III.
THE FORCED MARCH TO SPRINGFIELD.
Bolivar, October 26th. Zagonyi’s success has roused the enthusiasm of the army. The old stagers took it coolly, but the green hands revealed their excitement by preparing for instant battle. Pistols were oiled and reloaded, and swords sharpened. We did all this a month ago, before leaving St. Louis. We then expected a battle, and went forth with the shadow and the sunshine of that expectation upon our hearts; but up to this time we have not seen a shot fired in earnest. Now the blast of war blows in our ears, and we instinctively “stiffen the sinews and summon up the blood.”
Captain H., the young chevalier of the staff, whom we have named Le Beau Capitaine, went this morning to St. Louis with intelligence of the victory. He has ninety miles to ride before midnight, to catch to-morrow’s train.
Under the influence of the excitement which prevailed, we were on horseback this morning long before it was necessary, when the General sent us word that the staff might go forward, and he would overtake us. The gay and brilliant cavalcade which marched out of Jefferson City is destroyed,—the maimed and bleeding Guard is reposing a few miles south of Bolivar,—the detachment which was left at head-quarters has gone on to join the main body,—and the staff, broken into small parties, straggles along the road. A more beautiful day never delighted the earth. The atmosphere is warm, the sky cloudless, and the distance is filled with a soft dreamy haze, which veils, but does not conceal, the purple hills and golden forests.
A few miles south of our last night’s camp we came out upon a large prairie, called the Twenty-Five Mile Prairie. It is an undulating plain, seven miles wide and twenty-five long. It was the intention to concentrate the army here. A more favorable position for reviewing and manoeuvring a large force cannot be found. But the plan has been changed. We must hasten to Springfield, lest the Rebels seize the place, capture White and our wounded, and throw a cloud over Zagonyi’s brilliant victory.
Passing from the prairie, we entered a broad belt of timber, and soon reached a fine stream. We drew rein at a farmhouse on the top of the river-bank, where we found a pleasant Union family. The farmer came out, and, thinking Colonel Eaton was the General, offered him two superb apples, large enough for foot-balls. He was disappointed to find his mistake, and to be compelled to withdraw the proffered gift. Sigel encamped here last night;, and the débris of his camp-fires checker the hill-side and the flats along the margin of the creek. After waiting an hour, the General not coming up, Colonel Eaton and myself set out alone over a road which was crowded with Sigel’s wagons. Everything bears witness to the extraordinary energy and efficiency of that officer. This morning he started before day, and he will be in Springfield by noon to-morrow. His train is made up of materials which would drive most generals to despair. There are mule-teams, and ox-teams, and in some cases horses, mules, and oxen hitched together. There are army-wagons, box-wagons, lumber-wagons, hay-racks, buggies, carriages,—in fact, every kind of animal and every description of vehicle which could be found in the country. Most of our division-commanders would have refused to leave camp with such a train; but Sigel has made it answer his purpose, and here he is, fifty miles in advance of any other officer, tearing after Price.
We were jogging painfully over the incumbered road, and through clouds of dust, when an officer rode up in great haste, and asked for Dr. C., who was needed at the camp of the Guards. By reason of the broken order in which the staff rode to-day, he could not be found. For two mortal hours unlucky aides-de-camp dashed to the front and the rear, and scoured the country for five miles upon the flanks, visiting the farm-houses in search of the missing surgeon. At last he was found, and hurried on to the relief of the Guard. At this moment the General came up, and, to our astonishment, Zagonyi was riding beside him, bearing upon his trim person no mark of yesterday’s fatigue and danger. The Major fell behind, and rode into Bolivar with me. On the way we met Lieutenant Maythenyi of the Guard.
Our camp is on the farm of a member of the State legislature who is now serving under Price. His white cottage and well-ordered farm-buildings are surrounded by rich meadows, bearing frequent groups of noble trees; the fences are in good condition, and the whole place wears an air of thrift and prosperity which must be foreign to Missouri even in her best estate.
Springfield, October 28th. Few of those who endured the labor of yesterday will forget the march into Springfield. At midnight of Saturday, the Sharp-shooters were sent on in wagons, and at two in the morning the Benton Cadets started, with orders to march that day to Springfield, thirty miles. Their departure broke the repose of the camp. To add to the confusion, a report was spread that the General intended to start at daybreak, and that we must have breakfast at four o’clock and be ready for the saddle at six. This programme was carried out. Long before day our servants called us; fires were lighted, and breakfast eaten by starlight. Before dawn the wagons were packed and horses saddled. But the General had no intention of going so early; the report had its origin in the uneasy brain of some officer who probably thought the General ought to leave at daybreak. Some of the old heads paid no attention to the report, or did not hear it, and they were deep in the pleasures of the morning nap while we poor fellows were shivering over our breakfast.
Colonel Wyman reported himself at Bolivar, having marched from Rolla and beaten the Rebels in three engagements. The General set out at nine o’clock for our thirty-mile ride. The black horse fell into his usual scrambling gait, and we pounded along uneasily after him. As we passed through Bolivar, the inhabitants came into the streets and greeted us with cheers and the waving of handkerchiefs,—a degree of interest which is not often exhibited. Fording a small stream, we came into Wyman’s camp, and thence upon a long, rolling prairie. An hour’s ride brought us to the place where the Guard encamped the night before. The troops had left, but the wounded officers were still in a neighboring house, waiting for our ambulances. Those who were able to walk came out to see the General. He received them with marked kindness. At times like this, he has a simple grace and poetry of expression and a tenderness of manner which are very winning. He spoke a few words to each of the brave fellows, which brought smiles to their faces and tears into their eyes. Next came our turn, and we were soon listening to the incidents of the fearful fray. None of them are severely wounded, except Kennedy, and he will probably lose an arm. We saw them all placed in the ambulances, and then fell in behind the black pacer.
A short distance farther on, a very amusing scene occurred. The road in front was nearly filled by a middle-aged woman, fat enough to have been the original of some of the pictures which are displayed over the booths at a county fair.
“Are you Gin’ral Freemount?” she shouted, her loud voice husky with rage.
“Yes,” replied the General in a low tone, somewhat abashed at the formidable obstruction in his path, and occupied in restraining the black pacer, who was as much frightened at the huge woman as he could have been at a park of artillery.
“Waal, you’re the man I want to see. I’m a widder. I wus born in Old Kentuck, and am a Union, and allers wus a Union, and will be a Union to the eend, clear grit.”
She said this with startling earnestness and velocity of utterance, and paused, the veins in her face swollen almost to bursting. The black pacer bounded from one side of the road to the other, throwing the whole party into confusion.
The General raised his cap and asked,—
“What is the matter, my good woman?”
“Matter, Gin’ral! Ther’s enough the matter. I’ve allers gi’n the sogers all they wanted. I gi’n ‘em turkeys and chickens and eggs and butter and bread. And I never charged ‘em anything for it. They tuk all my corn, and I never said nuthing. I allers treated ‘em well, for I’m Union, and so wus my man, who died more nor six yeah ago.”
She again paused, evidently for no reason except to escape a stroke of apoplexy.
“But tell me what you want now. I will see to it that you have justice,” interrupted the General.
“You see, Gin’ral, last night some sogers come and tuk my ox-chains,—two on ‘em,—all I’ve got,—and I can’t buy no more in these war-times. I can’t do any work without them chains; they’d ‘a’ better uv tuk my teams with ‘em, too.”
“How much were your ox-chains worth,” said the General, laughing.
“Waal now,” answered the fat one, moderating her tone, “they’re wuth a good deal jes’ now. The war has made such things dreffle deah. The big one wus the best I ever see; bought it last yeah, up at Hinman’s store in Bolivar; that chain was wuth—waal now—Ho, Jim! ho, Dick! come y’ere! Gin’ral Freemount wants to know how much them ox-chains wus wath.”
A lazy negro and a lazier white man, the latter whittling a piece of cedar, walked slowly from the house to the road, and, leaning against the fence, began in drawling tones to discuss the value of the ox-chains, how much they cost, how much it would take to buy new ones in these times. One thought “may-be four dollars wud do,” but the other was sure they could not be bought for less than five. There was no promise of a decision, and the black pacer was floundering about in a perfect agony of fear. At last the General drew out a gold eagle and gave it to the woman, asking,—
“Is that enough?”
She took the money with a ludicrous expression of joy and astonishment at the rare sight, but exclaimed,—
“Lor’ bless me! it’s too much, Gin’ral! I don’t want more nor my rights. It’s too much.”
But the General spurred by her, and we followed, leaving the “Union” shouting after us, “It’s too much! It’s more nor I expected!” She must have received an impression of the simplicity and promptitude of the quartermaster’s department which the experience of those who have had more to do with it will hardly sustain.
Our road was filled with teams belonging to Sigel’s train, and the dust was very oppressive. At length it became so distressing to our animals that the General permitted us to separate from him and break up into small parties. I made the rest of the journey in company with Colonel Eaton. Our road lay through the most picturesque region we had seen. The Ozark Mountains filled the southern horizon, and ranges of hills swept along our flanks. The broad prairies, covered with tall grass waving and rustling in the light breeze, were succeeded by patches of woods, through which the road passed, winding among picturesque hills covered with golden forests and inlaid with the silver of swift-running crystal streams.
As we came near the town, we saw many evidences of the rapid march Sigel had made. We passed large numbers of stragglers. Some were limping along, weary and foot-sore, others were lying by the road-side, and every farmhouse was filled with exhausted men. A mile or two from Springfield we overtook the Cadets. They had marched thirty miles since morning, and had halted beside a brook to wash themselves. As we approached, Colonel Marshall dressed the ranks, the colors were flung out, the music struck up, and the Cadets marched into Springfield in as good order as if they had just left camp.
It was a gala-day in Springfield. The Stars and Stripes were flying from windows and house-tops, and ladies and children, with little flags in their hands, stood on the door-steps to welcome us. This is the prettiest town I have found in Missouri, and we can see the remains of former thrift and comfort worthy a village in the Valley of the Merrimack or Genesee. It has suffered severely from the war. From its position it is the key to Southern Missouri, and all decisive battles for the possession of that region must be fought near Springfield. This is the third Union army which has been here, and the Confederate armies have already occupied the place twice. When the Federals came, the leading Secessionists fled; and when the Rebels came, the most prominent Union men ran away. Thus by the working of events the town has lost its chief citizens, and their residences are either deserted or have been sacked. War’s dreary record is written upon the dismantled houses, the wasted gardens, the empty storehouses, and the deserted taverns. The market, which stood in the centre of the Plaza, was last night fired by a crazy old man, well known here, and previously thought to be harmless: it now stands a black ruin, a type of the desolation which broods over the once happy and prosperous town.
