Maryland, My Maryland: Music and Patriotism during the American Civil War [Hardcover ed.] 1496210727, 9781496210722

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M a ry l a n d, M y M a ry l a n d

Maryland, My Maryland Music and Patriotism during the American Civil War Ja m e s A. Dav is

University of Nebraska Press Lincoln & London

© 2019 by the Board of Regents of the University of Nebraska All rights reserved Manufactured in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data Names: Davis, James A. (James Andrew), 1962–­author. Title: Maryland, my Maryland: music and patriotism during the American Civil War / James A. Davis. Description: Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, [2018] | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: lccn 2018028071 isbn 9781496210722 (cloth: alk. paper) isbn 9781496212719 (epub) isbn 9781496212726 (mobi) isbn 9781496212733 (pdf) Subjects: lcsh: Music-­-­Political aspects—United States— History—19th century. | Randall, James Ryder, 1839–­1908. Maryland, my Maryland. | United States—­History—­Civil War, 1861–­1865—Music and the War. | Maryland—­History—­-C ­ ivil War, 1861–­1865—Music and the War. Classification: lcc ml3917.u6 d38 2019 | ddc 782.42/159909752-­-d ­ c23 LC record available at https://​lccn​.loc​.gov​/2018028071 Set in New Baskerville ITC Pro by E. Cuddy.

This is for you, Jenn. Thank you for everything.

Contents

List of Illustrations . . ix Acknowledgments . . xi Introduction: Patriotic Music and the Civil War . . xv 1. Maryland and the Coming of War: Bargain Patriotism and the Need for an Anthem . . 1 2. Spring 1861: The Pratt Street Riot and the Birth of a Song . . 21 3. “Maryland, My Maryland”: Lyrics, Music, and Publication . . 44 4. Fall 1861: The Cary Invincibles, Flags, and Symbolic Patriotism . . 71 5. Spring 1862: Marylanders, the Military, and Regionalism . . 91 6. Summer 1862: Tropes, Class, and the Rise of an Anthem . . 114 7. Fall 1862: Antietam and the Battle of Parodies . . 132 8. Spring 1863: pows, Civilians, and Military Patriotism . . 168 9. Summer 1863: Gettysburg, Slavery, and the Patriotism of Sacrifice . . 188 10. Fall 1863: Women, Hospitals, and Diverging Audiences . . 217 11. 1864: Monocacy and the Victory of Song over State . . 241 12. 1865: Performing Patriotism and Nostalgia after Appomattox . . 267 Epilogue: “Maryland, My Maryland” after the War . . 285 Notes . . 303 Bibliography . . 331 Index . . 351

Illustrations

1. Pratt Street Riot, Union perspective . . xix 2. Pratt Street Riot, Confederate perspective . . xix 3. An 1860 cartoon of Baltimore’s notorious “plug uglies” . . 4 4. Poster announcing a Union meeting in Frederick, Maryland . . 8 5. Sheet music to “God Save the South” by C. T. De Cœniél . . 17 6. A portrait of the young James Ryder Randall . . 32 7. Jennie Cary, who added music to Randall’s poem to create “Maryland, My Maryland” . . 34 8. Hetty Cary, who was said to be the most beautiful woman in the South . . 35 9. The Monument Street Girls of Baltimore, who sewed uniforms for Confederate soldiers . . 39 10. One of the first broadsides of “Maryland, My Maryland” . . 52 11. The first edition of “Maryland, My Maryland” . . 58 12. Constance Cary Harrison, cousin of Jennie and Hetty Cary . . 76 13. A Baltimore woman wearing a dress that resembled the Confederate flag . . 81 14. Poster announcing a “Grand Military Concert” in Frederick, Maryland . . 97 15. Members of the First Maryland Infantry playing football . . 109 16. “The Rebel Chivalry,” a cartoon that mocks Confederate soldiers . . 119 17. An 1862 caricature of James Ryder Randall . . 155

18. The wounded left after the Battle of Antietam . . 160 19. Flag presentation for the First South Carolina Volunteers in Beaufort . . 169 20. Confederate spy Belle Boyd . . 175 21. “Stonewall Jackson’s Last Words,” an 1866 song by Jules Meininger . . 185 22. The destruction of Chambersburg, Pennsylvania, following McCausland’s raid on July 30, 1864 . . 195 23. An 1865 image of the arrival of “freedmen and their families” in Baltimore . . 209 24. A privately published address from a Virginia lady urging her Maryland lover to come south and join the army . . 223 25. Thomas Nast’s “Our Heroines” featuring women tending to the wounded . . 230 26. A New York broadside offered a line-­by-­line “answer” to three verses of Randall’s poem . . 248 27. Charles Magnus’s colorful broadside of “Maryland, My Maryland” from late in the war . . 260 28. An 1864 broadside of “Abraham, Our Abraham,” one of the countless parodies of “Maryland, My Maryland” . . 265 29. Confederate prisoners held at the pow camp on Point Lookout, Maryland . . 272 30. Sparkling Diamonds from Chicago publisher Lyon & Healy, which included “Maryland, My Maryland” . . 279 31. A nostalgic twentieth-­century postcard featuring “Maryland, My Maryland” . . 290 32. James Ryder Randall during the late 1800s . . 298

