Chapter 4
The blacks, in their infant pupilage to freedom, appeal to the sympathies of every humane mind. The paternal guardianship which for the interval government exercises over them was prompted equally by duty and benevolence. Yet such kindliness should not be allowed to exclude kindliness to communities who stand nearer to us in nature. For the future of the freed slaves we may well be concerned; but the future of the whole country, involving the future of the blacks, urges a paramount claim upon our anxiety. Effective benignity, like the Nile, is not narrow in its bounty, and true policy is always broad. To be sure, it is vain to seek to glide, with moulded words, over the difficulties of the situation. And for them who are neither partisans, nor enthusiasts, nor theorists, nor cynics, there are some doubts not readily to be solved. And there are fears. Why is not the cessation of war now at length attended with the settled calm of peace? Wherefore in a clear sky do we still turn our eyes toward the South as the Neapolitan, months after the eruption, turns his toward Vesuvius? Do we dread lest the repose may be deceptive? In the recent convulsion has the crater but shifted Let us revere that sacred uncertainty which forever impends over men and nations. Those of us who always abhorred slavery as an atheistical iniquity, gladly we join in the exulting chorus of humanity over its downfall. But we should remember that emancipation was accomplished not by deliberate legislation; only through agonized violence could so mighty a result be effected. In our natural solicitude to confirm the benefit of liberty to the blacks, let us forbear from measures of dubious constitutional rightfulness toward our white countrymen—measures of a nature to provoke, among other of the last evils, exterminating hatred of race toward race. In imagination let us place ourselves in the unprecedented position of the Southerners—their position as regards the millions of ignorant manumitted slaves in their midst, for whom some of us now claim the suffrage. Let us be Christians toward our fellow-whites, as well as philanthropists toward the blacks, our fellow-men. In all things, and toward all, we are enjoined to do as we would be done by. Nor should we forget that benevolent desires, after passing a certain point, can not undertake their own fulfillment without incurring the risk of evils beyond those sought to be remedied. Something may well be left to the graduated care of future legislation, and to heaven. In one point of view the co-existence of the two races in the South, whether the negro be bond or free, seems (even as it did to Abraham Lincoln) a grave evil. Emancipation has ridded the country of the reproach, but not wholly of the calamity. Especially in the present transition period for both races in the South, more or less of trouble may not unreasonably be anticipated; but let us not hereafter be too swift to charge the blame exclusively in any one quarter. With certain evils men must be more or less patient. Our institutions have a potent digestion, and may in time convert and assimilate to good all elements thrown in, however originally alien.
But, so far as immediate measures looking toward permanent Re- establishment are concerned, no consideration should tempt us to pervert the national victory into oppression for the vanquished. Should plausible promise of eventual good, or a deceptive or spurious sense of duty, lead us to essay this, count we must on serious consequences, not the least of which would be divisions among the Northern adherents of the Union. Assuredly, if any honest Catos there be who thus far have gone with us, no longer will they do so, but oppose us, and as resolutely as hitherto they have supported. But this path of thought leads toward those waters of bitterness from which one can only turn aside and be silent.
But supposing Re-establishment so far advanced that the Southern seats in Congress are occupied, and by men qualified in accordance with those cardinal principles of representative government which hitherto have prevailed in the land—what then? Why, the Congressmen elected by the people of the South will—represent the people of the South. This may seem a flat conclusion; but, in view of the last five years, may there not be latent significance in it? What will be the temper of those Southern members? and, confronted by them, what will be the mood of our own representatives? In private life true reconciliation seldom follows a violent quarrel; but, if subsequent intercourse be unavoidable, nice observances and mutual are indispensable to the prevention of a new rupture. Amity itself can only be maintained by reciprocal respect, and true friends are punctilious equals. On the floor of Congress North and South are to come together after a passionate duel, in which the South, though proving her valor, has been made to bite the dust. Upon differences in debate shall acrimonious recriminations be exchanged? Shall censorious superiority assumed by one section provoke defiant self-assertion on the other? Shall Manassas and Chickamauga be retorted for Chattanooga and Richmond? Under the supposition that the full Congress will be composed of gentlemen, all this is impossible. Yet, if otherwise, it needs no prophet of Israel to foretell the end. The maintenance of Congressional decency in the future will rest mainly with the North. Rightly will more forbearance be required from the North than the South, for the North is victor.
