If it be true that Sir Philip Sidney, burning with fever of his death-wound, reproved the soldier who brought him water in his helmet, that "he wasted a casque-full on a dying man," then humor borrowed largely of heroism.

Many a ragged rebel—worn with hunger and anxiety for the cause, or for those absent loved ones who suffered for it—was as gallant as Sidney in the fray; many a one bore his bitter trial with the same gay heart.

We have seen that the southron, war-worn, starving, could pour out his soul in noble song. Equally plain is it, that he rose in defiant glee over his own sufferings; striving to drown the sigh in a peal of resonant laughter. For humorous poetry abounds among all southern war-collections; some of it polished and keen in its satire; most of it striking hard and "straight-from-the-shoulder" blows at some detected error, or some crying abuse.

One very odd and typical specimen of this was the "Confederate Mother Goose;" only catch verses of which appeared in the "Southern Literary Messenger," when under editorial charge of rare George Bagby. It was born of accident; several officers sitting over their pipes, around Bagby's editorial pine, scribbled in turn doggerel on some war subject. So good were a few of these hits that they astonished their unambitious authors, by appearance in the next issue of the magazine. As a record of war-humor, a few of them may be of interest at this late day. This one shows the great terror struck to the hearts of his enemies by the war-gong of General Pope:

"Little Be-Pope, he came at a lope,

'Jackson, the Rebel,' to find him.

He found him at last, then ran very fast,

With his gallant invaders behind him!"

"Jackson's commissary" was a favorite butt for the shafts of rebel humor. Another "Mother Goose" thus pictures him:

"John Pope came down to our town

And thought him wondrous wise;

He jumped into a 'skeeter swamp

And started writing lies.

But when he found his lies were out—

With all his might and main

He changed his base to another place,

And began to lie again!"

This verse on McClellan does not go to prove that the South respected any less the humane warfare, or the tactical ability of him his greatest opponents declared "the North's best general."

"Little McClellan sat eating a melon,

The Chickahominy by,

He stuck in his spade, then a long while delayed,

And cried 'What a brave general am I!'"

Or this, embalming the military cant of the day:

"Henceforth, when a fellow is kicked out of doors,

He need never resent the disgrace;

But exclaim, 'My dear sir, I'm eternally yours,

For assisting in changing my base!'"

Perhaps no pen, or no brush, in all the South limned with bolder stroke the follies, or the foibles, of his own, than did that of Innes Randolph, of Stuart's Engineer staff; later to win national fame by his "Good Old Rebel" song. Squib, picture and poem filled Randolph's letters, as brilliant flashes did his conversation. On Mr. Davis proclaiming Thanksgiving Day, after the unfortunate Tennessee campaign, Randolph versified the proclamation, section by section, as sample:

"For Bragg did well. Ah! who could tell

What merely human mind could augur,

That they would run from Lookout Mount,

Who fought so well at Chickamauga!"

Round many a smoky camp-fire were sung clever songs, whose humor died with their gallant singers, for want of recording memories in those busy days. Latham, Caskie and Page McCarty sent out some of the best of the skits; a few verses of one by the latter's floating to mind, from the snowbound camp on the Potomac, stamped by his vein of rollicking satire-with-a-tear in it:

"Manassas' field ran red with gore,

With blood the Bull Run ran;

The freeman struck for hearth and home,

Or any other man!

And Longstreet with his fierce brigade

Stood in the red redan;

He waved his saber o'er his head,

Or any other man!

Ah! few shall part where many meet,

In battle's bloody van;

The snow shall be their winding-sheet,

Or any other man!"

Naturally enough, with a people whose nerves were kept at abnormal tension, reaction carried the humor of the South largely into travesty. Where the reality was ever somber, creation of the unreal found popular and acceptable form in satiric verse. Major Caskie—who ever went into battle with a smile on his lips—found time, between fights, for broad pasquinade on folly about him, with pen and pencil. His very clever parody of a touching and well-known poem of the time, found its way to many a camp-fire and became a classic about the Richmond "hells." It began:

"You can never win them back,

Never, never!

And you'd better leave the track

Now forever!

Tho' you 'cut' and 'deal the pack'

And 'copper' every Jack,

You'll lose 'stack' after 'stack'—

Forever!"

Everything tending to bathos—whether for the cause, or against it—caught its quick rebuke, at the hands of some glib funmaker. Once an enthusiastic admirer of the hero of Charleston indited a glowing ode, of which the refrain ran:

Beau sabreur, beau canon,

Beau soldat—Beauregard!

