Outside the Blue and Gray

OUTSIDE THE BLUE AND GRAY Writings from the American Civil War

Copyright © 2016 by Movement Publishing All rights reserved Manufactured in the United States of America Managing Editor: Clara Edwards Acquisitions Editor: Logann Epley Copyeditor: Taylor Garrison Marketing Director: CaSondra Poulsen Design Director: Nick Wilkinson

Cover art based on Frederic Edwin Church’s “Our Banner In The Sky” 1861.

Contents Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . v Commoners Beat! Beat! Drums! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2

Walt Whitman XVI - To Fight Aloud is Very Brave . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3

Emily Dickenson XXII - I Had No Time to Hate . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3

Emily Dickenson XXXV - Emancipation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4

Emily Dickenson Barbara Frietchie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5

John Greenleaf Whittier The Watchers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8

John Greenleaf Whittier Family A Mother’s Wail . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12

Henry Timrod

Come Up From the Fields, Father . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14

Walt Whitman Mother and Babe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15

Walt Whitman A True Story, Repeated Word For Word As I Heard It . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16

Mark Twain Little Giffen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21

Francis Orray Ticknor Youth and Manhood . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22

Henry Timrod Little Women Chp. 2 “Merry Christmas” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24

Louisa May Alcott Nature What the Birds Said . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34

John Greenleaf Whittier When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36

Walt Whitman XVI - Refuge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44

Emily Dickenson XXVII - If I Should Die . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44

Emily Dickenson Too Long, O’ Spirit of Storm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45

Henry Timrod Look Down Fair Moon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46

Walt Whitman

The Blue and the Gray . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47

Francis Miles Finch Aurora-Borealis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49

Herman Melville Medics The Lady Nurse of Ward E. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52

Amanda Akin Stearns A Cold in the Head . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58

F. J. E. W. Hospital Duties . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59

Author Unknown The Wound Dresser . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61

Walt Whitman Politics & Religion Brother Jonathan’s Lament for Sister Caroline . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66

Oliver Wendell Holmes Over the Carnage Rose a Prophetic Voice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68

Walt Whitman A Word for the Hour . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70

John Greenleaf Whittier The Moral Warfare . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71

John Greenleaf Whittier Ethogenesis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72

Henry Timrod

Christmas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76

Henry Timrod XXXVI - Farewell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .78

Emily Dickenson Battle Hymn of the Republic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79

Julia Ward Howe Author Biographies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81 Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93 Timeline . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95 About Us . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96

INTRODUCTION From the first battle at Ft. Sumter in April 1861, the competing armies of the United States, dressed in navy blue uniforms, faced off with the Confederate States, dressed in gray. The fighting went on until Confederate General Robert E. Lee surrendered in June 1865. Although we honor the memory of veterans who died in that conflict, we want to go beyond the stories of soldiers.

Through the poems, short stories, and first-hand accounts included in this anthology, everyone can understand the bigger picture of life during the most damaging war in United States’ history. While the conflict tore through city and countryside alike, common folk were left to pick up the pieces.

Nature was torn up by the movement of armies, but remained a symbol for hope and regrowth in a nation maimed by war. Political and religious leaders tried to make sense of war, praying the carnage would be worth the sacrifice. The war impacted not just the soldiers, but their wives, mothers, children, and their surrounding communities. We hope that by sharing the perspective of the outsiders that their stories will enrich an understanding of the Civil War, and provide a more dimensional look at the conflict.

INTRODUCTION v

COMMONERS

The battlefield of the Civil War was a soldier’s own backyard. Soldiers were marching to battles from New Mexico to Florida, from Pennsylvania to the Texas panhandle and up and down the Mississippi River. Shots were fired in towns, forests, and the open and flat battlefields usually associated with warfare. The pervasiveness of the conflict left no one unaffected. Citizens heard the beat of the drums marching through town.

They watched the smoke rise from canon fire on the battlefield just miles away. They saw the carnage and the wounded soldiers after the fighting was over. And they were left to repair their homes after battle tore their community apart.

From the pens of Walt Whitman, Emily Dickenson, and John Greenleaf Whittier come accounts of poetry from the perspective of those who saw the fight in their lives as a common citizen.

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

“BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS!” Walt Whitman BEAT! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow!

Through the windows—through doors—burst like a ruthless force, Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation, Into the school where the scholar is studying; Leave not the bridegroom quiet—no happiness must he have now with his bride, Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering his grain, So fierce you whirr and pound you drums—so shrill you bugles blow.

Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow!

Over the traffic of cities—over the rumble of wheels in the streets; Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? no sleepers must sleep in those beds, No bargainers’ bargains by day—no brokers or speculators— would they continue?

Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing?

Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge?

Then rattle quicker, heavier drums—you bugles wilder blow.

Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow!

Make no parley—stop for no expostulation, Mind not the timid—mind not the weeper or prayer, Mind not the old man beseeching the young man, Let not the child’s voice be heard, nor the mother’s entreaties, Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the hearses, So strong you thump O terrible drums—so loud you bugles blow.

2 WHITMAN

Commoners

“XVI - TO FIGHT ALOUD IS VERY BRAVE” Emily Dickenson To fight aloud is very brave, But gallanter, I know, Who charge within the bosom, The cavalry of woe.

Who win, and nations do not see, Who fall, and none observe, Whose dying eyes no country Regards with patriot love.

We trust, in plumed procession, For such the angels go, Rank after rank, with even feet And uniforms of snow.

“XXII - I HAD NO TIME TO HATE” Emily Dickenson I had no time to hate, because The grave would hinder me, And life was not so ample I Could finish enmity.

Nor had I time to love; but since Some industry must be, The little toil of love, I thought, Was large enough for me.

DICKENSON 3

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

“XXXV - EMANCIPATION” Emily Dickenson No rack can torture me, My soul’s at liberty Behind this mortal bone There knits a bolder one You cannot prick with saw, Nor rend with scymitar.

Two bodies therefore be; Bind one, and one will flee.

The eagle of his nest No easier divest And gain the sky, Than mayest thou, Except thyself may be Thine enemy; Captivity is consciousness, So’s liberty.

4 DICKENSON

Commoners

“BARBARA FRIETCHIE” John Greenleaf Whittier Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep, Apple- and peach-tree fruited deep, Fair as a garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, On that pleasant morn of the early fall When Lee marched over the mountain wall,— Over the mountains winding down, Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars, Flapped in the morning wind: the sun Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down;

WHITTIER 5

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat left and right He glanced: the old flag met his sight.

“Halt!”— the dust-brown ranks stood fast.

“Fire!”— out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf; She leaned far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will.

“Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country’s flag,” she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came; The nobler nature within him stirred To life at that woman’s deed and word: “Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog! March on!” he said.

All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet:

6 WHITTIER

Commoners

All day long that free flag tost Over the heads of the rebel host.

Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well; And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie’s work is o’er, And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.

Honor to her! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall’s bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie’s grave Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!

Peace and order and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law; And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below in Frederick town!

WHITTIER 7

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

“THE WATCHERS” John Greenleaf Whittier BESIDE a stricken field I stood; On the torn turf, on grass and wood, Hung heavily the dew of blood.

Still in their fresh mounds lay the slain, But all the air was quick with pain And gusty sighs and tearful rain.

Two angels, each with drooping head And folded wings and noiseless tread, Watched by that valley of the dead.

The one, with forehead saintly bland And lips of blessing, not command, Leaned, weeping, on her olive wand.

The other’s brows were scarred and knit, His restless eyes were watch-fires lit, His hands for battle-gauntlets fit.

“How long!”--I knew the voice of Peace,-“Is there no respite? no release?

When shall the hopeless quarrel cease?

“O Lord, how long!! One human soul Is more than any parchment scroll, Or any flag thy winds unroll.

“What price was Ellsworth’s, young and brave?

How weigh the gift that Lyon gave, Or count the cost of Winthrop’s grave?

“O brother! if thine eye can see, Tell how and when the end shall be, What hope remains for thee and me.”

Then Freedom sternly said: “I shun No strife nor pang beneath the sun, When human rights are staked and won.

“I knelt with Ziska’s hunted flock, 8 WHITTIER

Commoners

I watched in Toussaint’s cell of rock, I walked with Sidney to the block.

“The moor of Marston felt my tread, Through Jersey snows the march I led, My voice Magenta’s charges sped.

“But now, through weary day and night, I watch a vague and aimless fight For leave to strike one blow aright.

“On either side my foe they own One guards through love his ghastly throne, And one through fear to reverence grown.

“Why wait we longer, mocked, betrayed, By open foes, or those afraid To speed thy coming through my aid?

“Why watch to see who win or fall?

I shake the dust against them all, I leave them to their senseless brawl.”

“Nay,” Peace implored: “yet longer wait; The doom is near, the stake is great God knoweth if it be too late.

“Still wait and watch; the way prepare Where I with folded wings of prayer May follow, weaponless and bare.”

“Too late!” the stern, sad voice replied, “Too late!” its mournful echo sighed, In low lament the answer died.

A rustling as of wings in flight, An upward gleam of lessening white, So passed the vision, sound and sight.

But round me, like a silver bell Rung down the listening sky to tell Of holy help, a sweet voice fell.

“Still hope and trust,” it sang; “the rod Must fall, the wine-press must be trod, But all is possible with God!” WHITTIER 9

FAMILY

The bond between family members is one of the strongest in the world but, through times of great hardship, these bonds can be broken by conflict and death.

During the American Civil War, 620,000 soldiers perished, and each mother had reason to morn her child. Even if her son did not die in the war, it was still difficult for many mothers to let their sons go. Mothers of soldiers gave up their sons fighting for beliefs and rights that they held, and Children of soldiers waited for letters from their fathers who might never see them grow up.

Henry Timrod and Walt Whitman and Mark Twain share the stories about great mothers during the Civil War, through peace as well as hardship. Francis Orray Ticknor’s poem and a chapter from Louisa May Alcott’s novel demonstrate how children were affected by the conflict and absence of male figures.

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

“A MOTHER’S WAIL” Henry Timrod My babe! my tiny babe! my only babe!

My single rose-bud in a crown of thorns!

My lamp that in that narrow hut of life, Whence I looked forth upon a night of storm!

Burned with the lustre of the moon and stars!

My babe! my tiny babe! my only babe!

Behold the bud is gone! the thorns remain!

My lamp hath fallen from its niche—ah, me!

Earth drinks the fragrant flame, and I am left Forever and forever in the dark!

My babe! my babe! my own and only babe!

Where art thou now?

If somewhere in the sky An angel hold thee in his radiant arms, I challenge him to clasp thy tender form With half the fervor of a mother’s love!

Forgive me, Lord! forgive my reckless grief!

Forgive me that this rebel, selfish heart Would almost make me jealous for my child, Though thy own lap enthroned him. Lord, thou hast So many such! I have—ah! had but one!

O yet once more, my babe, to hear thy cry!

O yet once more, my babe, to see thy smile!

O yet once more to feel against my breast Those cool, soft hands, that warm, wet, eager mouth, With the sweet sharpness of its budding pearls!

12 TIMROD

Family

But it must never, never more be mine To mark the growing meaning in thine eyes, To watch thy soul unfolding leaf by leaf, Or catch, with ever fresh surprise and joy, Thy dawning recognitions of the world.

Three different shadows of thyself, my babe, Change with each other while I weep. The first, The sweetest, yet the not least fraught with pain, Clings like my living boy around my neck, Or purrs and murmurs softly at my feet!

Another is a little mound of earth; That comes the oftenest, darling! In my dreams, I see it beaten by the midnight rain, Or chilled beneath the moon.

Ah! what a couch For that which I have shielded from a breath That would not stir the violets on thy grave!

The third, my precious babe! the third, O Lord!

Is a fair cherub face beyond the stars, Wearing the roses of a mystic bliss, Yet sometimes not unsaddened by a glance Turned earthward on a mother in her woe!

This is the vision, Lord, that I would keep Before me always. But, alas! as yet, It is the dimmest and the rarest, too!

O touch my sight, or break the cloudy bars That hide it, lest I madden where I kneel!

TIMROD 13

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

“COME UP FROM THE FIELDS, FATHER” Walt Whitman COME up from the fields father, here’s a letter from our Pete, And come to the front door mother, here’s a letter from thy dear son.

Lo, ‘tis autumn, Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder, Cool and sweeten Ohio’s villages with leaves fluttering in the moderate wind, Where apples ripe in the orchards hang and grapes on the trellis’d vines, (Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines?

Smell you the buckwheat where the bees were lately buzzing?)

Above all, lo, the sky so calm, so transparent after the rain, and with wondrous clouds, Below too, all calm, all vital and beautiful, and the farm prospers well.

Down in the fields all prospers well, But now from the fields come father, come at the daughter’s call, And come to the entry mother, to the front door come right away.

Fast as she can she hurries, something ominous, her steps trembling, She does not tarry to smooth her hair nor adjust her cap.

Open the envelope quickly, O this is not our son’s writing, yet his name is sign’d, O a strange hand writes for our dear son, O stricken mother’s soul!

All swims before her eyes, flashes with black, she catches the main words only, Sentences broken, gunshot wound in the breast, cavalry skirmish, taken to hospital, At present low, but will soon be better.

14 WHITMAN

Family

Ah now the single figure to me, Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio with all its cities and farms, Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very faint, By the jamb of a door leans.

Grieve not so, dear mother, (the just-grown daughter speaks through her sobs, The little sisters huddle around speechless and dismay’d,) See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better.

Alas poor boy, he will never be better, (nor may-be needs to be better, that brave and simple soul,) While they stand at home at the door he is dead already, The only son is dead.

But the mother needs to be better, She with thin form presently drest in black, By day her meals untouch’d, then at night fitfully sleeping, often waking, In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep longing, O that she might withdraw unnoticed, silent from life escape and withdraw, To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son.