Near the market is a substantial brick edifice, newly built,—the county courthouse. It is used as a hospital, and we were told that the dead Guardsmen were lying in the basement. Colonel Eaton and myself dismounted, and entered a long, narrow room in which lay sixteen ghastly figures in open coffins of unpainted pine, ranged along the walls. All were shot to death except one. They seemed to have died easily, and many wore smiles upon their faces. Death had come so suddenly that the color still lingered in their boyish cheeks, giving them the appearance of wax-figures. Near the door was the manly form of the sergeant of the first company, who, while on the march, rode immediately in front of the General. We all knew him well. He was a model soldier: his dress always neat, his horse well groomed, the trappings clean, and his sabre-scabbard bright. He lay as calm and placid as if asleep; and a small blue mark between his nose and left eye told the story of his death. Opposite him was a terrible spectacle,—the bruised, mangled, and distorted shape of a bright-eyed lad belonging to the Kentucky company. I had often remarked his arch, mirthful, Irish-like face; and the evening the Guard left camp he brought me a letter to send to his mother, and talked of the fun he was going to have at Springfield. His body was found seven miles from the battle-field, stripped naked. There was neither bullet—nor sabre-wound upon him, but his skull had been beaten in by a score of blows. The cowards had taken him prisoner, carried him with them in their flight, and then robbed and murdered him.
After leaving the hospital we met Major White, whom we supposed to be a prisoner. He is quite ill from the effects of exposure and anxiety. With his little band of twenty-four men he held the town, protecting and caring for the wounded, until Sigel came in yesterday noon.
Head-quarters were established at the residence of Colonel Phelps, the member of Congress from this district, and our tents are now grouped in front and at the sides of the house. The wagons did not come up until midnight, and we were compelled to forage for our supper and lodging. A widow lady who lives near gave some half-dozen officers an excellent meal, and Major White and myself slept on the floor of her sitting-room.
This afternoon the Guardsmen were buried with solemn ceremony. We placed the sixteen in one huge grave. Upon a grassy hill-side, and beneath the shade of tall trees, the brave boys sleep in the soil they have hallowed by their valor.
We are so far in advance that there is some solicitude lest we may be attacked before the other divisions come up. Sigel has no more than five thousand men, and the addition of our little column makes the whole force here less than six thousand. Asboth is two days’ march behind. McKinstry is on the Pomme-de-Terre, seventy miles north, and Pope is about the same distance. Hunter—we do not know precisely where he is, but we suppose him to be south of the Osage, and that he will come by the Buffalo road: he has not reported for some time. Price is at Neosho, fifty-four miles to the southwest. Should he advance rapidly, it will need energetic marching to bring up our reinforcements. Price and McCulloch have joined, and there are rumors that Hardee has reached their camp with ten thousand men. The best information we can get places the enemy’s force at thirty thousand men and thirty-two pieces of artillery. Deserters are numerous. I have interrogated a number of them to-day, and they all say they came away because Price was retreating, and they did not wish to be taken so far from their homes. They also say that the time for which his men are enlisted expires in the middle of November, and if he does not fight, his army will dissolve.
SLAVERY.
Springfield, October 30th. Asboth brought in his division this morning, and soon after Lane came at the head of his brigade. It was a motley procession, made up of the desperate fighters of the Kansas borders and about two hundred negroes. The contrabands were mounted and armed, and rode through the streets rolling about in their saddles with their shiny faces on a broad grin.
The disposition to be made of fugitive slaves is a subject which every day presents itself. The camps and even head-quarters are filled with runaways. Several negroes came from St. Louis as servants of staff-officers, and these men have become a sort of Vigilance Committee to secure the freedom of the slaves in our neighborhood. The new-comers are employed to do the work about camp, and we find them very useful,—and they serve us with a zeal which is born of their long-baffled love of liberty. The officers of the regular army here have little sympathy with this practical Abolitionism; but it is very different with the volunteers and the rank and file of the army at large. The men do not talk much about it; it is not likely that they think very profoundly upon the social and legal questions involved; they are Abolitionists by the inexorable logic of their situation. However ignorant or thoughtless they may be, they know that they are here at the peril of their lives, facing a stern, vigilant, and relentless foe. To subdue this foe, to cripple and destroy him, is not only their duty, but the purpose to which the instinct of self-preservation concentrates all their energies. Is it to be supposed that men who, like the soldiers of the Guard, last week pursued Rebellion into the very valley and shadow of death, will be solicitous to protect the system which incited their enemies to that fearful struggle, and hurried their comrades to early graves? What laws or proclamations can control men stimulated by such memories? The stern decrees of fact prescribe the conditions upon which this war must be waged. An attempt to give back the negroes who ask our protection would demoralize the army; an order to assist in such rendition would be resented as an insult. Fortunately, no such attempt will be made. So long as General Fremont is in command of this department, no person, white or black, will be taken out of our lines into slavery. The flag we follow will be in truth what the nation has proudly called it, a symbol of freedom to all.
The other day a farmer of the neighborhood came into our quarters, seeking a runaway slave. It happened that the fugitive had been employed as a servant by Colonel Owen Lovejoy. Some one told the man to apply to the Colonel, and he entered the tent of that officer and said,—
“Colonel, I am told you have got my boy Ben, who has run away from me.”
“Your boy?” exclaimed the Colonel; “I do not know that I have any boy of yours.”
“Yes, there he is,” insisted the master, pointing to a negro who was approaching. “I want you to deliver him to me: you have no right to him; he is my slave.”
“Your slave?” shouted Colonel Lovejoy, springing to his feet. “That man is my servant. By his own consent he is in my service, and I pay him for his labor, which it is his right to sell and mine to buy. Do you dare come here and claim the person of my servant? He is entitled to my protection, and shall have it. I advise you to leave this camp forthwith.”
The farmer was astounded at the cool way in which the Colonel turned the tables upon him, and set his claim to the negro, by reason of having hired him, above the one which he had as the negro’s master. He left hastily, and we afterwards learned that his brother and two sons were in the Rebel army.
As an instance of the peculiar manner in which some of the fugitive slaves address our sympathies, I may mention the case of Lanzy, one of my servants. He came to my tent the morning after I arrived here, ragged, hungry, foot-sore, and weary. Upon inquiry, I have found his story to be true. He is nearly white, and is the son of his master, whose residence is a few miles west of here, but who is now a captain under Price,—a fact which does not predispose me to the rendition of Lanzy, should he be pursued. He is married, after the fashion in which slaves are usually married, and has two children. But his wife and of course her children belong to a widow lady, whose estate adjoins his master’s farm, and several months ago, by reason of the unsettled condition of the country, Lanzy’s wife and little children were sold and taken down to the Red River. Fearing the approach of the Federal forces, last week the Rebel captain sent instructions to have Lanzy and his other slaves removed into Arkansas. This purpose was discovered, and Lanzy and a very old negro, whom he calls uncle, fled at night. For several days they wandered through the forests, and at last succeeded in reaching Springfield. How can a man establish a stronger claim to the sympathy and protection of a stranger than that which tyranny, misfortune, and misery have given to this poor negro upon me? Bereft of wife and children, whose love was the sunshine of his dark and dreary life, threatened with instant exile from which there was no hope of escape,—what was there of which imagination can conceive that could increase the load of evil which pressed upon this unhappy man? Is it strange that he fled from his hard fate, as the hare flies from the hounds?
His case is by no means extraordinary. Go to any one of the dusky figures loitering around yonder fire, and you will hear a moving story of oppression and sorrow. Every slave who runs breathless into our lines and claims the soldier’s protection, not only appeals to him as a soldier struggling with a deadly foe, but addresses every generous instinct of his manhood. Mighty forces born of man’s sympathy for man are at work in this war, and will continue their work, whether we oppose or yield to them.
Yesterday fifty-three Delaware Indians came from Kansas to serve under the General. Years ago he made friends of the Delawares, when travelling through their country upon his first journey of exploration; and hearing that he was on the war-path, the tribe have sent their best young warriors to join him. They are descendants of the famous tribe which once dwelt on the Delaware River, and belonged to the confederacy of the Six Nations, for more than two centuries the most powerful Indian community in America. Their ancient prowess remains. The Delawares are feared all over the Plains, and their war-parties have often penetrated beyond the Rocky Mountains, carrying terror through all the Indian tribes. These men are fine specimens of their race,—tall, lightly formed, and agile. They ride little shaggy ponies, rough enough to look at, but very hardy and active; and they are armed with the old American rifle, the traditional weapon which Cooper places in the hands of his red heroes. They are led by the chief of their tribe, Fall-Leaf, a dignified personage, past the noon of life, but showing in his erect form and dark eye that the fires of manhood burn with undiminished vigor.
THE SITUATION.
Springfield, November 1st. It is certain that Price left Neosho on Monday and is moving towards us. He probably heard how small the force was with which the General arrived here, and thinks that he can overwhelm us before the other divisions come up. We have had some fear of this ourselves, and all the dispositions have been made for a stubborn defence in case we are attacked. The last two nights we have slept on our arms, with our horses saddled and baggage packed. Now all danger is past: a part of Pope’s division came in this morning, and McKinstry is close at hand. He has marched nearly seventy miles in three days. The evidence that Price is advancing is conclusive. Our scouts have reported that he was moving, and numerous deserters have confirmed these reports; but we have other evidence of the most undoubted reliability. During the last two days, hundreds of men, women, and children have come into our lines,—Union people who fled at the approach of the Rebels. I have talked with a number of these fugitives who reside southwest from here, and they all represent the roads to be filled with vast numbers of men and teams going towards Wilson’s Creek. They give the most exaggerated estimates of the number of the enemy, placing them at from fifty thousand to one hundred and twenty-five thousand men; but the scouts and deserters say that the whole force does not exceed thirty-two thousand, and of these a large number are poorly armed and quite undisciplined. Hunter has not come up, nor has he been heard from directly, but there is a report that yesterday he had not left the Osage: if this be true, he will not be here in time for the battle.
The Rebel generals must now make their choice between permitting themselves to be cut off from their base of operations and sources of supply and reinforcement, and attempting to reach Forsyth, in which case they will have to give us battle. The movement from Neosho leaves no doubt that they intend to fight. It is said by the deserters that Price would be willing to avoid an engagement, but he is forced to offer battle by the necessities of his position, the discontent of his followers, the approaching expiration of their term of enlistment, and the importunities of McCulloch, who declares he will not make another retreat.
