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George Ticknor, Life, letters and journals of George Ticknor (ed. George Hillard) 46 0 Browse Search
Cambridge History of American Literature: volume 3 (ed. Trent, William Peterfield, 1862-1939., Erskine, John, 1879-1951., Sherman, Stuart Pratt, 1881-1926., Van Doren, Carl, 1885-1950.) 46 0 Browse Search
Margaret Fuller, Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli (ed. W. H. Channing) 36 0 Browse Search
Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and letters of Charles Sumner: volume 2 36 0 Browse Search
Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 26 0 Browse Search
Frank Preston Stearns, Cambridge Sketches 24 0 Browse Search
Cambridge History of American Literature: volume 2 (ed. Trent, William Peterfield, 1862-1939., Erskine, John, 1879-1951., Sherman, Stuart Pratt, 1881-1926., Van Doren, Carl, 1885-1950.) 16 0 Browse Search
The Daily Dispatch: March 12, 1861., [Electronic resource] 12 0 Browse Search
Jula Ward Howe, Reminiscences: 1819-1899 10 0 Browse Search
Elias Nason, The Life and Times of Charles Sumner: His Boyhood, Education and Public Career. 10 0 Browse Search
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Southern Historical Society Papers, Volume 1. (ed. Reverend J. William Jones), The treatment of prisoners during the war between the States. (search)
s would not permit them to escape; eaten by the gnawing worms which their own wounds had engendered; with no bed but the earth; no covering save the cloud or the sky; these men, these heroes, born in the image of God, thus crouching and writhing in their terrible torture and calculating barbarity, stand forth in history as a monument of the surpassing horrors of Andersonville as it shall be seen and read in all future time, realizing in the studied torments of their prison-house the ideal of Dante's Inferno and Milton's Hell. So industriously have these statements been circulated — so generally have they entered into the literature of the North--so widely have they been believed, that the distinguished gentleman from Georgia (Hon. B. H. Hill), who ventured upon a calm reply, in which he ably refuted the assertions of Mr. Blaine, has been denounced by the Radical press as a co-conspirator with Jeff. Davis to murder Union prisoners, and has been told by even some of our own papers t
Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Army Life in a Black Regiment, Chapter 3: up the St. Mary's. (search)
ive, was exposed at certain points to fire from Rebel batteries, and it would have been unpleasant to begin with a disaster. I remember that, as I stood on deck, in the still and misty evening, listening with strained senses for some sound of approach; I heard a low continuous noise from the distance, more wild and desolate than anything in my memory can parallel. It came from within the vast girdle of mist, and seemed like the cry of a myriad of lost souls upon the horizon's verge; it was Dante become audible: and yet it was but the accumulated cries of innumerable sea-fowl at the entrance of the outer bay. Late that night the Planter arrived. We left St. Simon's on the following morning, reached Fort Clinch by four o'clock, and there transferring two hundred men to the very scanty quarters of the John Adams, allowed the larger transport to go into Fernandina, while the two other vessels were to ascend the St. Mary's River, unless (as proved inevitable in the end) the defects
Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Army Life in a Black Regiment, Chapter 5: out on picket. (search)
rom greater and greater distances, the wood through which I rode. Arrived at the spot nearest the wreck (a point opposite to what we called the Brickyard Station), I saw the burning vessel aground beyond a long stretch of marsh, out of which the forlorn creatures were still floundering. Here and there in the mud and reeds we could see the laboring heads, slowly advancing, and could hear excruciating cries from wounded men in the more distant depths. It was the strangest mixture of war and Dante and Robinson Crusoe. Our energetic chaplain coming up, I sent him with four men, under a flag of truce, to the place whence the worst cries proceeded, while r went to another part of the marsh. During that morning we got them all out, our last achievement being the rescue of the pilot, an immense negro with a wooden leg,--an article so particularly unavailable for mud travelling, that it would have almost seemed better, as one of the men suggested, to cut the traces, and leave it behind.