“MOTHER AND BABE” Walt Whitman I SEE the sleeping babe, nestling the breast of its mother; The sleeping mother and babe—hush’d, I study them long and long.

WHITMAN 15

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

“A TRUE STORY, REPEATED WORD FOR WORD AS I HEARD IT” Mark Twain IT was summer time, and twilight. We were sitting on the porch of the farm-house, on the summit of the hill, and “Aunt Rachel” was sitting respectfully below our level, on the steps,--for she was our servant, and colored. She was of mighty frame and stature; she was sixty years old, but her eye was undimmed and her strength unabated. She was a cheerful, hearty soul, and it was no more trouble for her to laugh than it is for a bird to sing. She was under fire, now, as usual when the day was done. That is to say, she was being chaffed without mercy, and was enjoying it. She would let off peal after peal of laughter, and then sit with her face in her hands and shake with throes of enjoyment which she could no longer get breath enough to express. At such a moment as this a thought occurred to me, and I said:-“Aunt Rachel, how is it that you’ve lived sixty years and never had any trouble?”

She stopped quaking. She paused, and there was a moment of silence.

She turned her face over her shoulder toward me, and said, without even a smile in her voice:-“Misto C----, is you in ‘arnest?”

It surprised me a good deal; and it sobered my manner and my speech, too. I said:-“Why, I thought--that is, I meant--why, you can’t have had any trouble.

I’ve never heard you sigh, and never seen your eye when there was n’t a laugh in it.”

She faced fairly around, now, and was full of earnestness.

“Has I had any trouble? Misto C----, I’s gwyne to tell you, den I leave it to you. I was bawn down ‘mongst de slaves; I knows all ‘bout slavery, ‘case I been one of ‘em my own se’f. Well, sah, my ole man--dat’s my husban’--he was lovin’ an’ kind to me, jist as kind as you is to yo’ own wife. An’ we had chil’en--seven chil’en--an’ we loved dem chil’en jist de same as you loves yo’ chil’en. Dey was black, but de Lord can’t make no chil’en so black but what dey mother love ‘em an’ would n’t give ‘em up, no, not for anything dat’s in dis whole world.

16 TWAIN

Family

“Well, sah, I was raised in ole Fo’ginny, but my mother she was raised in Maryland; an’ my souls! she was turrible when she’d git started! My lan’! but she’d make de fur fly! When she’d git into dem tantrums, she always had one word dat she said. She’d straighten herse’f up an’ put her fists in her hips an’ say, ‘I want you to understan’ dat I wa’ n’t bawn in de mash to be fool’ by trash! I’s one o’ de ole Blue Hen’s Chickens, I is!’ ‘Ca’se, you see, dat’s what folks dat’s bawn in Maryland calls deyselves, an’ dey’s proud of it. Well, dat was her word. I don’t ever forgit it, beca’se she said it so much, an’ beca’se she said it one day when my little Henry tore his wris’ awful, an’ most busted his head, right up at de top of his forehead, an’ de niggers did n’t fly aroun’ fas’ enough to ‘tend to him. An’ when dey talk’ back at her, she up an’ she says, ‘Look-a-heah!’ she says, ‘I want you niggers to understan’ dat I wa’ n’t bawn in de mash to be fool’ by trash! I’s one o’ de ole Blue Hen’s Chickens, I is!’ an’ den she clar’ dat kitchen an’ bandage’ up de chile herse’f. So I says dat word, too, when I ‘s riled.

“Well, bymeby my ole mistis say she’s broke, an’ she got to sell all de niggers on de place. An’ when I heah dat dey gwyne to sell us all off at oction in Richmon’, oh de good gracious! I know what dat mean!” Aunt Rachel had gradually risen, while she warmed to her subject, and now she towered above us, black against the stars.

“Dey put chains on us an’ put us on a stan’ as high as dis po’ch,--twenty foot high,--an’ all de people stood around’, crowds an’ crowds, An’ dey ‘d come up dah an’ look at us all roun’, an’ squeeze our arm, an’ make us git up an’ walk, an’ den say, “Dis one too ole,’ or ‘Dis one lame,’ or ‘Dis one don’t ‘mount to much.’ An’ dey sole my ole man, an’ took him away, an’ dey began to sell my chil’en an’ take dem away, an’ I begin to cry; an’ de man say, ‘Shet up yo’ dam blubberin’,’ an’ hit me on de mouf wid his han’. An’ when de las’ one was gone but my little Henry, I grab’ him clost up to my breas’ so, an’ I ris up an’ says, ‘You shan’t take him away,’ I says; ‘I’ll kill de man dat tetches him!’ I says. But my little Henry whisper an’ say, ‘I gwyne to run away, an’ den I work an’ buy yo’ freedom.’ Oh, bless de chile, he always so good! But dey got him--dey got him, de men did; but I took and tear de clo’es mos’ off of ‘em, an’ beat ‘em over de head wid my chain; an’ dey give it to me, too, but I did n’t mine dat.

“Well, dah was my ole man gone, an’ all my chil’en, all my seven chil’en--an’ six of ‘em I hain’t set eyes on ag’in to dis day, an’ dat’s twenty-two year ago las’ Easter. De man dat bought me b’long’ in Newbern, an’ he took me dah. Well, bymeby de years roll on an’ de waw come. My marster he was a Confedrit colonel, an’ I was his family’s cook. So when de Unions

TWAIN 17

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

took dat town, dey all run away an’ lef’ me all by myse’f wid de other niggers in dat mons’us big house. So de big Union officers move in dah, an’ dey ask me would I cook for dem. ‘Lord bless you,’ says I, ‘dat’s what I’s for.’

“Dey wa’ n’t no small-fry officers, mine you, dey was de biggest dey is; an’ de way dey made dem sojers mosey roun’! De Gen’l he tole me to boss dat kitchen; an’ he say, ‘If anybody come meddlin’ wid you, you jist make ‘em walk chalk; don’t you be afeard,’ he say; ‘you’s ‘mong frens, now.’

“Well, I thinks to myse’f, if my little Henry ever got a chance to run away, he’d make to de Norf, o’ course. So one day I comes in dah whah de big officers was, in de parlor, an’ I drops a kurtchy, so, an’ I up an’ tole ‘em ‘bout my Henry, dey a-listenin’ to my troubles jist de same as if I was white folks; an’ I says, ‘What I come for is beca’se if he got away and got up Norf whah you gemmen comes from, you might ‘a’seen him, maybe, an’ could tell me so as I could fine him ag’in; he was very little, an’ he had a sk-yar on his lef’ wris’, an’ at de top of his forehead.’ Den dey look mournful, an’ de Gen’l say, ‘How long sence you los’ him?’ an’ I say, ‘Thirteen year.’ Den de Gen’l say, ‘He would n’t be little no mo’, now--he’s a man!’

“I never thought o’ dat befo’! He was only dat little feller to me, yit. I never thought ‘bout him growin’ up an’ bein’ big. But I see it den. None o’ de gemmen had run acrost him, so dey could n’t do nothin’ for me. But all dat time, do’ I did n’t know it, my Henry was run off to de Norf, years an’ years, an’ he was a barber, too, an’ worked for hisse’f. An’ bymeby, when de waw come, he ups an’ he says, ‘I’s done barberin’,’ he says; ‘I’s gwyne to fine my ole mammy, less’n she’s dead.’ So he sole out an’ went to whah dey was recruitin’, an’ hired hisse’f out to de colonel for his servant; an’ den he went all froo de battles everywhah, huntin’ for his ole mammy; yes indeedy, he’d hire to fust one officer an’ den another, tell he’d ransacked de whole Souf; but you see I did n’t know nuffin ‘bout dis. How was I gwyne to know it?

“Well, one night we had a big sojer ball; de sojers dah at Newbern was always havin’ balls an’ carryin’ on. Dey had ‘em in my kitchen, heaps o’ times, ‘ca’se it was so big. Mine you, I was down on sich doin’s; beca’se my place was wid de officers, an’ it rasp me to have dem common sojers cavortin’ roun’ my kitchen like dat. But I alway’ stood aroun’ an’ kep’ things straight, I did; an’ sometimes dey ‘d git my dander up, an’ den I’d make ‘em clar dat kitchen, mine I tell you!

“Well, one night--it was a Friday night--dey comes a whole plattoon f’m a nigger ridgment dat was on guard at de house,--de house was head-quarters, you know,--an’ den I was jist a-bilin’! Mad? I was jist a-boomin’! I swelled aroun’, an’ swelled aroun’; I jist was a-itchin’ for ‘em to do somefin

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for to start me. An’ dey was a-waltzin’ an a-dancin’! my! but dey was havin’ a time! an’ I jist a-swellin’ an’ a-swellin’ up! Pooty soon, ‘long comes sich a spruce young nigger a-sailin’ down de room wid a yaller wench roun’ de wais’; an’ roun’ an’ roun’ an roun’ dey went, enough to make a body drunk to look at ‘em; an’ when dey got abreas’ o’ me, dey went to kin’ o’ balancin’ aroun’, fust on one leg an’ den on t’other, an’ smilin’ at my big red turban, an’ makin’ fun, an’ I ups an’ says, ‘Gitalong wid you!--rubbage!’ De young man’s face kin’ o’ changed, all of a sudden, for ‘bout a second, but den he went to smilin’ ag’in, same as he was befo’. Well, ‘bout dis time, in comes some niggers dat played music an’ b’long’ to de ban’, an’ dey nevercould git along widout puttin’ on airs. An’ de very fust air dey put on dat night, I lit into ‘em! Dey laughed, an’ dat made me wuss. De res’ o’ de niggers got to laughin’, an’ den my soul alive but I was hot! My eye was jist a-blazin’!

I jist straightened myself up, so,--jist as I is now, plum to de ceilin’, mos’,-an’ I digs my fists into my hips, an’ I says, ‘Look-a-heah!’ I says, “I want you niggers to understan’ dat I wa’ n’t bawn in de mash to be fool’ by trash!

I’s one o’ de ole Blue Hen’s Chickens, I is!’ an’ den I see dat young man stan’ a-starin’ an’ stiff, lookin’ kin’ o’ up at de ceilin’ like he fo’got somefin, an’ could n’t ‘member it no mo’. Well, I jist march’ on dem niggers,--so, lookin’ like a gen’l,--an’ dey jist cave’ away befo’ me an’ out at de do’. An’ as dis young man was a-goin’ out, I heah him say to another nigger, ‘Jim,’ he says, ‘you go ‘long an’ tell do cap’n I be on han’ ‘bout eight o’clock in de mawnin’; dey’s somefin on my mine,’ he says; ‘I don’t sleep no mo’ dis night. You go ‘long,’ he says, ‘ an’ leave me by my own se’f.’

“Dis was ‘bout one o’clock in de mawnin’. Well, ‘bout seven, I was up an’ on han’, gettin’ de officers’ breakfast. I was a-stoopin’ down by de stove,--jist so, same as if yo’ foot was de stove,--an’ I’d opened de stove do wid my right han’,--so, pushin’ it back, jist as I pushes yo’ foot,--an’ I’d jist got de pan o’ hot biscuits in my han’ an’ was ‘bout to raise up, when I see a black face come aroun’ under mine, an’ de eyes a-lookin’ up into mine, jist as I’s a-lookin’ up clost under yo’ face now; an’ I jist stopped right dah, an’ never budged! jist gazed, an’ gazed, so; an’ de pan begin to tremble, an’ all of a sudden I knowed! De pan drop’ on de flo’ an’ I grab his lef’ han’ an’ shove back his sleeve,--jist so, as I’s doin’ to you, an’ den I goes for his forehead an’ push de hair back, so, an’ ‘Boy!’ I says, ‘if you an’t my Henry, what is you doin’ wid dis welt on yo’ wris’ an’ dat sk-yar on yo’ forehead? De Lord God ob heaven be praise’, I got my own ag’in!’

“Oh, no, Misto C----, I hain’t had no trouble. An’ no joy!”

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The First Battle of Bull Run (above), also known as First Manassas, was fought on July 21, 1861 in Prince William County, Virginia, near the city of Manassas, not far from Washington D.C. It was the first major battle of the American Civil War. The Union’s forces were slow in positioning themselves, allowing Confederate reinforcements time to arrive by rail. Each side had about 18,000 poorly trained troops in their first battle. It was a Confederate victory followed by a disorganized retreat of the Union forces.

Thomas Nast’s personal favorite political cartoon (above) and one of his most powerful was drawn just before his 24th birthday. It is a harsh criticism of the dominant influence of Peace Democrats (“Copperheads”) at the Democratic National Convention, which was meeting in Chicago in late August 1864 at the time this cartoon went to press. In this cartoon, the Democratic “Chicago Convention” is viewed as betrayal of everything for which Union soldiers were fighting, as well as a betrayal of black Americans.

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“LITTLE GIFFEN” Francis Orray Ticknor Out of the focal and foremost fire, Out of the hospital walls as dire, Smitten of grape-shot and grangrene, (Eighteenth battle, and he sixteen!)

Spectre! Such as you seldom see, Little Giffen, of Tennessee.”

Take him- and welcome!” the surgeons said;” Little the doctor can help the dead!”

So we took him and brought him where The balm was sweet in the summer air; And we laid him down on a wholesome bedUtter Lazarus, heel to head!

And we watched the war with abated breathSkeleton boy against skeleton death.

Months of torture, how many such!

Weary weeks of the stick and crutch; And still a glint of the steel-blue eye Told of a spirit that wouldn’t die.

And didn’t. Nay, more! In death’s despite The crippled skeleton learned to write.”

Dear Mother,” at first, of course; and then” Dear Captain,” inquiring about the men.

Captain’s answer: “Of eighty-and-five, Giffen and I are left alive.”

Word of gloom from the war, one day; “Johnston pressed at the front, they say.”

