Spared & Shared A Time For Memory and For Tears
By William Griffing · Originally published July-August 2026 · pp. 48–49
“A time for memory and for tears”
This well-composed letter written before Petersburg in July 1864—just days before the Battle of the Crater— was composed by Robert Nelson Traver (1841–1904) who was well known during the war as “Old Po’keepsie.” Robert was the seventh of at least 10 children born to Jacob Traver, Jr. (1806–1874) and Julia Catherine Kipp (18091868) who married in 1824 at Rhinebeck, Dutchess county, New York, and later (1845) settled in Poughkeepsie. In the 1860 U.S. Census, Robert was enumerated in his parents household in Poughkeepsie—his occupation recorded as “printer.” Most likely Robert relocated to Ohio prior to the outbreak of the Civil War where he enlisted on August 24, 1861, in Co. G of the 2nd Ohio Cavalry. Within this regiment, he worked his way up to corporal, sergeant, sergeant major, and finally to 2d lieut. of Co. K—the rank he held at the time of this letter in 1864. He remained as a veteran in the regiment until he was mustered out at St. Louis in September 1865. Outpost of Co. G, 2nd Ohio Cavalry Vet. Vol. On picket near Petersburg, Va. July 25th 1864 To Lizzie & Martha Nash, Harrington, Maine Dear Friends, Last evening while on my cheerless post, near the “Johnny Rebs,” the mail came in and I received your kind letter. I had just been deeply engaged in a “day dream” and my thoughts were many miles away—roaming over the rocks and shoals of the dead past—recreating dead hopes—reveling in the joys of other and happier days, before the heart became burdened with life’s trials or the mind bowed and trained to the cold walks of worldly society. It was a cool and pleasant evening, a long Virginia twilight was gathering around the
form of days, its robes gray, while a stilly summer breeze was gently passing through the emerald tree tops of the tall and tapering pines. It was, indeed, “a time for memory and for tears.” The memories and tears it brought to me are connected with the little soiled and faded picture I now have before me—a friend, and a friend only. Our hearts were never bound by nearer ties or vows and never could have been. Well, I was about to tell you, sisters two, how I, in company with this friend, would walk from the dusty city out to the quiet country and in happy, friendly converse, commune with nature. That friend now “sleeps the sleep that knows no waking” and this little picture is all that remains of one with whom I have passed many hours of happy social enjoyment. “How the old time comes over me again.” It was ever a solemn task of ours to walk in “God’s Acre” among the sepulchers of the dead and feel the holy influence of a “Divine Spirit” stealing over us as we wandered through gardens of the “loved and lost.” The rose and lily bloom upon a grave in the quiet churchyard, while the clinging ivy winds its tendrils round, and finds in mini wreaths the buds and flowers for fancy crowns to cloak the tomb of one who has passed to nothingness. Many pass idly by and note not the upward tendency of the clustering ringlets or the fragrance of the blushing flowers—emblems of the holy spirit which is soaring heavenward, breathing its balmy breath upon the open air. Not so with me. I can see the old smile of trusting friendship—the bright glances of the deep blue eyes—the parting lips, and almost hear the cheering words of sweetest accent issuing therefrom. I can see the cold corpse clad in the habiliments of the grave, the small and tapering hands clasped over the breast and within the circle of the fingers a small white rose is resting. The dark brown hair is gathered back from the pure white forehead, faintly traced by blue and pulseless veins, and is secured by a wreath of white roses with their green leaves and bursting buds. Daintily woven amid the dark tresses is a small burgundy rosebud with the flush leaves just bursting into bloom. Then comes the funeral cortege—the solemn and sad scene at the grave— the convulsive sobs that are mingled with the falling clods of earth—dust to dust, ashes to ashes. The next hour a little mound—then a monument—flowers—and in our hearts the memory of the “dear departed.” Our entire life journey is marked by gravestones. One cannot look back through life without seeing them as they dot the wayside down the long avenues of past events. Each one denotes the resting place of those who commenced the upward race with us, but who grew weary by the way, faltered and fell before the judges stand was reached or the goal of old age gained. But it was to write a letter, not a sermon, and I will try and not offend again today. The huge siege guns are hammering away at the gates of the Confederacy and the outpost at Petersburgh are falling one by one. You must not think we are doing nothing here to bring about peace. We are talking it every day from the muzzles of guns—a compromise now—born from blood in a few years would have a bloody resurrection. No compromise. Let us “fight it out on this line.” It will take all summer, but there will be no Confederacy by New Years. I, for one, have never grown