Varina Davis, Jefferson Davis: Ex-President of the Confederate States of America, A Memoir by his Wife, Volume 1, Chapter 22: the secret service fund--charges against Webster, 1845-46. (search)
elightful evening of my early youth was spent at Mr. Robert J. Walker's, when he was Secretary of the Treasury, talking with Mr. Ingersoll and Mr. George M. Dallas. No young men of this or any other day that I have seen, ever equalled them. These two splendid creatures, finding themselves in charge of a very inexperienced young person, commenced to angle in the shallow stream for such sport as the green recesses might afford. They talked to each other and to me of Byron and Wordsworth, of Dante and Virgil, and I remember the key they gave me to their tastes and temperamental divergence. Mr. Dallas said Wordsworth was the poet of nature, and Mr. Ingersoll remarked that he bore the same relation to cultivated poetic manhood that Adam did to Goethe, and who would hesitate for a moment which to choose if granted a day with either. Mr. Dallas immediately announced a preference for Adam, and insisted that a mind fresh from the storehouse of the Supreme Source of all knowledge must hav
arches remained stationary even when the timbers, were all in flames, seeming like a fiery skeleton bridge whose reflection was pictured in the water beneath. The moon was bright, and the blue clouds afforded the best contrast possible to the red glare of the conflagration. The light in the heavens must have been seen for many miles. Some of the timbers as they fell into the stream seemed to form themselves into rafts, which floated down like infernal ferry-boats of the region pictured by Dante. The heavy fog this (Monday) morning, at the hour this is written, prevents any object over the river from being distinctly seen. The flames do not appear, however, to have extended to any dwelling in Wrightsville, although two or three board-yards above the town were destroyed. Another yard below the town still contains sufficient lumber for the enemy to construct as many rafts as may seem desirable, but it is impossible to see whether the rebel guns are planted in its vicinity, or on
Benson J. Lossing, Pictorial Field Book of the Civil War. Volume 1., Chapter 10: Peace movements.--Convention of conspirators at Montgomery. (search)
he other was from a gentleman of the same city. It was a cross with fifteen stars. On presenting them, Mr. Memminger said:-- Now, Mr. President, the idea of Union, no doubt, was suggested to the imagination of the young ladies by the beauteous constellation of the Southern cross, which the Great Creator has placed in the Southern heavens, by way of compensation for the glorious constellation at the north pole. The imagination of the young ladies was, no doubt, inspired by the genius of Dante and the scientific skill of Humboldt. But, Sir, I have no doubt that there was another idea associated with it in the minds of the young ladies — a religious one--and although we have not seen in the heavens the In hoc Signo vinces, written upon the Labarum of Constantine, yet the same sign has been manifested to us upon the tablets of the earth; for we all know that it has been by the aid of revealed religion we have achieved over fanaticism the victory which we this day witness; and it is
Benson J. Lossing, Pictorial Field Book of the Civil War. Volume 3., Chapter 22: prisoners.-benevolent operations during the War.--readjustment of National affairs.--conclusion. (search)
ng on page 288. near the Tredegar Iron Works. A part of it was a grassy bluff, covered with trees, and a part was a low sandy barren, a few feet above the surface of the river, which there flows swiftly. There was a bridge across the James, over which the captives passed on their way to Belle Isle, which became truly a Bridge of Sighs. This was the bridge of the Richmond and Petersburg railroad. Over the Richmond entrance to it might have been appropriately placed, the inscription which Dante saw over the gate of Hell--He who enters here, leaves hope behind. For the captives, the cool green grass that carpeted the hill on Belle Isle, and the shade of the trees that adorned it, had no blessings, for the prisoners were confined to the low and treeless sand-barren, and were never allowed, in the hottest weather, to leave it and go to the cooler spot a few rods off, that appeared so much like heaven, in comparison with the hell in which they were compelled to suffer. That barren
to be always seeking to institute comparisons, and comparisons to the advantage of their own country, is with so many Americans a tic, a mania, which every one notices in them, and which sometimes drives their friends half to despair. Recent greatness is always apt to be sensitive and self-assertive; let us remember Dr. Hermann Grimm on Goethe. German literature, as a power, does not begin before Lessing; if Germany had possessed a great literature for six centuries, with names in it like Dante, Montaigne, Shakespeare, probably Dr. Hermann Grimm would not have thought it necessary to call Goethe the greatest poet that has ever lived. But the Americans in the rage for comparison-making beat the world. Whatever excellence is mentioned, America must, if possible, be brought in to balance or surpass it. That fine and delicate naturalist, Mr. Burroughs, mentions trout, and instantly he adds: British trout, by the way, are not so beautiful as our own; they are less brilliantly marked a
one note of song! The Muse would weep for the brave, But how shall she chant the wrong? For a wayward wench is she-- One that rather would wait With Old John Brown at the tree Than Stonewall dying in state. When, for the wrongs that were, Hath she lilted a single stave? Know, proud hearts, that, with her, 'Tis not enough to be brave By the injured, with loving glance, Aye hath she lingered of old, And eyed the evil askance, Be it never so haughty and bold. With Homer, alms gift in hand, With Dante, exile and free, With Milton, blind in the Strand, With Hugo, lone by the sea! In the attic, with Beranger, She could carol, how blithe and free! Of the old, worn frocks of blue, (All threadbare with victory! Des habits bleus par la victoire uses.) But never of purple and gold, Never of lily or bee! And thus, though the traitor sword Were the bravest that battle wields-- Though the fiery valor poured Its life on a thousand fields-- The sheen of its ill renown All tarnished with guilt and
fforts to make it impregnable. Every thing that the most improved modern artillery and unlimited resources of labor can do has been done to make the passage of a fleet impossible. And it is impregnable. Sebastopol was as nothing to it. Our fleet got but to the entrance of the harbor. It never got within it. Had the iron-clads succeeded in passing the obstructions, they would still have found those miles of batteries to run. They would have entered an Inferno which, like the portals of Dante's hell, might well bear the flaming legend: Who enters here leaves hope behind. Not a point at which they would not have found themselves. 'Mid upper, nether and surrounding fires. They pass out of the focus of fire of Forts Sumter, Moultrie, Beauregard, and Bee, and they find themselves arrested under the ranges of Sumter, the Redan, Johnston, and Ripley. They get beyond this, and a concentric fire from Ripley, Pinckney, the Wappoo battery and the guns of the city falls upon them!
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