the entertainment.
Shortly after this competitive drill, my father told me he had given permission to Mr. Willard to use me as a model for the drummer boy in his picture. I recall a feeling of resentment on my part for that meant giving up afternoon play, a thing not to be contemplated with a feeling of joy by any boy. However, paternal edicts generally prevail, and a beginning was made by going down to Mr. Ryder’s gallery and posing for a number of photos. This was followed by a number of visits to Willard’s studio where hours were passed in rather a trying way for a boy. Willard was very kind and thoughtful. He entertained me with stories of the war, told me what was in his mind for the creation of this picture, and often would let me rest and walk in front of the picture to see what he had done. I can recall the enthusiasm of the man. He worked as if possessed of an idea that pleased him, but which he might lose. With watching him work and the picture develop, I too soon became enthusiastic. I forgot that it was tiresome to stand on one leg, and that bent, the other advanced, and the foot resting on an inverted box, with the head twisted to one side and the eyes raised and arms outstretched, although it was really very exacting of one’s temper and strength. However, things progressed rapidly, and by the thirtieth of March the picture was about finished, and I took my mother, at Willard’s request to see it. I am sure she experienced the feeling that thousands of our mothers have when they have seen their beloved son marching off to war. And then the momentous day came when it was rolled up and sent to the Centennial.
That fall I went to the Centennial with my parents. We spent about two weeks there. Almost every day I went into the Art Gallery to stand before “The Spirit of ’76.” Each time I felt something aroused in me that did not diminish by the frequent visits. It also was curious to mark the effect on others. Always there was a crowd in front of the picture and many if not most of the people had perceptible tears rise to their eyes as they stood and gazed. Many actually cried, yet came again and again to look with reverence on that canvas that pulsed so much of American spirit.
Later in life I stood before the picture again, where it now hangs in Abbot Hall, Marblehead, Mass., for which town my father, Colonel John Henry Devereux, bought the picture and presented it thereto. Then, as before, not only to me but to all in the room, arose a feeling of sentiment, a feeling of reverence, a feeling almost of awe that made one instinctively bare one’s head and swallow the lump that will sometimes come in one’s throat.
It may be that enthusiasm borne of an intimate knowledge of the creation of this picture makes me over-enthusiastic, but then and afterwards, even to this day, when I learn how it holds the interest of all that look at it, the belief is strengthened that the picture was an inspiration, though it might be judged crude in execution by artistic standards. I know little or nothing of art, nor does the ordinary individual looking at a picture, but any one picture that can so universally move the onlooker must convey something deeper than the pigments on the canvas. The determination and fight depicted by the old man in face and figure, without uniform, in shirt sleeves, coat off, sleeves loose, vest open and shirt open at throat without collar or stock is symbolical of the patriot ready to fight without purchase or thought of anything but the cause at heart. The fifer, a touch of humor for his, a humorous face, his fringe of whiskers, but a bandage about his head on which blood shows, a twinkle in his eye, but a set look on the face and a decided poise in the figure marching to his own fife music. The boy fresh from a loving mother’s care and carefully uniformed, his eyes fixed upon his adored grandsire that he may do all that this loved, brave, and loyal man is determined to do. The wounded soldier in the foreground, his head pillowed on the shell-shattered wheel of a cannon, with heart and strength enough left to raise his cap in salute to “Old Glory.” Over them all the flag of freedom, the stars and stripes, back of which come the first line of cheering patriotic troops entering action. It tells the story of the old way, and of the spirit and determination when men fought face to face, each individual a fighting machine to fight for love of country and freedom.
The flag is really an anachronism, as although it depicts the thirteen stripes and the thirteen stars on a blue field, it was not until June, 1777, that the United State Congress really accepted this design, and Betsy Ross made the first flag with these emblems.
The painting created little or no stir among the art critics and connoisseurs. It was not painted for such. The painting was a patriotic human document that reached the hearts of millions and will for centuries to come be an inspiration to further millions yet unborn.
Archibald M. Willard has passed. He may not be classed as a great artist but in the “Spirit of ’76” he painted himself into everlasting fame.
An Early Account
The Reverend Samuel Willard
who posed for the central figure in the painting