 | War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. |  |
Notes.
NOTES.
AUTHORSHIP AND HISTORY OF "DIXIE."
The following history of "Dixie" is vouched for as
the true one, based upon authenticated facts, as preserved
by Captain B. H. Teague, of Aiken, S. C.
The writer to whom we are indebted for this compilation
of facts relative to this famous war song,
says that Dan Emmet, the minstrel, wrote it in New
York city in 1859 or 1860, and it was copyrighted as
being sung at Bryant's. It soon became a local
favorite as a negro walk-around, having a catching
musical air that Emmet does not claim to have written.
The words are the veriest doggerel, and were
put to music (in the usual way with the melodies of
minstrels) through the art of the musical director
and his orchestra.
That Emmet was inspired to write "Dixie" by any
patriotic or other thought or knowledge of the South,
is absurd. That he could have supposed his production
was to be a Southern war song, is utterly impossible.
And in the adoption of the word "Dixie," he
probably caught at it as a meaningless negroism that
would stand for the South when associated with
plantation dialect, just as Stephen C. Foster, supposing
there were more slaves the farther one penetrated
the South, selected the Suwannee river, in
Florida, (where there were very few negroes) as the
scene of his immortal melody—"Old Folks at Home."
As a matter of fact, Emmet knew nothing personally
of the South or of its institutions. He belonged
to the stock of a minstrel company that did not, like
West's and Rumsey's and Kunkel's, travel through
the South. Bryant's, and Wood's and Butler's and
Christy's and Buckly's minstrels, respectively, had
halls of their own, and courted only metropolitan
patronage.
In December, 1860, during the exciting scenes
immediately preceding South Carolina's formal withdrawal
from the Union, and while Charleston was
alive with local troops daily and hourly on parade,
Rumsey & Newcomb's minstrel troup came to that
city and played to crowded audiences for a week.
Incidentally to these performances the popular walk-around
of "Dixie" was given as a climax. The local
military bands, having repudiated all the national
airs, were in sore straits for martial music, and
eagerly caught up "Dixie," already being whistled
through the streets by the little negroes; and the
new song, played as a march, though repeated ad
![illustration](https://iiif.lib.virginia.edu/iiif/uva-lib:12738/full/!1600,1600/0/default.jpg")
the Cotton States. These Charleston bands at the
head of South Carolina troops, were the first to enter
Virginia, and they quickly impregnated the spirit of
the young Confederacy with the inspiring measures
of the minstrel break-down, that will forever awaken
Southern enthusiasm wherever it may be heard.
THE CONFEDERATE NOTE.
The famous "Lines written on the back of a Confederate
Note," form a poem the authorship of which
has been claimed by various persons—as is frequently
the case when under the friendly shadow of "anonymous,"
an opportunity is offered to aspiring and unscrupulous
plagiarists to parade themselves in borrowed
plumes, and pose as the authors of noted poems
whose real claims to the honor of having written them
are either deliberately ignored, or the effect of peculiar
circumstances and the progress of years becloud the
genuine title or relegate it to the Limbo of "anonymous."
This has been the history of the famous poem
beginning "Representing nothing on God's earth
now," written by Maj. S. A. Jonas, now the editor of
the Aberdeen, Mississippi, Examiner, to whom we
poem printed in this book.
The number of people who have claimed to be the
author of these lines is "legion," and the controversy
over it has been hot and prolonged. Fortunately the
real author is living, is fully able to take care of himself
and his well-deserved laurels, and, moreover, presents
incontestable proof of the truth of his claim.
The poem has been credited also to Father Ryan,
and most extensively to Miss M. J. Turner, of North
Carolina, and we have heard it stated that what is
alleged to be the original Confederate note, on the
back of which this lady is alleged to have written the
lines, is among the war-relics in the Smithsonian
Institute, at Washington. Be this as it may, there
is and can be no doubt now as to the true authorship.
The following correspondence on the subject
appeared in the Louisville, Kentucky, Courier-Journal,
and gives in compact form the history of the poem:
In the department of correspondence of your
issue of November 29, appears an article attributing
the authorship of my "Lines on the back of a Confederate
Note," to a lady of your city.
This article, followed by what purports to be a correct
copy of the lines, reads as follows:
"An incorrect copy of the following beautiful poem
appeared in the correspondents' column of the Courier-Journal
a few weeks ago. The person who sent it for
publication did not know the author and wrote the
matter from memory. Since its appearance, Mrs. R.
