The Passing of the South
On a catafalque, draped in black, under bronze cannon, forlorn and white, rigid in death, the corpse of the South is borne to its tomb. With muffled drums, with arms reversed, the veterans gather gaunt and grey, and their close-furled flags, 'neath the sun's pale flash, droop in weary folds to-day.
Eighteen hundred and sixty-one, and the sun shines gaily. The new levies of the North are swarming out from Washington, southwest-ward, to Bull Run. Listen to the drum as it rumble-bumbles through the woods, windless but cool, in the heat of July. Look at the clean blue uniforms, the epaulets, the brass buttons, the sashes with their thick gold braid. Let's go and picnic in the woods — who's afraid? " Our boys will shoot and the rebels will scoot, and day after to-morrow John Brown's body will be marching into Richmond. Then we'll hang Jeff Davies from a sour apple tree, as we go marching on. " The sun flashes, but the leaves are silent. Suddenly the yell of a panther cuts the air, and from everywhere bursts out at once grey smoke and the drumming roll of a volley. Little grey figures are stealing out of the woods. They rise and shoot, disappear into the undergrowth, rise and shoot again, near and more near. And still rises more menacing that long scream of a cheer and a red banner, with long blue bars, studded with stars, bursts out of the woods and flickers through the smoke upon the left. " Fire — fire — for God's sake fire — what are you holding that gun for! Where — there — everywhere — the yell is on both sides of us — fire up in the air! Back — back — they are on our flank — make tracks for Washington — Father Abe is there — he will save us! Hoof-beats — cavalry — the cavalry are in pursuit — every man for himself — why don't they fall down when we shoot — May God curse that sun that glared in our faces — may the devil take this gun, it's too heavy to carry. Back — back — has any one thought of the flag — no, it's gone with the rest. Back — back to Washington! "
On a catafalque, draped in black, under bronze cannon, forlorn and white, rigid in death, the corpse of the South is borne to its tomb. With a low roll of drums and the dull tramp of feet, the procession starts, and it dribbles slowly down the long street, followed by sobs from broken hearts.
Eighteen hundred and sixty-two, and the new President of the Confederate States is present at a grand review of his army. From a fair knoll overlooking the scene, he sees afar the green fields, covered with long grey files of troops, a band of brothers assembled to defend the ascendant star of the South. Here are the cavalry of Virginia, men on blooded horses, which their orderlies have curried and groomed till they shine like silver. These are the men ready to ride for a jest into the cannon's mouth. Their sabres clink, and their horses curvet and prance and seem to curtsey as they dance in the sunlight. Here is the light artillery of Louisiana — the swamp-tigers, dark men, sitting erect on the caissons, rumbling at a gallop over the field. Here are the tall hunters from Tennessee and Arkansas, sallow, rangy men able to draw a bead on a squirrel's eye at thirty paces. Here comes, thundering and straining at the traces, the heavy artillery of South Carolina, the men who battered Fort Sumter to pieces. They are singing of Charleston girls and the dust rises and curls about their wheels. The whole earth quivers and reels, and the President bows and smiles. The grey files of hoarsely singing men, swinging at a rapid pace out of the dust, seem like endless phantoms, turning and returning again. The President rides forward and the movement of the troops is stopped. " You are the seed-corn of the Confederacy, " he says, " which we will plant in the North. " A roar breaks forth and is blent with the baggage-wagons at the ends of the horizon. The whole army gives its assent.
On a catafalque, draped in black, under bronze cannon, forlorn and white, rigid in death, the corpse of the South is borne to its tomb. Boom! What was that? A far-off cannon. Boom! — they have reached the cemetery and the artillery is firing the last salute while the coffin draped in its single great flag is slowly lowered to the grave. The drooping banners, with their staffs shrouded in crape, are like great top-heavy flowers falling into the black hole in the ground. Boom! — old men used to battle hear that sound and they clutch with long bony hands their crutches, while the tears start. Boom! It is almost dark.
Eighteen hundred and sixty-three and Lee has a new plan. Grant is holding Vicksburg in a ring of fire and steel and the South is beginning to feel the pinch. The Mississippi is almost gone. Unless England comes soon to our help, we cannot fight on. Forward then, the South! In one last desperate effort, sweep up through Pennsylvania and outflank the Capitol! Every night, men going to bed see afar the campfires of innumerable invading armies, like fireflies in the hills. Philadelphia fills with panic and the tramp of hastily drilling men. But on Seminary Ridge, before Gettysburg, Lee comes to a halt. There from Little Round Top to the Bloody Angle, stand the armies of Meade. Speak, guns! One hundred and twenty-five cannon fill the valley for three hours with swirling drifts of death. Now, then, Pickett, Long-street, Heth! Forward — charge! Forward — charge! With bands playing and colours flying, dyeing the grass with their blood. " O, I'll live and die for Dixie — Hooray — Hooray — I'll live and die " — the wind bears the clamour away.
Dust that rises — dust that settles — and the rust of ancient years. . . .