We are now perfectly prepared. Hunter’s delay leaves us with only twenty-two thousand men, seventy pieces of artillery, and about four thousand cavalry. In view of our superiority as respects armament, discipline, and ordnance, we are more than a match for our opponent. We sleep to-night in constant expectation of an attack: two guns will be fired as a signal that the enemy are at hand.
THE REMOVAL.
Springfield, November 2d. The catastrophe has come which we have long dreaded, but for which we were in no degree prepared. This morning, at about ten o’clock, while I was standing in front of my tent, chatting with some friends, an officer in the uniform of a captain of the general staff rode up, and asked the orderly to show him to the General. He went into the house, and in a few moments came out and rode off. I soon learned that he had brought an order from General Scott informing General Fremont that he was temporarily relieved of his command, and directing him to transfer it to Major-General Hunter and report himself to the head-quarters of the army by letter. The order was originally dated October 7th, but the date had been altered to October 24th, on which day it left St. Louis,—the day the Guards started upon their expedition, to Springfield.
This order, which, on the very eve of consummation, has defeated the carefully matured plans upon which the General’s fortunes and in so large a measure the fortunes of the country depended,—which has destroyed the results of three months of patient labor, transferring to another the splendid army he has called together, organized, and equipped, and giving to another the laurel wreath of victory which now hangs ready to fall at the touch,—this order, which has disappointed so many long-cherished hopes, was received by our magnanimous General without a word of complaint. In his noble mind there was no doubt or hesitation. He obeyed it promptly and implicitly. He at once directed Colonel Eaton to issue the proper order transferring the command to General Hunter, and having prepared a brief address to the soldiers, full of pathos and patriotic devotion, he rode out accompanied by the Delawares to examine the positions south of the village.
Hunter has not yet been heard from: three couriers have been sent after him. General Pope is now in command here. It is understood, that, until the Commanding General arrives, the army will stand upon the defensive, and that no engagement will take place, unless it is attacked. General Fremont and his staff will leave to-morrow for St. Louis.
This evening I rode through Sigel’s and McKinstry’s camps. The general order and the farewell address had been read to the regiments, and the camp-fires were surrounded by groups of excited soldiers, and cheers for Fremont were heard on every side.
November 3d, 8 P.M. This morning it became apparent that the departure of the General before the arrival of Hunter would endanger the discipline of the army. Great numbers of officers have offered their resignations, and it has required the constant and earnest efforts of General Fremont to induce them to retain their positions. The slightest encouragement upon his part of the discontent which prevails will disorganize the divisions of Sigel and Asboth.
The attitude of the enemy is threatening, and it does not seem possible to avoid a battle more than a few hours. Great numbers of people, flying before Price, have come in to-day. A reconnaissance in the direction of Springfield has been made, and the following report rendered by General Asboth.
“HEAD-QUARTERS FOURTH DIVISION WESTERN DEPARTMENT.
“Springfield, November 3d, 1861.
“To MAJOR-GENERAL J.C. FREMONT, Commanding Western Department.
“GENERAL:—The captain commanding the company of Major Wright’s battalion, which was sent out on a scouting party to Wilson’s Creek, has just sent in his report by a runner. He says, last night the enemy’s advanced guard, some two thousand strong, camped at Wilson’s Creek. Price’s forces are at Terrill’s Creek on the Marionsville road, nine miles behind Wilson’s Creek, and McCulloch’s forces are at Dug Springs.
“Both these forces were expected to concentrate at Wilson’s Creek to-night, and offer battle there.
“The scout depicts every road and path covered with moving troops, estimating them at forty thousand men.
“Very respectfully,
“Your obedient serv’t,
“ASBOTH,
“Act. Maj.-Gen’l Com’d’g 4th Div.”
According to this report, the whole of Price’s army is within twenty miles of us, and probably nearer. Hunter has not been heard from, and it is impossible to discover his whereabouts. This afternoon General McKinstry designed to make a reconnaissance in force with his whole division towards Wilson’s Creek; but yielding to the solicitations of the chief officers, and in view of the imminence of battle, to-day General Fremont resumed the command, and ordered McKinstry not to make his reconnoissance,—not wishing to bring on a general engagement during the absence of Hunter.
All day long officers have visited General Fremont and urged him to give battle, representing, that, if this opportunity were permitted to pass, Price, after ascertaining our force, would retire, and it would be impossible to catch him again. This evening one hundred and ten officers called upon him in a body. They ranged themselves in semicircular array in front of the house, and one of their number presented an address to the General full of sympathy and respect, and earnestly requesting him to lead them against the enemy. At the close of the interview, the General said, that, under all the circumstances, he felt it to be his duty not to decline the battle which our foe offers us,—and that, if General Hunter did not arrive before midnight, he would lead the army forward to-morrow morning at daybreak; and that they might so inform their several commands. This announcement was received with loud cheers. The staff-officers were at once despatched with directions to the division and brigade commanders to repair forthwith to head-quarters and receive their orders. The Generals assembled at eight o’clock, and the following order of battle was then published.
“HEAD-QUARTERS WESTERN DEPARTMENT.
“Springfield, November 3,1861.
“The different divisions of the army shall be put in the following order of battle.
“Act’g Maj.-Gen. Asboth, right wing. ” ” McKinstry, centre. ” ” Sigel, left. ” ” Pope, reserve.
“General McKinstry’s column to leave camp at six o’clock, and proceed by the Fayetteville road to the upper end of the upper cornfield on the left, where General Lyon made his first attack.
“General Sigel to start at six o’clock by Joakum’s Mill, and follow his old trail, except that he is to turn to the right some two miles sooner, and proceed to the old stable on the lower end of the lower cornfield.
“General Asboth to start at six and one-half o’clock, by the Mount Vernon road, then by a prairie road to the right of the ravine opposite the lower field.
“General Pope to start at seven o’clock by the Fayetteville road, following General McKinstry’s column.
“General Lane to join General Sigel’s division. General Wyman to join General Asboth’s division.
“One regiment and two pieces of artillery of General Pope’s division to remain as a reserve in Springfield.
“The different divisions to come into their positions at the same time, about eleven o’clock, at which hour a simultaneous attack will be made.
“The baggage-trains to be packed and held in readiness at Springfield. Each regiment to carry three two-horse wagons to transport the wounded.
“J.C. FREMONT,
“Maj.-Gen’l Com’d’g.”
The General and staff, with the Body-Guard, Benton Cadets, Sharp-shooters, and Delawares, will accompany McKinstry’s column.
The news has spread like wildfire. As I galloped up the road this evening, returning from McKinstry’s quarters, every camp was astir. The enthusiasm was unbounded. On every side the eager soldiers are preparing for the conflict. They are packing wagons, sharpening sabres, grooming horses, and cleaning muskets. The spirit of our men promises a brilliant victory.
Midnight. At eleven o’clock General Hunter entered the Council of Generals at head-quarters. General Fremont explained to him the situation of affairs, the attitude of the enemy, and the dispositions which had been made for the following day, and then gracefully resigned the command into his hands. And thus our hopes are finally defeated, and in the morning we turn our faces to the north. General Hunter will not advance to-morrow, and the opportunity of catching Price will probably be lost, for it is not likely the Rebel General will remain at Wilson’s Creek after he has learned that the whole Federal army is concentrated.
The news of the change has not yet reached the camps. As I sit here, wearied with the excitement and labors of the day, the midnight stillness is broken by the din of preparation, the shouting of teamsters, the clang of the cavalry anvils, and the distant cheers of the soldiers, still excited with the hope of to-morrow’s victory.
The Body-Guard and Sharp-shooters return with us; and all the officers of General Fremont’s staff have received orders to accompany him.
HOMEWARD BOUND.
In camp, twenty-five miles north of Springfield, November 4th. At nine o’clock this morning we were in the saddle, and our little column was in marching order. The Delawares led, then came our band, the General and his staff followed, the Body-Guard came next, and the Sharp-shooters in wagons brought up the rear. In this order we proceeded through the village. The Benton Cadets were drawn up in line in front of their camp, and saluted us as we passed, but none of the other regiments were paraded. The band had been directed to play lively airs, and we marched out to merry music. The troops did not seem to know that the General was to leave; but when they heard the band, they ran out of their camps and flocked into the streets: there was no order in their coming; they came without arms, many of them without their coats and bareheaded, and filled the road. The crowd was so dense that with difficulty the General rode through the throng. The farewell was most touching. There was little cheering, but an expression of sorrow on every face. Some pressed forward to take his hand; others cried, “God bless you, General!” “Your enemies are not in the camp!” “Come back and lead us to battle; we will fight for you!” The General rode on perfectly calm, a pleasant smile on his face, telling the men he was doing his duty, and they must do theirs.
We travelled with great rapidity and circumspection; for there was some reason to suppose that parties of the enemy had been thrown to the north of Springfield, in which case we might have been interfered with.
Sedalia, November 7th. We are waiting for the train which is to take us to St. Louis. Our journey here has been made very quickly. Monday we marched twenty-five miles. Tuesday we started at dawn, and made thirty miles, encamping twenty-five miles south of the Osage. Wednesday we were in the saddle at six o’clock, crossed the Osage in the afternoon, and halted ten miles north of that river, the day’s journey being thirty-five miles. We pitched our tents upon a high, flat prairie, covered with long dry grass.
In the evening the Delawares signified, that, if the General would consent to it, they would perform a war-dance. Permission was easily obtained, and, after the Indian braves had finished their toilet, they approached in formal procession, arrayed in all the glory and terror of war-paint. A huge fire had been built. The inhabitants of our little camp quickly gathered, officers, soldiers of the Guard, and Sharp-shooters, negroes and teamsters. The Indians ranged themselves on one side of the fire, and the rest of us completed the circle. The dancing was done by some half-dozen young Indians, to the monotonous beating of two small drums and a guttural accompaniment which the dancers sang, the other Indians joining in the chorus. The performance was divided into parts, and the whole was intended to express the passions which war excites in the Indian nature,—the joy which they feel at the prospect of a fight,—their contempt for their enemies,—their frenzy at sight of the foe,—the conflict,—the operations of tomahawking and scalping their opponents,—and, finally, the triumph of victory. The performances occupied over two hours. Fall-Leaf presided with an air of becoming gravity, smoking an enormous stone pipe with a long reed stem.
After rendering thanks in proper form, Fall-Leaf was told, that, by way of return for their civility, and in special honor of the Delawares, the negroes would dance one of their national dances. Two agile darkies came forward, and went through with a regular break-down, to the evident entertainment of the red men. Afterwards an Irishman leaped into the ring, and began an Irish hornpipe. He was the best dancer of all, and his complicated steps and astonishing tours-de-force completely upset the gravity of the Indians, and they burst into loud laughter. It was midnight before the camp was composed to its last night’s sleep. This morning we started an hour before day, and marched to this place, twenty miles, by noon.
