Continental Monthly, Vol. III, No IV, April 1863

Startled with unearthly strife,
Spirits fierce in conflict met,
In the lightning and the gloom,
The agony and sweat;
Passions wild and powers insane,
And thoughts with vulture beak, and quick Promethean pain.

We select this single specimen from its remarkable resemblance to Anglo-Saxon religious poetry, – by far the sincerest, and, so far as it was ripened, the soundest, in our language. With the exception of the Promethean allusion, every line in these verses is singularly Saxon – the night birds, screaming in gloom – as in the 'Sea Farer,' where, instead of joyous mirth,

'Storms beat the stone cliffs,
Where them the starling answered,
Icy of wing.'

The divisions of this work are 'Sinai,' which is in great measure a commentary on virtues and vices, 'Sonnets on the Lord's Prayer,' and 'Bible Breathings.' Of these we would commend the Sonnets, as forming collectively a highly finished and beautiful poem, complete in each detail. The little poem, 'A Thought,' is as perfect as a mere simile in verse could be.

Robert T. Conrad, who was born in Philadelphia in 1810, and died there in 1858, first became known to the public by a drama entitled Conrad of Naples, a subject which has been extensively treated by German writers, Uhland himself having written a tragedy on it. After being admitted to the bar, Conrad connected himself with the press, but resumed the practice of law in 1834 with success, being appointed judge of the criminal sessions in 1838, and of the general sessions in 1840. He was subsequently president of a well-known railroad company, and mayor of his native city. During the intervals of his business he was at one time editor of Graham's Magazine, and acquired a literary reputation by his articles in the North American, and by the well-known tragedy of Aylmere, in which Mr. Forrest, the actor, has frequently appeared as 'Jack Cade.' In addition to these, Mr. Conrad published, in 1852, a volume entitled 'Aylmere and other poems,' which was very extensively reviewed. In it the 'Sonnets on the Lord's Prayer' first appeared.

The volume before us is very well edited in every respect, and makes its appearance in very beautiful 'externals.' The paper, binding, and typography are, in French phrase, as applied to such matters, 'luxurious.'

Sketches of the War: A Series of Letters to the North Moore Street School of New York. By Charles C. Nott, Captain in the Fifth Iowa Cavalry. New York: Charles T. Evans, 448 Broadway. 1863.

Were this little work ten times its present length, we should have read it to the end with the same interest which its perusal inspired, and arrived, with the same regret that there was not more of it, at its last page. It is simple and unpretending, but as life-like and spirited as any collection of descriptive sketches which we can recall. We realize in it all the vexations of mud, all the horrors of blood, and all the joys of occasional chickens and a good night's rest, which render the soldier's life at once so great and yet so much a matter of petty joys and sorrows. The love of the rider for the good horse – for his pet Gypsy – her caprices and coquetries, are set forth, for instance, very freely, without, however, a shadow of affectation, while in all his interviews with men and women, the characters come before us 'like life,' and give us a singularly accurate conception of the social effects of the war in the West. The appearance of the country is unconsciously detailed as accurately as in a photograph, and the events and sensations of battle are presented with great ability; in fact, we have as yet seen no sketches from the war which in these particulars are equal to them. They are free from 'fine writing,' and are given in simple, intelligible language which cannot fail to make them generally popular. The occasional flashes of humorous description are extremely well given – so well that we only wish there had been more of them, as the author has evidently a talent in that direction, which we trust will be more fully developed in other works.

EDITOR'S TABLE

With all the outcry that has been raised at the slow progress of the war, it is difficult for a comprehensive mind to conceive how, on the whole, the struggle with the South could have advanced more favorably to the general interests and future prosperity of the whole country, than it has thus far done. 'Had the Administration been possessed of sufficient energy, it could have crushed the rebellion in the first month,' say the grumblers. Very possibly – to break out again! No amount of prompt action could have calmed the first fire and fury of the South. It required blood; it was starving for war; it was running over with hatred for the North.

