Ariel's English Civil War Page

Fisher Jr./Sr. High School: 8th Grade

Table of Contents:

· Poem and Analysis

· Poetry Vocabulary

· Your Letter, Lady, Came Too Late

· Story,Operating on Himself

· Story Essay

Poem and Analysis

William S. Hawkins was a Colonel during the Civil War. His poem, "Your Letter, Lady, Came Too Late" was written, I believe, because he had witnessed one of his soldiers dying in pain over a maiden who had written him a deceitful letter that was misleading. Hawkins goes on to describe his feelings of what happens to this soldier as each event takes place.

YOUR LETTER, LADY, CAME TOO LATE

by Colonel William S. Hawkins

Your letter, lady, came too late, For Heaven had claimed its own. Ah, sudden change! From prison bars Unto the Great White Throne! And yet, I think he would have stayed To live for his (A)disdain, Could he have read the careless words Which you have sent in vain.

So full of patience did he wait Through many a weary hour, That o'er his simple soldier faith Not even death had power. And you -- did others whisper low Their (B)homage in your ear, As though among their shadowy (C)throng His spirit had a peer.

I would that you were by me now, To draw the sheet aside, And see how pure the look he wore The moment when he died. The sorrow that you gave him Had left its weary trace, As 'twere the shadow of the cross Upon his (D)pallid face.

"Her love," he said, "could change for me The winter's cold to spring." Ah, trust of (E)fickle maiden's love, Thou art a bitter thing! For when these valleys bright in May Once more with blossoms wave, The northern violets shall blow Above his humble grave.

Your dole of scanty words had been But one more (F)pang to bear, For him who kissed unto the last Your tress of golden hair. I did not put it where he said, For when the angels come I would not have them find the sign Of (J)falsehood in the tomb.

I've seen your letter and I know The (K)wiles that you have wrought To win that noble heart of his,

And gained it -- cruel thought! What lavish wealth men sometimes give For what is worthless all: What manly bosoms beat for them In (G)folly's falsest (H)thrall.

You shall not pity him, for now His sorrow has an end, Yet would that you could stand with me Beside my fallen friend. And I forgive you for his sake As he -- if it be given -- May even be pleading grace for you Before the court of heaven.

Tonight the cold wind whistles by As I my vigil keep Within the prison dead house, where Few mourners come to weep. A rude plank coffin holds his form, Yet death exalts his face And I would rather see him thus Than clasped in your embrace.

Tonight your home may shine with lights And ring with merry song, And you be smiling as if your soul Had done no deadly wrong. Your hand so fair that none would think It penned these words of pain; Your skin so white -- would God your heart Were half as free from stain.

I'd rather be my comrade dead, Than you in life supreme: For yours the sinner's waking dread, And his the (I)martyr's dream. Whom serve we in this life, we serve In that which is to come: He chose his way, you yours; let God Pronounce the fitting doom.

Confederate Soldier Life

* See vocabulary sheet for words next to (letter)