E. Lytle, of 410 West Chestnut street, this city, has
shown that she wrote it and furnishes the original
copy, which is published below. Mrs. Lytle was the
wife of Dr. R. M. Lytle, who was a surgeon in the
Confederate Army, and accompanied her husband
throughout the war. The circumstances under which
the poem was written are of peculiar interest, as they
give emphasis to the spirit which prompted it at the
time. Just after General Johnston surrendered, Mrs.
Lytle was at Griffin, Georgia, where she met an old
friend, a Mr. Pucci, of Virginia, who had been discharged
from service, as the war was over. Mrs. Lytle
and the soldier were talking over the surrender, and
the future looked very dark and gloomy. During the
conversation Mr. Pucci pulled a roll of Confederate
bills from his pocket, with the remark, 'What is it
good for now?' Under the inspiration of the moment,
Mrs. Lytle wrote the poem just as it appears below,
and the soldier copied it on the back of a $5 bill."
Now, I do not for an instant suppose that Mrs.
Lytle is lending her name to a bold attempt at literary
misappropriation, and take it for granted that in
justice to her as well as to myself, for it so happens
that there are several persons yet living who read that
poem fresh from my pen before it had caught the
public eye, and retained its hold with a tenacity that
certainly surprised the author.
Its origin was as follows: Immediately after Johnston's
surrender at High Point, North Carolina, a
number of us obtained transportation to Richmond,
Virginia, where we awaited means to reach our homes.
A little party of us, including Captain A. B. Schell,
of your city, were quartered, thanks to the kindness
of its proprietor, at the Powhatan Hotel. A Philadelphia
comedy company was stopping there, and one
of the lady performers, Miss Annie Ruch, requested
that we would all furnish her with our autographs. It
so happened that among the spoils of the Confederacy
that were floating through the town were many $500
bills incomplete—the reverse sides or backs had not
been printed—and Miss Ruch furnished us each with
one of these upon which to write. We all complied with
her wishes, each writing a compliment or sentiment,
and my blank was filled in with the lines in question.
The original copy on the note, a few months later,
fell into the hands of the editor of the Metropolitan
Record, of New York, who published it under the
heading, "Something too good to be lost," and this
of it was based entirely upon that of the world
that so kindly received it.'
The first person, except the author, who ever read
it was your gallant fellow-citizen, Captain A. B. Shell,
the commander of Cleburne's Sharpshooters, whose
criticism was passed upon the lines before they were
copied on the note.
Editor Aberdeen (Miss.) Examiner.
We take the liberty of quoting here the following
extract from a note of recent date, from Major Jonas,
to the compiler of this volume: "In addition to Captain
A. B. Schell, mentioned as a witness to the
writing of the lines, I would mention Captain D. L.
Sublett, now of Chattanooga, Tennessee, and Lieutenant
R. S. Desportes, now of Columbia, South Carolina,
both comrades of mine on Lieutenant-General
S. D. Lee's staff, who were witnesses to the writing
of the poem."
"Hon. Jefferson Davis was greatly interested in
locating the authorship of this poem, and in conversation
with my brother, George B. Jonas, of New
Orleans, in 1873, referred to it, saying, 'he had gone
to a great deal of trouble in tracing it up, and had
established—what he had always claimed—beyond
any doubt, your brother's authorship.'"
LITTLE GIFFEN.
The story of "Little Giffen" is said to be literally
true. His name was Isaac Giffen, and he was born
of humble parents in one of the hamlets of East
Tennessee. His father was a blacksmith. "Little
Giffen" was terribly wounded in one of the battles in
Tennessee, and, with other wounded, was carried far
South to be cared for. Dreadfully mutilated, and so
like a child in appearance as to seem to have been
"borne by the tide of war from the cradle to the jaws
of Death," he was taken from the hospital, in Columbus,
Georgia, to the home of Dr. Ticknor, the poet,
whose residence was a few miles south of the city.
He remained with the family about a year, but was
always anxious to return to the front, which he did in
time to be killed in one of the battles around Atlanta,
and it is supposed that he was buried in one of the
numerous graves in Oakland Cemetery, in that city,
where the dust of many a hero who "wore the gray"
rests within the shadow of the monument on which is
carved the pathetic legend: "To the Unknown Dead."
MARYLAND, MY MARYLAND.
At the time (April, 1861) "Maryland, My Maryland"
—which Oliver Wendell Holmes declared "the
best poem produced on either side during the Civil
Literature and Classics, in Poydras College, Point Coupee,
Louisiana. One day he read the news, flashed
over the wires, of the attack upon the Massachusetts
troops passing through Baltimore. Speaking of the
way in which this splendid lyric was inspired and the
circumstances under which it was written, Mr. Randall
says: "I had long been absent from my native
city, and the startling events there influenced my
mind. That night I could not sleep, for my nerves
were all unstrung, and I could not dismiss what I had
read in the paper from my mind. I rose, lit a candle
and went to my desk. Some powerful spirit seemed
to possess me, and almost involuntarily I proceeded
to write the song, "My Maryland."
