Continental Monthly, Vol. III, No IV, April 1863

These official statistics enable me, then, again to say that slavery is hostile to the progress of wealth and education, to science and literature, to schools, colleges, and universities, to books and libraries, to churches and religion, to the PRESS, and therefore to FREE GOVERNMENT; hostile to the poor, keeping them in want and ignorance; hostile to LABOR, reducing it to servitude and decreasing two thirds the value of its products; hostile to morals, repudiating among slaves the marital and parental condition, classifying them by law as CHATTELS, darkening the immortal soul, and making it a crime to teach millions of human beings to read or write.

And yet, there are desperate leaders of the Peace party of Pennsylvania, desecrating the name of Democrats, but, in fact, Tories and traitors, who would separate that glorious old commonwealth from the North, and bid her sue in abject humiliation for admission as one of the Slave States of the rebel confederacy. Shades of Penn and Franklin, and of the thousands of martyred patriots of Pennsylvania who have fallen in defence of the Union from 1776 to 1863, forbid the terrible degradation.

DOWN IN TENNESSEE

Sultry and wearisome the day had been in that Tennessee valley, and after drill, we had laid around under the trees – tall, noble trees they were – and the fresh grass was green and soft under them as on the old 'Campus,' and we had been smoking and talking over a wide, wide range of subjects, from deep Carlyleism – of which Carlyle doubtless never heard – to the significance of the day's orders. It was not an inharmonious picture – Camp Alabama, so we had named it – for it was with a 'here we rest' feeling that a dozen days before we had marched in at noon. The ground sloped to the eastward – a single winding road of yellow sand crept over the slope into the horizon, a mile or more away; north, a hill rose with some abruptness; south and west, a grove of wonderful beauty skirted the valley. A single building – an old but large log farmhouse – stood near the tent, whose fluttering banner indicated headquarters. This old house was well filled with commissary stores, and, following that incomprehensible Tennessee policy, four companies of our regiment, the twenty-third, had been detached to guard them under Major Fanning – 'a noble soldier he, but all untried.' We had never yet seen active service, and our tents were still white and unstained. The ground had been once the lawn of the deserted house – in the long ago probably the home of a planter of some pretension; and, as we lay there under the trees watching the boys over the fires, kindled for their evening meal, the blue smoke curling up among the trees, it made, as I have said, a most harmonious picture.

That fair June evening! I can never forget it, and I wish I were an artist that I could show you the sloping valley, the white tents, flushing like a girl's cheek to the good-night kisses of the sun, the curling smoke wreaths, and far, far above the amethystine heaven, from which floated over all a dim purple tint. I was the youngest commissioned officer in the regiment, having been promoted to a vacancy a week or two before through Major Fanning's influence.

We were all invited that evening to supper with our commanding officer and his wife – who had been with him for a few days. A fresh breeze stirred the trees at sunset, and, after slight attention to our toilette, we dropped by twos and threes into the neighborhood of the major's tent. A little back from the rows of other tents, a few fine oaks made a temple in front, worthy even of its presiding genius, Grace Fanning – but I am not going to rhapsodize. She was a fair, modest, young thing, with the girl rose yet fresh on her wife's cheek. I had known her from childhood; very nearly of the same age, and the children of neighbors, we had been inseparable; of course in my first college vacation, finding her grown tall and womanly, I had entertained for her a devoted boyish passion, and had gone from her presence, one August night, mad with rejection, and wild with what I called despair. But that passed, and we had been good friends ever since – she the confidential one, to whom I related my varied college love affairs, listening ever with a tender, genial sympathy. I had no sister, and Grace Jones (I am sorry, but her name was Jones) was dear to me as one. Two years of professional study had kept me away from my village home, and a few words came once in a long while, in my mother's letters 'to assure me of Grace's remembrance and regard.' A little of the elder sister's advising tone amused my one and twenty years and my incipient moustache amazingly; and I resolved, when I saw her, to convince her of my dignity – to patronize her. But the notes that called me home were too clarion-like for a relapse into puppyism. My country spoke my name, and I arose a man, and 'put away childish things.' I came home to say farewell. A regiment was forming there, I enlisted, and a few days before our departure, I stood in the village church, looking and listening while Grace promised eternal fidelity to Harry Fanning. I was a stranger to him. He had come to Danville after my departure, winning from all golden opinions, and from Grace a woman's priceless heart. She gave him freely to his country, and denied not her hand to his parting prayer. I had had time only to say farewell to her, and the old footing had not been restored, but I think she spoke to the major of me, for he soon sought me, giving me genial friendship and sympathy, and procuring for me, as I have related, my commission. I had seen her but once since she came to Camp Alabama, and she gave me warm and kindly welcome as I came in, the last of the group, having found in my tent some unexpected employment. Being a soldier, I shall not shock my fair readers if I confess that it was – buttons. Ah! me, I am frivolous. But I linger in the spirit of that happy hour. Grace's chair was shaded by a gracefully draped flag; the major stood near her, his love for her as visible in his eye as his cordial kindness for us. To me, in honor of my 'juniority,' as Mrs. Fanning said, was assigned a place near her. The others had choice between campstools and blankets on the grass. And the oddest but most respectable of contrabands served us soon with our supper, so homelike that we suspected 'Mrs. Major's' fair hands of interference.