The general theme of this poem is all the thoughts and emotions by a Colonel towards a false love letter written to a lovesick soldier. The poem starts out with this soldier dyeing. "For Heaven had claimed its own. / …From Prison bars, / Unto the Great White Throne!" I believe he felt that the "Prison bars" was like the war and the letter from this maiden. So, I believe it is telling us that he went from the worst part of his life to a wonderful place in Heaven. The images that the narrator sees throughout the poem helps give us the better understanding of his bitter thoughts, emotions, and how he physically views the situation. "As 'twere the shadows of the cross, / Upon his pallid face." This is one of the ways the Colonel is physically seeing this soldier in pain. Towards the end of the poem, the Colonel shows how much angry emotion he's feeling by saying, "I'd rather be my comrade dead, / Than you in life supreme: / For yours the sinner's waking dread, / And his the martyr's dream." The symbol of the poem is the letter. It is deceitful, bitter, and causes pain to the soldier even after he's dead. You don't know the soldier's exact thoughts and feelings but from the way the Colonel describes his death, you can see this clearly went to the grave with him. Imagery was an important effect in this poem. You can see the pain on the soldier's face when he died and, from the way the Colonel has pictured this maiden, I can see a beautiful woman dancing and going about without realizing all the pain she's caused. You can see him in Heaven, pleading for her life, but no one knows what will happen next. In the last of the poem, the Colonel basically tells her that she has fitted her own doom, and only God can save her now. "Your skin so white - would God your heart / Were half as free from stain…/ Whom serve us we in this life, we serve / In that which is to come: / He chose his way, you yours; let God / Pronounce the fitting doom." There is rhythm in this poem. For example, "Your letter. Lady, came too late, / For Heaven had claimed it's own. /Ah, sudden change! From prison bars / Unto the Great White Throne." It continues on like this but with no rhyme for late. I believe Colonel William S. Hawkins wrote this poem out of bitterness towards the maiden but also sadness for his soldier. He might have known what it was like to be in a situation such as this, but this poem was his way of letting his emotions run wild, while not upsetting someone else. One of a soldier's bitterest burdens was separation from the woman he loved. Although many women waited patiently at home until their husbands or Fiancées returned to them, some did not. This poem was purportedly written in Camp Chase, a Federal prison camp in Maryland, and reveals the contempt in which its author holds the lady whose careless dismissal of his comrade has brought about his death -- just as surely as Yankee bullets or the harsh conditions of his imprisonment would have.

Poem and information about the poet found at the following URL: http://users.erols.com/kfraser/letter.html

Poetry Vocabulary (A): Disdain - a feeling of contempt for what is beneath one. (B): Homage - expression of high reguard. (C): Throng - to crowd upon. (D): Pallid - deficient in color; lacking sparkle or liveliness. (E): Fickle - deceitful, inconsistant. (F): Pang - a brief piercing spasm or pain. (G): Folly - lack of good sense or normal prudence and foresight. (H): Thrall - enthrall, enslave (I): Martyr - a person who voluntarily suffers death. (J): Falsehood - untrue statement; absence of truth or accuracy; the practice of lying. (K): wiles - skill in outwitting

Operating on Himself

Chickamauga, September 19-20, 1863

IT WAS NOW a month since I had been wounded. The surgeon in charge told me the bullet could not be taken out and that he would not attempt it.

I had been in the practice four years with my preceptor, who was a fine surgeon. I had assisted the surgeons often when crowded with work. From day to day I called my case to notice of the surgeon. He still flatly refused to do the work for me. I now made up my mind to do it myself, with the assistance of a young widow nurse, who was in the hospital. She had lost her husband in the first battle of Bull Run and thereupon had become a nurse for wounded and sick soldiers. I told her of my plans and told her, too, that I was dying by inches every day. I asked her if she would bring me the necessary instruments, while the surgeon was gone to his dinner. She said, "Yes, and I will help you, too." I told her to get some hot water, some carbolic acid, two pairs of scissors, one curved pair, a sharp knife, a blunt, curved hook. She had all these ready when the doctor started to dinner. I asked her to bring me a bullet, a Minie ball. I got very busy at once. The nurse also brought me six surgeon's needles threaded with cat-gut sutures. I placed the bullet between my teeth to bite on while doing this work, for I knew it would hurt badly.

I took up the blunt, curved the hook, and slowly introduced it into the wound by a slight rotary, oscillating movement from side to side. I rested a short time, for it was very painful. I pressed it further in until I felt that I had gotten the hook over the bowel. I slowly drew the bowel toward the opening, which had sloughed considerably, and left a large hole in my side. The cut in the bowel could be plainly seen. I now placed a roll of bandages in the loop of the bowel between it and my side, to keep the bowel from slipping back into the cavity. Then I took the curved scissors, snipped off the sloughing, ragged edges to freshen them. I was gritting my teeth upon the bullet. Cold perspiration was pouring off my face and body. I must not and could not stop now.

There was a horrid fascination about it. I was suffering torture. I held my breath. [When the bullet was out] the widow handed me the curved, threaded needles; I dreaded these more than the cutting, but with a renewed determination, I placed six stitches in my bowel; I then tightened these alternately, so as to have the fresh edges fit closely without puckering. Having drawn up so tightly, I took sponges and moistened them in hot water and bathed the bowel, removing all the blood clots. I took a large syringe and washed out the cavity thoroughly. After cleansing the gut wound I placed eight stitches in the outside wound.