The war went on, and, as it progressed, it became evident that, while thousands deprecated agitation of the slave question as untimely, the war could never end until that question was disposed of. And it also became every day more plain that the 'little arrangement' so frequently insisted on, and expressed in the words, 'Conquer the enemy first, and then free the slaves,' was a little absurdity. It was 'all very pretty,' but with the whole North and South at swords-points over this as the alleged cause of war – with all Europe declaring that the North had no intention of removing the cause of the war – with the slave constantly interfering in all our military movements – and, finally, with a party of domestic traitors springing up everywhere, at home and in the army itself, it became high time to adopt a fixed policy. It was adopted, and President Lincoln, to his lasting honor, and despite tremendous opposition, issued the Proclamation of January First – the noblest document in history.

It is difficult to see how, when, or in what manner slavery would have disappeared from a single State, had the war been sooner ended; and nothing is more certain than that any early victory or temporary compromise would have simply postponed the struggle, to be settled with compound interest. But another benefit has resulted and is resulting from the experience of the past two years. Our own Free States have abounded with men who are at heart traitors; men who have, by their ignorance of the great principles of national welfare involved in this war, acted as a continual drawback on our progress. This body of men, incapable of comprehending the great principles of republicanism as laid down in the Constitution, and as urged by Washington, would be after all only partially vanquished should we subdue the rebels. They are around us here in our own homes; their treason rings from the halls of national legislation; they are busy night and day in their 'copperhead' councils in giving aid and comfort to the enemy, and in poisoning the minds of the ignorant, by hissing slanders at the President and his advisers as being devoid of energy and ability.

It would avail us little could we conclude a peace to-morrow, if these aiders and abetters of treason – these foes of all enlightened measures – these worse than open rebels – were to remain among us to destroy by their selfishness and malignity those great measures by which this country is destined to become great. The war is doing us the glorious service of bringing the 'copperheads' before the people in their true light – the light of foes to equality, to the rights of the many, and as perverse friends of all that is anti-American. Who and what, indeed, are their leaders! Review them all, from Fernando Wood down to the wretched Saulsbury, including W. B. Reed, in whose veins hereditary traitorous blood seems, with every descent, to have acquired a fresh taint – consider the character which has for years attached to most of them – and then reflect on what a party must be with such leaders!

These men have no desire to be brought distinctly before the public; they would by far prefer to burrow in silence. But the war and emancipation have proved an Ithuriel's spear to touch the toad and make him spring up in his full and naturally fiendish form. The sooner and the more distinctly he is seen, the better will it be for the country. We must dispose of rebels abroad and copperheads at home ere we can have peace, and the sooner the country knows its foes, the better will it be for it. We have come at last to either carrying out the great centralizing system of an Union, superior to all States Rights, as commended by Washington, or to division into a thousand petty principalities, each ruled by its WOOD, or other demagogue, who can succeed in securing a majority-mob of adherents!

It is with such men and their measures that Gen. George B. McClellan, the frequently proposed candidate for the next presidency, is becoming firmly connected in the minds of the people! Fortunately the war has developed the objects of the traitors, and the Union Leagues which are springing up by hundreds over the country are doing good service in making them thoroughly known. Until treason is fairly rooted out at home and abroad, and until Union at the centre for the people everywhere is fully enforced, this war can only be concluded now, to be renewed in tenfold horror to-morrow.

There is a complication of interests at present springing up in Europe, which is difficult to fathom. Just now it seems as if the Polish insurrection were being fomented by Austria, at French instigation, in order that the hands of Russia may be tied, so that in case of war with America, we may be deprived of the aid of our great European friend. England sees it in this light, and angrily protests against Prussian interference in the matter. Should a general war result, who would gain by it? Would France avail herself of the opportunity to array her forces against Prussia, and seize the Rhine, and perhaps Belgium? Or would the Emperor avail himself of circumstances to embroil England in a war, and then withdraw to a position of profitable neutrality? Let it be borne in mind, meantime, that it required all the strength of France, England, and Austria, combined, to beat Russia in the Crimea, and that a short prolongation of the war would have witnessed the arrival of vast bodies of Russian troops – many of whom had been nearly a year on the march. Those troops are now far more accessible in case of war.