Little Giffen was up and away; A tear-his first-as he bade good-by, Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye.

“I’ll write, if spared!” There was news of the fight; But none of Giffen. He did not write.

I sometimes fancy that, were I king Of the princely knights of the Golden Ring, With the song of the minstrel in mine ear, And the tender legend that trembles here, I’d give the best on his bended knee, The whitest soul of my chivalry, For Little Giffen, of Tennessee.

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“YOUTH AND MANHOOD” Henry Timrod Another year! a short one, if it flow Like that just past, And I shall stand—if years can make me so— A man at last.

Yet, while the hours permit me, I would pause And contemplate The lot whereto unalterable laws Have bound my fate.

Yet, from the starry regions of my youth, The empyreal height Where dreams are happiness, and feeling truth, And life delight— From that ethereal and serene abode My soul would gaze Downward upon the wide and winding road, Where manhood plays; Plays with the baubles and the gauds of earth— Wealth, power, and fame— Nor knows that in the twelvemonth after birth He did the same.

Where the descent begins, through long defiles I see them wind; And some are looking down with hopeful smiles, And some are—blind.

And farther on a gay and glorious green Dazzles the sight, While noble forms are moving o’er the scene, Like things of light.

Towers, temples, domes of perfect symmetry Rise broad and high, With pinnacles among the clouds; ah, me!

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None touch the sky.

None pierce the pure and lofty atmosphere Which I breathe now, And the strong spirits that inhabit there, Live—God sees how.

Sick of the very treasure which they heap; Their tearless eyes Sealed ever in a heaven-forgetting sleep, Whose dreams are lies; And so, a motley, unattractive throng, They toil and plod, Dead to the holy ecstasies of song, To love, and God. Dear God! if that I may not keep through life My trust, my truth, And that I must, in yonder endless strife, Lose faith with youth; If the same toil which indurates the hand Must steel the heart, Till, in the wonders of the ideal land, It have no part; Oh! take me hence! I would no longer stay Beneath the sky; Give me to chant one pure and deathless lay, And let me die!

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LITTLE WOMEN (CHAPTER 2: “A MERRY CHRISTMAS”) Louisa May Alcott Jo was the first to wake in the gray dawn of Christmas morning. No stockings hung at the fireplace, and for a moment she felt as much disappointed as she did long ago, when her little sock fell down because it was crammed so full of goodies. Then she remembered her mother’s promise and, slipping her hand under her pillow, drew out a little crimson-covered book. She knew it very well, for it was that beautiful old story of the best life ever lived, and Jo felt that it was a true guidebook for any pilgrim going on a long journey. She woke Meg with a “Merry Christmas,” and bade her see what was under her pillow. A green-covered book appeared, with the same picture inside, and a few words written by their mother, which made their one present very precious in their eyes. Presently Beth and Amy woke to rummage and find their little books also, one dove-colored, the other blue, and all sat looking at and talking about them, while the east grew rosy with the coming day.

In spite of her small vanities, Margaret had a sweet and pious nature, which unconsciously influenced her sisters, especially Jo, who loved her very tenderly, and obeyed her because her advice was so gently given.

“Girls,” said Meg seriously, looking from the tumbled head beside her to the two little night-capped ones in the room beyond, “Mother wants us to read and love and mind these books, and we must begin at once. We used to be faithful about it, but since Father went away and all this war trouble unsettled us, we have neglected many things. You can do as you please, but I shall keep my book on the table here and read a little every morning as soon as I wake, for I know it will do me good and help me through the day.”

Then she opened her new book and began to read. Jo put her arm round her and, leaning cheek to cheek, read also, with the quiet expression so seldom seen on her restless face.

“How good Meg is! Come, Amy, let’s do as they do. I’ll help you with the hard words, and they’ll explain things if we don’t understand,” whispered Beth, very much impressed by the pretty books and her sisters’ example.

“I’m glad mine is blue,” said Amy. and then the rooms were very still while the pages were softly turned, and the winter sunshine crept in to touch the bright heads and serious faces with a Christmas greeting.

“Where is Mother?” asked Meg, as she and Jo ran down to thank her for their gifts, half an hour later.

“Goodness only knows. Some poor creeter came a-beggin’, and your ma

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went straight off to see what was needed. There never was such a woman for givin’ away vittles and drink, clothes and firin’,” replied Hannah, who had lived with the family since Meg was born, and was considered by them all more as a friend than a servant.

“She will be back soon, I think, so fry your cakes, and have everything ready,” said Meg, looking over the presents which were collected in a basket and kept under the sofa, ready to be produced at the proper time. “Why, where is Amy’s bottle of cologne?” she added, as the little flask did not appear.

“She took it out a minute ago, and went off with it to put a ribbon on it, or some such notion,” replied Jo, dancing about the room to take the first stiffness off the new army slippers.

“How nice my handkerchiefs look, don’t they? Hannah washed and ironed them for me, and I marked them all myself,” said Beth, looking proudly at the somewhat uneven letters which had cost her such labor.

“Bless the child! She’s gone and put ‘Mother’ on them instead of ‘M. March’. How funny!” cried Jo, taking one up.

“Isn’t that right? I thought it was better to do it so, because Meg’s initials are M.M., and I don’t want anyone to use these but Marmee,” said Beth, looking troubled.

“It’s all right, dear, and a very pretty idea, quite sensible too, for no one can ever mistake now. It will please her very much, I know,” said Meg, with a frown for Jo and a smile for Beth.

“There’s Mother. Hide the basket, quick!” cried Jo, as a door slammed and steps sounded in the hall.

Amy came in hastily, and looked rather abashed when she saw her sisters all waiting for her.

“Where have you been, and what are you hiding behind you?” asked Meg, surprised to see, by her hood and cloak, that lazy Amy had been out so early.

“Don’t laugh at me, Jo! I didn’t mean anyone should know till the time came. I only meant to change the little bottle for a big one, and I gave all my money to get it, and I’m truly trying not to be selfish any more.”

As she spoke, Amy showed the handsome flask which replaced the cheap one, and looked so earnest and humble in her little effort to forget herself that Meg hugged her on the spot, and Jo pronounced her ‘a trump’, while Beth ran to the window, and picked her finest rose to ornament the stately bottle.

“You see I felt ashamed of my present, after reading and talking about being good this morning, so I ran round the corner and changed it the minute I was up, and I’m so glad, for mine is the handsomest now.”

Another bang of the street door sent the basket under the sofa, and the girls to the table, eager for breakfast.

“Merry Christmas, Marmee! Many of them! Thank you for our books. We

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read some, and mean to every day,” they all cried in chorus.

“Merry Christmas, little daughters! I’m glad you began at once, and hope you will keep on. But I want to say one word before we sit down. Not far away from here lies a poor woman with a little newborn baby. Six children are huddled into one bed to keep from freezing, for they have no fire. There is nothing to eat over there, and the oldest boy came to tell me they were suffering hunger and cold. My girls, will you give them your breakfast as a Christmas present?”

They were all unusually hungry, having waited nearly an hour, and for a minute no one spoke, only a minute, for Jo exclaimed impetuously, “I’m so glad you came before we began!”

“May I go and help carry the things to the poor little children?” asked Beth eagerly. “I shall take the cream and the muffings,” added Amy, heroically giving up the article she most liked.

Meg was already covering the buckwheats, and piling the bread into one big plate. “I thought you’d do it,” said Mrs. March, smiling as if satisfied. “You shall all go and help me, and when we come back we will have bread and milk for breakfast, and make it up at dinnertime.”

They were soon ready, and the procession set out. Fortunately it was early, and they went through back streets, so few people saw them, and no one laughed at the queer party. A poor, bare, miserable room it was, with broken windows, no fire, ragged bedclothes, a sick mother, wailing baby, and a group of pale, hungry children cuddled under one old quilt, trying to keep warm.

How the big eyes stared and the blue lips smiled as the girls went in.

“Ach, mein Gott! It is good angels come to us!” said the poor woman, crying for joy.

“Funny angels in hoods and mittens,” said Jo, and set them to laughing.

In a few minutes it really did seem as if kind spirits had been at work there.

Hannah, who had carried wood, made a fire, and stopped up the broken panes with old hats and her own cloak. Mrs. March gave the mother tea and gruel, and comforted her with promises of help, while she dressed the little baby as tenderly as if it had been her own. The girls meantime spread the table, set the children round the fire, and fed them like so many hungry birds, laughing, talking, and trying to understand the funny broken English. “Das ist gut!” “Die Engel-kinder!” cried the poor things as they ate and warmed their purple hands at the comfortable blaze. The girls had never been called angel children before, and thought it very agreeable, especially Jo, who had been considered a ‘Sancho’ ever since she was born. That was a very happy breakfast, though they didn’t get any of it. And when they went away, leaving comfort behind, I think there were not in all the city four merrier people than the hungry little girls who gave away their breakfasts and contented themselves with bread and milk on Christmas morning.

“That’s loving our neighbor better than ourselves, and I like it,” said Meg,

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as they set out their presents while their mother was upstairs collecting clothes for the poor Hummels. Not a very splendid show, but there was a great deal of love done up in the few little bundles, and the tall vase of red roses, white chrysanthemums, and trailing vines, which stood in the middle, gave quite an elegant air to the table.

“She’s coming! Strike up, Beth! Open the door, Amy! Three cheers for Marmee!” cried Jo, prancing about while Meg went to conduct Mother to the seat of honor. Beth played her gayest march, Amy threw open the door, and Meg enacted escort with great dignity. Mrs. March was both surprised and touched, and smiled with her eyes full as she examined her presents and read the little notes which accompanied them. The slippers went on at once, a new handkerchief was slipped into her pocket, well scented with Amy’s cologne, the rose was fastened in her bosom, and the nice gloves were pronounced a perfect fit.

There was a good deal of laughing and kissing and explaining, in the simple, loving fashion which makes these home festivals so pleasant at the time, so sweet to remember long afterward, and then all fell to work.

The morning charities and ceremonies took so much time that the rest of the day was devoted to preparations for the evening festivities. Being still too young to go often to the theater, and not rich enough to afford any great outlay for private performances, the girls put their wits to work, and necessity being the mother of invention, made whatever they needed. Very clever were some of their productions, pasteboard guitars, antique lamps made of old-fashioned butter boats covered with silver paper, gorgeous robes of old cotton, glittering with tin spangles from a pickle factory, and armor covered with the same useful diamond shaped bits left in sheets when the lids of preserve pots were cut out. The big chamber was the scene of many innocent revels.

No gentleman were admitted, so Jo played male parts to her heart’s content and took immense satisfaction in a pair of russet leather boots given her by a friend, who knew a lady who knew an actor. These boots, an old foil, and a slashed doublet once used by an artist for some picture, were Jo’s chief treasures and appeared on all occasions. The smallness of the company made it necessary for the two principal actors to take several parts apiece, and they certainly deserved some credit for the hard work they did in learning three or four different parts, whisking in and out of various costumes, and managing the stage besides.

It was excellent drill for their memories, a harmless amusement, and employed many hours which otherwise would have been idle, lonely, or spent in less profitable society.

On Christmas night, a dozen girls piled onto the bed which was the dress circle, and sat before the blue and yellow chintz curtains in a most flattering state of expectancy. There was a good deal of rustling and whispering behind the curtain, a trifle of lamp smoke, and an occasional giggle from Amy, who was apt

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to get hysterical in the excitement of the moment. Presently a bell sounded, the curtains flew apart, and the operatic tragedy began. “A gloomy wood,” according to the one playbill, was represented by a few shrubs in pots, green baize on the floor, and a cave in the distance. This cave was made with a clothes horse for a roof, bureaus for walls, and in it was a small furnace in full blast, with a black pot on it and an old witch bending over it. The stage was dark and the glow of the furnace had a fine effect, especially as real steam issued from the kettle when the witch took off the cover. A moment was allowed for the first thrill to subside, then Hugo, the villain, stalked in with a clanking sword at his side, a slouching hat, black beard, mysterious cloak, and the boots. After pacing to and fro in much agitation, he struck his forehead, and burst out in a wild strain, singing of his hatred for Roderigo, his love for Zara, and his pleasing resolution to kill the one and win the other. The gruff tones of Hugo’s voice, with an occasional shout when his feelings overcame him, were very impressive, and the audience applauded the moment he paused for breath. Bowing with the air of one accustomed to public praise, he stole to the cavern and ordered Hagar to come forth with a commanding, “What ho, minion! I need thee!”

Out came Meg, with gray horsehair hanging about her face, a red and black robe, a staff, and cabalistic signs upon her cloak. Hugo demanded a potion to make Zara adore him, and one to destroy Roderigo. Hagar, in a fine dramatic melody, promised both, and proceeded to call up the spirit who would bring the love philter.

Hither, hither, from thy home, Airy sprite, I bid thee come!

Born of roses, fed on dew, Charms and potions canst thou brew?

Bring me here, with elfin speed, The fragrant philter which I need.

Make it sweet and swift and strong, Spirit, answer now my song!

A soft strain of music sounded, and then at the back of the cave appeared a little figure in cloudy white, with glittering wings, golden hair, and a garland of roses on its head. Waving a wand, it sang...

Hither I come, From my airy home, Afar in the silver moon.

Take the magic spell, And use it well, Or its power will vanish soon!

And dropping a small, gilded bottle at the witch’s feet, the spirit vanished.

Another chant from Hagar produced another apparition, not a lovely one, for with a bang an ugly black imp appeared and, having croaked a reply, tossed a

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dark bottle at Hugo and disappeared with a mocking laugh. Having warbled his thanks and put the potions in his boots, Hugo departed, and Hagar informed the audience that as he had killed a few of her friends in times past, she had cursed him, and intends to thwart his plans, and be revenged on him. Then the curtain fell, and the audience reposed and ate candy while discussing the merits of the play.

