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Browsing named entities in a specific section of The Photographic History of The Civil War: in ten volumes, Thousands of Scenes Photographed 1861-65, with Text by many Special Authorities, Volume 9: Poetry and Eloquence. (ed. Francis Trevelyan Miller). Search the whole document.

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Helen Kendrick Johnson (search for this): chapter 6
1862, occupied with different duties. The picket-guard The authorship of this production has occasioned more dispute than any other poem of the conflict. Very plausible details of its composition on August 2, 1861, were given by Lamar Fontaine. Joel Chandler Harris, who declared he would be glad to claim the poem as a specimen of Southern literature, concluded for five separate reasons that it was the production of Mrs. Ethelinda Beers. Mrs. Beers in a private letter to Mrs. Helen Kendrick Johnson said: the poor picket has had so many authentic claimants, and willing sponsors, that I sometimes question myself whether I did really write it that cool September morning, after reading the stereotyped all quiet, etc. , to which was added in small type a picket shot. the lines first appeared in Harper's Weekly for November 30, 1861. ‘All quiet along the Potomac,’ they say, ‘Except now and then a stray picket Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro, By a rifleman hid in the <
Ethel Beers (search for this): chapter 6
ps from the rock to the fountain, And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed Far away in the cot on the mountain. His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim, Grows gentle with memories tender, As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep— For their mother—may Heaven defend her! All quiet along the Potomac: a civil-war sentry on his beat This Union picket by the Potomac River bank, clasping his musket in the chilling blast as he tramps his beat, conjures up the original of Ethel Beers' historic poem. The sympathy of the poet was not misplaced. Picket duty was an experience in every soldier's life. Regiments were detailed at stated intervals to march from their camps to the outer lines and there disposition would be made of the men in the following order: about one half of the regiment would be placed in what was known as the ‘reserve,’ while the balance of the men would be taken, by the officer of the guard designated for that purpose, to the extreme outpost, eithe
Mac (search for this): chapter 6
he would find an honored grave and rise to a higher bliss than this world gives. ‘Their searching message from those distant hours’ With a stained and crumpled picture Of a woman's aged face; Yet there seemed to leap a wild entreaty, Young and living—tender—from the face When they flashed the lantern on it, Gilding all the purple shade, And stooped to raise him softly,— ‘That's my mother, sir,’ he said. ‘Tell her’—but he wandered, slipping Into tangled words and cries,— Something about Mac and Hooker, Something dropping through the cries About the kitten by the fire, And mother's cranberry-pies; and there The words fell, and an utter Silence brooded in the air. Just as he was drifting from them, Out into the dark, alone (Poor old mother, waiting for your message, Waiting with the kitten, all alone!), Through the hush his voice broke,—‘Tell her— Thank you, Doctor—when you can,— Tell her that I kissed her picture, And wished I'd been a better man.’ Ah,
Robert E. Lee (search for this): chapter 6
and plashing. All quiet along the Potomac to-night— No sound save the rush of the river, While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead— The picket's off duty forever! Ethel Lynn Beers. A message The battle of Malvern Hill here referred to was the fierce concluding engagement of the Seven days battles around Richmond which terminated McClellan's Peninsula campaign. It was that battle on July 1, 1862, that saved the Army of the Potomac from destruction by the desperate onsets of Lee, but the New England poet preserves a scene which has a human, not a military significance. Was there ever message sweeter Than that one from Malvern Hill, From a grim old fellow,—you remember? Dying in the dark at Malvern Hill. With his rough face turned a little, On a heap of scarlet sand, They found him, just within the thicket, With a picture in his hand,— Off to the war—embarkation of ninth army corps at Aquia creek landing, in February, 1863 Elizabeth Stuart Phelps' poem A
Ethel Lynn Beers (search for this): chapter 6
pine-tree; The footstep is lagging and weary; Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, Towards the shade of the forest so dreary. Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves? Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? It looked like a rifle . . . ‘Ha! Mary, good-by!’ The red life-blood is ebbing and plashing. All quiet along the Potomac to-night— No sound save the rush of the river, While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead— The picket's off duty forever! Ethel Lynn Beers. A message The battle of Malvern Hill here referred to was the fierce concluding engagement of the Seven days battles around Richmond which terminated McClellan's Peninsula campaign. It was that battle on July 1, 1862, that saved the Army of the Potomac from destruction by the desperate onsets of Lee, but the New England poet preserves a scene which has a human, not a military significance. Was there ever message sweeter Than that one from Malvern Hill, From a grim old fellow
