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W. asked Corning [candidate for the pulpit of the Unitarian church on Benson street]: “And what may be the subject of your sermon tomorrow?” “My subject? Why—the tragedy of the ages.” “And what may be the tragedy of the ages?” “The crucifixion.” “What crucifixion?” “The crucifixion of Jesus, of course.” “You call that the tragedy of the ages?” “Yes—what do you call it?”
“It is a tragedy. But the tragedy? O no! I don’t think I would be willing to call it the tragedy.” “Do you know any tragedy that meant so much to man?” “Twenty thousand tragedies—all equally significant.” “I’m no bigot—I don’t think I make any unreasonable fuss over Jesus—but I never looked at the thing the way you do.” “Probably not. But do it now—just for once. Think of the other tragedies, just for once: the tragedies of the average man—the tragedies of every-day—the tragedies of war and peace—the obscured, the lost, tragedies: they are all cut out of the same goods. I think too much is made of the execution of Jesus Christ. I know Jesus Christ would not have approved of this himself: he knew that his life was only another life, any other life, told big; he never wished to shine, especially to shine at the general expense. Think of the other tragedies, the twenty thousand, just for once, Mr. Corning.” C. said: “I have no doubt all you say is true. You would not find me ready to quarrel with your point of view.” W. laughed quietly. “The masters in history have had lots of chance: they have been glorified beyond recognition: now give the other fellows a chance: glorify the average man a bit: put in a word for his sorrows, his tragedies, just for once, just for once.” Corning said: “You ought to be in that pulpit instead of me, tomorrow, Mr. Whitman. You would tell the people something it would do them good to hear.” “I am not necessary,” replied W. graciously: “You have the thing all in yourself if you will only let it out. We get into such grooves—that’s the trouble—passing traditions and exaggerations down from one generation to another unquestioned. After awhile we begin to think even the lies must be true.” — from Horace Traubel, With Walt Whitman in Camden, vol. I, p.103 (May 5, 1888), via The Walt Whitman Archive
The source of the Walt Whitman quotes in the article is Memoranda during the War, specifically the essays, “Typical Soldiers,” “The Million Dead, too, summ’d up” and “No good Portrait of Abraham Lincoln.” (The “No Good” essay includes a splendid rant on corruption.)
Memoranda has some troubling passages. As Bob Blaisdell put it in his introduction to my edition, when Whitman relies on “hearsay, history, or received opinion” as in the “Notes” that conclude the Memoranda, he can lapse into “dime-a-dozen prejudices.” But mostly the book draws on Whitman’s direct experience and, as Blaisdell says, “What has lasted and will last are the vivid, body-electric recordings of men and moments he collected in his little homemade notebooks.”
Those first-hand moments began when Whitman got word that his brother George was wounded at Fredericksburg in December 1862. He left New York to go to him. Although Whitman found, to his relief, that George had sustained only a minor shrapnel wound, he didn’t go home. The suffering at the field hospital at Falmouth (a house called Chatham Manor) made him a devoted companion and nurse to the Civil War wounded and ill, first around Fredericksburg, then in Washington, DC. Although Whitman at times expressed deep rage toward the Confederacy, his compassion toward individual soldiers transcended divisions of North and South.
The quality that infused Whitman’s care for the soldiers is for me the most poignant aspect of his writings: a tender and earthy love that proves the union of human clay and human spirit. In “The Million Dead” Whitman unites the Civil War dead, their bodily and spiritual remains, with our land. Those who fought on the land literally become of our land, abiding not only in memory but in substance, sustaining us.
Following is a picture of the Fredericksburg National Cemetery showing the wooden headboards that were replaced by the granite markers. The picture was taken by local photographer F. Theodore Miller, probably in the early 1870s. Collection of Jerry H. Brent, executive director of Central Virginia Battlefields Trust.
I have two articles in the book – “Boxers, Briefs and Battles” on CW men’s undies, and “Killing Time,” on CW playing cards. I’m proud to be in the company of such distinguished writers as Ken Burns, Drew Gilpin Faust, William Freehling, Gary Gallagher, Adam Goodheart, and Elizabeth Brown Pryor.
A major new collection of modern commentary— from scholars, historians, and Civil War buffs—on the significant events of the Civil War, culled from The New York Times’ popular Disunion on-line journal
Since its debut on November 6, 2010, Disunion, The New York Times’ acclaimed journal about the Civil War, has published hundreds of original articles and won multiple awards, including “Best History Website” from the New Media Institute and the History News Network. Following the chronology of the secession crisis and the Civil War, the contributors to Disunion, who include modern scholars, journalists, historians, and Civil War buffs, offer ongoing daily commentary and assessment of the Civil War as it unfolded.
Now, for the first time, this fascinating and historically significant commentary has been gathered together and organized in one volume. In The New York Times: Disunion, historian Ted Widmer has selected more than 100 articles that cover events beginning with Lincoln’s presidential victory through the Emancipation Proclamation. Topics include everything from Walt Whitman’s wartime diary to the bloody guerrilla campaigns in Missouri and Kansas.
The book also compiles new essays that have not been published on the Disunion site. Topics include the perspective of African-American slaves and freed men on the war, the secession crisis in the Upper South, the war in the West (that is, past the Appalachians), the war in Texas, the international context, and Civil War–era cartography. Portraits, contemporary etchings, and detailed maps round out the book.
David McCullough’s book The Greater Journey lists some of the most well-known artistic, scientific, and literary figures of the Civil War era among those who “made pilgrimages to Paris,” including Oliver Wendell Holmes, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Herman Melville, and Harriet Beecher Stowe. While living in Paris in the 1830s, Samuel Morse found inspiration for his world-changing invention, the telegraph, and was later honored there as a “benefactor of mankind.”
An expatriot just as well-known at the time, but less expected, is Charles Sumner. The abolitionist senator from Massachusetts found Paris a refuge, especially after the infamous, savage beating he suffered in the Senate chamber from Preston Brooks, an outraged Southerner.
Records indicated no concussion or fracture resulted from the attack but, as McCullough notes, Sumner’s suffering “was entirely real, but the indications are it derived far more from the psychological trauma of the attack than from a neurological cause.” Sumner’s well-being improved markedly when he left Washington and deteriorated each time he returned. Though Parisian doctors subjected him to some brutal, though well-intended quackery, the city and the company he kept there proved healing. A friend said, “I never found him more cheerful or more hopeful. It is a continual feast to see him.”
The outbreak of the American Civil War interrupted the Parisian idyll. Worried Americans dashed back over the ocean and Northern and Southern expats became enemies. After the War, not even the City of Light could erase from memory the frightful suffering Americans had endured in battle and on the home front. But the artists soon trickled back, and the Parisian joie de vivre beckoned pleasure-loving Gilded Age visitors.