The Southern War Poetry of the Civil War

BY

ESTHER PARKER ELLINGER

Thesis presented to the Faculty of the Graduate School of the University of Pennsylvania, May 1918, in partial fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy

PHILADELPHIA, PA. 1918

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Copyright, 1918 Esther Parker Ellinger

THE HERSHEY PRESS HERSHEY, PA.

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FOREWORD

In the assembling of material so widely scattered and so long unsought either by students or by collectors, it has been necessary for me to depend in some measure on the efforts of others who have been most generous with their help and assistance. I desire to record my gratitude especially to my Father and my Mother, without whose unfailing sympathy and co-operation this work could not have been done: and to Mrs. C. Francis Osborne of Philadelphia, Miss Sallie Shepherd of Norfolk, Virginia, and Miss Florence D. Johnston of Philadelphia, for books and individual poems. For their courtesy in allowing me free access to the collections committed to their charge I must acknowledge further indebtedness to Mr. Wallace H. Cathcart, Vice-President and Director of the Western Reserve Historical Society, Cleveland, whose splendid collection of Civil War items contains many rare and important imprints and broadsides: and to Mr. Bunford Samuel, of the Ridgway Branch of the Library Company of Philadelphia, to whose private collection I am indebted for several poems which I have not found

elsewhere.

Particularly to Dr. Arthur Hobson Quinn of the University of Pennsylvania, under whose direction this thesis was written, I wish to acknowledge my obligation and to express my sincere appreciation for his guidance and advice.

E. P. E.

University of Pennsylvania, 15 April, 1918.

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“Time in its deeps swims like a monstrous whale: and like a whale, feeds on the littlest things—small tunes and little unskilled songs of the olden golden evenings—and anon turneth whale-like to overthrow whole ships.”

Dunsany—“The Raft Builders.”

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CHAPTER I

The Significance of the Southern War Poetry

“The emotional literature of a people,” wrote one of the greatest of the Southern poets, William Gilmore Simms,1 “is as necessary to the philosophic historian as the mere detail of events in the progress of a nation.... The mere facts in a history do not always or often indicate the true animus of the action. But in poetry and song the emotional nature is apt to declare itself without reserve ... speaking out with a passion which disdains subterfuge, and through media of imagination and fancy, which are not only without reserve, but which are too coercive in their own nature, too arbitrary in their own influence, to acknowledge any restraint upon that expression which glows or weeps with emotions that gush freshly and freely from the heart.”

Edmund Clarence Stedman2 put the matter a little differently. Asking what may constitute the significance of any body of rhythmical literature, restricted to its own territory, he answered the question thus: “Undoubtedly and first of all, the essential quality of its material as poetry; next to this, its quality as an expression and interpretation of the time itself. In many an era, the second factor may afford a surer means of estimate than the first, inasmuch as the purely literary result may be nothing rarer than the world already has possessed, nor greatly differing from it: nevertheless it may be the voice of a time, of a generation, of a people ... all of extraordinary import to the world’s future.”

“Our own poetry,” he continues elsewhere,3 “excels as a recognizable voice in utterance of the emotions of a people. The storm and stress of youth have been upon us, and the nation has not lacked its lyric cry.... One who underrates the significance[Pg 8] of our literature, prose or verse, as both the expression and the stimulant of national feeling, as of import in the past and to the future of America, is deficient in that critical insight which can judge even of its own day unwarped by personal taste or deference to public impression. He shuts his eyes to the fact that at times, notably throughout the years resulting in the Civil War, this literature has been a ‘force.’”

That the poetry written in the Confederate States during the days of the Civil War was a “force” in potency second only to the army in the field, is a fact that has been too long unnoticed by commentators on the literature of our country. In the rare cases when its influence was recognized, its quality has been mistaken, its character misunderstood, its quantity and volume under-estimated. Due perhaps in part to the intensity of feeling engendered between victors and vanquished in the Lost Cause, the darkness of the days following the close of the war effectively hid from view and kept from national circulation the verses and songs which the war had produced in the South. This was the primary cause which prevented them from attaining the universal and critical appreciation of their value that was the right of so large and important a movement in the history of American letters. The ruin of the South financially and economically, prevented her from calling attention to her own achievement: while the widespread destruction and

dispersal of property, as well as the necessarily ephemeral nature of many of her publications, offers not the least satisfactory explanation for the comparative restriction of Southern Civil War verse to the land whence it sprang.

If, however, to the modern critic these poems and songs are comparatively unknown, by the Southerner of Civil War days their value was understood and appreciated to the full. Within a year after war broke out, early in the days of ’62, at least two definite attempts to assemble the fast multiplying verses and songs were being made, the first4 by Professor Chase and John R. Thompson of Richmond, editor of the Southern Field and Fireside; the second by “Bohemian,” Mr. W. G. Shepperson, who was a correspondent for the Richmond Despatch. The latter effort resulted, in the spring of ’62, in a volume of “War Songs of [Pg 9]the South,” containing some one hundred and eight poems, and with the following significant words in the Preface:

“Written contemporaneously with the achievements which they celebrate, [these poems] possess all the vitality and force of the testimony of eye-witnesses to a glorious combat, or even of actors in it. The spontaneous outburst of popular feeling, they give the lie to the assertion of our enemy that this revolution is the work of politicians and party leaders alone.