A good deal of hammering went on before the curtain rose again, but when it became evident what a masterpiece of stage carpentery had been got up, no one murmured at the delay. A tower rose to the ceiling, halfway up appeared a window with a lamp burning in it, and behind the white curtain appeared Zara in a lovely blue and silver dress, waiting for Roderigo. He came in gorgeous array, with plumed cap, red cloak, chestnut lovelocks, a guitar, and the boots, of course.

Kneeling at the foot of the tower, he sang a serenade in melting tones. Zara replied and, after a musical dialogue, consented to fly. Then came the grand effect of the play. Roderigo produced a rope ladder, with five steps to it, threw up one end, and invited Zara to descend. Timidly she crept from her lattice, put her hand on Roderigo’s shoulder, and was about to leap gracefully down when “Alas! Alas for Zara!” she forgot her train. It caught in the window, the tower tottered, leaned forward, fell with a crash, and buried the unhappy lovers in the ruins.

A universal shriek arose as the russet boots waved wildly from the wreck and a golden head emerged, exclaiming, “I told you so! I told you so!” With wonderful presence of mind, Don Pedro, the cruel sire, rushed in, dragged out his daughter, with a hasty aside... “Don’t laugh! Act as if it was all right!” and, ordering Roderigo up, banished him from the kingdom with wrath and scorn.

Though decidedly shaken by the fall from the tower upon him, Roderigo defied the old gentleman and refused to stir. This dauntless example fired Zara. She also defied her sire, and he ordered them both to the deepest dungeons of the castle.

A stout little retainer came in with chains and led them away, looking very much frightened and evidently forgetting the speech he ought to have made. Act third was the castle hall, and here Hagar appeared, having come to free the lovers and finish Hugo. She hears him coming and hides, sees him put the potions into two cups of wine and bid the timid little servant, “Bear them to the captives in their cells, and tell them I shall come anon.” The servant takes Hugo aside to tell him something, and Hagar changes the cups for two others which are harmless.

Ferdinando, the ‘minion’, carries them away, and Hagar puts back the cup which holds the poison meant for Roderigo. Hugo, getting thirsty after a long warble, drinks it, loses his wits, and after a good deal of clutching and stamping, falls flat and dies, while Hagar informs him what she has done in a song of exquisite power and melody.

This was a truly thrilling scene, though some persons might have thought that the sudden tumbling down of a quantity of long red hair rather marred the

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effect of the villain’s death. He was called before the curtain, and with great propriety appeared, leading Hagar, whose singing was considered more wonderful than all the rest of the performance put together.

Act fourth displayed the despairing Roderigo on the point of stabbing himself because he has been told that Zara has deserted him. Just as the dagger is at his heart, a lovely song is sung under his window, informing him that Zara is true but in danger, and he can save her if he will. A key is thrown in, which unlocks the door, and in a spasm of rapture he tears off his chains and rushes away to find and rescue his lady love.

Act fifth opened with a stormy scene between Zara and Don Pedro. He wishes her to go into a convent, but she won’t hear of it, and after a touching appeal, is about to faint when Roderigo dashes in and demands her hand. Don Pedro refuses, because he is not rich. They shout and gesticulate tremendously but cannot agree, and Rodrigo is about to bear away the exhausted Zara, when the timid servant enters with a letter and a bag from Hagar, who has mysteriously disappeared. The latter informs the party that she bequeaths untold wealth to the young pair and an awful doom to Don Pedro, if he doesn’t make them happy.

The bag is opened, and several quarts of tin money shower down upon the stage till it is quite glorified with the glitter. This entirely softens the stern sire. He consents without a murmur, all join in a joyful chorus, and the curtain falls upon the lovers kneeling to receive Don Pedro’s blessing in attitudes of the most romantic grace.

Tumultuous applause followed but received an unexpected check, for the cot bed, on which the dress circle was built, suddenly shut up and extinguished the enthusiastic audience. Roderigo and Don Pedro flew to the rescue, and all were taken out unhurt, though many were speechless with laughter. The excitement had hardly subsided when Hannah appeared, with “Mrs. March’s compliments, and would the ladies walk down to supper.”

This was a surprise even to the actors, and when they saw the table, they looked at one another in rapturous amazement. It was like Marmee to get up a little treat for them, but anything so fine as this was unheard of since the departed days of plenty. There was ice cream, actually two dishes of it, pink and white, and cake and fruit and distracting French bonbons and, in the middle of the table, four great bouquets of hot house flowers. It quite took their breath away, and they stared first at the table and then at their mother, who looked as if she enjoyed it immensely.

“Is it fairies?” asked Amy. “Santa Claus,” said Beth.

“Mother did it.” And Meg smiled her sweetest, in spite of her gray beard and white eyebrows.

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“Aunt March had a good fit and sent the supper,” cried Jo, with a sudden inspiration.

“All wrong. Old Mr. Laurence sent it,” replied Mrs. March.

“The Laurence boy’s grandfather! What in the world put such a thing into his head? We don’t know him!” exclaimed Meg. “Hannah told one of his servants about your breakfast party. He is an odd old gentleman, but that pleased him. He knew my father years ago, and he sent me a polite note this afternoon, saying he hoped I would allow him to express his friendly feeling toward my children by sending them a few trifles in honor of the day. I could not refuse, and so you have a little feast at night to make up for the bread-and-milk breakfast.”

“That boy put it into his head, I know he did! He’s a capital fellow, and I wish we could get acquainted. He looks as if he’d like to know us but he’s bashful, and Meg is so prim she won’t let me speak to him when we pass,” said Jo, as the plates went round, and the ice began to melt out of sight, with ohs and ahs of satisfaction.

“You mean the people who live in the big house next door, don’t you?” asked one of the girls. “My mother knows old Mr. Laurence, but says he’s very proud and doesn’t like to mix with his neighbors. He keeps his grandson shut up, when he isn’t riding or walking with his tutor, and makes him study very hard.

We invited him to our party, but he didn’t come. Mother says he’s very nice, though he never speaks to us girls.”

“Our cat ran away once, and he brought her back, and we talked over the fence, and were getting on capitally, all about cricket, and so on, when he saw Meg coming, and walked off. I mean to know him some day, for he needs fun, I’m sure he does,” said Jo decidedly.

“I like his manners, and he looks like a little gentleman, so I’ve no objection to your knowing him, if a proper opportunity comes. He brought the flowers himself, and I should have asked him in, if I had been sure what was going on upstairs. He looked so wistful as he went away, hearing the frolic and evidently having none of his own.”

“It’s a mercy you didn’t, Mother!” laughed Jo, looking at her boots.

“But we’ll have another play sometime that he can see. Perhaps he’ll help act.

Wouldn’t that be jolly?”

“I never had such a fine bouquet before! How pretty it is!” And Meg examined her flowers with great interest.

“They are lovely. But Beth’s roses are sweeter to me,” said Mrs. March, smelling the half-dead posy in her belt.

Beth nestled up to her, and whispered softly, “I wish I could send my bunch to Father. I’m afraid he isn’t having such a merry Christmas as we are.”

ALCOTT 31

NATURE

Natural images are used often in poetry due to their evocative imagery. Nature can be either beautiful in its displays of growth, renewal, and majesty or destructive and devastating in weather phenomena or the animal kingdom. It can also crumble under the boots of soldiers or stand as a growth of hope to the people around it as it grows to be tall and green once again.

In this section, John Greenleaf Whittier, Emily Dickenson, Walt Whitman, Henry Timrod, Francis Miles Finch, and Herman Melville use natural elements to share experiences of the Civil War. Some use animals or plants as speakers personified in the work, others as amusements or object. Natural images were often used to call upon themes of rebirth or innocence, a stark contrast to the death of the War.

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

“WHAT THE BIRDS SAID” John Greenleaf Whittier The birds against the April wind Flew northward, singing as they flew; They sang, “The land we leave behind Has swords for corn-blades, blood for dew.”

“O wild-birds, flying from the South, What saw and heard ye, gazing down?”

“We saw the mortar’s upturned mouth, The sickened camp, the blazing town!

“Beneath the bivouac’s starry lamps, We saw your march-worn children die; In shrouds of moss, in cypress swamps, We saw your dead uncoffined lie.

“We heard the starving prisoner’s sighs And saw, from line and trench, your sons Follow our flight with home-sick eyes Beyond the battery’s smoking guns.”

“And heard and saw ye only wrong And pain,” I cried, “O wing-worn flocks?”

“We heard,” they sang, “the freedman’s song, The crash of Slavery’s broken locks!

“We saw from new, uprising States The treason-nursing mischief spurned, As, crowding Freedom’s ample gates, The long-estranged and lost returned.

34 WHITTIER

Nature

“O’er dusky faces, seamed and old, And hands horn-hard with unpaid toil, With hope in every rustling fold, We saw your star-dropt flag uncoil.

“And struggling up through sounds accursed, A grateful murmur clomb the air; A whisper scarcely heard at first, It filled the listening heavens with prayer.

“And sweet and far, as from a star, Replied a voice which shall not cease, Till, drowning all the noise of war, It sings the blessed song of peace!”

So to me, in a doubtful day Of chill and slowly greening spring, Low stooping from the cloudy gray, The wild-birds sang or seemed to sing.

They vanished in the misty air, The song went with them in their flight; But lo! they left the sunset fair, And in the evening there was light.

WHITTIER 35

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

“WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOORYARD BLOOM’D” Walt Whitman 1 WHEN lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d, And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night, I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring, Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west, And thought of him I love.

2 O powerful western fallen star!

O shades of night—O moody, tearful night!

O great star disappear’d—O the black murk that hides the star!

O cruel hands that hold me powerless—O helpless soul of me!

O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul.

3 In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash’d palings, Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green, With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love, With every leaf a miracle—and from this bush in the dooryard, With delicate-color’d blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green, A sprig with its flower I break.

4 In the swamp in secluded recesses,

36 WHITMAN

Nature

A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.

Solitary the thrush, The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements, Sings by himself a song.

Song of the bleeding throat, Death’s outlet song of life, (for well dear brother I know, If thou wast not granted to sing thou would’st surely die.)

5 Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities, Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peep’d from the ground, spotting the gray debris, Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass, Passing the yellow-spear’d wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprisen, Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards, Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave, Night and day journeys a coffin.

6 Coffin that passes through lanes and streets, Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land, With the pomp of the inloop’d flags with the cities draped in black, With the show of the States themselves as of crape-veil’d women standing, With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night, With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads, With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces, With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn, With all the mournful voices of the dirges pour’d around the coffin, The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs—where amid these you journey, With the tolling tolling bells’ perpetual clang, Here, coffin that slowly passes, I give you my sprig of lilac.

WHITMAN 37

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

7 (Nor for you, for one alone, Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring, For fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you O sane and sacred death.

All over bouquets of roses, O death, I cover you over with roses and early lilies, But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first, Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes, With loaded arms I come, pouring for you, For you and the coffins all of you O death.)

8 O western orb sailing the heaven, Now I know what you must have meant as a month since I walk’d, As I walk’d in silence the transparent shadowy night, As I saw you had something to tell as you bent to me night after night, As you droop’d from the sky low down as if to my side, (while the other stars all look’d on,) As we wander’d together the solemn night, (for something I know not what kept me from sleep,) As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west how full you were of woe, As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze in the cool transparent night, As I watch’d where you pass’d and was lost in the netherward black of the night, As my soul in its trouble dissatisfied sank, as where you sad orb, Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone.

9 Sing on there in the swamp, O singer bashful and tender, I hear your notes, I hear your call, I hear, I come presently, I understand you, But a moment I linger, for the lustrous star has detain’d me, The star my departing comrade holds and detains me.

38 WHITMAN

Nature

10 O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved?

And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?

And what shall my perfume be for the grave of him I love?

Sea-winds blown from east and west, Blown from the Eastern sea and blown from the Western sea, till there on the prairies meeting, These and with these and the breath of my chant, I’ll perfume the grave of him I love.

11 O what shall I hang on the chamber walls?

And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls, To adorn the burial-house of him I love?

Pictures of growing spring and farms and homes, With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright, With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air, With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific, In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-dapple here and there, With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and shadows, And the city at hand with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys, And all the scenes of life and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning.

12 Lo, body and soul—this land, My own Manhattan with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides, and the ships, The varied and ample land, the South and the North in the light, Ohio’s shores and flashing Missouri, And ever the far-spreading prairies cover’d with grass and corn.

WHITMAN 39

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and haughty, The violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes, The gentle soft-born measureless light, The miracle spreading bathing all, the fulfill’d noon, The coming eve delicious, the welcome night and the stars, Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land.

13 Sing on, sing on you gray-brown bird, Sing from the swamps, the recesses, pour your chant from the bushes, Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines.

Sing on dearest brother, warble your reedy song, Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe.

O liquid and free and tender!

O wild and loose to my soul—O wondrous singer!

You only I hear—yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart,) Yet the lilac with mastering odor holds me.

14 Now while I sat in the day and look’d forth, In the close of the day with its light and the fields of spring, and the farmers preparing their crops, In the large unconscious scenery of my land with its lakes and forests, In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after the perturb’d winds and the storms,) Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices of children and women, The many-moving sea-tides, and I saw the ships how they sail’d, And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with labor, And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals and minutia of daily usages, And the streets how their throbbings throbb’d, and the cities pent —lo, then and there, Falling upon them all and among them all, enveloping me with the rest,

40 WHITMAN

Nature

Appear’d the cloud, appear’d the long black trail, And I knew death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death.

Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me, And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me, And I in the middle as with companions, and as holding the hands of companions, I fled forth to the hiding receiving night that talks not, Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness, To the solemn shadowy cedars and ghostly pines so still.

