The history of the Mexican war is a record of what western men can do on the battle-field—charges at which even their countrymen who knew them wondered—sufferings patiently endured, marches that taxed the strongest—all these things have proved of what true metal the West is made. With war-wreaths dyed in blood at Cerro Gordo, baptized in fire at Chapultepec, and rendered immortal at Buena Vista, these men were not likely to see their own Government turned upon without rising as one man to defend it. Through the golden grain and the rustling cornfields of the West, the news of the bombardment of Sumter, the attack at Baltimore, and the call of the President, rushed like one of its own tornadoes from city to village, from farm-house to cabin. The news ran and the answer came thunder-toned. The old man took down his rifle from the antler bracket on the cabin wall. His son left the plow in its furrow, and all classes and conditions of men came forward with brave hearts and ready hands, and laid them on the altar of their country. The watchfires of freedom were kindled, and on every hill and through the valleys poured a tide of armed men, unconquerable and resistless. These western men took the field, ready at once for the deadly strife. Their entire lives had been one incessant training for the hardships and dangers of war. They had but one regret—that their march was against brothers armed against the nation—all else was merged in the glorious thought that they, the very children of liberty, had the power to yield up everything, even life, and home, that a great country should be maintained in every inch of its soil and every right of its people.