It was a happy evening. Merry laughter at our camp stories rang silverly from her fair lips. Or we listened eagerly to her as she told us of the homes we had left, and the bonny maidens there, sobered since our departure into patriotic industry. Stories of touching self-denial, with a wholesome pathos, and sometimes from her dainty musical talk she dropped, pebble-like, a name, as 'Fanny,' 'Carry,' 'Maggie,' and responsive blushes rippled up over sunburned, honest faces, and a soft mist brightened for a second resolute eyes. Presently the band – a part only of the regiment's – began to play soft, well-known tunes. Through a few marches and national airs, I looked and listened as a year before, in the village church at home. And as the 'Star-Spangled Banner' rose inspiringly, I felt the coincidence strangely, and could scarcely say which scene was real: the church aisle and the bridal party, in white robes and favors, with mellow organ-tones rising in patriotic strains concerning the 'dear old flag,' or the group under the oaks; the young wife in her gray travelling dress, and the uniformed figures gathered around her; the moon-rise over the hill, lighting softly the drooping flag, the major's dark hair, and Mrs. Fanning's sunny braids, the wild notes of the same beloved melody overswelling all. But voices near aroused me, and we joined in the chorus, and in the following tune, 'Sweet Home,' the usual finale of our evening programme. Then, as the tones died, Grace lifted her voice and sang with sweet, pure soprano tones, an old-time ballad of love and parting and reunion.

We had a wild little battle song in 'Our Mess,' written by Charlie Marsh, our fair-haired boy-poet soldier, speaking of home, and the country's need, and victory, and possible deaths in ringing notes. We sang it there in the light of the slowly rising moon. The chorus was like this:

 
'Our country's foe before us,
Our country's banner o'er us,
Our country to deplore us,
These are a soldier's needs.'
 

As we closed, Grace caught the strain, and with soft, birdlike notes sang:

 
'Your country's flag above you,
Your country's true hearts love you —
So let your country move you
To brave, undying deeds.'
 

More songs followed, and happy words of cheer in distress, of self-consecration, of past and future victory; but Major Fanning was unusually silent. Hardly sad, for he flung into our conversation occasional cheerful words; but gravely quiet, his dark eye following every motion of his fair young wife. Finally we called on Captain Carter, our 'oldest man,' a grave bachelor of forty-five, and to our surprise, who knew him harsh and sometimes profane, he sang, with a voice not faultless, but soft and expressive, that exquisite health of Campbell's:

 
'Drink ye to her that each loves best,
And if you nurse a flame
That's told but to her mutual breast,
We will not ask her name.
 
 
'And far, far hence be jest or boast,
From hallowed thoughts so dear;
But drink to her that each loves most,
As she would love to hear.'
 

Then silence for a little space; and the moonlight full and fair in soldiers' faces, young and old, but all firm and true, and fair and full on Grace Fanning's fresh, young brow. Then 'good-nights,' mingled with expressions of enjoyment, and plans for the morrow. I left them last.