A war between England and the United States, however it might injure us, would be utter ruin to our adversary. With our commerce destroyed, we should still have a vast territory left; but nine tenths of England's prosperity lies within her wooden walls, which would be swept from the ocean. With her exportation destroyed, England would be ruined. We should suffer, unquestionably, but we could hold our own, and would undoubtedly progress as regards manufacturing. But what would become of the British workshops, and how would the British people endure such suffering as never yet befell them? Even with our Southern Rebellion on our hands, and English men-of-war on our coast, we could still, with our merchant marine, bring John Bull to his face. And John Bull knows it.

England is now building, in the cause of slavery and for the South, a great fleet of iron-clad pirate vessels, which are intended to prey on our commerce. How long will it be before retaliation on England begins, and, when it begins, how will it end? Ay —how will it end? It is not to be supposed that we can long be blinded by such a flimsy humbug as a transfer to Southern possession of these vessels 'for the Chinese trade!' Are the English mad, demented, or besotted, that they suppose we intend to endure such deliberate aid of our enemies? When those vessels 'for the Chinese' are afloat, and our merchants begin to suffer, let England beware! We are not a people to stop and reason nicely on legal points, when they are enforced in the form of fire and death. Better for England that she weighed the iron of that fleet pound for pound with gold, and cast it into the sea, than that she suffered it to be launched. Qui facit per alium, facit per se. England is the real criminal in this business, for her Government could have prevented it; and to her we shall look for the responsibility. All through America a spirit of fierce indignation has been awakened at hearing of this 'Chinese' fleet, which will burst out ere long in a storm. We are very far from being afraid of war – we are in it; we know what it is like – and those who openly, brazenly, infamously, aid our enemies and make war for them, shall also learn, let it cost what it may.

England hopes to cover the world's oceans with pirates, with murder, rapine, and robbery – to exaggerate still more the horrors of war – and yet deems that her commerce will escape! This is a different matter from the affair of the Trent.

Don't grumble! Don't be incessantly croaking from morning to night at the war and the administration and the generals, and everything else! Things have gone better on the whole than you imagine, and your endless growling is just what the traitors like. Were there no croakers there would be no traitors.

It was growling and croaking which caused the reverses of the army of the Potomac – sheer grumbling. Now the truth is coming out, and we are beginning to see the disadvantages of eternal fault-finding. The truth is that the war in the Crimea was much worse conducted than this of ours has been – even as regards swindling by contracts – and it was so with every other war. We have no monopoly of faults.

Now that the war is being reorganized, we would modestly suggest that a little severity – say an occasional halter – would not be out of place as regards deserters. There has been altogether too much of this amusement in vogue, which a few capital punishments in the beginning would have entirely obviated. Pennsylvania, we are told, is full of hulking runaway young farmers, and our cities abound in ex-rowdies, who, after securing their bounties, have deserted, and who are now aiding treason, and spreading 'verdigrease' in every direction by their falsehoods. Let every exertion be made to arrest and return these scamps – cost what it may; and let their punishment be exemplary. And let there be a new policy inaugurated with the new levy, which shall effectually prevent all further escaping.

Reader – wherever you are, either join a Union League, or get one up. If there be none in your town, gather a few friends together – and mind that they be good, loyal Unionists, without a suspicion of verdigrease or copperhead poison about them – and at once put yourselves in connection with the central Leagues of the great cities. Those of Philadelphia, New York and Boston are all conducted by honorable men of the highest character – and we may remark, by the way, that in this respect the contrast between the leaders of the League and of the Verdigrease Clubs is indeed remarkable. When you have formed your League, see that addresses are delivered there frequently, that patriotic documents and newspapers are collected there, and finally that it does good service in every way in forwarding the war, and in promoting the determination to preserve the Union.

The copperheads aim not only at letting the South go – they hope to break the North to fragments, and trust that in the general crash each of them may secure his share. When the war first broke out, Fernando Wood publicly recommended the secession of New York as a free city – and a very free city it would have been under the rule of Fernando the First! And this object of 'dissolution and of division' is still cherished in secret among the true leaders of the traitors.

The time has come when every true American should go to work in earnest to strengthen the Union and destroy treason, whether in the field or at home. A foe to liberty and to human rights is a foe, whether he be a fellow countryman or not, and against such foes it is the duty of every good citizen to declare himself openly.