Thus ended the expedition of General Fremont to Springfield.
In bringing these papers to a close, the writer cannot refrain from expressing his regret that circumstances have prevented him from making that exposition of affairs in the Western Department which the country has long expected. While he was in the field, General Fremont permitted the attacks of his enemies to pass unheeded, because he held them unworthy to be intruded upon more important occupations, and he would not be diverted from the great objects he was pursuing; since his recall, considerations affecting the public service, and the desire not at this time to embarrass the Government with personal matters, have sealed his lips. I will not now disregard his wishes by entering into any detailed discussion of the charges which have been made against him,—but I cannot lay down my pen without bearing voluntary testimony to the fidelity, energy, and skill which he brought to his high office. It will be hard for any one who was not a constant witness of his career to appreciate the labor which he assumed and successfully performed. From the first to the last hour of the day, there was no idle moment. No time was given to pleasure,—none even to needed relaxation. Often, long after the strength of his body was spent, the force of his will bound him to exhausting toil. No religious zealot ever gave himself to his devotions with more absorbing abandonment than General Fremont to his hard, and, as it has proved, most thankless task. Time will verify the statement, that, whether as respects thoroughness or economy, his administration of affairs at the West will compare favorably with the transactions of any other department of the Government, military or civil, during the last nine months. Let it be contrasted with the most conspicuous instance of the management of military affairs at the East.
The period between the President’s Proclamation and the Battle of Manassas was about equal in duration to the career of Fremont in the West. The Federal Government had at command all the resources, in men, material, and money, of powerful, wealthy, and populous communities. Nothing was asked which was not promptly and lavishly given. After three months of earnest effort, assisted by the best military and civil talent of the country, by the whole army organization, by scientific soldiers and an accomplished and experienced staff, a column of thirty thousand men, with thirty-four pieces of artillery and but four hundred cavalry, was moved a distance of twenty-two miles. Though it had been in camp several weeks, up to a few days before its departure it was without brigade or division organization, and ignorant of any evolutions except those of the battalion. It was sent forward without equipage, without a sufficient commissariat or an adequate medical establishment. This armed mob was led against an intrenched foe, and driven back in wild and disgraceful defeat,—a defeat which has prolonged the war for a year, called for a vast expenditure of men and treasure, and now to our present burdens seems likely to add those of a foreign war. The authors of this great disaster remain unpunished, and, except in the opinions of the public, unblamed; while nearly all the officers who led the ill-planned, ill-timed, and badly executed enterprise have received distinguished promotions, such as the soldier never expects to obtain, except as the reward of heroic and successful effort.
When General Fremont reached St. Louis, the Federal militia were returning to their homes, and a confident foe pressed upon every salient point of an extended and difficult defensive position. Drawing his troops from a few sparsely settled and impoverished States, denied expected and needed assistance in money and material from the General Government, he overcame every obstacle, and at the end of eight weeks led forth an army of thirty thousand men, with five thousand cavalry and eighty-six pieces of artillery. Officers of high rank declared that this force could not leave its encampments by reason of the lack of supplies and transportation; but he conveyed them one hundred and ninety miles by rail, marched them one hundred and thirty-five miles, crossing a broad and rapid river in five days, and in three months from his assumption of the command, and in one month after leaving St. Louis, placed them in presence of the enemy,—not an incoherent mass, but a well-ordered and compact army, upon whose valor, steadfastness, and discipline the fate of the nation might safely have been pledged.
If General Fremont was not tried by the crowning test of the soldier—the battle-field—it was not through fault of his. On the very eve of battle he was removed. His army was arrested in its triumphal progress, and compelled to a shameful retreat, abandoning the beautiful region it had wrested from the foe, and deserting the loyal people who trusted to its protection, and who, exiles from their homes, followed its retreating files,—a mournful procession of broken-hearted men, weeping women, and suffering children. With an unscrupulousness which passes belief, the authors of this terrible disaster have denied the presence of the enemy at Springfield. The miserable wretches, once prosperous farmers upon the slopes of the Ozark Hills, who now wander mendicants through the streets of St, Louis, or crouch around the campfires of Holla and Sedalia, can tell whether Price was near Springfield or not.
Forty-eight hours more must have given to General Fremont an engagement. What the result would have been no one who was there doubted. A victory such as the country has long desired and sorely needs,—a decisive, complete, and overwhelming victory,—was as certain as it is possible for the skill and valor of man to make certain any future event Now, twenty thousand men are required to hold our long line of defence in Missouri; then, five thousand at Springfield would have secured the State of Missouri, and a column pushed into Arkansas would have turned the enemy’s position upon the Mississippi. In the same time and with the same labor that the march to the rear was made, two States might have been won, and the fate of the Rebellion in the Southwest decided.
While I am writing these concluding pages, the telegraph brings information that another expedition has started for Springfield. Strong columns are marching from Bolla, Sedalia, and Versailles, to do the work which General Fremont stood ready to do last November. After three months of experience and reflection, the enterprise which was denounced as aimless, extravagant, and ill-judged, which was derided as a wild hunt after an unreal foe, an exploration into desert regions, is now repeated in face of the obstacles of difficult roads and an inclement season, and when many of the objects of the expedition no longer exist,—for, unhappily, the loyal inhabitants of those fertile uplands, the fruitful farms and pleasant homes, are no longer there to receive the protection of our armies. General Fremont’s military conduct could not have received more signal approval. The malignant criticisms of his enemies could in no other manner have been so completely refuted. Unmoved by the storm of calumny and detraction which raged around him, he has calmly and silently awaited the unerring judgment, the triumphant verdict, which he knew time and the ebb of the bad passions his success excited would surely bring.
[BIRDOFREDUM SAWIN, ESQ., TO MR. HOSEA BIGLOW.]
With the following Letter from the REVEREND HOMER WILBUR, A.M.
To the Editors of the ATLANTIC MONTHLY.
Jaalam, 7th Feb., 1862.
Respected Friends,—If I know myself, and surely a man can hardly be supposed to have overpassed the limit of fourscore years without attaining to some proficiency in that most useful branch of learning, (e cælo descendit, says the pagan poet,) I have no great smack of that weakness which would press upon the publick attention any matter pertaining to my private affairs. But since the following letter of Mr. Sawin contains not only a direct allusion to myself, but that in connection with a topick of interest to all those engaged in the publick ministrations of the sanctuary, I may be pardoned for touching briefly thereupon. Mr. Sawin was never a stated attendant upon my preaching,—never, as I believe, even an occasional one, since the erection of the new house (where we now worship) in 1845. He did, indeed, for a time supply a not unacceptable bass in the choir, but, whether on some umbrage (omnibus hoc vitium est cantoribus) taken against the bass-viol, then, and till his decease in 1850, (æt. 77,) under the charge of Mr. Asaph Perley, or, as was reported by others, on account of an imminent subscription for a new bell, he thenceforth, absented himself from all outward and visible communion. Yet he seems to have preserved, (altâ mente repostum,) as it were, in the pickle of a mind soured by prejudice, a lasting scunner, as he would call it, against our staid and decent form of worship: for I would rather in that wise interpret his fling, than suppose that any chance tares sown by my pulpit discourses should survive so long, while good seed too often fails to root itself. I humbly trust that I have no personal feeling in the matter; though I know, that, if we sound any man deep enough, our lead shall bring up the mud of human nature at last. The Bretons believe in an evil spirit which they call ar c’houskesik, whose office it is to make the congregation drowsy; and though I have never had reason to think that he was specially busy among my flock, yet have I seen enough to make me sometimes regret the hinged seats of the ancient meeting-house, whose lively clatter, not unwillingly intensified by boys beyond eyeshot of the tithing-man, served at intervals as a wholesome réveil. It is true, I have numbered among my parishioners some whose gift of somnolence rivalled that of the Cretan Rip van Winkle, Epimenides, and who, nevertheless, complained not so much of the substance as of the length of my (by them unheard) discourses. Happy Saint Anthony of Padua, whose finny acolytes, however they might profit, could never murmur! Quare fremuerunt gentes? Who is he that can twice a week be inspired, or has eloquence (ut ita dicam) always on tap? A good man, and, next to David, a sacred poet, (himself, haply, not inexpert of evil in this particular,) has said,—
“The worst speak something good: if all want sense,
God takes a text and preacheth patience.”
There are one or two other points in Mr. Sawin’s letter which I would also briefly animadvert upon. And first concerning the claim he sets up to a certain superiority of blood and lineage in the people of our Southern States, now unhappily in rebellion against lawful authority and their own better interests. There is a sort of opinions, anachronisms and anachorisms, foreign both to the age and the country, that maintain a feeble and buzzing existence, scarce to be called life, like winter flies, which in mild weather crawl out from obscure nooks and crannies to expatiate in the sun, and sometimes acquire vigour enough to disturb with their enforced familiarity the studious hours of the scholar. One of the most stupid and pertinacious of these is the theory that the Southern States were settled by a class of emigrants from the Old World socially superiour to those who founded the institutions of New England. The Virginians especially lay claim to this generosity of lineage, which were of no possible account, were it not for the fact that such superstitions are sometimes not without their effect on the course of human affairs. The early adventurers to Massachusetts at least paid their passages; no felons were ever shipped thither; and though it be true that many deboshed younger brothers of what are called good families may have sought refuge in Virginia, it is equally certain that a great part of the early deportations thither were the sweepings of the London streets and the leavings of the London stews. On what the heralds call the spindle side, some, at least, of the oldest Virginian families are descended from matrons who were exported and sold for so many hogsheads of tobacco the head. So notorious was this, that it became one of the jokes of contemporary playwrights, not only that men bankrupt in purse and character were “food for the Plantations,” (and this before the settlement of New England,) but also that any drab would suffice to wive such pitiful adventurers. “Never choose a wife as if you were going to Virginia,” says Middleton in one of his comedies. The mule is apt to forget all but the equine side of his pedigree. How early the counterfeit nobility of the Old Dominion became a topick of ridicule in the Mother Country may be learned from a play of Mrs. Behn’s, founded on the Rebellion of Bacon: for even these kennels of literature may yield a fact or two to pay the raking. Mrs. Flirt, the keeper of a Virginia ordinary, calls herself the daughter of a baronet “undone in the late rebellion,”—her father having in truth been a tailor,—and three of the Council, assuming to themselves an equal splendour of origin, are shown to have been, one “a broken exciseman who came over a poor servant,” another a tinker transported for theft, and the third “a common pickpocket often flogged at the cart’s-tail.” The ancestry of South Carolina will as little pass muster at the Herald’s Visitation, though I hold them to have been more reputable, inasmuch as many of them were honest tradesmen and artisans, in some measure exiles for conscience’ sake, who would have smiled at the high-flying nonsense of their descendants. Some of the more respectable were Jews. The absurdity of supposing a population of eight millions all sprung from gentle loins in the course of a century and a half is too manifest for confutation. The aristocracy of the South, such as it is, has the shallowest of all foundations, for it is only skin-deep,—the most odious of all, for, while affecting to despise trade, it traces its origin to a successful traffick in men, women, and children, and still draws its chief revenues thence. And though, as Doctor Chamberlayne says in his Present State of England, “to become a Merchant of Foreign Commerce, without serving any Apprentisage, hath been allowed no disparagement to a Gentleman born, especially to a younger Brother,” yet I conceive that he would hardly have made a like exception in favour of the particular trade in question. Nor do I believe that such aristocracy as exists at the South (for I hold, with Marius, fortissimum quemque generosissimum) will be found an element of anything like persistent strength in war,—thinking the saying of Lord Bacon (whom one quaintly called inductionis dominus et Verulamii) as true as it is pithy, that, “the more gentlemen, ever the lower books of subsidies.” It is odd enough as an historical precedent, that, while the fathers of New England were laying deep in religion, education, and freedom the basis of a polity which has substantially outlasted any then existing, the first work of the founders of Virginia, as may be seen in Wingfield’s Memorial, was conspiracy and rebellion,—odder yet, as showing the changes which are wrought by circumstance, that the first insurrection in South Carolina was against the aristocratical scheme of the Proprietary Government. I do not find that the cuticular aristocracy of the South has added anything to the refinements of civilization except the carrying of bowie-knives and the chewing of tobacco,—a high-toned Southern gentleman being commonly not only quadrumanous, but quidruminant.