'I am glad you are here, Robert,' said the major; 'Grace would not be all alone, even if I' —

Her white hand flashed to his lips, where a kiss met it, and laughingly we parted. A few rods away, I paused and turned. They stood there under the flag. Her bright head on his bosom, his arms about her, and the silver moonlight over all. Fair Grace Fanning! Have I named my story wrongly, pretty reader? I called it 'Camp Sketch,' and it reads too like a love story. 'Ah! gentle girl, seeking adventure in fiction, but shrinking really from even a cut finger, there is enough of battle even in my little story, though you slept peacefully and happily that fair June night, or waltzed yourself weary to the sound of the sea at the 'Ocean House.'

A few 'good nights' commendatory of our hostess and our evening greeted me as I sought my tent and made ready for sleep. I was very happy, no memory of our talk was sullied by coarse or unlovely thought; pure as herself had been our enjoyment of Mrs. Fanning's society, and I slept sweetly.

The long roll! None but those who have heard it when it means instant danger and possible death, can conceive the thrill with which I sprang from deep slumber, and made hasty preparation for action. Quick as I was, others had been before me, and I found the half-dressed men drawn up in battle line before the encampment. I took my place.

Behind us lay the camp, a wide, street-like space, fringed with a double row of tents – at its foot the old log mansion; near that, a little in front, but at one side, the flag of headquarters – this behind. Before us the major – the western wood, and the flashing sabres of a band of hostile cavalry. They came on heedless of the fast-emptying saddles, on, on, and more following from the wood, the moon in the mid heaven, clear like day.

A gallant charge – a firm repulse. Major Fanning's clear voice on the night air, rallying the men to attack the furious foe. They sweep their horses around to left, but calmly the major wheels his battalion, still unflanked; again those fierce steeds try the first point of attack; again we front them undaunted. In our turn, with lifted level bayonets we charge; the enemy falls back – a shout threads along our lines, changing suddenly into a wail, for, calling us on, our leader falls. Pitiless to his noble valor, a well-aimed carbine-shot lays him low. They lift him, some brave soldiers near; and, his young face bathed in blood, they bear him to his waiting bride; he opens his eyes, as he passes.

'Courage! victory! my boys!' he calls; then, seeing me: 'Go! tell her, Robert.'

I call my orderly to my place, and before they have pierced our lines with their beloved burden, I am at the tent door. She stands there waiting, a little pistol in her hand – a light wrapper about her, and her fair hair streaming over her shoulders. I look at her mutely; she knows there is something terrible for her, and while I seek words, her eye goes on, resting where down the moonlit trees they are bringing him. A moment, she is by his side, and tearless and white, her hand on his unanswering heart, she moves beside him. The soldiers lay their leader on the ground under his flag, and her imperious gesture sends them back to their places in the battle. And then she, sinking beside him, cries out:

'Oh, Robert! will he never speak to me again? Help him!'

My two years at lectures had not been passed in vain, and surgery had been my hobby. I knelt and strove to aid him. It was a cruel wound. I asked for bandages. She tore them from her garments wildly. I stilled the trickling crimson stream, and going into the tent, found some restoratives. I poured the wine down his throat, and, soon opening his eyes, he spoke:

'Grace!'

I stepped away – near enough for call, not near enough for intrusion. Looking at the lines of dark forms topped by the light glimmer of stray bayonets, I saw with dismay that our men were retreating before those heavy charges; in thick, dense masses they moved back, nearing us. I thought of our soldier chief, crushed under those wild hoofs; I thought of Grace, unprotected in her youth and widowed, desolate beauty, and sprang to her side, ready with my life for her.

The major saw it all, and, faint as he was, rose on his elbow, watching. Charge after charge, wild and impetuous, break the slowly retreating battalions. In vain I heard Carter's stern oaths (may the angel of tears forgive him!), and Charlie Marsh's boyish calls. The men are facing us. The enemy, cheering, and in the background huge torches flaming with pitch, are ready for incendiarism.

'Grace! Grace! I must rally them, let me go!' and I see Major Fanning straggling in her arms. I clasp him also.

'It is certain death,' I say to her, mad with fright and misery.

'And this is worse, worse, Grace; you might better kill me!' his voice was harsh – cruel even.

Suddenly she was gone, and I held him alone; catching his sword, she sprang like a flash of lightning into the open space before the log house, and, lifting the bare blade with naked, slender arm, its loose sleeve floating from her shoulder like a wing, she faced those panic-stricken men.

'For shame!' she cried; but her weak voice was lost; then, stern as the angel of death, she stepped forward.