Promptly came another, and most distorted version; its peculiar refrain enfolding:

Beau Brummel, Beau Fielding,

Beau Hickman—Beauregard!

As it is not of record that the commander of the Army of Northern Virginia ever discovered the junior laureate, the writer will not essay to do so.

Colonel Tom August, of the First Virginia, was the Charles Lamb of Confederate war-wits; genial, quick and ever gay. Early in secession days, a bombastic friend approached Colonel Tom, with the query: "Well, sir, I presume your voice is still for war?"

To which the wit replied promptly: "Oh, yes, devilish still!"

Later, when the skies looked darkest and rumors of abandoning Richmond were wildly flying, Colonel August was limping up the street. A quidnunc hailed him:

"Well! The city is to be given up. They're moving the medical stores."

"Glad of it!" called back Colonel Tom—"We'll get rid of all this blue mass!"

From the various army camps floated out stories, epigrams and anecdotes unnumbered; most of them wholly forgotten, with only a few remembered from local color, or peculiar point. General Zeb Vance's apostrophe to the buck-rabbit, flying by him from heavy rifle fire: "Go it, cotton-tail! If I hadn't a reputation, I'd be with you!"—was a favorite theme for variations. Similarly modified to fit, was the protest of the western recruit, ordered on picket at Munson's Hill:

"Go yander ter keep 'un off! Wy, we'uns kem hyah ter fight th' Yanks; an' ef you'uns skeer 'un off, how'n thunder ez thar goan ter be a scrimmidge, no how?"

A different story—showing quick resource, where resources were lacking—is told of gallant Theodore O'Hara, who left the noblest poem of almost any war, "The Bivouac of the Dead." While he was adjutant-general, a country couple sidled shyly up to headquarters of his division, one day; the lady blushingly stating their business. It was the most important one of life: they wanted to marry. So, a council of war was held, no chaplain being available; and the general insisted on O'Hara tying the knot. Finally, he consented to try; the couple stood before him; the responses as to obedience and endowment were made; and there O'Hara stuck fast!

"Go on!" prompted the general—"The benediction."

The A.A.G. paused, stammered; then, raising his hand grandly, shouted in stentorian tones:

"In the name and by the authority of the Confederate States of North America, I proclaim you man and wife!"

A grim joke is handed down from the winter camps before Atlanta, when rations were not only worst but least. A knot round a mess-fire examined ruefully the tiny bits of moldy bacon, stuck on their bayonet-grills, when one hard old veteran remarked:

"Say, boys! Didn't them fellers wot died las' spring jest git th' commissary, though!"

Another, not very nice, still points equally the dire straits of the men, from unchanged clothing, and their grim humor under even that trial. Generals Lee and Ewell—riding through a quiet road in deep consultation, followed by members of their staff—came suddenly upon a North Carolinian at the roadside. Nude to the waist, and careless of the august presences near, the soldier paid attention only to the dingy shirt he held over the smoke of some smoldering brush. The generals past, an aide spurred up to the toilet-making vet, and queried sharply:

"Didn't you see the generals, sir? What in thunder are you doing?"

"Skirmishin'!" drawled the unmoved warrior—"An' I ent takin' no pris'ners, nuther!"

After this lapse of time—when retrospect shows but the gloom and sorrow which shadowed the dark "days of storm and stress," while none of the excitement and tension in them remains—it may seem incomprehensible that the South could laugh in song, while she suffered and fought and starved. Stranger still must it be to know that many a merry peal rang through the barred windows of the fortress-prisons of the North. Yet, many a one of the exchanged captives brought back a rollicking "prison glee;" and some sing, even to-day, the legend of "Fort Delaware, Del."

The "Prison Wails" of Thomas F. Roche, a Marylander long captive, is a close and clever parody on General Lytell's "I am dying, Egypt," which came through the lines and won warm admirers South. It describes prison discipline, diet and dirt, with keen point and broad grin. From its opening lines:

"I am busted, mother—busted!

Gone th' last unhappy check;

And th' infernal sutlers' prices

Make my pocket-book a wreck!—"

to the human, piteous plaint that ends it:

"Ah! Once more, among the lucky,

Let thy hopeful buy and swell;

Bankers and rich brokers aid thee!

Shell! sweet mother mine, Oh! shell!—"

the original is closely followed and equally distorted.

