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Thomas F. Roche (search for this): chapter 34
dark days of storm and stress, while none of the excitement and tension in them remains — it may seem incomprehensible that the South could laugh in song, while she suffered and fought and starved. Stranger still must it be to know that many a merry peal rang through the barred windows of the fortressprisons of the North. Yet, many a one of the exchanged captives brought back a rollicking prison glee; and some sing, even to-day, the legend of Fort Delaware, del. The Prison Wails of Thomas F. Roche, a Marylander long captive, is a close and clever parody on General Lytell's I am dying, Egypt, which came through the lines and won warm admirers South. It describes prison discipline, diet and dirt, with keen point and broad grin. From its opening lines: I am busted, mother-busted.! Gone th' last unhappy check; And th' infernal sutlers' prices Make my pocket-book a wreck!-- to the human, piteous plaint that ends it: Ah! Once more, among the lucky, Let thy hopeful buy and sw
Daniel (search for this): chapter 34
.. Then, after the drawing for forfeits, came the results of the last lottery of brain; interspersed with music by the best performers and singers of the city; with jest and seriously-brilliant talk, until the wee sma‘ hours, indeed. O! those nights ambrosial, if not of Ambrose's, which dashed the somber picture of war round Richmond, with high-lights boldly put in by master-hands! Of them were quaint George Bagby, Virginia's pet humorist; gallant, cultured Willie Meyers; original Trav Daniel; Washington, artist, poet and musician; Page McCarty, recklessly brilliant in field and frolic alike; Ham Chamberlayne, quaint, cultivated and colossal in originality; Key, Elder and other artists; genial, jovial Jim Pegram; Harry Stanton, Kentucky's soldier poetand a score of others who won fame, even if some of them lost life --on far different fields. There rare Ran Tucker-later famed in Congress and law school-told inimitably the story of The time the stars fell, or sang the unprecedent
R. S. Ewell (search for this): chapter 34
e is handed down from the winter camps before Atlanta, when rations were not only worst but least. A knot round a messfire examined ruefully the tiny bits of moldy bacon, stuck on their bayonet-grills, when one hard old veteran remarked: Say, boys! Didn't them fellers wot died las' spring jest git th‘ commissary, though! Another, not very nice, still points equally the dire straits of the men, from unchanged clothing, and their grim humor under even that trial. Generals Lee and Ewell-riding through a quiet road in deep consultation, followed by members of their staff-came suddenly upon a North Carolinian at the roadside. Nude to the waist, and careless of the august presences near, the soldier paid attention only to the dingy shirt he held over the smoke of some smoldering brush. The generals past, an aide spurred up to the toilet-making vet, and queried sharply: Didn't you see the generals, sir? What in thunder are you doing? Skirmishin‘! drawled the unmo
Brummel (search for this): chapter 34
orever! Thoa you cut and deal the pack And copper every Jack, You'll lose stack after stack -- Forever! Everything tending to bathos-whether for the cause, or against it --caught its quick rebuke, at the hands of some glib funmaker. Once an enthusiastic admirer of the hero of Charleston indited a glowing ode, of which the refrain ran: Beau sabreur, beau canon, Beau soldat-Beauregard! Promptly came another, and most distorted version; its peculiar refrain enfolding: Beau Brummel, Beau Fielding, Beau Hickman-Beauregard! As it is not of record that the commander of the Army of Northern Virginia ever discovered the junior laureate, the writer will not essay to do so. Colonel Tom August, of the First Virginia, was the Charles Lamb of Confederate war-wits; genial, quick and ever gay. Early in secession days, a bombastic friend approached Colonel Tom, with the query: Well, sir, I presume your voice is still for war? To which the wit replied promptly: Oh, yes,
Braxton Bragg (search for this): chapter 34
base!’ Perhaps no pen, or no brush, in all the South limned with bolder stroke the follies, or the foibles, of his own, than did that of Innes Randolph, of Stuart's Engineer staff; later to win national fame by his Good old Rebel song. Squib, picture and poem filled Randolph's letters, as brilliant flashes did his conversation. On Mr. Davis proclaiming Thanksgiving Day, after the unfortunate Tennessee campaign, Randolph versified the proclamation, section by section, as sample: For Bragg did well. Ah! who could tell What merely human mind could augur, That they would run from Lookout Mount, Who fought so well at Chickamauga! Round many a smoky camp-fire were sung clever songs, whose humor died with their gallant singers, for want of recording memories in those busy days. Latham, Caskie and Page McCarty sent out some of the best of the skits; a few verses of one by the latter's floating to mind, from the snowbound camp on the Potomac, stamped by his vein of rollicking s