'The first man that passes me shall die!' and she swung the flashing blade up, ready to fall. A moment's halt, and then, she spoke to them with wonderful strange words. I cannot recall them; with inspired eloquence she spoke, a slight, white-robed figure in the clear moonlight, and the rout was stayed, and they turned bravely to meet the foe. Then she came faint and weak to her husband's side again. He looked up with glad, eager eyes.

'Darling!'

Infinite love, soul-recognition, shone on both faces, and then blank unconsciousness crept over his. Firmly our boys met the charging steeds now. That moment had restored to them their courage. Emptied saddles were frequent, but still fresh forces dashed from the wood. Is there no hope for us? Must we be overpowered? Is all this valor vain? Grace from her husband's side looks mutely up to heaven. I find my place among the men. Little hope remains. Some one calls 'retreat.' 'Just once more,' cries Charlie, and falls before us. But listen; above the battle din comes a new, an approaching sound from the eastward.

Along the yellow road pours swiftly a force of cavalry, behind the rumble of cannon almost flying over the ground, and high in air, reeling from the swift motion of its bearer's steed, the banner of the free. We are saved! A wild shout rings along our lines. Among the enemy, frightened consultation followed by flight; another second, and our friends are with us and beyond us in hot pursuit.

Brief question and answer told us of the friendly warning in the distant camp, the hasty march to aid us. The rest we saw. Then, 'A surgeon for Major Fanning.' The man of the green sash had not grown callous. There were tears in his eyes as he rose from his vain endeavors, saying only:

'I can do nothing here; I am needed elsewhere.'

Our young hero was dead!

They composed his limbs, laying him on a blanket under the trees, and Grace sat down beside him, tearless still, but pale as her dress, or the white hand lying cold over the soldier's pulseless heart.

'Robert, send them away,' she said to me, as sympathizing strangers pressed round; and they left us alone with the dead. I spoke at last the commonplaces of consolation, suggested and modified by the hour and my soldier feelings.

'Yes, Robert,' she answered, 'I gave him long ago. God will comfort me for my hero – in time. Do not speak to me just yet. Do not let any one come.'

The tears came now, and she wept bitterly, silently, under the starry banner, beside the dead. I heard the hum of many voices, and now and then a cry of pain, and knew they were all helping the sufferers. Then I turned to her again. Her streaming hair swept the ground, golden in the light. Her fair face was hidden on the cold dead face. And I dared not speak to her. Oh, that picture! Poor Grace Fanning! and the silver, silver moonlight over all.

POETRY AND POETICAL SELECTIONS

 
'Oh, deem not in this world of strife,
An idle art the Poet brings;
Let high Philosophy control,
And sages calm the stream of life;
'Tis he refines its fountain springs,
The nobler passions of the soul.'
 

In the annals of literature, Poetry antedates Prose. Creation precedes Providence, not merely in the order of sequence, but what is usually called intellectual and physical grandeur. So in genius and taste, Poetry transcends prose. In the work of Creation the Almighty broke the awful stillness of Eternity, by His first creative fiat, and angels were the first-born of God. They took their thrones in the galleries of the universe, and in silent contemplation sat. They spoke not; for words, as signs of thought or will or emotion, were not then conceived, and, consequently, then unborn. They gazed in rapture on one another, and in solemn silence thought. Their emotions bodied forth the Anthem of Creation.

Human words being created breath, and breath being air in motion, prior to these language was impossible. And as the deaf are always dumb, language, like faith, comes by hearing. But hearing itself is a pensioner, waiting upon a speaker; consequently, it must ever be contingent on a cause alike antecedent and extrinsic of itself. It is, therefore, equally an oracle of reason and of faith that, however God may have communicated to angels, to man He spoke in articulate sounds, before man articulated a thought, a feeling, or an emotion of his soul. And as an emotional soul is but a harp of many strings, a hand there must have been to play upon its chords, before melody and harmony, twins-born of Heaven, had either a local habitation or a name.

But, it may be asked – Is there not in the regions of Poetry an æolian harp, found in the cave of Æolus, on which the winds of heaven played many a celestial symphony, without the skill or touch of human hand? Grant all that the Poetic Muse assumes, and then we ask – Who made the harp? And whence directed came the musing sylvan Zephyrus and his choir? Came they not from a land of images and dreams?