I confess that the present letter of Mr. Sawin increases my doubts as to the sincerity of the convictions which he professes, and I am inclined to think that the triumph of the legitimate Government, sure sooner or later to take place, will find him and a large majority of his newly-adopted fellow-citizens (who hold with Dædalus, the primal sitter-on-the-fence, that medium tenere tutissimum) original Union men. The criticisms toward the close of his letter on certain of our failings are worthy to be seriously perpended, for he is not, as I think, without a spice of vulgar shrewdness. As to the good-nature in us which he seems to gird at, while I would not consecrate a chapel, as they have not scrupled to do in France, to Nótre Dame de la Haine, Our Lady of Hate, yet I cannot forget that the corruption of good-nature is the generation of laxity of principle. Good-nature is our national characteristick; and though it be, perhaps, nothing more than a culpable weakness or cowardice, when it leads us to put up tamely with manifold impositions and breaches of implied contracts, (as too frequently in our publick conveyances,) it becomes a positive crime, when it leads us to look unresentfully on peculation, and to regard treason to the best Government that ever existed as something with which a gentleman may shake hands without soiling his fingers. I do not think the gallows-tree the most profitable member of our Sylva; but, since it continues to be planted, I would fain see a Northern limb ingrafted on it, that it may bear some other fruit than loyal Tennesseeans.
A relick has recently been discovered on the east bank of Bushy Brook in North Jaalam, which I conceive to be an inscription in Runic characters relating to the early expedition of the Northmen to this continent. I shall make fuller investigations, and communicate the result in due season.
Respectfully,
Your obedient servant,
HOMER WILBUR, A.M.
P.S. I inclose a year’s subscription from Deacon Tinkham.
I hed it on my min’ las’ time, when I to write ye started,
To tech the leadin’ featurs o’ my gittin’ me convarted;
But, ez my letters hez to go clearn roun’ by way o’ Cuby,
’T wun’t seem no staler now than then, by th’ time it gits where you be.
You know up North, though sees an’ things air plenty ez you please,
Ther’ warn’t nut one on ’em thet come jes’ square with my idees:
I dessay they suit workin’-folks thet ain’t noways pertic’lar,
But nut your Southun gen’leman thet keeps his perpendic’lar;
I don’t blame nary man thet casts his lot along o’ his folks,
But ef you cal’late to save me, ’t must be with folks thet is folks;
Cov’nants o’ works go ’ginst my grain, but down here I’ve found out
The true fus’-fem’ly A 1 plan,—here’s how it come about.
When I fus’ sot up with Miss S., sez she to me, sez she,—
“Without you git religion, Sir, the thing can’t never be;
Nut but wut I respeck,” sez she, “your intellectle part,
But you wun’t noways du for me athout a change o’ heart:
Nothun religion works wal North, but it’s ez soft ez spruce,
Compared to ourn, for keepin’ sound,” sez she, “upon the goose;
A day’s experunce’d prove to ye, ez easy ’z pull a trigger,
It takes the Southun pint o’ view to raise ten bales a nigger;
You’ll fin’ thet human natur, South, ain’t wholesome more ’n skin-deep,
An’ once’t a darkie’s took with it, he wun’t be wuth his keep.”
“How shell I git it, Ma’am?” sez I. “Attend the nex’ camp-meetin’,”
Sez she, “an’ it’ll come to ye ez cheap ez onbleached sheetin’.”
Wal, so I went along an’ hearn most an impressive sarmon
About besprinklin’ Afriky with fourth-proof dew o’ Harmon:
He did n’ put no weaknin’ in, but gin it tu us hot,
’Z ef he an’ Satan’d ben two bulls in one five-acre lot:
I don’t purtend to foller him, but give ye jes’ the heads;
For pulpit ellerkence, you know, ’most ollers kin’ o’ spreads.
Ham’s seed wuz gin to us in chairge, an’ shouldn’t we be li’ble
In Kingdom Come, ef we kep’ back their priv’lege in the Bible?
The cusses an’ the promerses make one gret chain, an’ ef
You snake one link out here, one there, how much on’t ud be lef’?
All things wuz gin to man for’s use, his sarvice, an’ delight;
An’ don’t the Greek an’ Hebrew words thet mean a Man mean White?
Ain’t it belittlin’ the Good Book in all its proudes’ featurs
To think ’t wuz wrote for black an’ brown an’ ’lasses-colored creaturs,
Thet could n’ read it, ef they would, nor ain’t by lor allowed to,
But ough’ to take wut we think suits their naturs, an’ be proud to?
Warn’t it more prof’table to bring your raw materil thru
Where you can work it inta grace an’ inta cotton, tu,
Than sendin’ missionaries out where fevers might defeat ’em,
An’ ef the butcher did n’ call, their p’rishioners might eat ’em?
An’ then, agin, wut airthly use? Nor ’t warn’t our fault, in so fur
Ez Yankee skippers would keep on a-totin’ on ’em over.
’T improved the whites by savin’ ’em from ary need o’ workin’,
An’ kep’ the blacks from bein’ lost thru idleness an’ shirkin’;
We took to ’em ez nat’ral ez a barn-owl doos to mice,
An’ hed our hull time on our hands to keep us out o’ vice;
It made us feel ez pop’lar ez a hen doos with one chicken,
An’ fill our place in Natur’s scale by givin’ ’em a lickin’:
For why should Cæsar git his dues more ’n Juno, Pomp, an’ Cuffy?
It’s justifyin’ Ham to spare a nigger when he’s stuffy.
Where’d their soles go tu, like to know, ef we should let ’em ketch
Freeknowledgism an’ Fourierism an’ Speritoolism an’ sech?
When Satan sets himself to work to raise his very bes’ muss,
He scatters roun’ onscriptur’l views relatin’ to Ones’mus.
You’d ough’ to seen, though, how his face an’ argymunce an’ figgers
Drawed tears o’ real conviction from a lot o’ pen’tent niggers!
It warn’t like Wilbur’s meetin’, where you’re shet up in a pew,
Your dickeys sorrin’ off your ears, an’ bilin’ to be thru;
Ther’ wuz a tent clost by thet hed a kag o’ sunthin’ in it,
Where you could go, ef you wuz dry, an’ damp ye in a minute;
Au’ ef you did dror off a spell, ther’ wuzn’t no occasion
To lose the thread, because, ye see, he bellered like all Bashan.
It’s dry work follerin’ argymunce, an’ so, ’twix’ this an’ thet,
I felt conviction weighin’ down somehow inside my hat;
It growed an’ growed like Jonah’s gourd, a kin’ o’ whirlin’ ketched me,
Ontil I fin’lly clean giv out an’ owned up thet he’d fetched me;
An’ when nine-tenths the perrish took to tumblin’ roun’ an’ hollerin’,
I did n’ fin’ no gret in th’ way o’ turnin’ tu an’ follerin’.
Soon ez Miss S. see thet, sez she, “Thet ’s wut I call wuth seein’!
Thet ’s actin’ like a reas’nable an’ intellectle bein’!”
An’ so we fin’lly made it up, concluded to hitch hosses,
An’ here I be ’n my ellermunt among creation’s bosses;
Arter I’d drawed sech heaps o’ blanks, Fortin at last hez sent a prize,
An’ chose me for a shinin’ light o’ missionary enterprise.
This leads me to another pint on which I’ve changed my plan
O’ thinkin’ so ’s ’t I might become a straight-out Southun man.
Miss S. (her maiden name wuz Higgs, o’ the fus’ fem’ly here)
On her Ma’s side ’s all Juggernot, on Pa’s all Cavileer,
An’ sence I’ve merried into her an’ stept into her shoes,
It ain’t more ’n nateral thet I should modderfy my views:
I’ve ben a-readin’ in Debow ontil I’ve fairly gut
So ’nlightened thet I’d full ez lives ha’ ben a Dook ez nut;
An’ when we’ve laid ye all out stiff, an’ Jeff hez gut his crown,
An’ comes to pick his nobles out, wun’t this child be in town!
We’ll hev an Age o’ Chivverlry surpassin’ Mister Burke’s,
Where every fem’ly is fus’-best an’ nary white man works:
Our system’s sech, the thing’ll root ez easy ez a tater;
For while your lords in furrin parts ain’t noways marked by natur’,
Nor sot apart from ornery folks in featurs nor in figgers,
Ef ourn’ll keep their faces washed, you’ll know ’em from their niggers.
Ain’t sech things wuth secedin’ for, an’ gittin’ red o’ you
Thet waller in your low idees, an’ will till all is blue?
Fact is, we air a diff’rent race, an’ I, for one, don’t see,
Sech havin’ ollers ben the case, how w’ ever did agree.