despondent—have looked through dark clouds towards silver linings, and now am not willing to barter years of hardship and blood—for a few years of deceptive peace. I was in the Wilson Raid down the Danville Railroad. Rebels are rebels still. The snakes are somewhat bruised but not dead. The sunshine of approval would revive the whole family and we would again have them clinging to our National banner, only to dishonor and trample upon it. Now is the time to be free—to strike blows that will kill slavery and rebellion and send the “star spangled banner” over the seas, the undisputed emblem of free institutions and of free men. We lost heavy in the old regiment on the late raid. In the engagement at Stony Creek, Va., 300 went to the front, 41 still remain there without mark or monument, and over one hundred are crippled from wounds received that night. Co. G has 17 men all told. The Regiment 175—showing a loss of over 600 since we crossed the Rapidan May 4th. But few are now alive and well who came with me in the 2nd Ohio three years since. I have seen men fall like chaff, walked through death and remain unharmed. To me there is something horrible in this safe keeping—something unaccountable and do what I will with mind and brain, I cannot solve the mystery. I would the charm could be dispelled. While in the Wilderness I assisted to bury an unknown Union soldier. The enclosed photograph was probably of him. It was in a Catholic Prayer Book and was laying near his hand. Nearly two weeks had then elapsed since the battle in which he was killed near Chancellorsville and his flesh had decayed and we could not recognize his features. Thousands are still unburied in those wilds. Men when wounded crawled into the brush to die and were never found. In the hurry of events, the battlefields were often neglected. The ground fought over by Sedgwick’s Corps on the 5th of May I rode over on the 9th and they were then just collecting the dead and wounded. Four days had then elapsed since the day of the battle. This is “glorious war.” Harpers [Weekly] came to hand the same mail with your letter. Thanks, Lizzie. I shall read it with much pleasure and ofttimes think of my unknown friend, and wonder how she succeeds in her efforts to teach the young “idea to shoot.” I hope you will have more promising scholars than I was. Fishlines and kites were the most of studies—very nice things for a boy—but now—I can only look back and see what I might have been—know what I am. I have a collection of leaves, gathered while on the rear of Meade’s Army; in the neighborhood of Petersburgh; and on the Wilson raid. Will send them to you in my next. Some of these long summer evenings when you are looking over your albums, won’t you detach a pair of photos and send them down in Old Virginia? Farewell. I must report to my post and enjoy two hours of time in the most amusing of all sports—picketing the outpost within rifle range of the rebel lines. With many well wishes to you both,— Lucy & Martha, I remain as ever yours truly, Robt. N. Traver
Cdv of Robert N. Traver. (Courtesy of John Gurnish)
William J. Griffing has worked at the Department of Labor and the Department of Energy, and later as the ES&H Director at the National Renewable Energy Laboratory and Fermi National Accelerator Laboratory. Since his retirement in 2010, he has focused on preserving American history, mainly Civil War letters and diaries that remain unpublished in private collections. His transcribed Civil War soldier and sailor letters are found at: https://tinyurl. com/sparedshared. Updates on newly transcribed letters are available at: facebook.com/Griff.CWLetters. In 2024, he coedited a book titled A Great and Good Man with Jonathan A. White, which includes rare first-hand accounts of Abraham Lincoln, drawn primarily from about 15,000 letters he has transcribed since retiring.
Photographs from the Original Article
Captions and credits appear in the article text as originally printed.