And the singer so shy to the rest receiv’d me, The gray-brown bird I know receiv’d us comrades three, And he sang the carol of death, and a verse for him I love.

From deep secluded recesses, From the fragrant cedars and the ghostly pines so still, Came the carol of the bird.

And the charm of the carol rapt me, As I held as if by their hands my comrades in the night, And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird.

Come lovely and soothing death, Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, In the day, in the night, to all, to each, Sooner or later delicate death.

Prais’d be the fathomless universe, For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious, And for love, sweet love—but praise! praise! praise!

For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death.

Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet, Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?

Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all, I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.

Approach strong deliveress, When it is so, when thou hast taken them I joyously sing the dead,

WHITMAN 41

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee, Laved in the flood of thy bliss O death.

From me to thee glad serenades, Dances for thee I propose saluting thee, adornments and feastings for thee, And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread sky are fitting, And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night.

The night in silence under many a star, The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know, And the soul turning to thee O vast and well-veil’d death, And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.

Over the tree-tops I float thee a song, Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the prairies wide, Over the dense-pack’d cities all and the teeming wharves and ways, I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee O death.

15 To the tally of my soul, Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird, With pure deliberate notes spreading filling the night.

Loud in the pines and cedars dim, Clear in the freshness moist and the swamp-perfume, And I with my comrades there in the night.

While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed, As to long panoramas of visions.

And I saw askant the armies, I saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of battle-flags, Borne through the smoke of the battles and pierc’d with missiles I saw them, And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody, And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs, (and all in silence,) And the staffs all splinter’d and broken.

42 WHITMAN

Nature

I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them, And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them, I saw the debris and debris of all the slain soldiers of the war, But I saw they were not as was thought, They themselves were fully at rest, they suffer’d not, The living remain’d and suffer’d, the mother suffer’d, And the wife and the child and the musing comrade suffer’d, And the armies that remain’d suffer’d.

16 Passing the visions, passing the night, Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades’ hands, Passing the song of the hermit bird and the tallying song of my soul, Victorious song, death’s outlet song, yet varying ever-altering song, As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night, Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy, Covering the earth and filling the spread of the heaven, As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses, Passing, I leave thee lilac with heart-shaped leaves, I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring.

I cease from my song for thee, From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee, O comrade lustrous with silver face in the night.

Yet each to keep and all, retrievements out of the night, The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird, And the tallying chant, the echo arous’d in my soul, With the lustrous and drooping star with the countenance full of woe, With the holders holding my hand nearing the call of the bird, Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to keep, for the dead I loved so well, For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands—and this for his dear sake, Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul, There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim.

WHITMAN 43

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

“XVI - REFUGE” Emily Dickenson The clouds their backs together laid, The north begun to push, The forests galloped till they fell, The lightning skipped like mice; The thunder crumbled like a stuff — How good to be safe in tombs, Where nature’s temper cannot reach, Nor vengeance ever comes!

“XXVII - IF I SHOULD DIE” Emily Dickenson If I should die, And you should live, And time should gurgle on, And morn should beam, And noon should burn, As it has usual done; If birds should build as early, And bees as bustling go, — One might depart at option From enterprise below!

‘T is sweet to know that stocks will stand When we with daisies lie, That commerce will continue, And trades as briskly fly.

It makes the parting tranquil And keeps the soul serene, That gentlemen so sprightly Conduct the pleasing scene!

44 DICKENSON

Nature

“TOO LONG, O SPIRIT OF THE STORM” Henry Timrod Too long, O Spirit of Storm, Thy lightning sleeps in its sheath!

I am sick to the soul of yon pallid sky, And the moveless sea beneath.

Come down in thy strength on the deep!

Worse dangers there are in life, When the waves are still, and the skies look fair, Than in their wildest strife.

A friend I knew, whose days Were as calm as this sky overhead; But one blue morn that was fairest of all, The heart in his bosom fell dead.

And they thought him alive while he walked The streets that he walked in youth— Ah! little they guessed the seeming man Was a soulless corpse in sooth.

Come down in thy strength, O Storm!

And lash the deep till it raves!

I am sick to the soul of that quiet sea, Which hides ten thousand graves.

TIMROD 45

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

“LOOK DOWN FAIR MOON” Walt Whitman LOOK down, fair moon, and bathe this scene; Pour softly down night’s nimbus floods, on faces ghastly, swollen, purple; On the dead, on their backs, with their arms toss’d wide, Pour down your unstinted nimbus, sacred moon.

E.F. Mullen, The War in Virginia–Butler’s Lines South of the James, With Troops in Position Near Our Centre, Awaiting An Attack Previous to the Arrival of Grant’s Army, June 3. From Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper, July 2, 1864. Wood engraving. Newberry Library, Chicago.

46 WHITMAN

Nature

“THE BLUE AND THE GRAY�

Francis Miles Finch BY the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, Asleep are the ranks of the dead: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Under the one, the Blue, Under the other, the Gray.

These in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat, All with the battle-blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Under the laurel, the Blue, Under the willow, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours The desolate mourners go, Lovingly laden with flowers A like for the friend and the foe: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Under the roses, the Blue, Under the lilies, the Gray.

So with an equal splendor, The morning sun-rays fall, With a touch impartially tender, FINCH 47

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

On the blossoms blooming for all: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Broidered with gold, the Blue, Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the summer calleth, On forest and field of grain, With an equal murmur falleth The cooling drip of the rain: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Wet with the rain, the Blue, Wet with the rain, the Gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done, In the storm of the years that are fading No braver battle was won: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Under the blossoms, the Blue, Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever When they laurel the graves of our dead!

Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Love and tears for the Blue, Tears and love for the Gray.

48 FINCH

Nature

“AURORA-BOREALIS” Herman Melville What power disbands the Northern Lights After their steely play?

The lonely watcher feels an awe Of Nature’s sway, As when appearing, He marked their flashed uprearing In the cold gloom— Retreatings and advancings, (Like dallyings of doom), Transitions and enhancings, And bloody ray.

The phantom-host has faded quite, Splendor and Terror gone— Portent or promise—and gives way To pale, meek Dawn; The coming, going, Alike in wonder showing— Alike the God, Decreeing and commanding The million blades that glowed, The muster and disbanding— Midnight and Morn.

MELVILLE 49

MEDICS

One way for people who could not enlist in the active-duty to contribute to the war effort was to serve as a nurse for the wounded or sick. Some medical tents were set up near battlefields, but everyone still faced danger during the conflict.

Nurses in hospitals were responsible for around-the-clock care of the wounded and ill, needing to keep spirits high and keep the wounded healthy.

Nursing was also an opportunity for women to get involved in the war effort. Women were called ‘lady nurses’ to distinguish, and diminish, their place in the medical effort. However, they held the same responsibilities as male nurses.

This section contains journal entries from a female nurse, Amanda Akin, two poems first published in periodicals “Hartford Medical Society” and “Charleston Courier,” attributed to unnamed authors, and poet Walt Whitman, who served as a nurse during the war.

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

“THE LADY NURSE OF WARD E.” Amanda Akin Stearns Armory Square Hospital, Washington, D. C, April 28, 1863.

My Dear Sisters: You are no doubt anxiously looking for a “sign of life” from me, but I can tell you initiation into hospital life of such a novice is not lightly to be spoken of, and until my ideas ceased floundering and I could recognize my old self again, I could not trust myself with a pen. The feeling of a “cat in a strange garret” has now quite left me. With the first effort the work took hold of me so firmly that my own identity seemed for a time lost. It is inexplicable why I should have come here, and how easily I have fitted in the place.

Arriving at Washington 6 p.m. with my uncle, who could not persuade me to wait until morning, we entered the hospital at the general office (the only opening from the street). I boldly asked the surgeon in charge at the desk for Dr. Bliss. ‘He has gone home,” was the curt reply. After telling him who I was, as if someone ought to be expecting me, I asked for Miss Platt, the only one I knew. He gave me a quizzical look through his spectacles, and for reply said to an orderly nodding in a corner, “go and find Miss Platt.”

Saying to my disgusted relative, “It is all right; I understand. Good night,” I followed my guide, with a courage born of necessity, through loosely boarded passageways, coming out at the back of the long white washed wards, where the convalescents were sitting outside (to me then a grim-looking lot), until we came to Ward C, at the entrance of which we met Miss P----, with hands full of some patient’s supper, which on seeing me she gracefully handed to an attendant, and welcomed me to her room, an enclosure boarded off from the convalescents’ “grub” room, when I was thankful to feel that I had arrived.

As the supper hour had passed I seemed to be an “elephant” on every one’s hands, until a young woman nurse, who shared the room — Miss Hill, of Belmont, Mass. —came in, and taking in the situation began “ mothering

52 AKIN STEARNS

Medics

“ me, and never ceased until, in spite of “red-tape” regulations, she brought me some supper, and had another iron bedstead, etc., put in that room. I shall never cease to call her “Mother” Hill. Being slightly refreshed I assented to Miss P ‘s invitation to go in her ward, when she went to make her last rounds and give out the night medicines. I meekly followed through the long ward, unable to return the gaze of the occupants of twenty-six beds, to the table in the center, and with a sinking heart watched her raise the head of a poor fellow in the last stages of typhoid, to give him a soothing draught. Could I ever do that? For once my courage failed. On returning, my friend informed me the man could live only a few hours, and as they were carried out soon after death I must not be disturbed if I heard them, and saw the lights the other side of our partition. That was sufficient to keep my already overstrained nerves tense until they passed, and I saw the lights winding to the House of Death. After that, exhausted, I slept through my first night in a hospital.

With the morning came new life. Surgeon-General Bliss was early in his office. I reported to him, and was soon installed as nurse in Ward E. Our ward master, “Jobes,” a Pennsylvania boatman, with wife and children at home, beamed a welcome at me on every occasion, and when the surgeon in charge of the ward (my quizzical friend of the evening previous) came to visit his patients and did not notice the newcomer, Jobes tookthe first opportunity to say, “This is the lady who is to have charge of the ward,” the only reply we received, accompanied with a little nod, was “Humph!” evidently not approving of a lady’s presence in a hospital. As you can imagine, that touched my mettle, and was a good topic, so I went to work. Having ascertained that he was from “way-off” Erie, Pa., I said to myself, “He will find out what a determined young woman from New York can do.” As there had been no woman in the ward for a week the big-hearted “Jobes’s”unsystematic ways were evident on all sides. For the first two days it rained incessantly, and I looked at Miss Platt passing to and fro from Ward C with a smiling face, humming to herself, in astonishment unable to see aught but satisfaction in trying to relieve the suffering and discharge my duties properly; but since I have become a part of the system, it is another thing. It is like the solar system: every ward revolves on its own axis, with its own surgeon, nurse (feminine), No. 6, or orderly for both, ward master, cadet surgeon to dress wounds, three attendants and two night watchers — all together revolving around Dr. Bliss, the surgeon in charge. The “reveille” sounds at 6 a.m., and we have just time to dress and arrange our rooms before we go to our wards to dispense the

AKIN STEARNS 53

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

medicines, which is a responsible part of our duties. Then come the breakfast for the men, to the dining room attached to each ward, and the special diet for those who cannot leave their beds, which the nurse, with the assistance of her orderly, gives out according to the doctor’s prescription. Every bed is numbered, and the men are so designated. After our own breakfast, we meet the surgeon in our ward, who makes his prescription on a card hanging by each man’s bed. His orderly brings the cards to our table for us to make the orders for medicine and send to the dispensary, or if for special diet to send them to that kitchen. The medicine chest is placed upon a table in the center of the ward, which also contains the stimulants, our especial charge, of which we keep the key; alongside it are our own table and chair, that being our special post.

Besides our regular morning duties there is the constant supervision and care of so many worn and suffering, and yet so grateful patients; letters to be written, etc. One poor boy in our ward, without a relative in the world, has made many friends here. He has daily visitors and presents from outside, and no one thinks he has too much. He has been confined to his bed for eight months with a wound from which at times he suffers intensely, with very little hope of any improvement. He never complains, but is ready with a merry laugh at the doctor’s jokes.

We again dispense the medicines, etc., before 12 M, the hour for the men’s dinner. As the hospital now is not crowded, the engagements of late having been in the South, we get a few hours for rest or a walk before 5 p.m., when we resume our duties at the medicine chest, etc. We spend the evenings trying to entertain our men (Mother Hill calls them boys).

At a quarter to nine, when the night watchers come, we give our last directions and retire. “Jobes” says, “The men have got quite a liking for me already,” which may sound strange to you, and would be better understood if you saw the respect so universally paid to us. We pass up and down among these rough men without fear of the slightest word of disrespect. They feel their dependence upon us for comfort and entertainment, and the difference in the wards where there is no “lady” shows how much can be done for them.

In one ward (C) there is a melodeon a kind friend sent to Miss Platt, and the convalescents are very happy to have the ladies come and sing with them.

Our cadet surgeon told me to-day that he was musical and could play on three instruments by ear, and we have one “stuttering” man who, sitting up in bed, his wounded limb having kept him there two months, sings by the hour

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and makes jokes for all about him. I do not write of the sad things which occur daily and hourly before me, and to which it seemed at first I should never get professionally accustomed. Although there are so few in the hospital, there are deaths every day. A strong, able-bodied man who accidentally shot himself is in our ward, life and death struggling with him for the mastery. He is a German, and as he is a stranger to all, he scarcely speaks. I wrote a letter for him to his wife, for which he was very grateful.