On a catafalque draped in black, under bronze cannon, forlorn and white, rigid in death, the corpse of the South is borne to its tomb.
Eighteen hundred and sixty-one, and the sun shines gaily. The new levies of the North are swarming out from Washington, southwest-ward, to Bull Run. Listen to the drum as it rumble-bumbles through the woods, windless but cool, in the heat of July. Look at the clean blue uniforms, the epaulets, the brass buttons, the sashes with their thick gold braid. Let's go and picnic in the woods — who's afraid? " Our boys will shoot and the rebels will scoot, and day after to-morrow John Brown's body will be marching into Richmond. Then we'll hang Jeff Davies from a sour apple tree, as we go marching on. " The sun flashes, but the leaves are silent. Suddenly the yell of a panther cuts the air, and from everywhere bursts out at once grey smoke and the drumming roll of a volley. Little grey figures are stealing out of the woods. They rise and shoot, disappear into the undergrowth, rise and shoot again, near and more near. And still rises more menacing that long scream of a cheer and a red banner, with long blue bars, studded with stars, bursts out of the woods and flickers through the smoke upon the left. " Fire — fire — for God's sake fire — what are you holding that gun for! Where — there — everywhere — the yell is on both sides of us — fire up in the air! Back — back — they are on our flank — make tracks for Washington — Father Abe is there — he will save us! Hoof-beats — cavalry — the cavalry are in pursuit — every man for himself — why don't they fall down when we shoot — May God curse that sun that glared in our faces — may the devil take this gun, it's too heavy to carry. Back — back — has any one thought of the flag — no, it's gone with the rest. Back — back to Washington! "
On a catafalque, draped in black, under bronze cannon, forlorn and white, rigid in death, the corpse of the South is borne to its tomb. With a low roll of drums and the dull tramp of feet, the procession starts, and it dribbles slowly down the long street, followed by sobs from broken hearts.
Eighteen hundred and sixty-two, and the new President of the Confederate States is present at a grand review of his army. From a fair knoll overlooking the scene, he sees afar the green fields, covered with long grey files of troops, a band of brothers assembled to defend the ascendant star of the South. Here are the cavalry of Virginia, men on blooded horses, which their orderlies have curried and groomed till they shine like silver. These are the men ready to ride for a jest into the cannon's mouth. Their sabres clink, and their horses curvet and prance and seem to curtsey as they dance in the sunlight. Here is the light artillery of Louisiana — the swamp-tigers, dark men, sitting erect on the caissons, rumbling at a gallop over the field. Here are the tall hunters from Tennessee and Arkansas, sallow, rangy men able to draw a bead on a squirrel's eye at thirty paces. Here comes, thundering and straining at the traces, the heavy artillery of South Carolina, the men who battered Fort Sumter to pieces. They are singing of Charleston girls and the dust rises and curls about their wheels. The whole earth quivers and reels, and the President bows and smiles. The grey files of hoarsely singing men, swinging at a rapid pace out of the dust, seem like endless phantoms, turning and returning again. The President rides forward and the movement of the troops is stopped. " You are the seed-corn of the Confederacy, " he says, " which we will plant in the North. " A roar breaks forth and is blent with the baggage-wagons at the ends of the horizon. The whole army gives its assent.
On a catafalque, draped in black, under bronze cannon, forlorn and white, rigid in death, the corpse of the South is borne to its tomb. Boom! What was that? A far-off cannon. Boom! — they have reached the cemetery and the artillery is firing the last salute while the coffin draped in its single great flag is slowly lowered to the grave. The drooping banners, with their staffs shrouded in crape, are like great top-heavy flowers falling into the black hole in the ground. Boom! — old men used to battle hear that sound and they clutch with long bony hands their crutches, while the tears start. Boom! It is almost dark.
Eighteen hundred and sixty-three and Lee has a new plan. Grant is holding Vicksburg in a ring of fire and steel and the South is beginning to feel the pinch. The Mississippi is almost gone. Unless England comes soon to our help, we cannot fight on. Forward then, the South! In one last desperate effort, sweep up through Pennsylvania and outflank the Capitol! Every night, men going to bed see afar the campfires of innumerable invading armies, like fireflies in the hills. Philadelphia fills with panic and the tramp of hastily drilling men. But on Seminary Ridge, before Gettysburg, Lee comes to a halt. There from Little Round Top to the Bloody Angle, stand the armies of Meade. Speak, guns! One hundred and twenty-five cannon fill the valley for three hours with swirling drifts of death. Now, then, Pickett, Long-street, Heth! Forward — charge! Forward — charge! With bands playing and colours flying, dyeing the grass with their blood. " O, I'll live and die for Dixie — Hooray — Hooray — I'll live and die " — the wind bears the clamour away.
Dust that rises — dust that settles — and the rust of ancient years. . . .
On a catafalque draped in black, under bronze cannon, forlorn and white, rigid in death, the corpse of the South is borne to its tomb.
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