“Through the Poets’ Corner in the newspaper, they have sped their flight from and to the heart and mind of the people. They showed which way the wind was blowing when the war arose ‘a little cloud like a man’s hand,’ and black as the heavens may now appear, they bravely sing above the storm, soaring so high that their wings are brightened by the sun behind the clouds.

“They cannot fail to challenge the attention of the philosophic historian by their origin, and their influence.... In every age, martial songs have wrought wonders in struggles for national independence.

“And surely these newspaper waifs have played no unimportant part in the actual drama which surrounds us....

“A single volume of ordinary size cannot contain a tithe of the songs which have already appeared, and are daily appearing. This, however, offers enough to show that during the present eventful period, what was said of the early Spaniard is true of the Southron: ‘He has been unconsciously surrounding history with the light of imagination, linking great names with great deeds, concentrating those universal recollections in which everyone feels he has a part, and silently building up the fabric of national poetry on the basis of national enthusiasm.’”

Fifty years later another Southerner, William Malone Baskerville,5 wrote this: “A young Marylander, a stripling just from college, was dreaming dreams from which he was awakened by the guns of Sumter. One sleepless night in April, 1861, he wrote the poem, ‘My Maryland,’ which may not inaptly be called the first note of the new Southern literature ... ‘new in strength, new in depth, new in the largest elements of beauty and truth.’ He that had ears to hear might have heard in the booming of [Pg 10]those guns not only the signal for a gigantic contest, but also the proclamation of the passing away of the old order, and along with it the waxflowery, amateurish and sentimental race of Southern writers.” The passing of this school, of course, meant the passing of what usually has been recognized as the typical literary mode of the South. It meant, however, much more than this: for the changing order was made possible only by the passing of the particular type of civilization that had fostered it, and this, in its turn indicated a

complete and thorough renaissance not only of life and letters, but also of Southern soul and spirit.

The type of civilization that endured in the South, to the days of the Civil War, was one of the most picturesque periods of society that can be imagined, but not one that induced or encouraged serious literature. In the North, on the other hand, where there were to be found many large cities as centres of population, and the great national colleges, literature had developed with the people. The earliest settlers of New England had been of a religious, thoughtful, and philosophical disposition, and their manners and mode of life had served to strengthen these tendencies in their descendants. Even the climate of the country had a marked influence in emphasizing New England’s bent towards literature. Rigorous winters and inclement temperatures led to long enforced periods of indoor life, conducive to study and reflection. The effort and stress required to wring a living from the stubborn soil made them an active and a vigorous people. At the same time the comparatively small size of their territory, the number of their towns and cities and the ease of travel over the hard and

rocky roads brought them much in contact with each other, and insured communication of thought. Theirs was a civilization founded on civil ties. Farms were small, cultivated usually by the family of the owners, with a few “hired help,” and centered about the smaller villages and townships, which in their turn were satellites of the towns. The towns, again, clustered around the cities, which were thus as hubs in the wheels of society. The rising individual graduated from the town to the city, where were gathered the leading spirits and forces of the day. From the cities back to the smaller communities returned the great newspapers and magazines, whose spiritual and mental authority went unchallenged, and which served the more to amalgamate into a living thoughtful whole the inhabitants of the farthest[Pg 11] corner of the countryside. For everyone life was hard and plain; and there followed the accepted corollary of high and resolute thought.

In the South, the thought unquestionably was as grave and lofty. It was, however, neither in the hands of the people, as a whole, nor so thoroughly co-ordinated into an entity. This lack of centralization and unity arose from the very order of society, and was at once its destruction, its charm, and its misfortune. In the first place, as regards its territory in comparison with the North, there were few large cities, and these were far apart. From Richmond to Charleston and New Orleans as the crow flies is nearly three times the distance from Boston to Philadelphia. In the days of postillions, and in the later days of steamboats and railroads, a warm damp climate made travel tedious and tiresome. Neither did the large cities occupy the positions of importance of their Northern rivals. Because of the fertile soil, fair climate and multiplicity of laborers the financial and political power of the country was to be found quite as often among the owners of the great plantations, as in the counting rooms or law offices of

the metropolis. For various reasons, there were no great and powerful publishing houses, or influential magazines in general circulation, the newspaper taking these places. Another factor there was also, that was especially disintegrating for society at large. Before the war, education in the South was not universal. For about half the population, the women were educated at home, or in the case of the well-to-do, at seminaries and boarding schools. The men, as in the old Colonial days, had their private tutors, and were then sent to the Universities at home or abroad, and to travel. But for the mass of the poorer people, there was little to be had beyond the rudiments of training: and for many years the University of Virginia was the only educational institution below the line, which was the academic equal of the Northern colleges. Education here, as everywhere in the South, was along purely classic lines, which trained the people to find authority in the past, and which tended to create a lack of sympathy with problems other than those immediately concerning the public polity.