But strangest, amid all strange humors of the war, was that which echoed laughter over the leaguered walls of scarred, starving, desperate Vicksburg! No siege in all history tells of greater peril and suffering, borne with wondrous endurance and heroism, by men and women. It is a story of privation unparalleled, met by fortitude and calm acceptance which recall the early martyrdoms for faith! And, indeed, love of country grew to be a religion, especially with the women of the South, though happily none proved it by stress so dire as those of her heroic city; and they cherished it in the darkest midnight of their cause, with constancy and hope that nerved the strong and shamed the laggard.

That history is one long series of perils and privations—of absolute isolation—sufficient to have worn down the strongest and to have quenched even

The smile of the South, on the lips and the eyes—

Of her barefooted boys!

Yet, even in Vicksburg—torn by shot and shell, hopeless of relief from without, reduced to direst straits of hunger within—the supreme rebel humor rose above nature; and men toiled and starved, fought their hopeless fight and died—not with the stoicism of the fatalist, but with the cheerfulness of duty well performed! And when Vicksburg fell, a curious proof of this was found; a manuscript bill-of-fare, surmounted by rough sketch of a mule's head crossed by a human hand holding a Bowie-knife. That memorable menu reads:

HOTEL DE VICKSBURG, BILL OF FARE, FOR JULY, 1863.

    Soup: Mule tail.
    Boiled: Mule bacon, with poke greens; mule ham, canvassed.
    Roast: Mule sirloin; mule rump, stuffed with rice; saddle-of-mule, à l'armee.
    Vegetables: Boiled rice; rice, hard boiled; hard rice, any way.
    Entrées: Mule head, stuffed à la Reb; mule beef, jerked à la Yankie; mule ears, fricasseed à la getch; mule side, stewed—new style, hair on; mule liver, hashed à l'explosion.
    Side Dishes: Mule salad; mule hoof, soused; mule brains à l'omelette; mule kidneys, braisés on ramrod; mule tripe, on half (Parrot) shell; mule tongue, cold, à la Bray.
    Jellies: Mule foot (3-to-yard); mule bone, à la trench.
    Pastry: Rice pudding, pokeberry sauce; cottonwood-berry pie, à la iron-clad; chinaberry tart.
    Dessert: White-oak acorns; beech-nuts; blackberry-leaf tea; genuine Confederate coffee.
    Liquors: Mississippi water, vintage 1492, very superior, $3; limestone water, late importation, very fine, $3.75; spring water, Vicksburg bottled up, $4.
    Meals at few hours. Gentlemen to wait upon themselves. Any inattention in service should be promptly reported at the office.
    Jeff Davis & Co., Proprietors.
    
    
    Card: The proprietors of the justly-celebrated Hotel de Vicksburg, having enlarged and refitted the same, are now prepared to accommodate all who may favor them with a call. Parties arriving by the river, or by Grant's inland route, will find Grape, Cannister & Co.'s carriages at the landing, or any depot on the line of entrenchments. Buck, Ball & Co. take charge of all baggage. No effort will be spared to make the visit of all as interesting as possible.


This capture was printed in the Chicago Tribune, with the comment that it was a ghastly and melancholy burlesque. There is really a train of melancholy in the reflection that it was so little of a burlesque; that they who could endure such a siege, on such fare, should have been compelled to bear their trial in vain. But the quick-satisfying reflection must follow of the truth, the heroism—the moral invincibility—of a people who could so endure and—laugh!

But it was not only from the soldiers and the camps that the humor of the South took its color. Spite of the strain upon its better part—from anxiety, hope-deferred and actual privation—the society of every city keeps green memories of brilliant things said and written, on the spur of excitement and contact, that kept the sense of the whole people keenly alert for any point—whether serious or ridiculous.

The society of the Capital was marked evidence of this. It preserved many epigrammatic gems; often coming from the better—and brighter—half of its composition. For Richmond women had long been noted for society ease and aplomb, as well as for quickness of wit; and now the social amalgam held stranger dames and maidens who might have shown in any salon.

A friend of the writer—then a gallant staff-officer; now a grave, sedate and semi-bald counsellor—had lately returned from European capitals; and he was, of course, in envied possession of brilliant uniform and equipment. At a certain ball, his glittering blind-spurs became entangled in the flowing train of a dancing belle—one of the most brilliant of the set. She stopped in mid-waltz; touched my friend on the broidered chevron with taper fingers, and swe............