The hospital is pleasantly located opposite the Smithsonian Institution grounds, now beautifully green; with the Capitol on the other side, though at a little distance, its elevation brings the fine building in full view. You will understand we are in barracks, the walls of rough boards, papered inside, but still comfortable. There are men to sweep, to attend to the fires, etc. We have other volunteer nurses, among them may be mentioned Miss Lowell, of Boston; Miss Low, niece of Senator Hale, of New Hampshire; Professor Felton’s daughter, of Cambridge, and Miss Griggs and Miss Marsh from Massachusetts. We meet at table in the rough room Dr. Bliss has had arranged so that we could be apart from the general dining room; but we have not the leisure to be very sociable. There has been a little “earthquake” here since my arrival, which revealed to the volunteer nurses that we were under army regulations. Dr. Bliss was suddenly arrested and taken to the Capitol jail, and an army surgeon put in charge of the hospital pro temps. It so happened that the next day was pay day for all the soldiers and employees of the hospital.

Imagine our virtuous disgust and indignation on being called to the general office to receive a month’s pay for our service! We had to take it, being a small elephant on the officer’s hands, to which later we became for the day reconciled, and went to market to select some treat for our boys. The upheaval was brought about by a dishonest steward, who had been discharged by Dr. Bliss, and who reported some pecuniary embarrassments of which he had knowledge, etc., to Secretary Stanton, and got an order for Dr. Bliss’s arrest.

You may imagine the consternation, a silent uproar, though outwardly all was calm. Senators Hale and Chandler were tele graphed for. Miss Platt and Mrs. Ingersoll (widow of the Attorney General of Maine) went to Surgeon General Hammond, to the provost marshal, and lastly to Charles Sumner, and to Secretary Stanton himself. So Dr. Bliss is liberated on parole, and demands an investigation. Of course, there was great rejoicing when he re turned to the hospital, and probably there will never be a time to call it up again.

Though writing hurriedly, I hope I have given you a clear impression of

AKIN STEARNS 55

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

the life to which I have devoted myself for the present, as I could not remain at home inactive when there was so much need of service. Always assured of your affection ate interest and sympathy, I am, Lovingly, Your Sister. …

Sunday, June 14th, 2 p.m. — Hooker and his army are “skedaddling” as fast as possible — at least the sick and wounded are. One hundred more wounded arrived here this morning, about 4 a.m. Everyone had to fly, surgeons and all. For a time all was con fusion — reports, with the new ones included, to be made out. Everything paused with surprise until finally one wheel set the rest in motion. As there was no diet requisition made out for the new arrivals, there was a “skirmish” in getting something for them to eat. My head is filled with prescriptions and diet lists. These last arrivals were mostly from Aquia Creek, which has been deserted. It is sad in deed to see so much suffering and sacrifice of all that makes life dear, and nothing accomplished toward putting an end to the rebellion.

It is a great advantage to have a room at the end of one’s ward, and when Dr. Bliss returned I applied for it, as we were still three in one room.

He consented, but a girl from the linen room had taken possession of it, and it required an order from Dr. Bliss, through the general ward master, to get her out again. Fearing I would get the “blues” from the lead-colored army blankets stacked on the floor, I walked out and bought some matting. Jobes assisted me in getting some furniture here and there from the Quartermaster’s stores, etc. (I have been in the army long enough not to question), and now feel that I have a home here. As every door must be opened Sunday morning for inspection, my self-respect rose, when Dr. Bliss, at the head of his train, paused a moment at my table, on his return through our ward, to say approvingly, “You have made a great improvement there.”

Some friends of Miss Lowell in Boston have given three hundred dollars toward building a separate house on the grounds for the “lady nurses” (as we are called), and Dr. Bliss says it shall be done at once, trusting for more donations if necessary. Some friends came in, one evening, accompanied by a man with a fine tenor voice, to sing for us. I wish you could have seen how the soldiers enjoyed his medley songs.

Sunday, 4 p.m. — I cannot write long without interruptions. We have

56 AKIN STEARNS

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short religious services in the wards on Sunday afternoons. The chaplain, with others from outside who wish to speak to the soldiers, pass from ward to ward; the melodeon goes with them, and Sister Platt plays the hymns when there is no one to relieve her. I always expect to be in Ward E when they come, both for my own comfort and the example to others. The soldiers join in the singing, and the most careless are glad to hear a prayer for their wives and children. I have been to church only twice, but comfort myself in thinking if I do not hear much preaching, I am trying to practice what they preach. Sunday, 9 p.m. — Oh dear me, the cry is: Still they come!” and we are overflowing; they come now without order, and are received with but little ceremony. Our forces are obliged to retreat and have already made bonfires at Falmouth, and as soon as all the wounded can be removed will probably do the same at Aquia Creek. Those who have arrived say it was distressing to see the confusion and the efforts of the wounded, to get to some means of transportation. It seemed to me this evening, as I sat at my table adding to the list of medicines — writing down, name, regiment, list of clothing, etc., of the new arrivals, calmly looking at the poor maimed sufferers carried by, some without limbs, on a “stretcher” — that I had forgotten how to feel, and when I went to the open door and glanced upward to Night’s glittering mantle, it seemed as if I were entirely separated from the world I had left behind. Certainly, “I am not myself at all.” While I write, and it is very late, there is a constant rumbling of ambulances, or loaded wagons passing, cars are whistling, bells ringing, trains coming and going. I suppose you will hear about the possibility of the rebels reaching Washington; they were fearful of a raid at Alexandria last week, only six miles below us, and set up defenses. But I must not write longer.

Good night. …

July 20, 1864.

The day has at last arrived to bid adieu to my ward and its absorbing duties, now realizing, reluctantly, how my life has been rounded within it for eight months. So with an inexpressible regret to leave even a few whose watchful eyes and patient smiles would bid me stay, though with an unspeakable longing for home and loved ones there, have given them my hand in good fellowship, and over a glass of native wine made my good wishes to Captain Lippe, my brave Philadelphian, and Captain Brooks of the Twelfth New Jersey Volunteers. WILL I EVER RETURN?

AKIN STEARNS

57

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

“A COLD IN THE HEAD” Author Unknown I know that mortal flesh is heir To many a hard disease; And Doctors’ pills are death on bills-Lord! How colds make one sneeze!

But we should strive with fortitude To bend beneath the blows, And emulate the ancient Job— Zounds! There’s my precious nose!

A jumping tooth, or headache sick, Are ails we hold in dread.

But these I never have, in lieu, A bad cold in my head!

To spend one’s time ‘twixt handkerchief And stuff, is far from fun; They say ”time” flies; ’tis also true That noses often “run.”

That blessed organ I have tweaked Until ‘tis worse than sore; My head feels like a kettle-drum, And nights, oh, how I snore!

‘Tis but a week ago my host, For snoring, turned me off; Oh, if I’d only had, instead, Consumption’s dreary cough!

And with this cold I’m worrying, And storing miseries; I sometimes fear my life will end In one continued sneeze!

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“HOSPITAL DUTIES” Author Unknown Fold away all your bright tinted dresses Turn the key on your jewels to day And the wealth of your tendril like tresses Braid back in a serious way No more delicate gloves no more laces No more trifling in boudoir or bower But come with your souls in your faces To meet the stern wants of the hour Look around. By the torchlight unsteady The dead and the dying seem one What I trembling and paling already Before your dear mission’s begun These wounds are more precious than ghastly Time presses her lips to each scar While she chants of that glory which vastly Transcends all the horrors of war Pause here by this bedside. How mellow The light showers down on that brow!

Such a brave brawny visage poor fellow!

Some homestead is missing him now Some wife shades her eyes in the clearing Some mother sits moaning distressed While the loved one lies faint but unfearing With the enemy’s ball in his breast Here’s another a lad a mere stripling Picked up in the field almost dead With the blood through his sunny hair rippling From the horrible gash in the head They say he was first in the action Gay hearted quick headed and witty

UNKNOWN 59

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

He fought till he dropped with exhaustion At the gates of our fair southern city Fought and fell neath the guns of that city With a spirit transcending his years Lift him up in your large hearted pity And wet his pale lips with your tears Touch him gently most sacred the duty Of dressing that poor shattered hand!

God spare him to rise in his beauty And battle once more for his land!

Pass on it is useless to linger While others are calling your care There is need for your delicate finger For your womanly sympathy there There are sick ones athirst for caressing There are dying ones raving at home There are wounds to be bound with a blessing And shrouds to make ready for some They have gathered about you the harvest Of death in its ghastliest view The nearest as well as the furthest Is there with the traitor and true And crowned with your beautiful patience Made sunny with love at the heart You must balsam the wounds of the nations Nor falter nor shrink from your part And the lips of the mother will bless you And angels sweet-visaged and pale And the little ones run to caress you And the wives and the sisters cry hail But e’en if you drop down unheeded What matter God’s ways are the best You have poured out your life where ‘twas needed And he will take care of the rest

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“THE WOUND-DRESSER” Walt Whitman

AN old man bending I come among new faces, Years looking backward resuming in answer to children, Come tell us old man, as from young men and maidens that love me, (Arous’d and angry, I’d thought to beat the alarum, and urge

relentless war, But soon my fingers fail’d me, my face droop’d and I resign’d myself, To sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently watch the

dead;) Years hence of these scenes, of these furious passions, these chances, Of unsurpass’d heroes, (was one side so brave? the other was

equally brave;) Now be witness again, paint the mightiest armies of earth, Of those armies so rapid so wondrous what saw you to tell us?

What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious panics, Of hard-fought engagements or sieges tremendous what deepest remains?

O maidens and young men I love and that love me, What you ask of my days those the strangest and sudden your

talking recalls, Soldier alert I arrive after a long march cover’d with sweat and dust, In the nick of time I come, plunge in the fight, loudly shout in

the rush of successful charge, Enter the captur’d works—yet lo, like a swift-running river they fade, Pass and are gone they fade—I dwell not on soldiers’ perils or

soldiers’ joys,

WHITMAN 61

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

(Both I remember well—many the hardships, few the joys, yet I

was content.)

But in silence, in dreams’ projections, While the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes on, So soon what is over forgotten, and waves wash the imprints off

the sand, With hinged knees returning I enter the doors, (while for you up there, Whoever you are, follow without noise and be of strong heart.)

Bearing the bandages, water and sponge, Straight and swift to my wounded I go, Where they lie on the ground after the battle brought in, Where their priceless blood reddens the grass the ground, Or to the rows of the hospital tent, or under the roof’d hospital, To the long rows of cots up and down each side I return, To each and all one after another I draw near, not one do I miss, An attendant follows holding a tray, he carries a refuse pail, Soon to be fill’d with clotted rags and blood, emptied, and fill’d again.

I onward go, I stop, With hinged knees and steady hand to dress wounds, I am firm with each, the pangs are sharp yet unavoidable, One turns to me his appealing eyes—poor boy! I never knew you, Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that

would save you.

On, on I go, (open doors of time! open hospital doors!)

The crush’d head I dress, (poor crazed hand tear not the bandage

away,) The neck of the cavalry-man with the bullet through and through

I examine, Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the eye, yet life

struggles hard,

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(Come sweet death! be persuaded O beautiful death!

In mercy come quickly.)

From the stump of the arm, the amputated hand, I undo the clotted lint, remove the slough, wash off the matter

and blood, Back on his pillow the soldier bends with curv’d neck and sidefalling head, His eyes are closed, his face is pale, he dares not look on the

bloody stump, And has not yet look’d on it.

I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep, But a day or two more, for see the frame all wasted and sinking, And the yellow-blue countenance see.

I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot with the bullet-wound, Cleanse the one with a gnawing and putrid gangrene, so sickening, so offensive, While the attendant stands behind aside me holding the tray and pail.

I am faithful, I do not give out, The fractur’d thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdomen, These and more I dress with impassive hand, (yet deep in my

breast a fire, a burning flame.)

Thus in silence in dreams’ projections, Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hospitals, The hurt and wounded I pacify with soothing hand, I sit by the restless all the dark night, some are so young, Some suffer so much, I recall the experience sweet and sad, (Many a soldier’s loving arms about this neck have cross’d and rested, Many a soldier’s kiss dwells on these bearded lips.)

WHITMAN 63

POLITICS & RELIGION

Political and rational figures tried to debate their way to peace. They praised leaders and figures fighting for unity, like President Abraham Lincoln, with each a different tome, solemn, angry, or hopeful.

Many people turned to religion during the trials of the Civil War. When facing the harsh realities of the world, God seemed like the only hope. Religion brought a tone of peace, a rare commodity during the brutal ongoing fight.

The works in this section show how many folks negotiated for peace through poetry and prose, with some seeking to make a rational argument with political speech, and others by invoking faith in the midst of great trials. The work of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Walt Whitman, John Greenleaf Whittier, Henry Timrod, Emily Dickenson and Julia Ward Howe each represent different voices of working through the conflict.

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

“BROTHER JONATHAN’S LAMENT FOR SISTER CAROLINE” Oliver Wendell Holmes She has gone,-she has left us in passion and pride Our stormy-browed sister, so long at our side!

She has torn her own star from our firmament’s glow, And turned on her brother the face of a foe!

O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun, We can never forget that our hearts have been one, Our foreheads both sprinkled in Liberty’s name, From the fountain of blood with the finger of flame!

You were always too ready to fire at a touch; But we said: “She is hasty,-she does not mean much.”

We have scowled when you uttered some turbulent threat; But Friendship still whispered: “Forgive and forget!”

Has our love all died out? Have its altars grown cold?

Has the curse come at last which the fathers foretold?

Then Nature must teach us the strength of the chain That her petulant children would sever in vain.

They may fight till the buzzards are gorged with their spoil, Till the harvest grows black as it rots in the soil, Till the wolves and the catamounts troop from their caves, And the shark tracks the pirate, the lord of the waves: In vain is the strife! When its fury is past, Their fortunes must flow in one channel at last, As the torrents that rush from the mountains of snow 66 HOLMES

Politics & Religion

Roll mingled in peace through the valleys below.

Our Union is river, lake, ocean, and sky; Man breaks not the medal when God cuts the die!

Though darkened with sulphur, though cloven with steel, The blue arch will brighten, the waters will heal!