Hence it was that the intellectual relationships of the North were exchanged in the South for social ties; which proved in times of stress more powerful and unifying than those beyond the Line, and which made possible, later on, the sympathetic[Pg 12] consolidation and confederacy of the States at the first minute of invasion. In that instant, they were “a band of brothers,” in a common fellowship and interest: and thus it was that the very conditions militating against their literature and literary progress before the War, became in 1861, at once their allies in the field, and on Parnassus.

It is undeniable that the literary history of the antebellum South could brook no comparison with that of the North. An agricultural people such as the Southerners were, are apt to live their lyrics and romances, rather than write them. Her greatest novelists, Simms and Kennedy and John Esten Cooke, had given her quiet old-fashioned historical or pseudo-historical tales after the pattern of Sir Walter Scott. Today these seem curiously dull and prosy, and more so when placed in comparison with the extraordinarily ornate and grotesque Gothic romances of her women writers. That style of fiction of which Mrs. Hentz, Mrs. Southworth and Miss Evans were the representative authors may only be described as unreal and utterly false in tone and color. It is sensational to a degree, but its popularity was in proportion to its lack of artistic conception. Further than this, what was true of her prose, was true of her verse. Just as the fiction of the South was an echo of earlier modes, so her chief lyrists wrote in the manner of the cavaliers. On the whole, the Southern character had

seemed better adapted to the practice of politics and the management of plantations, than to government in the province of literature. Southerners wrote easily and gracefully, but without the sincerity and beauty that arise from perfect sympathy between the craftsman and his craft.

It was when a great emotion had thrilled the heart of the South, and her spirit kindled to a single mighty flame in the prosecution of a cause on which she could unite all her energies, that the artificiality of her literature dropped away, and was replaced by strength of color, truth of outline and power of expression. Before the terror of civil war, the horror of invasion, and the indignity of submission to what she deemed a false interpretation of the Constitution and the principles of Liberty for which her fathers had fought, the literature of the South lost its superficiality, its romantic characteristics. From the earliest days of the war, prose in the form of history, philosophical essays and controversial debate, became the recognized and powerful weapon[Pg 13] wielded by her greatest minds: while poetry, in the hands alike of poet and peasant, became the great national organ for emotional expression.

Fully to appreciate the themes and refrains that filled her war verse, it is necessary to understand for just what principles, and with what a temper, the South began the fight. Whatever had been the immediate excuse for war, for the Southerner the conflict very quickly resolved itself into a struggle for liberty. The principle of States’ Rights had always been cherished in the South since the days of the Articles of Confederation, in 1781, which declared at the very onset that while adopting this plan that was designed to make of the various integers a government that might be per se recognizable,—“each state retained its sovereignty, freedom and independence.” “Submission to any encroachment, the least as well as the greatest, on the rights of a state means slavery,” wrote Dr. Basil Gildersleeve.6 “The extreme Southern States considered this right menaced by the issue of the presidential election.” The South had always clung to the earlier conception of national union of separate and independent units. That

the North regarded her as a rebel against the Constitution of her fathers but goaded her the more bitterly, who felt that above all things she battled in the right, for the freedom of which Washington himself had dreamed, and which her own ancestors had been the greater part of the instrument in winning and perfecting. It was therefore to the South a holy contest. “Right or wrong, we were fully persuaded in our own minds, and there was no lurking suspicion of any moral weakness in our cause,” continued Dr. Gildersleeve.7 “Nothing could be holier than the cause, nothing more imperative than the duty of upholding it. There were those in the South who when they saw the issue of the War, gave up their faith in God, but not their faith in the cause.”

With Lincoln’s decision to provision Fort Sumter, on April 1, 1861, and his call for troops, two weeks later, the question of States’ Rights was amplified by the addition of two other sentiments which three together formed the lofty inspiration that, in the South lifted the struggle above the commonplaces of civil[Pg 14] strife. At once it was dignified into a war in defence of home, of native land, and of liberty. It was therefore with a certain nobility of purpose that the Confederate Army went forth to battle. The North had enlisted on a punitive expedition: the South had engaged in a crusade for her ideals. This was the magic touch that transmuted the comparative dross of her literature to pure gold. “When there flashed upon poetic souls not the political issues that were at stake, but the great human situation of the struggle, they gave voice to the pent up feelings of the new nation.”

The poetic genius of the Southerners had always been lyric in character, partly as the result of environment, partly that of racial temper, partly as an inheritance from the old Cavaliers who had been their ancestors. Nor had the lyrists of the South been of slender numbers. Professor Manly’s “Southern Literature” credits the land with over two hundred poets whom he considered worthy of mention. More than fifty of these belong to Virginia alone, and Dr. Painter wrote8 of their work that “examination ... reveals among a good deal that is commonplace and imitative, many a little gem that ought to be preserved.” Their method was usually Byronic and amorous. They had, it is true, made little or no use of local color or legend, and had given over the narrative and the dramatic for the lyric. Their work, however, was always melodious and of easy numbers. This was their particular characteristic. The second, and indeed the more interesting, was the lack of the professional touch. Before the War, there had been few vocational poets, as there had been few professed literateurs.