But some there are who may deem these latter thoughts inapplicable, and for this reason: Since the test-oath operatively excludes from Congress all who in any way participated in Secession, therefore none but Southerners wholly in harmony with the North are eligible to seats. This is true for the time being. But the oath is alterable; and in the wonted fluctuations of parties not improbably it will undergo alteration, assuming such a form, perhaps, as not to bar the admission into the National Legislature of men who represent the populations lately in revolt. Such a result would involve no violation of the principles of democratic government. Not readily can one perceive how the political existence of the millions of late Secessionists can permanently be ignored by this Republic. The years of the war tried our devotion to the Union; the time of peace may test the sincerity of our faith in democracy.
In no spirit of opposition, not by way of challenge, is anything here thrown out. These thoughts are sincere ones; they seem natural— inevitable. Here and there they must have suggested themselves to many thoughtful patriots. And, if they be just thoughts, ere long they must have that weight with the public which already they have had with individuals.
For that heroic band—those children of the furnace who, in regions like Texas and Tennessee, maintained their fidelity through terrible trials—we of the North felt for them, and profoundly we honor them. Yet passionate sympathy, with resentments so close as to be almost domestic in their bitterness, would hardly in the present juncture tend to discreet legislation. Were the Unionists and Secessionists but as Guelphs and Ghibellines? If not, then far be it from a great nation now to act in the spirit that animated a triumphant town-faction in the Middle Ages. But crowding thoughts must at last be checked; and, in times like the present, one who desires to be impartially just in the expression of his views, moves as among sword-points presented on every side.
Let us pray that the terrible historic tragedy of our time may not have been enacted without instructing our whole beloved country through terror and pity; and may fulfillment verify in the end those expectations which kindle the bards of Progress and Humanity.
POEMS FROM BATTLE PIECES
THE PORTENT
1859
Hanging from the beam, Slowly swaying (such the law), Gaunt the shadow on your green, Shenandoah! The cut is on the crown (Lo, John Brown), And the stabs shall heal no more.
Hidden in the cap Is the anguish none can draw; So your future veils its face, Shenandoah! But the streaming beard is shown (Weird John Brown), The meteor of the war.
FROM THE CONFLICT OF CONVICTIONS
1860-1
The Ancient of Days forever is young, Forever the scheme of Nature thrives; I know a wind in purpose strong— It spins _against_ the way it drives. What if the gulfs their slimed foundations bare? So deep must the stones be hurled Whereon the throes of ages rear The final empire and the happier world.
Power unanointed may come— Dominion (unsought by the free) And the Iron Dome, Stronger for stress and strain, Fling her huge shadow athwart the main; But the Founders’ dream shall flee. Age after age has been, (From man’s changeless heart their way they win); And death be busy with all who strive— Death, with silent negative.
_Yea and Nay—_ _Each hath his say;_ _But God He keeps the middle way._ _None was by_ _When He spread the sky;_ _Wisdom is vain, and prophecy._
THE MARCH INTO VIRGINIA
_Ending in the First Manassas_ July, 1861
Did all the lets and bars appear To every just or larger end, Whence should come the trust and cheer? Youth must its ignorant impulse lend— Age finds place in the rear. All wars are boyish, and are fought by boys, The champions and enthusiasts of the state: Turbid ardors and vain joys Not barrenly abate— Stimulants to the power mature, Preparatives of fate.
Who here forecasteth the event? What heart but spurns at precedent And warnings of the wise, Contemned foreclosures of surprise? The banners play, the bugles call, The air is blue and prodigal. No berrying party, pleasure-wooed, No picnic party in the May, Ever went less loth than they Into that leafy neighborhood. In Bacchic glee they file toward Fate, Moloch’s uninitiate; Expectancy, and glad surmise Of battle’s unknown mysteries. All they feel is this: ’t is glory, A rapture sharp, though transitory, Yet lasting in belaureled story. So they gayly go to fight, Chatting left and laughing right.