The poem was sent to the New Orleans Delta, and
published in that journal. A lady of Baltimore, Miss
Cary, set the words to music, adapting them to the
air of an old German folk-song, "O Tannenbaum, O
Tannenbaum, wie gruen sind deine Blaetter." The
following story is told concerning the first time the
song was sung in the Confederate Army:
After the battle of Manassas, General Beauregard
invited a number of Maryland ladies to visit his headquarters,
and while there the band of the Washington
Artillery, of New Orleans, serenaded them.
After the serenade the "Boys in Gray" asked for a
the tent, sang "Maryland, My Maryland," The soldiers
caught up the refrain, and the whole camp rang
with the beautiful melody. As the last notes died
away three cheers and a "tiger" were given. It is
said that there was not a dry eye in the tent, and not
a rim was left on a cap outside.
In the Atlanta, Georgia, Constitution, of recent date,
appeared the following brilliant pen-picture of the
author of this immortal war-lyric, and also portraying
its fiery effects upon the spirit of the Southern people.
The article is from the pen of Mr. Wallace P. Reed,
of the Constitution's editorial staff:
"If ever there was a poet with a Muse of fire that
poet was James R. Randall, in the days that tried
men's souls a generation ago. Even now, in these
piping times of peace, I never see Randall without
feeling a fiery tidal wave of memories surging over
and through me.
"What Rouget de Lisle was to France, Randall
was to the Confederacy. What the Marseillaise was
when the entire French nation went mad, "My Maryland"
was when the Southern people threw themselves
into the tumultuous horror of our civil war.
"Looking back upon that sulphurous era, the author
of the South's greatest war-lyric seems a figure of the
dead past, and yet, only yesterday, he met me face to
with his olden dash and impulsive vigor, chastened
and mellowed, as one might expect, by the softening
touch of time.
"While he talked with me about familiar matters
of the hour, with never a word about the past, I found
myself thinking of the potential part played by his
pen in the most tremendous epoch of our history.
"What our most eloquent tribunes could not do, it
was reserved for the poet to do. Where eloquence
failed to move the people, a song set their hearts
aflame. It stirred a fever in the blood of age, turned
weak women into heroines, and wherever its wild
notes were heard legions of armed men sprang up.
It was a bugle-call, a cry to arms, a battle-shout all in
one, with a hint of clashing steel and the thunderous
rush of charging hosts.
"The young Marylander who wrote that song little
dreamed of the influence which it was destined to
wield. He awoke to find himself famous.
"The flaming lyric swept over the land like a conflagration.
From the Potomac to the Rio Grande
"My Maryland" was everywhere—in the air, on every
lip—an inspiration and a prophesy. Millions of
Southerners heard it with feelings of divine exultation,
intense enthusiasm, or maddened frenzy. On
the other side of the border our foemen heard it with
sea, and rolled resurgent back again, to mingle its
strange notes with the brazen clamor of war.
"In gay salons, in crowded assemblies, on the stage,
in the trenches and on the tented field, the song did
its perfect work. It sped onward through the day
and through the night, ringing out from the mountains,
awakening the echoes in the valleys, stirring
every heart and nerving every arm.
"The words alone did not wield this wonderful
power, nor the music; it was the spirit back of them
that made them immortal.
"Looking at Randall yesterday, I lived in the past
again. In how many of the beleaguered cities of the
Confederacy I had heard his great war-song!
"I had heard it from gentle maidens, and from
rough troopers as they rode, booted and spurred, to
the fray. I had heard it here in the City of the Siege,
at the time when roaring cannon and shrieking shells
were its only accompaniment. I had heard it in our
celebrations of victory, and again when we were in
the throes of a heroic despair.
"How it fired the blood and strengthened every
arm that wielded a sword! How well it has been
called the Marseillaise of the Confederacy!
"In those red days Randall was the idol of the
people. Crowds rushed to see him, and every city
warriors and fair women overwhelmed him with
their attentions, which he modestly tried to avoid.
"On one side of the Potomac a nation would gladly
have voted him a monument; on the other an infuriated
people impatiently longed for the accident of
war, that would enable them to load him with chains
in one of their Bastiles.