But we are inquiring for originals. Images and originals are the poles apart. An original without an image is possible; but an image without an original is alike impossible and inconceivable. Hence, alike philosophically and logically, we conclude that neither man nor angel addressed each other until they themselves had been addressed by their Creator. Then they intercommunicated thought, sentiment, and emotion with one another as God had communicated to them.

The mystery of language and Poetry is insoluble but on the admission of a revelation or communication of some sort, unconceived by the human mind, unexecuted by the human hand. If invention and creation be the grand characteristics of the Poet, Moses, if uninspired, was a greater Poet than Homer, or Milton, or Shakspeare, on the hypothesis that he invented the drama which he wrote. The first chapter of Genesis is the greatest and most splendid Poem ever conceived by human imagination, or written by human hand.

All Poets, ancient and modern, are mere plagiarists, if Moses was uninspired. We prove his Divine Legation by the intrinsic and transcendent merits of the Poem which he wrote. Imagination originates nothing absolutely new. It merely imitates and combines. It is regarded as the creative faculty of man; but its material is already furnished. The portrait of an unreal Adam is as conceivable as a child without a father, or an effect without a cause.

Thus we are obliged, by an inseparable necessity, to admit the credibility of the Poem which he wrote. And what does Moses say? Nothing more than that God spoke, and the universe was! This is the sublime of true Poetry. This is more than the logic of the proposition, God was, therefore we are! It is more than the philosophy, ex nihilo, nihil fit! or than, that nothing cannot be the parent of something.

But we must place our foot on a higher round of the ladder, before we can stand on such an eminence as to see, in all its fair proportions, the column on which the Muses perch themselves.

Job, and not Moses, shall be our guide, and the oracle alike of our reason and our imagination. But who is Job? There is not much poetry in the name, Job. But Rome and its vulgate vulgarized this hallowed name, and Britain followed Rome. His name in Chaldee, Syriac, and Arabic, is Jobab. There is more poetry in this. There is no metre, no poetry in a monotone or monosyllable. Born among rocks and mountains, the proper theatre of a heaven-inspired Muse – not in Arabia the Happy, but in Arabia the Rocky – he was a heart-touching, a soul-stirring, emotional Bard. In such a case the clouds that overshadow the era of the man only enhance the genius and inspiration of the Poet.

In internal and external evidence, according to our calendar of the Muses, he is the first-born of the Poets that yet survive the wasteful ravages of hoary Time. He sings not, indeed, of Chaos and Eternal Night. But as one inspired by a heaven-born Muse, he echoes the chorus of the Angelic Song, when on the utterance of the first fiat the Morning Stars sang together and all the sons of God shouted for joy. Hence we argue, that Poetry is not only prior to prose, but that language, its intellectual and emotional embodiment, is heaven-conceived, and heaven-born.

But in a short essay it would be out of place and in bad taste to attempt a discourse upon the broad field of ancient or modern Poetry. We merely attempt to suggest one idea on this rich and lofty theme. Our radical conception of the essential and differential attribute of Poetry, as contradistinguished from prose, however chaste, pure, beautiful, and philosophic, is not mere art, nor science, but creation.

The universe itself is a grand Heroic Poem. Hence its instrument is that power usually called Imagination. But human imagination is not first, second, or third in rank on the scale of the universe. God Himself imagined the universe before He created it. His imagination is infinite. The Cherubim and Seraphim have wings that elevate them above our zenith. And angels, too, excel us in this creative faculty, and therefore veil their faces before the Majesty of heaven and earth. Still, man has an humble portion of it, and can turn it to a good account.

But there is another idea essential to the character of Poetry, as good or evil in its spirit and adornings. We need scarcely say, for we are anticipated by every reflecting mind, that this is the spirit of the Poem. Poetry, in the abstract, is not necessarily good or evil. It may be Christian, Jewish, Pagan, or Infidel in its spirit and tendencies. It may corrupt or purify the heart. It may save or ruin the reader in fortune or in fame. Hence, as Poetry is powerful to elevate or degrade, to purify or to corrupt a people, much depends on the spirit of the Poetry which they may put into the hands of the youth of a country; as well observed by an eminent moralist: 'Let me write the poems or ballads of a people, and I care but little who enacts their laws.'