But some who this blithe mood present, As on in lightsome files they fare, Shall die experienced ere three days are spent— Perish, enlightened by the vollied glare; Or shame survive, and, like to adamant, The throe of Second Manassas share.
BALL’S BLUFF
_A Reverie_ October, 1861
One noonday, at my window in the town, I saw a sight—saddest that eyes can see— Young soldiers marching lustily Unto the wars, With fifes, and flags in mottoed pageantry; While all the porches, walks, and doors Were rich with ladies cheering royally.
They moved like Juny morning on the wave, Their hearts were fresh as clover in its prime (It was the breezy summer time), Life throbbed so strong, How should they dream that Death in a rosy clime Would come to thin their shining throng? Youth feels immortal, like the gods sublime.
Weeks passed; and at my window, leaving bed, By night I mused, of easeful sleep bereft, On those ‘brave boys (Ah War! thy theft); Some marching feet Found pause at last by cliffs Potomac cleft; Wakeful I mused, while in the street Far footfalls died away till none were left.
THE STONE FLEET
_An Old Sailor’s Lament_ December, 1861
I have a feeling for those ships, Each worn and ancient one, With great bluff bows, and broad in the beam: Ay, it was unkindly done. But so they serve the Obsolete— Even so, Stone Fleet!
You’ll say I’m doting; do you think I scudded round the Horn in one— The _Tenedos,_ a glorious Good old craft as ever run— Sunk (how all unmeet!) With the Old Stone Fleet.
An India ship of fame was she, Spices and shawls and fans she bore; A whaler when the wrinkles came— Turned off! till, spent and poor, Her bones were sold (escheat)! Ah! Stone Fleet.
Four were erst patrician keels (Names attest what families be), The _Kensington,_ and _Richmond_ too, _Leonidas,_ and _Lee_: But now they have their seat With the Old Stone Fleet.
To scuttle them—a pirate deed— Sack them, and dismast; They sunk so slow, they died so hard, But gurgling dropped at last. Their ghosts in gales repeat _Woe’s us, Stone Fleet!_
And all for naught. The waters pass— Currents will have their way; Nature is nobody’s ally; ’tis well; The harbor is bettered—will stay. A failure, and complete, Was your Old Stone Fleet.
THE TEMERAIRE
_Supposed to have been suggested to an Englishman of the old order by the fight of the Monitor and Merrimac_
The gloomy hulls in armor grim, Like clouds o’er moors have met, And prove that oak, and iron, and man Are tough in fibre yet.
But Splendors wane. The sea-fight yields No front of old display; The garniture, emblazonment, And heraldry all decay.
Towering afar in parting light, The fleets like Albion’s forelands shine— The full-sailed fleets, the shrouded show Of Ships-of-the-Line.
The fighting _Temeraire,_ Built of a thousand trees, Lunging out her lightnings, And beetling o’er the seas— O Ship, how brave and fair, That fought so oft and well,
On open decks you manned the gun Armorial. What cheerings did you share, Impulsive in the van, When down upon leagued France and Spain We English ran— The freshet at your bowsprit Like the foam upon the can. Bickering, your colors Licked up the Spanish air, You flapped with flames of battle-flags— Your challenge, _Temeraire!_ The rear ones of our fleet They yearned to share your place, Still vying with the Victory Throughout that earnest race— The Victory, whose Admiral, With orders nobly won, Shone in the globe of the battle glow— The angel in that sun. Parallel in story, Lo, the stately pair, As late in grapple ranging, The foe between them there— When four great hulls lay tiered, And the fiery tempest cleared, And your prizes twain appeared, _Temeraire!_
But Trafalgar is over now, The quarter-deck undone; The carved and castled navies fire Their evening-gun. O, Titan _Temeraire,_ Your stern-lights fade away; Your bulwarks to the years must yield, And heart-of-oak decay. A pigmy steam-tug tows you, Gigantic, to the shore— Dismantled of your guns and spars, And sweeping wings of war. The rivets clinch the iron clads, Men learn a deadlier lore; But Fame has nailed your battle-flags— Your ghost it sails before: O, the navies old and oaken, O, the _Temeraire_ no more!