"An old writer has said that if he could make a
nation's songs, he cared not who made its laws. Randall's
famous song is an illustration of the force of the
foregoing oft quoted saying. It was a power in
the land, and it molded the thought and character and
literature of one of the greatest and yet one of the
most short-lived of Republics."
BENTONVILLE.
In a note to the compiler, the author of the stirring
battle-field poem "Bentonville," says: "I beg to
offer my poem, written on the field at the close of the
first day's fight. I was serving with the Beaufort
Volunteer Artillery, of Beaufort, South Carolina, the
oldest military organization on the continent, but
one—the Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company,
of Boston. I should like the poem to appear in a permanent
publication, as it is prima facie evidence that
despite the great disparity of numbers.
From that point of view the little poem derives its
importance."
THE "BONNIE BLUE FLAG."
The following interesting communication was
printed in the Houston, Texas, Post during the Confederate
Veterans' Reunion in that city, in May, 1895.
The erroneous statement having been published, in
some paper, that a lady of Birmingham, Alabama,
was the author of "Bonnie Blue Flag" the writer,
who signs himself "Company B," says:
"Well, well, well! For more than thirty years
those old fellows have sung and heard that dear old
song and tune and have believed it to be the creation
of the gallant little Irishman, Harry McCarthy, and I
still believe so.
"Memory carries me back to September, 1861, when
the Terry Rangers were mustering into the Confederate
service at Houston, in the old Bearce hide house,
and commenced their long and weary march overland
to New Orleans. Companies B, H and K, commanded
by Captains Wharton, Holt and Walker,
being mounted, arrived in that city some days in
advance of the other companies, commanded by Lieu
the city it was full of Arkansas and Louisiana troops,
hurrying to the front. About September 18, I attended
the Academy of Music, at that time one of the most
popular places of amusement in the city. The house
was packed from floor to gallery with the 'boys' of
Arkansas, Louisiana and Texas, on their way to the
battle-front. Harry McCarthy appeared on the stage,
accompanied by a young lady, who bore a flag of dark
blue silk, with a white star in center. He commenced
singing the 'Bonnie Blue Flag,' and before the first
verse was ended the audience was quivering with
excitement. He sang:
We will hoist on high the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears the single star.
(At this point the young lady waved the flag.)
Hurrah, hurrah, for Southern rights, hurrah.
Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears the sin. gle star.'
"Then the boys rose and yelled, and for some minutes
Harry waited for the excitement to subside, he
then sang the second verse and when he commenced
the chorus the audience joined and sang it over and
over again, amid the most intense excitement. It was
all over the Southern Army, and then caught up by
the Yanks and was sung or hummed in every hamlet,
town and city of the United States. It was, from
that night, the Marsellaise of the South.
"Before the song was ended, 'Old Virg.,' of company
B, was so excited that he rose and gave vent to
his pent-up enthusiasm in a series of Texas yells and
continued after the others had ceased. A policeman
standing in the aisle tapped him on the shoulder and
ordered him to be quiet. Quick as a flash 'Old Virg.'
struck out straight from the shoulder and the policeman
tumbled. In an instant police rattlers were
heard in the room and were re-echoed all over the city,
and were answered by the police and their assistants,
who pushed their way into the Academy and attempted
to seize and carry 'Old Virg'. to the calaboose.
"Then came a scene ever to be remembered.
Every Texan in the room went to the rescue and a
fierce hand to hand fight ensued. Blows were given
and returned, the combatants rolled and tumbled,
while the audience left the room in order to give fair
play. Dr. A., of company B, was caught by his long
hair and felt the heft of a policeman's club. Seeing
this fight, Sam A., of company B, went to the rescue,
and with his long knife artistically sliced the policeman's
ear and rescued Dr. A. It was a furious fight,
sad and bloody ending. At this juncture Colonel
Frank Terry and the Mayor appeared. The Mayor
called off his police, and the Rangers, led by Colonel
Terry, marched sullen and defiant off to their camp.
"This is my recollection of the Bonnie Blue Flag,
in 1861. Many of the gallant 'boys,' who were present
on that eventful night, now sleep their last sleep
in Virginia, Tennessee, Georgia and North Carolina,
but men are in Houston who were present on that
night, viz: B. F. Weems, Sam Ashe, A. L. Steele
and others. I wonder if those old fellows have forgotten
that night and Harry McCarthy. I believe
this was the first time it was sung on American soil.
"Poor Harry McCarthy was killed at Chickamauga.
"Give Harry his dues. Old Confederates should
see that the rights and memories of their comrades
are protected. This is the duty of the United Confederate
Veterans."
| War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. | |