O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun, There are battles with Fate that can never be won!

The star-flowering banner must never be furled, For its blossoms of light are the hope of the world!

Go, then, our rash sister! afar and aloof, Run wild in the sunshine away from our roof, But when your heart aches and your feet have grown sore, Remember the pathway that leads to our door!

HOLMES 67

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

“OVER THE CARNAGE ROSE PROPHETIC A VOICE” Walt Whitman

OVER the carnage rose prophetic a voice, Be not dishearten’d—Affection shall solve the problems

of Freedom yet; Those who love each other shall become invincible—

they shall yet make Columbia victorious.

Sons of the Mother of All! you shall yet be victo rious!

You shall yet laugh to scorn the attacks of all the re mainder of the earth.

No danger shall balk Columbia’s lovers; If need be, a thousand shall sternly immolate themselves

for one.

One from Massachusetts shall be a Missourian’s com rade; From Maine and from hot Carolina, and another an Ore gonese, shall be friends triune, More precious to each other than all the riches of the earth.

To Michigan, Florida perfumes shall tenderly come; Not the perfumes of flowers, but sweeter, and wafted

beyond death.

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Politics & Religion

It shall be customary in the houses and streets to see

manly affection; The most dauntless and rude shall touch face to face lightly; The dependence of Liberty shall be lovers, The continuance of Equality shall be comrades.

These shall tie you and band you stronger than hoops

of iron; I, extatic, O partners! O lands! with the love of lovers

tie you.

Were you looking to be held together by the lawyers?

Or by an agreement on a paper? or by arms? 窶年ay窶馬or the world, nor any living thing, will so cohere.

WHITMAN 69

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

“A WORD FOR THE HOUR” John Greenleaf Whittier THE firmament breaks up. In black eclipse Light after light goes out. One evil star, Luridly glaring through the smoke of war, As in the dream of the Apocalypse, Drags others down. Let us not weakly weep Nor rashly threaten. Give us grace to keep Our faith and patience; wherefore should we leap On one hand into fratricidal fight, Or, on the other, yield eternal right, Frame lies of law, and good and ill confound?

What fear we? Safe on freedom’s vantage-ground Our feet are planted: let us there remain In unrevengeful calm, no means untried Which truth can sanction, no just claim denied, The sad spectators of a suicide!

They break the links of Union: shall we light The fires of hell to weld anew the chain On that red anvil where each blow is pain?

Draw we not even now a freer breath, As from our shoulders falls a load of death Loathsome as that the Tuscan’s victim bore When keen with life to a dead horror bound?

Why take we up the accursed thing again?

Pity, forgive, but urge them back no more Who, drunk with passion, flaunt disunion’s rag With its vile reptile-blazon. Let us press The golden cluster on our brave old flag In closer union, and, if numbering less, Brighter shall shine the stars which still remain.

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“THE MORAL WARFARE” John Greenleaf Whittier WHEN Freedom, on her natal day, Within her war-rocked cradle lay, An iron race around her stood, Baptized her infant brow in blood; And, through the storm which round her swept, Their constant ward and watching kept.

Then, where our quiet herds repose, The roar of baleful battle rose, And brethren of a common tongue To mortal strife as tigers sprung, And every gift on Freedom’s shrine Was man for beast, and blood for wine!

Our fathers to their graves have gone; Their strife is past, their triumph won; But sterner trials wait the race Which rises in their honored place; A moral warfare with the crime And folly of an evil time.

So let it be. In God’s own might We gird us for the coming fight, And, strong in Him whose cause is ours In conflict with unholy powers, We grasp the weapons He has given,— The Light, and Truth, and Love of Heaven.

WHITTIER 71

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

“ETHOGENESIS�

Henry Timrod Written During the Meeting of the First Southern Congress, at Montgomery, February, 1861 I Hath not the morning dawned with added light?

And shall not evening call another star Out of the infinite regions of the night, To mark this day in Heaven? At last, we are A nation among nations; and the world Shall soon behold in many a distant port Another flag unfurled!

Now, come what may, whose favor need we court?

And, under God, whose thunder need we fear?

Thank Him who placed us here Beneath so kind a sky -- the very sun Takes part with us; and on our errands run All breezes of the ocean; dew and rain Do noiseless battle for us; and the Year, And all the gentle daughters in her train, March in our ranks, and in our service wield Long spears of golden grain!

A yellow blossom as her fairy shield, June flings her azure banner to the wind, While in the order of their birth Her sisters pass, and many an ample field Grows white beneath their steps, till now, behold, Its endless sheets unfold 72 TIMROD

Politics & Religion

THE SNOW OF SOUTHERN SUMMERS! Let the earth Rejoice! beneath those fleeces soft and warm Our happy land shall sleep In a repose as deep As if we lay intrenched behind Whole leagues of Russian ice and Arctic storm!

II And what if, mad with wrongs themselves have wrought, In their own treachery caught, By their own fears made bold, And leagued with him of old, Who long since in the limits of the North Set up his evil throne, and warred with God -What if, both mad and blinded in their rage, Our foes should fling us down their mortal gage, And with a hostile step profane our sod!

We shall not shrink, my brothers, but go forth To meet them, marshaled by the Lord of Hosts, And overshadowed by the mighty ghosts Of Moultrie and of Eutaw -- who shall foil Auxiliars such as these? Nor these alone, But every stock and stone Shall help us; but the very soil, And all the generous wealth it gives to toil, And all for which we love our noble land, Shall fight beside, and through us; sea and strand, The heart of woman, and her hand, Tree, fruit, and flower, and every influence, Gentle, or grave, or grand; The winds in our defence Shall seem to blow; to us the hills shall lend Their firmness and their calm; TIMROD 73

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

And in our stiffened sinews we shall blend The strength of pine and palm!

III Nor would we shun the battle-ground, Though weak as we are strong; Call up the clashing elements around, And test the right and wrong!

On one side, creeds that dare to teach What Christ and Paul refrained to preach; Codes built upon a broken pledge, And Charity that whets a poniard’s edge; Fair schemes that leave the neighboring poor To starve and shiver at the schemer’s door, While in the world’s most liberal ranks enrolled, He turns some vast philanthropy to gold; Religion, taking every mortal form But that a pure and Christian faith makes warm, Where not to vile fanatic passion urged, Or not in vague philosophies submerged, Repulsive with all Pharisaic leaven, And making laws to stay the laws of Heaven!

And on the other, scorn of sordid gain, Unblemished honor, truth without a stain, Faith, justice, reverence, charitable wealth, And, for the poor and humble, laws which give, Not the mean right to buy the right to live, But life, and home, and health!

To doubt the end were want of trust in God, Who, if he has decreed That we must pass a redder sea Than that which rang to Miriam’s holy glee,

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Will surely raise at need A Moses with his rod!

IV But let our fears -- if fears we have -- be still, And turn us to the future! Could we climb Some mighty Alp, and view the coming time, The rapturous sight would fill Our eyes with happy tears!

Not only for the glories which the years Shall bring us; not for lands from sea to sea, And wealth, and power, and peace, though these shall be; But for the distant peoples we shall bless, A nd the hushed murmurs of a world’s distress: For, to give labor to the poor, The whole sad planet o’er, And save from want and crime the humblest door, Is one among the many ends for which God makes us great and rich!

The hour perchance is not yet wholly ripe When all shall own it, but the type Whereby we shall be known in every land Is that vast gulf which lips our Southern strand, A nd through the cold, untempered ocean pours Its genial streams, that far off Arctic shores May sometimes catch upon the softened breeze Strange tropic warmth and hints of summer seas.

TIMROD 75

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

“CHRISTMAS” Henry Timrod

How grace this hallowed day?

Shall happy bells, from yonder ancient spire, Send their glad greetings to each Christmas fire Round which the children play?

Alas! for many a moon, That tongueless tower hath cleaved the Sabbath air, Mute as an obelisk of ice, aglare Beneath an Arctic noon.

Shame to the foes that drown Our psalms of worship with their impious drum, The sweetest chimes in all the land lie dumb I n some far rustic town.

There, let us think, they keep, Of the dead Yules which here beside the sea They’ve ushered in with old-world, English glee, Some echoes in their sleep.

How shall we grace the day?

With feast, and song, and dance, and antique sports, And shout of happy children in the courts, And tales of ghost and fay?

Is there indeed a door, Where the old pastimes, with their lawful noise, And all the merry round of Christmas joys, Could enter as of yore?

Would not some pallid face Look in upon the banquet, calling up Dread shapes of battles in the wassail cup, And trouble all the place?

How could we bear the mirth, While some loved reveler of a year ago

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Keeps his mute Christmas now beneath the snow, In cold Virginian earth?

How shall we grace the day?

Ah! let the thought that on this holy morn The Prince of Peace -- the Prince of Peace was born, Employ us, while we pray!

Pray for the peace which long Hath left this tortured land, and haply now Holds its white court on some far mountain’s brow, There hardly safe from wrong!

Let every sacred fane Call its sad votaries to the shrine of God, And, with the cloister and the tented sod, Join in one solemn strain!

With pomp of Roman form, With the grave ritual brought from England’s shore, And with the simple faith which asks no more Than that the heart be warm!

He, who, till time shall cease, Will watch that earth, where once, not all in vain, He died to give us peace, may not disdain A prayer whose theme is -- peace.

Perhaps ere yet the Spring Hath died into the Summer, over all The land, the peace of His vast love shall fall, Like some protecting wing.

Oh, ponder what it means!

Oh, turn the rapturous thought in every way!

Oh, give the vision and the fancy play, And shape the coming scenes!

Peace in the quiet dales, Made rankly fertile by the blood of men, Peace in the woodland, and the lonely glen, Peace in the peopled vales!

TIMROD 77

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

Peace in the crowded town, Peace in a thousand fields of waving grain, Peace in the highway and the flowery lane, Peace on the wind-swept down!

Peace on the farthest seas, Peace in our sheltered bays and ample streams, Peace wheresoe’er our starry garland gleams, And peace in every breeze!

Peace on the whirring marts, Peace where the scholar thinks, the hunter roams, Peace, God of Peace! peace, peace, in all our homes, And peace in all our hearts!

“XXXVI - FAREWELL” Emily Dickenson Tie the strings to my life, my Lord, Then I am ready to go!

Just a look at the horses — Rapid! That will do!

Put me in on the firmest side, So I shall never fall; For we must ride to the Judgment, And it’s partly down hill.

But never I mind the bridges, And never I mind the sea; Held fast in everlasting race By my own choice and thee.

Good-by to the life I used to live, And the world I used to know; And kiss the hills for me, just once; Now I am ready to go!

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Politics & Religion

“BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC�

Julia Ward Howe

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; He is trampling out the vintage where grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword, His truth is marching on.

Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah!

Glory, glory, hallelujah! His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watchfires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps, His day is marching on.

Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah!

Glory, glory, hallelujah! His truth is marching on.

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before His Judgement Seat.

Oh! Be swift, my soul, to answer Him, be jubilant, my feet!

Our God is marching on.

Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah!

Glory, glory, hallelujah! His truth is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me; As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on.

Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah!

Glory, glory, hallelujah! His truth is marching on.

WARD HOWE 79

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHIES

AMANDA AKIN STEARNS (1827 - 1911)

Amanda Akin Stearns was born to a large and affluent family in New York in 1827 where she was the eighth or ten children. In 1863, she left her family to work for the Union as a nurse at Armory Square Hospital in Washington, D.C. where she served as a nurse for over a year.

Female nurses were a new addition to the medical occupation, and they shared some duties with male attendants, but did not carry the same esteem as males who performed the same tasks. Their job title of “lady nurse” illustrates the hesitance of equality in the medical workplace. Their workdays began at 6 a.m. and finished at 9 p.m., but many days they had free time in between to write letters, take walks, and other personal tasks. While working, they attended to hospital visitors, helped patients write letters, and administering medicine. Other women also contributed to the war effort working as cooks, matrons, or as general volunteers.

She married Dr. Charles Stearns in 1879, but was widowed in 1887.

They had no children. She published personal accounts of her nursing experience under her married name, Amanda Akin Stearns, in 1909. The substance of her book was drawn from long letters to her nine siblings. An interactive exhibit about Akin Stearns’ work was included in a 150 year Civil War commemoration exhibit at the Smithsonian Museums of American History and National Library of Medicine.

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LOUISA MAY ALCOTT (1832 - 1888)

Louisa May Alcott grew up in New England as a member of a poor family in the 1830s. She had to work to support them from a young age, leading her to take on jobs like seamstress, governess, and domestic helper in addition to her writing.

Her parents were transcendentalists who believed in the merits of charity and attaining perfection. Her father, Bronson, was a member of the Boston Transcendental Club, joining members such as Henry David Thoreau and Ralph Waldo Emerson, who educated Alcott. Along side her education and her work, Alcott also served as a nurse during the Civil War. An abolitionist and feminist who was never married, Alcott’s progressive views often bridged into her work. Her protagonists are often strong female characters who defy normative expectations of the time. Jo, from the “Little Women” series, is based largely on Alcott herself. The story is partially autobiographical about her own family and their experiences.

Alcott published “Little Women” in 1868, and its sequels “Good Wives,” “Little Men” and “Jo’s Boys” in 1869, 1871, and 1886, respectively. She also wrote “Hospital Sketches” and some young adult fiction under the pseudonym A. M. Barnard. Her other work gained her some notoriety, and a steady job with Atlantic Monthly, but the hit “Little Women” has maintained Alcott’s legacy in literature.

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Author Biographies

EMILY DICKENSON (1830 - 1886)

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson was an American poet, born in Amherst, Massachusetts December 1830. She had an older brother, William, and a younger sister, Lavinia, who would later publish Dickinson’s poetry posthumously rather than burn them as Dickinson had requested.