It’s sunthin’ thet you lab’rin’-folks up North hed ough’ to think on,
Thet Higgses can’t bemean themselves to rulin’ by a Lincoln,—
Thet men, (an’ guv’nors, tu,) thet hez sech Normal names ez Pickens,
Accustomed to no kin’ o’ work, ’thout ’t is to givin’ lickins,
Can’t masure votes with folks thet git their livins from their farms
An’ prob’ly think thet Law ’s ez good ez hevin’ coats o’ arms.
Sence I’ve ben here, I’ve hired a chap to look about for me
To git me a transplantable an’ thrifty fem’ly-tree,
An’ he tells me the Sawins is ez much o’ Normal blood
Ez Pickens an’ the rest on ’em, an’ older ’n Noah’s flood.
Your Normal schools wun’t turn ye into Normals, for it’s clear,
Ef eddykatin’ done the thing, they’d be some skurcer here.
Pickenses, Boggses, Pettuses, Magoffins, Letchers, Polks,—
Where can you scare up names like them among your mudsill folks?
Ther’ ’s nothin’ to compare with ’em, you’d fin’, ef you should glance,
Among the tip-top femerlies in Englan’, nor in France:
I’ve hearn from ’sponsible men whose word wuz full ez good’s their note,
Men thet can run their face for drinks, an’ keep a Sunday coat,
Thet they wuz all on ’em come down, an’ come down pooty fur,
From folks thet, ’thout their crowns wuz on, ou’doors would n’ never stir,
Nor thet ther’ warn’t a Southun man but wut wuz primy fashy
O’ the bes’ blood in Europe, yis, an’ Afriky an’ Ashy:
Sech bein’ the case, is ’t likely we should bend like cotton-wickin’,
Or set down under anythin’ so low-lived ez a lickin’?
More ’n this,—hain’t we the literatoor an’ science, tu, by gorry?
Hain’t we them intellectle twins, them giants, Simms an’ Maury,
Each with full twice the ushle brains, like nothin’ thet I know,
’Thout ’t wuz a double-headed calf I see once to a show?
For all thet, I warn’t jest at fast in favor o’ seeedin’;
I wuz for layin’ low a spell to find out where’t wuz leadin’,
For hevin’ South-Carliny try her hand at seprit-nationin’,
She takin’ resks an’ findin’ funds, an’ we cooperationin’,—
I mean a kin’ o’ hangin’ roun’ an’ settin’ on the fence,
Till Prov’dunce pinted how to jump an’ save the most expense;
I reccollected thet ’ere mine o’ lead to Shiraz Centre
Thet bust up Jabez Pettibone, an’ didn’t want to ventur’
’Fore I wuz sartin wut come out ud pay for wut went in,
For swappin’ silver off for lead ain’t the sure way to win;
(An’, fact, it doos look now ez though—but folks must live an’ larn—
We should git lead, an’ more ’n we want, out o’ the Old Consarn;)
But when I see a man so wise an’ honest ez Buchanan
A-lettin’ us hev all the forts an’ all the arms an’ cannon,
Admittin’ we wuz nat’lly right an’ you wuz nat’lly wrong,
Coz you wuz lab’rin’-folks an’ we wuz wut they call bong-tong,
An’ coz there warn’t no fight in ye more ’n in a mashed potater,
While two o’ us can’t skurcely meet but wut we fight by natur’,
An’ th’ ain’t a bar-room here would pay for openin’ on ’t a night,
Without it giv the priverlege o’ bein’ shot at sight,
Which proves we’re Natur’s noblemen, with whom it don’t surprise
The British aristoxy should feel boun’ to sympathize,—
Seein’ all this, an’ seein’, tu, the thing wuz strikin’ roots
While Uncle Sam sot still in hopes thet some one ’d bring his boots,
I thought th’ ole Union’s hoops wuz off, an’ let myself be sucked in
To rise a peg an’ jine the crowd thet went for reconstructin’,—
Thet is, to hev the pardnership under th’ ole name continner
Jest ez it wuz, we drorrin’ pay, you findin’ bone an’ sinner,—
On’y to put it in the bond, an’ enter ’t in the journals,
Thet you’re the nat’ral rank an’ file an’ we the nat’ral kurnels.
Now this I thought a fees’ble plan, thet ’ud work smooth ez grease,
Suitin’ the Nineteenth Century an’ Upper Ten idees,
An’ there I meant to stick, an’ so did most o’ th’ leaders, tu,
Coz we all thought the chance wuz good o’ puttin’ on it thru;
But Jeff he hit upon a way o’ helpin’ on us forrard
By bein’ unannermous,—a trick you ain’t quite up to, Norrard.
A baldin hain’t no more ’f a chance with them new apple-corers
Than folks’s oppersition views aginst the Ringtail Roarers;
They’ll take ’em out on him ’bout east,—one canter on a rail
Makes a man feel unannermous ez Jonah in the whale;
Or ef he’s a slow-moulded cuss thet can’t seem quite t’ agree,
He gits the noose by tellergraph upon the nighes’ tree:
Their mission-work with Afrikins hez put ’em up, thet’s sartin,
To all the mos’ across-lot ways o’ preachin’ an’ convartin’;
I’ll bet my hat th’ ain’t nary priest, nor all on ’em together,
Thet cairs conviction to the min’ like Reveren’ Taranfeather;
Why, he sot up with me one night, an’ labored to sech purpose,
Thet (ez an owl by daylight ’mongst a flock o’ teazin’ chirpers
Sees clearer ’n mud the wickedness o’ eatin’ little birds)
I see my error an’ agreed to shen it arterwurds;
An’ I should say, (to jedge our folks by facs in my possession,)
Thet three’s Unannermous where one’s a ’Riginal Secession;
So it’s a thing you fellers North may safely bet your chink on,
Thet we’re all water-proofed agin th’ usurpin’ reign o’ Lincoln.
Jeff’s some. He’s gut another plan thet hez pertic’lar merits,
In givin’ things a cherfle look an’ stiffnin’ loose-hung sperits;
For while your million papers, wut with lyin’ an’ discussin’,
Keep folks’s tempers all on eend a-fumin’ an’ a-fussin’,
A-wondrin’ this an’ guessin’ thet, an’ dreadin’, every night,
The breechin’ o’ the Univarse’ll break afore it’s light,
Our papers don’t purtend to print on’y wut Guv’ment choose,
An’ thet insures us all to git the very best o’ noose:
Jeff hez it of all sorts an’ kines, an’ sarves it out ez wanted,
So’s’t every man gits wut he likes an’ nobody ain’t scanted;
Sometimes it’s vict’ries, (they’re ’bout all ther’ is thet’s cheap down here,)
Sometimes it’s France an’ England on the jump to interfere.
Fact is, the less the people know o’ wut ther’ is a-doin’,
The hendier ’t is for Guv’ment, sence it henders trouble brewin’;
An’ noose is like a shinplaster,—it’s good, ef you believe it,
Or, wut’s all same, the other man thet’s goin’ to receive it:
Ef you’ve a son in th’ army, wy, it’s comfortin’ to hear
He’ll hev no gretter resk to run than seein’ th’ in’my’s rear,
Coz, ef an F.F. looks at ’em, they ollers break an’ run,
Or wilt right down ez debtors will thet stumble on a dun
(An’ this, ef an’thin’, proves the wuth o’ proper fem’ly pride,
Fer sech mean shucks ez creditors are all on Lincoln’s side);
Ef I hev scrip thet wun’t go off no more ’n a Belgin rifle,
An’ read thet it’s at par on ’Change, it makes me feel deli’fle;
It’s cheerin’, tu, where every man mus’ fortify his bed,
To hear thet Freedom’s the one thing our darkies mos’ly dread,
An’ thet experunce, time ’n’ agin, to Dixie’s Land hez shown
Ther’ ’s nothin’ like a powder-cask f’r a stiddy corner-stone;
Ain’t it ez good ez nuts, when salt is sellin’ by the ounce
For its own weight in Treash’ry-bons, (ef bought in small amounts,)
When even whiskey’s gittin’ skurce, an’ sugar can’t be found,
To know thet all the ellerments o’ luxury abound?
An’ don’t it glorify sal’-pork, to come to understand
It’s wut the Richmon’ editors call fatness o’ the land?
Nex’ thing to knowin’ you’re well off is nut to know when y’ ain’t;
An’ ef Jeff says all’s goin’ wal, who’ll ventur’ t’ say it ain’t?
This cairn the Constitooshun roun’ ez Jeff doos in his hat
Is hendier a dreffle sight, an’ comes more kin’ o’ pat.
I tell ye wut, my jedgment is you’re pooty sure to fail,
Ez long ’z the head keeps turnin’ back for counsel to the tail:
Th’ advantiges of our consarn for bein’ prompt air gret,
While, ’long o’ Congress, you can’t strike, ’f you git an iron het;
They bother roun’ with argooin’, an’ var’ous sorts o’ foolin’,
To make sure ef it’s leg’lly het, an’ all the while it’s coolin’,
So ’s ’t when you come to strike, it ain’t no gret to wish ye j’y on,
An’ hurts the hammer ’z much or more ez wut it doos the iron.
Jeff don’t allow no jawin’-sprees for three months at a stretch,
Knowin’ the ears long speeches suits air mostly made to metch;
He jes’ ropes in your tonguey chaps an’ reg’lar ten-inch bores
An’ lets ’em play at Congress, ef they’ll du it with closed doors;
So they ain’t no more bothersome than ef we’d took an’ sunk ’em,
An’ yit enj’y th’ exclusive right to one another’s Buncombe
’Thout doin’ nobody no hurt, an’ ’thout its costin’ nothin’,
Their pay bein’ jes’ Confedrit funds, they findin’ keep an’ clothin’;
They taste the sweets o’ public life, an’ plan their little jobs,
An’ suck the Treash’ry, (no gret harm, for it’s ez dry ez cobs,)
An’ go thru all the motions jest ez safe ez in a prison,
An’ hev their business to themselves, while Buregard hez hisn:
Ez long ’z he gives the Hessians fits, committees can’t make bother
’Bout whether ’t’s done the legle way or whether ’t’s done the t’other.
An’ I tell you you’ve gut to larn thet War ain’t one long teeter
Betwixt I wan’ to an’ ’T wun’t du, debatin’ like a skeetur
Afore he lights,—all is, to give the other side a millin’,
An’ arter thet’s done, th’ ain’t no resk but wut the lor’ll be willin’;
No metter wut the guv’ment is, ez nigh ez I can hit it,
A lickin’s constitooshunal, pervidin’ We don’t git it.