A UTILITARIAN VIEW OF THE _MONITOR’S_ FIGHT
Plain be the phrase, yet apt the verse, More ponderous than nimble; For since grimed War here laid aside His Orient pomp, ’twould ill befit Overmuch to ply The rhyme’s barbaric cymbal.
Hail to victory without the gaud Of glory; zeal that needs no fans Of banners; plain mechanic power Plied cogently in War now placed— Where War belongs— Among the trades and artisans.
Yet this was battle, and intense— Beyond the strife of fleets heroic; Deadlier, closer, calm ’mid storm; No passion; all went on by crank, Pivot, and screw, And calculations of caloric.
Needless to dwell; the story’s known. The ringing of those plates on plates Still ringeth round the world— The clangor of that blacksmiths’ fray. The anvil-din Resounds this message from the Fates:
War shall yet be, and to the end; But war-paint shows the streaks of weather; War yet shall be, but warriors Are now but operatives; War’s made Less grand than Peace, And a singe runs through lace and feather.
MALVERN HILL
July, 1862
Ye elms that wave on Malvern Hill In prime of morn and May, Recall ye how McClellan’s men Here stood at bay? While deep within yon forest dim Our rigid comrades lay— Some with the cartridge in their mouth, Others with fixed arms lifted South— Invoking so— The cypress glades? Ah wilds of woe!
The spires of Richmond, late beheld Through rifts in musket-haze, Were closed from view in clouds of dust On leaf-walled ways, Where streamed our wagons in caravan; And the Seven Nights and Days Of march and fast, retreat and fight, Pinched our grimed faces to ghastly plight— Does the elm wood Recall the haggard beards of blood?
The battle-smoked flag, with stars eclipsed, We followed (it never fell!)— In silence husbanded our strength— Received their yell; Till on this slope we patient turned With cannon ordered well; Reverse we proved was not defeat; But ah, the sod what thousands meet!— Does Malvern Wood Bethink itself, and muse and brood? _We elms of Malvern Hill_ _Remember everything;_ _But sap the twig will fill:_ _Wag the world how it will,_ _Leaves must be green in Spring._
STONEWALL JACKSON
_Mortally wounded at Chancellorsville_ May, 1863
The Man who fiercest charged in fight, Whose sword and prayer were long— Stonewall! Even him who stoutly stood for Wrong, How can we praise? Yet coming days Shall not forget him with this song.
Dead is the Man whose Cause is dead, Vainly he died and set his seal— Stonewall! Earnest in error, as we feel; True to the thing he deemed was due, True as John Brown or steel.
Relentlessly he routed us; But _we_ relent, for he is low— Stonewall! Justly his fame we outlaw; so We drop a tear on the bold Virginian’s bier, Because no wreath we owe.
THE HOUSE-TOP
July, 1863 _A Night Piece_
No sleep. The sultriness pervades the air And binds the brain—a dense oppression, such As tawny tigers feel in matted shades, Vexing their blood and making apt for ravage. Beneath the stars the roofy desert spreads Vacant as Libya. All is hushed near by. Yet fitfully from far breaks a mixed surf Of muffled sound, the Atheist roar of riot. Yonder, where parching Sirius set in drought, Balefully glares red Arson—there—and there. The Town is taken by its rats—ship-rats And rats of the wharves. All civil charms And priestly spells which late held hearts in awe— Fear-bound, subjected to a better sway Than sway of self; these like a dream dissolve, And man rebounds whole aeons back in nature. Hail to the low dull rumble, dull and dead, And ponderous drag that shakes the wall. Wise Draco comes, deep in the midnight roll Of black artillery; he comes, though late; In code corroborating Calvin’s creed And cynic tyrannies of honest kings; He comes, nor parlies; and the Town, redeemed, Gives thanks devout; nor, being thankful, heeds The grimy slur on the Republic’s faith implied, Which holds that Man is naturally good, And—more—is Nature’s Roman, never to be scourged.
CHATTANOOGA
November, 1863
A kindling impulse seized the host Inspired by heaven’s elastic air; Their hearts outran their General’s plan, Though Grant commanded there— Grant, who without reserve can dare; And, “Well, go on and do your will,” He said, and measured the mountain then: So master-riders fling the rein— But you must know your men.