The genius of a Poet is a rare genius. And most happily it is so; for elevated taste and high-toned morality are not, by any means, the common heritage of man. Anacreon and Burns were genuine Poets. They uttered, in fine style, many truths; and were not merely fluent in their respective languages, but affluent. But, perhaps, like some other men of mighty parts and grand proportions, better for mankind they had never been born. A Cowper and a Byron, in their whole career of song, will exert a very different influence, not only on earth, but in eternity, on the destiny of their amateurs. We need not argue this position as though, among a Christian people, it were a doubtful or debatable position. If the evil spirit, or the melancholy demon, that fitfully possessed the first king of Israel, was expelled by the skilful hand of his successor, even when his youthful fingers awoke the melodies of the lyre, how much more puissant the exquisite Odes of the sweet Psalmist, inspired as they were with sentiments and views alike honorable to God and man, to elevate the conceptions, purify the heart, ennoble the aspirations, and adorn the life of man!

As the cask long retains the odor of the wine put into it, so the moral and religious fragrance of many a fine poetic effusion, securely lodged in the recesses of memory, may yield, and often does yield, a rich repast of pleasurable associations and emotions which, beside their opportune recurrence in some trying or tempting hour or season of adversity, do often energize our souls with a moral heroism to deeds of nobler daring, which result in enterprises full of blessings to ourselves, and not unfrequently to our associates in the walks of life, and radiate through them salutary light for generations to come.

Imagination, like every other faculty, is to be cultivated. But here we are interrogated – 'What is Imagination?'

No distinction has given critics more trouble, in the way of definition, than that between Imagination and Fancy. Fancy, it is held, is given to beguile and quicken the temporal part of our nature; Imagination to incite and support the eternal.

It would be vain to enumerate the various definitions of this term, or to attempt to give even an abstract of the diversity of views entertained by philosophers respecting the nature and extent of its operations. It is regarded by some writers as that power or faculty of the mind by which it conceives and forms ideas of things communicated to it by the organs of sense. So defines our encyclopædias. Bacon defined it to be the 'representation of an individual thought.' But Dugald Stewart more philosophically defines it as the 'power of modifying our conceptions, by combining the parts of different ones so as to form new wholes of our own creation.' The Edinburgh Encyclopædia, not satisfied with this, says Webster defines it to be the will working on the materials of memory, selecting parts of different conceptions, or objects of memory, to form some new whole.

This has long been our cherished view of Imagination. It creates only as a mechanic creates a chest of drawers, a sideboard, a clock, or a watch. It originates not a single material of thought, volition, or action. But, mechanic-like, it works by plumb and rule on all the materials found in the warehouse of memory; and manufactures, out of the same plank of pine, or bar of iron, or wedge of gold, or precious stone, some new utensil, ornament, or adornment never found in Nature. In its present form it is the offspring of the art and contrivance of man. Hence our invulnerable position against Atheism or Deism. No one could have created the idea of a God or of a Christ, without a special inspiration, any more than he could create a gold watch without the metal called gold.

The deaf are necessarily dumb. The blind cannot conceive of color. A Poet cannot work without language, any more than the nightingale could sing without air. Language and prototypes precede and necessarily antedate writing and prose. Hence the idea of Poetry is preceded by the idea of Prose, as speaking by the idea of hearing. There was reason, and an age of reason, without, and antecedent to, rhyme; and therefore we sometimes find rhyme without reason, as well as reason without rhyme.

Rhyme, however, facilitates memory and recollection. Memory, indeed, is but a printed tablet, and recollection the art and mystery of reading it. Poetry, therefore, is both useful and pleasing. It aids recollection, and soothes and excites and animates the soul of man. It makes deeper, more pungent, more stimulating, more exciting, and more enduring impressions on the mind than prose; and, therefore, greatly facilitates both the acquisition and retention of ideas and impressions. Of it Horace says ('Ars Poetica'):

 
'Ut pictura, poesis; erit, quæ, si propius stes,
Te capiet magis, et quædam, si longius abstes.
Hæc amat obscurum; volet hæc sub luce videri,
Judicis argutum quæ non formidat acumen:
Hæc placuit semel, hæc decies repetita placebit.'
 

No one ever attained to what is usually called good taste who has not devoted a portion of his time and study to the whole science and art of Poetry. We do not mean good taste in relation to any one manifestation of it.