McClellan (search for this): chapter 6
bout one half of the regiment would be placed in what was known as the ‘reserve,’ while the balance of the men would be taken, by the officer of the guard designated for that purpose, to the extreme outpost, either relieving another regiment or forming new outposts, according to the necessities or changes of position. The period of the poem is the fall of 1861. The battle of Bull Run had been fought in the summer, and thereafter there was very little military activity along the Potomac. McClellan was doing what was absolutely necessary to effective operations—he was drilling the raw recruits into professional soldiers. The public at large, whose impatience had brought on the disaster of Bull Run before either side was prepared for battle, was naturally exasperated. But the author—a woman—was more impressed by the fate of the lonely sentinel. The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, That night, when the love yet unspoken Leaped up to his lips—when low-murmured vows
Burnside (search for this): chapter 6
triotism that leads to enlistment, or the ardor that springs from war's wild alarms, must sooner or later give way for a time to the simple human emotions that even a child can share and understand. East, west, home's best. Christmas night of 1862 William Gordon McCabe entered the Confederate Army in the artillery and rose from private to captain. At the time of writing this poem he was with the Army of Northern Virginia encamped about Fredericksburg. The sanguinary repulse of Burnside was only twelve days in the past, but the thoughts of the soldiers were turned toward family and home. The wintry blast goes wailing by, The snow is falling overhead; I hear the lonely sentry's tread, And distant watch-fires light the sky. Dim forms go flitting through the gloom; The soldiers cluster round the blaze To talk of other Christmas days, And softly speak of home and home. My sabre swinging overhead Gleams in the watch-fire's fitful glow, While fiercely drives the blinding snow,
Gorden McCabe (search for this): chapter 6
mistletoe. And sweetly from the far-off years Comes borne the laughter faint and low, The voices of the Long Ago! My eyes are wet with tender tears. I feel again the mother-kiss, I see again the glad surprise That lightened up the tranquil eyes And brimmed them o'er with tears of bliss, As, rushing from the old hall-door, She fondly clasped her wayward boy— Her face all radiant with the joy She felt to see him home once more. The soldiers cluster round the blaze As if made for Gorden McCabe's poem, this photograph shows vividly a group of pickets in winter. Pickets were the eyes of the army, to observe all movements made by the enemy and to give warning of the approach of any force from the direction of his lines. The particular picket here is a soldier who, after lonely outpost duty on the hilltop just beyond his companions, has returned to warm his hands over their fire. It was fortunate for these boys, remarked a veteran, that they had a little hill between themselves
Gray (search for this): chapter 6
s praise, and his name will be repeated with blessings by unnumbered tongues.’ But there was also the sickening dread that he might never again be heard of, that stalking disease might single him out in the camp, that he might fall unnoticed when on lonely picket service, that in the wild tumult of the cannonading or the panting rush of the bayonet charge he might be forgotten by his comrades. Mrs. Ward voiced the desire of all true women, both North and South. Though the hero in Blue or in Gray was not to fill the pages of history with deathless deeds, these women believed that at least he would find an honored grave and rise to a higher bliss than this world gives. ‘Their searching message from those distant hours’ With a stained and crumpled picture Of a woman's aged face; Yet there seemed to leap a wild entreaty, Young and living—tender—from the face When they flashed the lantern on it, Gilding all the purple shade, And stooped to raise him softly,— ‘That's my mother
Elizabeth Stuart Phelps (search for this): chapter 6
e desperate onsets of Lee, but the New England poet preserves a scene which has a human, not a military significance. Was there ever message sweeter Than that one from Malvern Hill, From a grim old fellow,—you remember? Dying in the dark at Malvern Hill. With his rough face turned a little, On a heap of scarlet sand, They found him, just within the thicket, With a picture in his hand,— Off to the war—embarkation of ninth army corps at Aquia creek landing, in February, 1863 Elizabeth Stuart Phelps' poem A message breathes a faith that inspired the mothers of many men who stand expectantly in this picture, and of many thousands more who, like them, were ‘off to the war’ in 1861-1865. Proud, indeed, were the sweethearts and wives of their ‘heroes’ marching away to the big camps or floating down the stream on the transports. Honor and glory awaited these sons and brothers who were helping to serve their cause. To each fond heart came the hope: ‘Soon the nation will b
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