On yester-morn in grayish mist, Armies like ghosts on hills had fought, And rolled from the cloud their thunders loud The Cumberlands far had caught: To-day the sunlit steeps are sought. Grant stood on cliffs whence all was plain, And smoked as one who feels no cares; But mastered nervousness intense Alone such calmness wears.
The summit-cannon plunge their flame Sheer down the primal wall, But up and up each linking troop In stretching festoons crawl— Nor fire a shot. Such men appall The foe, though brave. He, from the brink, Looks far along the breadth of slope, And sees two miles of dark dots creep, And knows they mean the cope.
He sees them creep. Yet here and there Half hid ’mid leafless groves they go; As men who ply through traceries high Of turreted marbles show— So dwindle these to eyes below. But fronting shot and flanking shell Sliver and rive the inwoven ways; High tops of oaks and high hearts fall, But never the climbing stays.
From right to left, from left to right They roll the rallying cheer— Vie with each other, brother with brother, Who shall the first appear— What color-bearer with colors clear In sharp relief, like sky-drawn Grant, Whose cigar must now be near the stump— While in solicitude his back Heaps slowly to a hump.
Near and more near; till now the flags Run like a catching flame; And one flares highest, to peril nighest— _He_ means to make a name: Salvos! they give him his fame. The staff is caught, and next the rush, And then the leap where death has led; Flag answered flag along the crest, And swarms of rebels fled.
But some who gained the envied Alp, And—eager, ardent, earnest there— Dropped into Death’s wide-open arms, Quelled on the wing like eagles struck in air— Forever they slumber young and fair, The smile upon them as they died; Their end attained, that end a height: Life was to these a dream fulfilled, And death a starry night.
ON THE PHOTOGRAPH OF A CORPS COMMANDER
Ay, man is manly. Here you see The warrior-carriage of the head, And brave dilation of the frame; And lighting all, the soul that led In Spottsylvania’s charge to victory, Which justifies his fame.
A cheering picture. It is good To look upon a Chief like this, In whom the spirit moulds the form. Here favoring Nature, oft remiss, With eagle mien expressive has endued A man to kindle strains that warm.
Trace back his lineage, and his sires, Yeoman or noble, you shall find Enrolled with men of Agincourt, Heroes who shared great Harry’s mind. Down to us come the knightly Norman fires, And front the Templars bore.
Nothing can lift the heart of man Like manhood in a fellow-man. The thought of heaven’s great King afar But humbles us—too weak to scan; But manly greatness men can span, And feel the bonds that draw.
THE SWAMP ANGEL
There is a coal-black Angel With a thick Afric lip, And he dwells (like the hunted and harried) In a swamp where the green frogs dip. But his face is against a City Which is over a bay of the sea, And he breathes with a breath that is blastment, And dooms by a far decree.
By night there is fear in the City, Through the darkness a star soareth on; There’s a scream that screams up to the zenith, Then the poise of a meteor lone— Lighting far the pale fright of the faces, And downward the coming is seen; Then the rush, and the burst, and the havoc, And wails and shrieks between.
It comes like the thief in the gloaming; It comes, and none may foretell The place of the coming—the glaring; They live in a sleepless spell That wizens, and withers, and whitens; It ages the young, and the bloom Of the maiden is ashes of roses— The Swamp Angel broods in his gloom.
Swift is his messengers’ going, But slowly he saps their halls, As if by delay deluding. They move from their crumbling walls Farther and farther away; But the Angel sends after and after, By night with the flame of his ray— By night with the voice of his screaming— Sends after them, stone by stone, And farther walls fall, farther portals, And weed follows weed through the Town.
Is this the proud City? the scorner Which never would yield the ground? Which mocked at the coal-black Angel? The cup of despair goes round. Vainly he calls upon Michael (The white man’s seraph was he,) For Michael has fled from his tower To the Angel over the sea. Who weeps for the woeful City Let him weep for our guilty kind; Who joys at her wild despairing— Christ, the Forgiver, convert his mind.
SHERIDAN AT CEDAR CREEK