Jeff don’t stan’ dilly-dallyin’, afore he takes a fort,
(With no one in,) to git the leave o’ the nex’ Soopreme Court,
Nor don’t want forty-’leven ’weeks o’ jawin’ an’ expoundin’
To prove a nigger hez a right to save him, ef he’s drowndin’;
Whereas ole Abram’d sink afore he’d let a darkie boost him,
Ef Taney shouldn’t come along an’ hedn’t interdooced him.
It ain’t your twenty millions thet’ll ever block Jeff’s game,
But one Man thet wun’t let ’em jog jest ez he’s takin’ aim:
Your numbers they may strengthen ye or weaken ye, ez ’t heppens
They’re willin’ to be helpin.’ hands or wuss’n-nothin’ cap’ns.
I’ve chose my side, an’ ’t ain’t no odds ef I wuz drawed with magnets,
Or ef I thought it prudenter to jine the nighes’ bagnets;
I’ve made my ch’ice, an’ ciphered out, from all I see an’ heard,
Th’ ole Constitooshun never’d git her decks for action cleared,
Long ’z you elect for Congressmen poor shotes thet want to go
Coz they can’t seem to git their grub no otherways than so,
An’ let your bes’ men stay to home coz they wun’t show ez talkers,
Nor can’t be hired to fool ye an’ sof’-soap ye at a caucus,—
Long ’z ye set by Rotashun more ’n ye do by folks’s merits,
Ez though experance thriv by change o’ sile, like corn an’ kerrits,—
Long ’z you allow a critter’s “claims” coz, spite o’ shoves an’ tippins,
He’s kep’ his private pan jest where’t would ketch mos’ public drippins,—
Long ’z A.’ll turn tu an’ grin’ B.’s exe, ef B.’ll help him grin’ hisn,
(An’ thet’s the main idee by which your leadin’ men hev risen,)—
Long ’z you let ary exe be groun’; ’less ’L is to cut the weasan’
O’ sneaks thet dunno till they’re told wut is an’ wut ain’t Treason,-
Long ’z ye give out commissions to a lot o’ peddlin’ drones
Thet trade in whiskey with their men an’ skin ’em to their bones,—
Long ’z ye sift out “safe” canderdates thet no one ain’t afeared on
Coz they’re so thund’rin’ eminent for bein’ never heard on,
An’ hain’t no record, ez it’s called, for folks to pick a hole in,
Ez ef it hurt a man to hev a body with a soul in,
An’ it wuz ostenstashun to be showm’ on’t about,
When half his feller-citizens contrive to do without,—
Long ’z you suppose your votes can turn biled kebbage into brain,
An’ ary man thet’s pop’lar’s fit to drive a lightnin’-train,—
Long ’z you believe democracy means I’m ez good ez you be,
An’ thet a feller from the ranks can’t be a knave or booby,—
Long ’z Congress seems purvided, like yer street-cars an’ yer ’busses,
With oilers room for jes’ one more o’ your spiled-in-bakin’ cusses,
Dough’thout the emptins of a soul, an’ yit with means about ’em
(Like essence-peddlers[25]) thet ’ll make folks long to be without ’em,
Jest heavy ’nough to turn a scale thet’s doubtfle the wrong way,
An’ make their nat’ral arsenal o’ bein’ nasty pay,—
Long ’z them things last, (an’ I don’t see no gret signs of improvin’,)
I sha’n’t up stakes, not hardly yit, nor’t wouldn’t pay for movin’;
For, ’fore you lick us, it ’ll be the long’st day ever you see.
Yourn, (ez I ’xpec’ to be nex’ spring,)
B., MARKISS O’ BIG BOOSY.
[TAXATION.]
Milton, in his superb sonnet to Sir Henry Vane the Younger, declares that Rome, in the most prosperous age of the Republic, never possessed a better senator,—
“Whether to settle peace, or to unfold
The hollow drift of States, hard to be spelled;
Then to advise how war may, best upheld,
Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold,
In all her equipage.”
The list of his writings appended by Mr. Upham to his instructive biography of our quondam fellow-citizen and governor[26] does not enable us to judge to which of his twenty-five works Milton particularly refers, in this magnificent commendation of Sir Henry Vane’s financial skill. It might be inferred, however, from the significant union of iron and gold, as the “main nerves” of war, that he understood the importance of a specie currency, which in fact, in those days, was the only currency known.
Our business, however, at present, is not with currency, but with taxes, which as long ago as Cicero’s time were pronounced “the nerves of the State,” and which, whether paid in gold or in what can in the present condition of the country be best substituted, must be allowed to be the great sympathetic nerve of the body-politic. Introduce a wise and efficient system of taxation, and life and energy will pervade the country. Without such a system it will soon sink into a general and fatal paralysis.
The country is engaged at this moment in a struggle of unexampled magnitude. The great wars of the last generation in Europe gathered no army equal in magnitude to that which the Government of the United States has, within little more than six months, called into being. Its naval operations, so far as concerns the extent of sea-coast effectively blockaded, and considering the condition of that branch of the service at the breaking out of the war, will not suffer in comparison with those of England in the wars of the French Revolution. England is now threatening to take part against us in this war, waged by the first State (according to Mr. Vice-president Stephens) ever avowedly founded on Slavery as its corner-stone, on the ground that our blockade of the Southern ports is not effectual,—forgetting, apparently, that our last war with her was in part to resist her pretended right to seal up with a paper blockade every port in the French Empire.
The great practical question which presses most heavily upon the mind, not only of every person responsible for the conduct of affairs, but of every intelligent and thoughtful citizen, is, in what way the vast expenditure is to be met, which is necessary to bring this gigantic struggle to a prompt and successful issue. It has been customary, from the first, to estimate this expenditure at a million and a half of dollars per diem, and it will not be lessened while the war lasts. How is this frightful expenditure to be met?
The answer is simple, and is contained in the one little word “Taxation.” Without this, all else will be of no avail. Our civil rulers may have the wisdom of Solomon; our generals and admirals may equal in skill and courage the greatest captains of ancient or modern times; we may place in the field the bravest and best-disciplined armies that ever battled in a righteous cause,—but without an amount of taxation adequate to sustain the credit of the Government, all this show of counsel and strength will pass away, and that at no distant period, like a morning cloud and the early dew.
“Adequate to sustain the credit of the Government,”—for that is all that is required. It is by no means necessary, as it is by no means just, that the whole of this vast expenditure should fall upon the shoulders of the present generation. Engaged in a contest of which the result, for good or for evil, is, if possible, more important to posterity than to ourselves,—a struggle in which the great cause of civil liberty, as embodied and regulated by the Constitution and laws, is more deeply involved, not only for this, but for all future generations, than in any other war ever waged,—it is not right that the burden should fall exclusively on ourselves. Nor is it necessary. There is, perhaps, no feature in our modern civilization in which its beauty, flexibility, and strength, as compared with that of antiquity, is more signally displayed, than the well-organized credit-system of a prosperous State: the system which makes men not only willing, but desirous, to forego the actual possession of that darling property which has been the great object of desire through life,—which they have sought by all honest and, unhappily too often, dishonest means, to gain and accumulate,—provided only they can receive a fair equivalent for its use. By the wise application of this almost mysterious principle, the members of modern civilized States are not only, for the time being, much more effectually consociated in the joint life and action of the country than would have been possible without it, but even distant generations—men separated from each other by years, not to say ages—are brought into a noble partnership of effort in great and generous undertakings and sacrifices.
Dr. Johnson somewhat cynically says, that
“Mortgaged States, in everlasting debt,
From age to age their grandsires’ wreaths regret.”
This may be true of debts incurred in wars of ambition and conquest; but what citizen of the United States, at the present day, would not, with a willing mind, if it were still necessary, bear his part of the pecuniary burdens of the American Revolution?
It is a well-established law of public credit, that it can be carried to any length to which it is sustained by an efficient system of taxation. So long as provision is made to secure in this way the regular payment of the interest on the sums borrowed, the Government holds the purse-strings of the capitalist, and has nothing to do but to call for whatever amount is needed for the public service. This, however, is the essential condition, and nothing else will, for any length of time, produce the desired result. In the first fervor of a great popular movement, and in confident reliance that effective provision to sustain it will eventually be made, a large loan may be obtained from the banks, from capitalists, or the mass of the people; but this will be a temporary, probably a solitary, effort. No Government can permanently sustain its credit, but by providing the means (independent of credit) to pay the interest on its public debt. To borrow more money in order to pay the interest on that already borrowed is bankruptcy in disguise.
With these general principles established and clearly borne in mind, we perceive the absurdity of the language which has been so freely used abroad and is even sometimes heard at home, since the suspension of specie-payments, that the United States are on the verge of bankruptcy. Let the expenses of the war in which we are now engaged against the “disappointed aspirants” of the South be estimated as high as six hundred millions of dollars. A loan to this amount implies, at the usual rate, the payment of an interest of thirty-six millions, certainly a large amount in addition to the ordinary expenditure of the Government, but not more than a fifth part of the annual interest on the public debt of England,—by no means a formidable percentage, allowing for a short war, on the annual surplus income of the country.
In fact, when we cast our eyes over the continent and contemplate the vast extent of fertile land already brought or capable of being readily brought into cultivation,—the productive agricultural, manufacturing, and commercial investments,—our internal and foreign trade,—our fisheries, and our mining operations,—the rapid increase of labor (the great creative source of wealth) by the growth of our own native population and the steady flow of immigration from abroad,—when we contemplate these things, the draughts which must be made upon the resources of the country in the successful prosecution of the war, great as they are, are really insignificant Let us take a single item, but one which may serve as a fair index of the resources of the loyal States. In the American Circular of Messrs. Hallett & Co. of New York, for the 6th of November last, the value of the tonnage of all kinds annually moved upon the public works (railroads and canals) of the Northern and Middle States is estimated in even figures at $4,620,000,000. This enormous sum, of course, represents only that part of the internal and foreign trade of the country which is moved upon the canals and railroads. All that portion of trade which is not transacted in this way,—all that moves exclusively on the lakes, rivers, and coastwise, without coming in contact with artificial communications,—the retail business of every kind in the large cities, and all that is transported in moderate parcels by animal power in the neighborhood of the places of production, is in addition to this vast amount.
The Secretary of the Treasury, in his patriotic appeal to the country last summer, calculates “the real and personal values, in the States now loyal to the Union, at eleven thousand millions of dollars,” while he remarks that “the yearly surplus earnings of the loyal people are estimated at more than four hundred millions of dollars.” A tax of nine per cent, on this surplus would pay an interest of six per cent, on a loan of six hundred millions. Now in this country, where we are so little accustomed to taxation, such a tax may seem to be a very serious affair; but the man who in times like these, and for objects like those for which we are struggling, is not willing to pay nine per cent—of his surplus earnings, does not deserve to enjoy the blessings of a free government.