It will be seen by the annexed that our Art correspondent, a gentleman of wide experiences, has gone into the battle. We trust that his experiences will amuse the reader. As for the facts– never mind!

    Camp O'Bellow,
    Army of the Potomac.

My Patriotic Friend and Editor:

I have changed my base.

When I last wrote you, it was from the field of art – this time it is from the floor of my tent – at least it will be, as soon as my fellows pitch it. N. B. – For special information I would add that this is not done, as I have seen a Kalmouk do it, with a bucket of pitch and a rag on a stick. One way, however, of pitching tents is to pitch 'em down when the enemy is coming, and run like the juice. Ha, ha!

But I must not laugh too loudly, as yon small soldier may hear me. Little pitchers have long ears.

Now for my sufferings.

The first is my stove.

My stove is made of a camp kettle.

It has such a vile draught that I think of giving it a lesson in drawing. Joke. Perhaps you remember it of old in the jolly old Studio Building in Tenth Street. By the way how is Whittredge? – I believe he imported that joke from Rome where he learned it of Jules de Montalant who acquired it of Chapman who got it from Gibson, who learned it of Thorwaldsen who picked it up from David who stole it from the elder Vernet to whom it had come down from Michael Angelo who cribbed it from Albert Dürer who sucked it somehow from Giotto.

I wish you could see that stove. I cook in it and on it and all around the sides and underneath it. I wash my clothes in it, make punch in it, write on it, when cold sit on it, play poker on it, and occasionally use it for a trunk. It also gives music, for though it don't draw, it can sing.

My second friend is my Iron Bride – the sword. She is a useful creeter. Little did I think, when you, my beloved friends, presented me with that deadly brand, how useful she would prove in getting at the brandy, when I should have occasion to 'decap' a bottle. She kills pigs, cuts cheese, toasts pork, slices lemons, stirs coffee, licks the horses, scares Secesh, and cuts lead pencils. In a word, if I wished to give useful advice to a cavalry officer, it would be not to go to war without a sword.

A revolver is also extremely utilitarious. A large revolver, mind you, with six corks. Mine contains red and black pepper, salt, vinegar, oil, and ketchup – when I'm in a hurry. A curious circumstance once 'transpired,' as the missionaries say, in relation to this article of the quizzeen. All the barrels were loaded – which I had forgotten – and so proceeded to give it an extra charge of groceries. * * *

It was a deadly fray. Rang tang bang, paoufff! We fought as if it had been a Sixth Ward election. Suddingly I found myself amid a swarm of my country's foes. Sabres slashed at me, and in my rage I determined to exterminate something. Looking around from mere force of habit to see that there were no police about, I drew my revolver and aimed at Jim Marrygold of Charleston, whom I had last seen owling it in New Orleans, four years ago. He and Dick Middletongue of Natchez (who carved the Butcher's Daughter at Florence, and who is now a Secesh major), came down with their cheese knives, evidently intending to carve me. Such language you never heard, such a diluvium of profanity, such double-shotted d – ns! I drew my pistol at once, and gave Dick a blizzard. The ball went through his ear – the red pepper took his eyes, while Jim received the shot in his hat, and with it the sweet oil. In this sweet state of affairs, Charley Ruffem of Savannah was descending on me with his sabre. (He was the man who said my browns were all put in with guano.) I put him out of the way of criticism with a third barrel – killed him dead, and salted him.

The best of this war is, it enables me to exterminate so many bad artists.

The worst of it is that Charley owed me five dollars.

A fifth Secesh now made his appearance. We went it on the sword, and fought – for further particulars see Ivanhoe, volume second. My foe was Rawley Chivers, of Tuscumbia, Ala., and as the mischief would have it, he knew all my guards and cuts. We used to fence together, and had had more than one trial at 'fertig-los!' on the old Pauk-boden in Heidelberg.

'Pop!' said he on the seventeenth round, 'are we going to chop all day?'

'Chiv,' said I, as I drew my castor, 'are you ready?'

'Ready,' quoth he, effecting the same manœuvre – 'one, two, three.'

I scratched his cheek, but the mustard settled him. Sputter – p'l'z'z'z – how he swore! I went at him with both hands.