The operation was finished. The cold perspiration was standing in great beads upon my face and body. I was frozen almost to death. The work was finished, I looked up into the face of this heroic, beautiful woman. Both of us fell in a dead faint across the cot. I doctor stood in the doorway and saw this last scene. He came forward, swearing like a madman, picked up the beautiful widow and carried her to her own room. Unconscious, I lay oblivious to passing events.

I learned, after my return to life, that the doctor said, "Let the fool die, if he will"; he was also heard to say some very tender and endearing words while bending over this dear young widow.

After a while the surgeon came to my cot and said in a very gruff tone, "You have played hell, haven't you. I hope you are satisfied." I replied, "Doctor, I am not entirely satisfied, but will be as soon as I am well and strong enough to slap your jaws for your insults. I would do so now if I were able, you vulgar puppy."

About suppertime, the nurse came and brought me supper. She looked very beautiful to me. She had saved my life and I - well, I was very grateful.

I was healthy and vigorous at the time I received these wounds, and my recovery was uninterrupted. I am sure that mine was one of the few recoveries from such a bowel wound. Most patients would have given up without an effort, and died. At this period surgeons regarded wounds of the bowels as necessarily fatal. When I was wounded, I had not drawn my rations, nor eaten anything, save some parched corn, for five days. I feel certain that if I had been well fed my wound would have killed me.

I received the most diligent and kind attention. On the 15th of November, following, I began to hobble about on crutches. My leg was healing rapidly. My friend, Captain Fulton, took me out riding. The warm sunshine, fresh air, and exercise were very beneficial to both of us. I was, from this time on, a welcome guest in any home in this fine little settlement.

- Colonel Thomas F. Berry -

Essay

The story, Operating On Himself, was written by Colonel Thomas F. Berry back in September 19-20, 1863, in Chickamauga. This has been called, by most, "the second bloodiest battle of the Civil War." Colonel Berry writes of how he has taken his own life into his own hands. We can assume that Colonel Berry was fighting for his honor in the fields of Chichamauga, Georgia, but of which side I am unaware. From the story he writes we do know he was shot in the stomach, and laid in a hospital for a month because of the lack of knowledge the doctor had in medicine and surgery. But Thomas's will to live was much greater than the surgeons will to give up on him. As the doctor sat down to eat, Berry and the doctors young, widow nurse got to work. He writes in great detail about the objects he uses and how he does his own operation. As he opens his wound up and finds the source of the problem, he bites down hard on a Minie ball bullet, lodged in the front of his mouth. As he cleans the wound with carbolic acid, used as an antiseptic, he dislodges the bullet and sews himself back up, with eight stitches. After he had finished sewing himself back up, the nurse and he fell in a dead faint across his cot, but not before the doctor could see it. Mad that this man would use his nurse against his orders, the doctor carried his young nurse away. The doctor could not believe this man had done this operation on himself, by himself, and he was not very nice to this man because of it. After Thomas Berry wakes up from his deep sleeping, he has a conversation with the doctor. Colonel Berry is insulted by his remarks, obviously because he knew the only way he would live, or live normally again, was to have the bullet dislodged from his side. Since the surgeon was unwilling to operate, and he was still aggravated with him for saving for his own life, that Thomas took his angry words with a great assault. At suppertime the nurse brought Thomas Berry food and he goes on to say she saved his life and that he was grateful for it. He was healthy and vigorous on battlefield when he was shot, and his recovery was uninterrupted. He was one of a few recoveries from this "bowel" shot because "surgeons regarded wounds of the bowels necessarily fatal." Because he had rationed his rations for five days, he felt certain that if he had eaten as usual his wound would've killed him. On November 15th, he began to use crutches as his leg began to heal. Captain Fulton, a friend from the war, took him out riding in the nice warm weather. Since that time, and from then on, he was a welcomed guest in the homes of that settlement.

Bibliography: Berry, Tomas F. A Civil War Treasure of Tales, Legends, and Folklore. Yale University Press: 1927. Pages 330-332.