It is therefore a gross exaggeration to say that the country is bankrupt, or on the verge of bankruptcy. Nothing more is true than that the Government of the country—the legislative power—has not as yet shown the sagacity and vigor to apply a moderate portion of its abundant resources to the preservation of all we hold dear. The wealth is here,—not merely what is locked up in the vaults of the banks, (for this, though ample for all the purposes of these institutions, is but a very small portion of the wealth of the country, not much over one-half of the annual surplus earnings,) but the entire accumulations of town and country, the whole vast aggregate of the property having a marketable value or capable of being applied in kind or by exchange for its equivalent to the public service. All this fund belongs to the people, to be levied upon and appropriated to the service of the country by the people’s representatives and servants. It belongs only sub modo to those who are commonly deemed its owners. They are the stewards to whom Providence has confided it, subject to the condition, in time of need, of being employed, under equitable and equal laws, to defend the life of the country. And when we consider how small a portion of it is required to answer the demands of the public service, we cannot but be amazed at the language of despondency which is sometimes uttered at the state of the public finances. We call the individual man of wealth a miser, who hoards his income, instead of spending a portion of it in deeds of charity and public spirit, or even on his own comforts and those of his family. This expressive use of that word, says Bishop South, is peculiar to the English language. Although the word is Latin, we have improved on the Romans, in the bitter sarcasm of this application. But a Government deserves the same stigma or worse, which, with the exuberant wealth of a loyal people at its command, wants the moral courage to apply a moderate portion of it to obtain ample means for feeding, clothing, and arming the brave men who, on the land and the water, are risking their lives in the public service.
We speak of “the moral courage” to establish an efficient system of taxation, more in deference to the traditionary unpopularity of the tax-gatherer than because, in the present state of affairs, there is any just cause to doubt the willingness of the people to make the necessary sacrifices for the support of the Government and the defence of the country. In peaceful times and in an ordinary state of affairs, it may be admitted that the tax-gatherer is an unwelcome visitant. Mr. Jefferson relied upon him in 1799 to bring about a change of parties and administrations. But the country was then poor, the parties equally divided, and the political issues matters of temper and theory, on which men delight to differ and to argue, rather than those stern realities in which, at the present time, the very being of the State is wrapt up. Accordingly, it is a most remarkable fact at the present day, and one certainly without example in this country, perhaps in any country, that the unanimous desire of the people is for taxation, adequate, efficient taxation. Although the emergencies of the service, and the large amounts which it requires, are daily commented on by the public journals, and are perfectly well understood, not a voice has been uttered on the subject which does not call for taxation. The Secretary of the Treasury is censured, the Committee of Ways and Means rebuked, the patriotism of Congress called in question, because the absolute necessity for heavy taxation is not urged with sufficient warmth by the Executive, and the requisite laws for laying the tax are delayed in their introduction and passage. And reason good; for, while the legislation required to impose a tax lingers, the whole mass of the country’s property is incurring the fearful peril of a prostration of the public credit.
But though the loyal people of the country are more than willing—are ardently desirous—to be taxed for the public service, they are not willing to be taxed for the benefit of fraudulent contractors, or to enrich the miscreants who, not content with plundering the Treasury by exorbitant prices, put the health and lives of our brave men in peril, and the success of the war at hazard, by furnishing arms that have been condemned as unserviceable, clothes and shoes that drop to pieces in a fortnight’s wear, water poisoned by filthy casks, horses too feeble to be ridden, and vessels known by their vendors to be of a draught too great for the intended service. It is not unlikely that there may be exaggeration in the accounts of this kind that find their way into the public journals; but if any reliance can be placed on the reports of our legislative committees, frauds like those alluded to have been carried to a stupendous length. If we mistake not, a bill has been introduced into Congress for the condign punishment of the wretches guilty of these abominable crimes. The offences which have filled Forts Lafayette and Warren with their inmates are venial, compared with the guilt of the man who is willing to fatten on the sufferings of the country and the health and lives of its patriotic defenders. But the evil, enormous as it is, admits of an easy remedy. If, on the one hand, one or two cases of gross fraud, highly prejudicial to the public service, were summarily dealt with by a court-martial, while, on the other hand, fifty per cent, of the contract-price were habitually retained for three or four months, till the value of the article furnished was ascertained by trial, the evil would soon be brought within manageable limits. A little of the wholesome severity with which Bonaparte, in 1797, carried on what he called “la guerre aux voleurs”[27] would not only save millions to the Treasury of the United States, but protect the country from consequences still more disastrous.
In fact, it will be one of the incidental benefits of an efficient system of taxation, that it will induce greater care in the expenditure of the public money. Fraudulent contracts are not the only, nor even the chief cause of our financial embarrassments. It may be hoped that what is extracted from it by downright swindling, however considerable in amount, does not cause the great drain upon the Treasury. But if money can be obtained by the simple issue of evidences of debt, and without any provision to sustain the credit of the Government by taxation, the process of supply is too facile. The funds so easily procured are in danger of being too profusely spent. Individual responsibility in money-matters, aided by direct self-interest, is usually more efficient in imposing limits to improvidence than a general sense of duty on the part of official personages. But if funds could be obtained ad libitum by the speculator, without the necessity of giving security for the payment of principal or interest, bankruptcy would soon become the rule and solvency the exception. Still more urgently, in the administration of the National Treasury, is the wholesome corrective of taxation required, to make economy a necessity as well as a virtue.
Much must be pardoned to the urgency of the public service, in a crisis like that of last summer, when the Government was compelled to improvise the forces, military and naval, required for the suppression of a gigantic rebellion, long concocted and matured in treacherous secrecy. With the capital of the country beleaguered by open foes without, swarming with hardly concealed traitors within, who privately thwarted and paralyzed when they could not openly defeat the measures of the Government, and conveyed information of them to the enemy with the regularity of official returns, some degree of improvident hurry in every branch of the service was inevitable, and must not be too severely scanned. You cannot stand chaffering at a bargain as to the cheapest mode of extinguishing a fire kindled by a red-hot cannon-ball at the door of the magazine. But the crisis and the necessity for precipitate action are past. The rebellion, dragged to the light of day, has assumed definite proportions. The means for its suppression are ample, and nothing is requisite but the firmness and sagacity to apply them. In other words, the one thing needful for the successful prosecution of the war is a judicious system of taxation.
With such a system, as we have already intimated, there is no limit to the credit of the Government With an efficient system of taxation to sustain its loans, the entire property of the country—that is, all that is needed of it—may be consecrated to the public service. We must not be terrified by the ghost of the paper-money with which the country was Hooded daring the Revolutionary War. It became worthless because there was no limit to its issue and no provision for its redemption or the payment of Interest. The Congress of the Confederation possessed no power to lay a tax, and the States which had the power were destitute of resources, without mutual concert, and often moved by influences at variance with each other. In this state of things taxation was out of the question, and the paper-money, which had been manufactured by wholesale rather than issued on any system of finance, steadily and at length rapidly sank to its intrinsic worthlessness. Its memory has left behind a wholesome dread of paper-money, but ought not to create a prejudice against a well-organized system of credit, sustained by efficient taxation.
No one will be better pleased than the writer of this article, if, before it sees the light, the vigorous action of Congress shall render its suggestions superfluous and unseasonable.
[VOYAGE OF THE GOOD SHIP UNION.]
’T is midnight: through my troubled dream
Loud wails the tempest’s cry;
Before the gale, with tattered sail,
A ship goes plunging by.
What name? Where bound?—The rocks around
Repeat the loud halloo.
—The good ship Union, Southward bound:
God help her and her crew!
And is the old flag flying still
That o’er your fathers flew,
With bands of white and rosy light,
And field of starry blue?
—Ay! look aloft! its folds full oft
Have braved the roaring blast,
And still shall fly when from the sky
This black typhoon has past!
Speak, pilot of the storm-tost bark!
May I thy peril share?
—O landsman, these are fearful seas
The brave alone may dare!
—Nay, ruler of the rebel deep,
What matters wind or wave?
The rocks that wreck your reeling deck
Will leave me nought to save!
O landsman, art thou false or true?
What sign hast thou to show?
—The crimson stains from loyal veins
That hold my heart-blood’s flow!
—Enough! what more shall honor claim?
I know the sacred sign;
Above thy head our flag shall spread,
Our ocean path be thine!
The bark sails on; the Pilgrim’s Cape
Lies low along her lee,
Whose headland crooks its anchor-flukes
To lock the shore and sea.
No treason here! it cost too dear
To win this barren realm!
And true and free the hands must be
That hold the whaler’s helm!
Still on! Manhattan’s narrowing bay
No Rebel cruiser scars;
Her waters feel no pirate’s keel
That flaunts the fallen stars!
—But watch the light on yonder height,—
Ay, pilot, have a care!
Some lingering cloud in mist may shroud
The capes of Delaware!
Say, pilot, what this fort may be,
Whose sentinels look down
From moated walls that show the sea
Their deep embrasures’ frown?
The Rebel host claims all the coast,
But these are friends, we know,
Whose footprints spoil the “sacred soil,”
And this is?—Fort Monroe!
The breakers roar,--how bears the shore?
--The traitorous wreckers' hands
Have quenched the blaze that poured its rays
Along the Hatteras sands.
--Ha! say not so! I see its glow!
Again the shoals display
The beacon light that shines by night,
The Union Stars by day!
The good ship flies to milder skies,
The wave more gently flows,
The softening breeze wafts o’er the seas
The breath of Beaufort’s rose.
“What fold is this the sweet winds kiss,
Fair-striped and many-starred,
Whose shadow palls these orphaned walls,
The twins of Beauregard?
“What! heard you not Port Royal’s doom?
How the black war-ships came
And turned the Beaufort roses’ bloom
To redder wreaths of flame?
How from Rebellion’s broken reed
We saw his emblem fall,
As soon his cursèd poison-weed
Shall drop from Sumter’s wall?
On! on! Pulaski’s iron hail
Falls harmless on Tybee!
Her topsails feel the freshening gale,
She strikes the open sea;
She rounds the point, she threads the keys
That guard the Land of Flowers,
And rides at last where firm and fast
Her own Gibraltar towers!
The good ship Union’s voyage is o’er,
At anchor safe she swings,
And loud and clear with cheer on cheer
Her joyous welcome rings:
Hurrah! Hurrah! it shakes the wave,
It thunders on the shore,—
One flag, one land, one heart, one hand,
One Nation, evermore!