Caskie (search for this): chapter 34
ld augur, That they would run from Lookout Mount, Who fought so well at Chickamauga! Round many a smoky camp-fire were sung clever songs, whose humor died with their gallant singers, for want of recording memories in those busy days. Latham, Caskie and Page McCarty sent out some of the best of the skits; a few verses of one by the latter's floating to mind, from the snowbound camp on the Potomac, stamped by his vein of rollicking satire-with-a-tear in it: Manassas' field ran red with gly enough, with a people whose nerves were kept at abnormal tension, reaction carried the humor of the South largely into travesty. Where the reality was ever somber, creation of the unreal found popular and acceptable form in satiric verse. Major Caskie--who ever went into battle with a smile on his lips-found time, between fights, for broad pasquinade on folly about him, with pen and pencil. His very clever parody of a touching and wellknown poem of the time, found its way to many a camp-fi
Longstreet (search for this): chapter 34
smoky camp-fire were sung clever songs, whose humor died with their gallant singers, for want of recording memories in those busy days. Latham, Caskie and Page McCarty sent out some of the best of the skits; a few verses of one by the latter's floating to mind, from the snowbound camp on the Potomac, stamped by his vein of rollicking satire-with-a-tear in it: Manassas' field ran red with gore, With blood the Bull Run ran; The freeman struck for hearth and home, Or any other man! And Longstreet with his fierce brigade Stood in the red redan; He waved his saber o'er his head, Or any other man! Ah! few shall part where many meet, In battle's bloody van; The snow shall be their winding-sheet, Or any other man! Naturally enough, with a people whose nerves were kept at abnormal tension, reaction carried the humor of the South largely into travesty. Where the reality was ever somber, creation of the unreal found popular and acceptable form in satiric verse. Major Caskie--who eve
Robert E. Lee (search for this): chapter 34
A grim joke is handed down from the winter camps before Atlanta, when rations were not only worst but least. A knot round a messfire examined ruefully the tiny bits of moldy bacon, stuck on their bayonet-grills, when one hard old veteran remarked: Say, boys! Didn't them fellers wot died las' spring jest git th‘ commissary, though! Another, not very nice, still points equally the dire straits of the men, from unchanged clothing, and their grim humor under even that trial. Generals Lee and Ewell-riding through a quiet road in deep consultation, followed by members of their staff-came suddenly upon a North Carolinian at the roadside. Nude to the waist, and careless of the august presences near, the soldier paid attention only to the dingy shirt he held over the smoke of some smoldering brush. The generals past, an aide spurred up to the toilet-making vet, and queried sharply: Didn't you see the generals, sir? What in thunder are you doing? Skirmishin‘! dra
Johnny Reb (search for this): chapter 34
Boiled Mule bacon, with poke greens; muleham, canvassed. Roast: Mule sirloin; mule rump, stuffed with rice; saddleof-mule, à l'armee. Vegetables: Boiled rice; rice, hard boiled; hard rice, any way. Entrees: Mule head, stuffed à la Reb; mule beef, jerked à la Yankie; mule ears, fricasseed à la getch; mule side, stewed-new style, hair on; mule liver, hashed à l'explosion. side Dishes: Mule salad; mule hoof, soused; mule brains l'omelette; mule kidneys, braises on ramrod; mulh, yes! You're all right, carelessly replied the captor. An‘ ef I'm loyil, I'm same as you 'uns? persisted the lately sworn. We're all good Union alike, eh? Oh, yes, the officer humored him. I We're all one now. Wail then, rejoined Johnny Reb slowly, didn't them darned rebs jest geen us hell sometimes? City Point, on the James river, was the landing for transports with soldiers released from northern prisons, after parole. A bustling, self-important major of United States volunt
Jeff Davis (search for this): chapter 34
, or the foibles, of his own, than did that of Innes Randolph, of Stuart's Engineer staff; later to win national fame by his Good old Rebel song. Squib, picture and poem filled Randolph's letters, as brilliant flashes did his conversation. On Mr. Davis proclaiming Thanksgiving Day, after the unfortunate Tennessee campaign, Randolph versified the proclamation, section by section, as sample: For Bragg did well. Ah! who could tell What merely human mind could augur, That they would run fromy superior, $3; limestone water, late importation, very fine, $3.75; spring water, Vicksburg bottled up, $4. Meals at few hours. Gentlemen to wait upon themselves. Any inattention in service should be promptly reported at the office. Jeff Davis & Co., Proprietors. Card: The proprietors of the justly-celebrated Hotel de Vicksburg, having enlarged and refitted the same, are now prepared to accommodate all who may favor them with a call. Parties arriving by the river, or by Grant
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