Dickinson lived a comfortable life in the North. Her father was a successful man and wanted his children to be well educated in a classical way that fit with their standing in society. Dickinson was considered a good child, an excellent student, and was very outgoing in her earlier years. She did, however, develop a preoccupation with death, particularly with those she knew well, which would continue throughout her life.

Dickinson began to more reclusive, but she kept correspondence with Thomas Wentworth Higginson in April 1862 about her writing.

Higginson was a member of the Union Army and John Brown’s Secret Six. He praised her writing but advised her not to publish, though he did not know she had already had a few pieces in print. Dickinson valued his advice and considered him a close friend, though she refused to go out to meet him, telling him she did not leave the Homestead.

As she aged, Dickinson became more reclusive, never answering her door, and rarely even wanting to leave her bedroom. She wore only white clothes, never married, enjoyed baking, and owned a dog, Carlo.

With each death of family or friends, she became more withdrawn and focused on the concept of death until her own passing in 1886.

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FRANCIS MILES FINCH (1827 - 1907)

Francis Miles Finch was a poet, judge, and academic born on June 9, 1827, in Ithaca, New York. His father, Nathaniel Finch, was a clergyman, and his mother was named Tryphena Farling. He was admitted to Yale and was a member of Skull and Bones, as well as editor of Yale Magazine. After graduating in 1849, he moved back to Ithaca and in 1853, he married Eliza Brooke. They had three children: Robert Brooke, Mary Sibley, and Helen Elizabeth.

Finch studied law and was admitted to the bar in 1850. He was then appointed Collector of Internal Revenue for the Twenty-Sixth District, New York, a position he held for four years. Finch was also involved with Cornell University and became one of its trustees and counsel, serving as Secretary of the Board of Trustees. He was appointed as a judge in May of 1880 for the New York Court of Appeals to fill a vacancy before being elected to a full term-fourteen years- in November 1881, holding the office until December 31, 1895.

Finch was a humble about his poetry. His poetry was only a hobby on the side of being a very successful lawyer. His most famous poem, “The Blue and the Gray”, was written as a remembrance of those who had lost their lives in the Civil War. It was inspired by a women’s memorial association in Columbus, Mississippi. He was impacted by how the women treated the graves of Confederate and Union soldiers as equals. After his death in 1907, this poem, along with a collection of others, was published posthumously in 1909.

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Author Biographies

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES (1809 - 1894)

Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. was a physician, poet, professor, lecturer, and author. He was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts in 1809 to Abiel Holmes and Sarah Wendell. His father was a clergyman and historian, and his mother was his father’s second wife. In 1829, Holmes graduated from Harvard University where he excelled at languages and writing. After attending Harvard, Holmes studied law briefly before switching to medicine. He received his M.D. from Harvard Medical School in 1836, and taught at Dartmouth Medical School for a few years. He returned to Harvard to teach and served as dean for a short period of time. He retired from Harvard in 1882.

Holmes was an avid writer, and was a member of the Fireside Poets. His friend group included famous poets and writers such as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and James Russell Lowell. Many of Holmes’ works were published in the Atlantic Monthly. He began writing seriously during his brief period studying law. In 1830, he wrote 50 poems, 25 of which were published in The Collegian. His writing career took off in 1856, when he began contributing his work to the Atlantic Monthly. He was a popular poet during his lifetime, and was often called upon to write poetry for special events. Holmes was active as a poet and writer during the Civil War. He was an avid Unionist and produced literature in favor of keeping the States unified. Holmes died peacefully in his sleep October 7, 1894, leaving behind a strong literary presence in Civil War literature.

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JULIA WARD HOWE (1819 - 1910)

Julia Ward Howe was born in 1819 to a successful Wall Street banker father and a published poet mother. After her mother’s death, Howe’s father, worked to ensure his children were taken care of well, ensuring that Howe had access to a formidable education, giving her access to a modern world that conflicted with her strict Calvinist upbringing. She married Samuel Howe in 1843 and gave control of her estate completely to him. Due to poor decisions on behalf of her husband and her brothers, Howe saw financial collapse of her estate and was left to struggle to find money for most of her adult life.

Her marriage became strained when Samuel forbid her to make her writings public, but she did so anonymously. Due to the descriptive nature of her poetry, they quickly became attributed to her and were a sensation for their portrayal of intimate affairs between a controlling man and his disobedient wife. This was shocking to the people of Boston, where her work was published, but gave rise to her notoriety as a poet and author.

Howe became interested in Abolition and women’s suffrage, penning many poems and songs for her cause. During the Civil War, her song “Battle Hymn of the Republic” became a main rallying song for the Union, ensuring her lasting fame long after her death in 1910, where it was sung by over 4,000 people at her funeral.

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Author Biographies

HERMAN MELVILLE (1819 - 1891)

Herman Melville was a poet, novelist, and short story writer born in New York City in 1819 to Alan Melville and Maria Gansevoort. His father worked as a merchant of French dry-goods who died in 1832. After his father’s death, Meliville ended his formal education and became a schoolteacher for a short time before becoming a sailor in 1839. A few years later, he married Elizabeth Knapp Shaw and fathered four children. In 1850, Melville moved close to Pittsfield, Massachusetts, where he befriended Nathaniel Hawthorne. Melville took a position as a customs inspector in New York City in 1866, and held the position for 19 years. Several members of his wife’s family had passed away and left the Melvilles inheritances.

Melville wrote throughout his entire lifetime and various career changes. Several of his earliest books were based on his travels and experiences as a sailor. His most successful period of time as a writer occurred between 1845 and 1852. It was during this time that his arguably most famous work, Moby Dick, was written and published. However, the novel was not a roaring success. It received mixed reviews and mediocre sales. After taking a position in New York, Melville turned to writing poetry. In 1866, he published his book of poetry, titled Battle-Pieces and Aspects of the War. The book included 72 poems reflecting on the battles, moral issues, and aftermath of the Civil War.

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FRANCIS ORRAY TICKNOR (1822 - 1874)

Francis Orray Ticknor was a child of the South born to parents of the North. He was the youngest of three children and grew up without a father, who died when Ticknor was only five months old. After his father’s death, Ticknor’s mother took the family to Georgia, where he spent most of his childhood. Ticknor returned to the North to learn medicine, studying in both Philidelphia and New York, before moving back to Sheel Creek, Georgia to set up his practice. He held many talents beside his career as a physician, acting as both a horticulturalist and poet, publishing works in all three fields.

Before the Civil War began, Ticknor grew tired of the general air of southern superiority but did initially support succession. After the war broke out, he found fame in writing poetry on how life was affected by the violence and death around him. Despite having a few successful poems that circulated in the South, Ticknor’s fame comes mostly from his poem “Little Giffen,” based on a true encounter he had with a confederate soldier that he nursed back to health, only to have the man return to combat and die within the next few weeks. The poem is considered to be one of the great Southern works from the era.

Ticknor died in December of 1874 after a bout of illness that he could never quite recover from. Most of his works were collected and edited posthumously by his granddaughter, Michelle.

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Author Biographies

HENRY TIMROD (1829 - 1867)

Henry Timrod was a Confederate poet born December 8, 1829, to American-German parents in Charleston, South Carolina. His father, William Henry Timrod was also a poet and a soldier who died of tuberculosis when Henry was just nine. Soon after, the family house burned down, leaving the family destitute.

In 1847, Henry attended the University of Georgia with the aid an individual willing to help pay for the tuition. However, Henry was a sickly man and had to leave school due to illness. After this, he worked for an attorney and submitted poems to the Southern Literary Messengerwhere his name as a Southern poet began to spread. A decade later, Timrod began work at the plantation school owned by Colonel William Henry Cannon. He served as the teacher in this tiny, one-room school where he met his wife, Kate Goodwin, who served as one of his students and of whom he wrote affectionately about in his some of his poems. They had a son Willie, in on Christmas Eve of the the same year they wed.

Being a patriotic Southerner, he moved back to Charleston when the Civil War started and began publishing war poems that sparked several young men to join the Confederacy. He even had one of his poems, “Ethnogenesis” composed in 1861 and included in this anthology,read during the first meeting of the Confederate Congress. In 1862, Henry Timrod enlisted into the Confederate Army. His service was cut short due to his poor health.

In the winter of 1865, General Sherman’s Army invaded and burned his home and forced him into hiding. Willie died later the same year in October.

Henry Timrod died two years later.

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MARK TWAIN (1835 - 1910)

Mark Twain, born November 30, 1835 as Samuel Langhorne Clemens, was a lecturer, journalist, riverboat pilot, inventor, entrepreneur, author and humorist. He was born in Florida, Missouri to Jane Lampton and John Marshall Clemens. His father was an attorney judge who died when Twain was 11. A year after his father’s death, Twain left school to become a printer’s apprentice. When he was 18, he moved to New York City working as a printer during the day, and educated himself in the public libraries at night. During his work as a printer, Twain would write short stories and articles that were published in the periodicals. Twain’s interest turned to steamboats, and he held a position as a steamboat pilot until the Civil War broke out in 1861. In 1870, he married Olivia Langdon, daughter of a rich coal merchant from New York. They had four children.

Mark Twain was a popular author during his lifetime, and is still wellknown today. His writings can be found in newspapers and other periodicals.

He also performed various speeches and lectures, and many of his works included social criticism. Two of his most famous works are Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. Huckleberry Finn is both widely read and repeatedly banned in American schools. Known as the First Great American novel, it depicts the antebellum pro-slavery South and social criticism in slavery. Due to the content and time period, some schools deem it inappropriate for its language. It was first published in 1884, marking the midpoint of Twain’s writing career. Twain continued to write and publish work with varying degrees of success up until his death in April 21, 1910.

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Author Biographies

WALT WHITMAN (1819 - 1892)

Walt Whitman was the second son of a housebuilder in 1819 in Long Island, New York. Self-taught, Whitman grew to love the printed word and took on work as a printer in New York City, where he also worked as a one-room school teacher. After the Civil War broke, Whitman vowed to live a better life and took up work as a freelance journalist while writing his own poetry on the side. He went to Washington D. C. to care for his injured brother, where he became overwhelmed by the amount of wounded coming in from the battlefield. He stayed in the city for eleven years, working as a nurse for the war, then as a clerk for the Department of the Interior. Though he had steady work through these years, he struggled to really make ends meet. Most of his royalties and extra money went toward the care of his patients while, after particularly large publications, Whitman often sent his money away to relatives like his brother, who used the money from Leaves of Grass to purchase a house.

Whitman’s most notable work, Leaves of Grass, first featured twelve untitled poems and a preface, and was revised nine times throughout his life, with the final version announced two months before his death that included nearly 400 poems and illustrations. His work was highly controversial through his life, derided by critics as overly sexual and potentially homosexual, which Whitman likely was. Whitman died in 1892.

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JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER (1807 - 1892) John Greenleaf Whittier was a strong advocate for abolition of slavery and member of the Quaker society in Massachusetts. His first peom was published in the Newburyport Free Press which, at the time, was edited by famous abolitionist William Lloyd Garrison. Garrison encouraged Whittier to attend Haverhill Academy and helped him into the position of editor of a Boston-based newspaper. Eventually, Whittier split from Garrison and formed the Liberty Party in 1839 under the presumption that abolition needed a legal stance rather than just a moral one.

Many of Whittier’s poems have been converted into popular hymns of the era, with his poem “At Port Royal 1861” led to the hymn “Song of the Negro Boatman” which became one of the most widely printed hymns of the time. His collection In War Time features many of his poems inspired by the Civil War and by the people affected by it, resulting in greater understanding of the every-day people of the era. After the Thirteenth Amendment passed, effectively ending American slavery, Whittier turned to other forms of poetry, leaving his days of political activism mostly behind him, though he continued to support the female authors and poets of the era.

Whittier’s legacy involves many communities that bear his name and even a postage stamp with his face on it issued in 1940. His poems continue to circulate among Civil War scholars now in the Twenty-First century.

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INDEX OF AUTHORS Amanda Akin Stearns - 82

Lady Nurse of Ward E, The – 52 Louisa May Alcott -83

Little Women – 24 Emily Dickenson - 84

XVI – To Fight Aloud is Very Brave – 3

XVI – Refuge – 44

XXII – I Had No Time to Hate – 3

XXVII – If I Should Die – 44

XXXV – Emancipation – 4

XXXVI – Farewell – 78 Francis Miles Finch - 85

Blue and the Gray, The – 47 Oliver Wendell Holmes

Brother Johnathan’s Lament for Sister Caroline – 66 Julia Ward Howe - 86

Battle Hymn of the Republic – 79 Herman Melville - 87

Aurora-Borealis – 49 Francis Orray Ticknor - 88

Little Giffen – 21 Henry Timrod - 89

Christmas – 76

Ethogenesis – 72

Mother’s Wail, A – 12

Too Long, O’ Spirit of Storm – 45

Youth and Manhood – 22 Mark Twain - 90

True Story, Repeated Word For Word as I Heard It, A – 16 INDEX 93

Outside the Blue and Gray: Writings from the American Civil War

Walt Whitman - 91

Beat! Beat! Drums! - 2

Come Up From the Fields, Father – 14

Look Down Fair Moon – 46

Mother and Babe – 15

Over the Carnage Rose a Prophetic Voice – 68

When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d – 36

Wound Dresser, The – 61 John Greenleaf Whittier - 92

Barbara Frietchie – 5

Moral Warfare, The – 71

Watchers, The – 8

What the Birds Said – 34

Word For the Hour, A – 70

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AMERICAN CIVIL WAR TIMELINE

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About Us

ABOUT US

Movement Publishing is a group of talented students participating in University of Nebraska at Lincoln’s Editing and Publishing class. We come from various degree pursuits with a range of personalities that make us a unique and successful team. Simply put, we rock.

Outside the Blue and Gray is the product of our collaboration and hard work.

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