Acknowledgments

There are too many people to thank for making this possible, and I apologize for those I neglect to mention. I appreciate the support provided to me from the faculty, staff, and administration of the State University of New York at Fredonia, including Mel Unger, director of the School of Music, Ralph Blasting, dean of the College of Visual and Performing Arts, and former administrators Karl Boelter and John Kijinski. Their support of my research over the years is recognized and appreciated. I am also very grateful to have received a grant from the New York State/United University Professions to offset the cost of licensing fees for images. I consider myself extremely lucky to work with three gracious and talented people—­Michael Markham, Gordon Root, and Allison Wente—­who have been patient listeners and the best colleagues imaginable. To Linda Mull and MariBeth Patterson, Reed Library, suny Fredonia, I am once again indebted. I am still amazed at how they manage to locate the materials I request and then get them delivered so quickly. And thanks as well to Kevin Michki, music librarian at suny Fredonia, for many useful conversations and for tracking down esoteric materials. I have benefited from the friendly and skilled help of archivists from all over the country. Any researcher knows that we could not do what we do without their efforts. I must give special thanks to Nicholas A. Skaggs, Special Collections, Louisiana State University, for going above and beyond to track down the original printed poem for me. Thanks are also due to Lara Westwood and Deborah Harner of the Maryland Historical Society; Anne Causey of the Albert and Shirley Small Special Collections Library, University of Virginia; Mazie Bowen, Hargrett Rare Book

& Manuscript Library, University of Georgia; Jamison Davis and John McClure, Virginia Historical Society; Kaitlyn Pettengill, Historical Society of Pennsylvania; Brooke Guthrie, David M. Rubenstein Rare Book & Manuscript Library, Duke University; James M. Cornelius, curator, Lincoln Collection, Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library & Museum; A. Elise Allison, Greensboro Historical Museum; Clayton Crenshaw, Crouch Fine Arts Library, Baylor University; Rebecca Petersen May, Special Collections and Archives, Wake Forest University; Marie Gurevitz and the rest of the staff at the Indiana Historical Society; and the good people at the Missouri History Museum (St. Louis), Western Reserve Historical Society (Cleveland), Filson Historical Society (Louisville), and the Newberry Library (Chicago.) A number of my students deserve thanks for helping with this project. Tim Bausch and Codee Spinner dug through nineteenth-­century books and magazines; John Hausmann did online investigations even while trying to finish his dissertation; and Erin Petti, Dylan Webb, and Nora Ramsey valiantly read through indecipherable manuscripts. Special thanks are due to Jennifer Kobuskie and Paul Kovey for making trips to the Library of Congress, Maryland Historical Society, and the University of Maryland Library, then sifting through a staggering amount of material. I hope you know what a difference you made. I must say that it has been a delight to work once again with the wonderful staff at the University of Nebraska Press. Bridget Barry, my editor, has been invaluable from the start, encouraging the original idea for Maryland, My Maryland and then reading multiple revisions, offering excellent advice, and answering plenty of odd questions. I am likewise grateful to Emily Wendell for her cheerful and conscientious help in finalizing the manuscript. Thanks are due to Ann Baker for her friendly and reliable efforts shepherding this project through the final stages, and to Elaine Durham Otto for her meticulous editing that improved my writing in so many ways. Special thanks to Christian McWhirter for random discussions and suggestions on this and other projects; to Doug Shadle for offering his brilliant comments on materials that I sent; xii ac k n o w l e d g m e n t s

to Candace Bailey for reading through the manuscript of “Maryland” at the worst time of the semester; and to Evan Bonds for his years of encouragement. I would also like to thank my in-­ laws, Don and Mary Alhart, for their patience as I tapped away at my computer during family holidays. And I must thank my wonderful wife, Jenn, without whose patient and unfailing support I could never have written this book.

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Introduction Patriotic Music and the Civil War

William O. Stoddard, former secretary to President Abraham Lincoln, published a series of “sketches” in 1866 that offered a glimpse into life in the White House during the American Civil War. One sketch in particular is fascinating for the way it portrays the musical sounds drifting through the streets of Washington dc: Socially, in the spring of 1861, Washington was “secesh” to the back bone. . . . go up any street, past almost any house, and from the open windows you could hear the unwearied piano, in tune or out of tune, dinging away at “Maryland, my Maryland,” “The Bonny Blue Flag,” or “Dixie,” until the days when the Twelfth New York marched down Pennsylvania avenue with a full brass band, expressing the wish of the regiment that they were “in Dixie,” and the Second and Fourth New Jersey, or Rhode Island, I forget which [the Twelfth New York], broke out into “Maryland,” in the same place, with the new words of loyalty.1

This stirring account seems ample evidence of the power and pervasiveness of patriotic music during the war. There is a problem, however. According to official accounts, the First Rhode Island arrived in Washington on April 20, the Twelfth New York Infantry on May 31, the Second Rhode Island on June 22, and the First and Second New Jersey regiments on June 29. So April 20 to June 29 is the window of time for Stoddard’s animated tableau. Yet the poem “Maryland” was first published in the New Orleans Sunday Delta on May 5, 1861; its first appearance in Maryland was in the Baltimore South on May 31, the very day that the Twelfth New

York arrived in Washington. The poem was not set to music until June at the earliest. It is unknown precisely when the sheet music was first released to the public, but at this point it is irrelevant: it is extremely unlikely if not impossible that Stoddard heard “Maryland, My Maryland” coming from pianos in Washington in the spring of 1861. At first glance this dubious account seems harmless, nothing more than an example of the fickle nature of musical memory. There are countless similar stories to be found, some true, some not, occurring in different locations and with different pieces of music. And while the factual error might be annoying from a purely historical perspective, it is somewhat intriguing from a musicological point of view. Stoddard’s mistaken attribution does not negate the value of this story; quite the opposite, it reveals the weight granted to “Maryland, My Maryland” by him and his readers as well as the significance he placed on its performance at a specific time and place. There is a wealth of musical and extramusical information to be pulled from contemporary accounts regarding the music produced and consumed during the Civil War. But too often “hit” songs from the past are treated as immutable monoliths that were apparently born with their modern reputations already intact. To take such songs at face value is to make a number of dangerous assumptions, in particular, that what later generations conveniently called popular music means that it was popular for all people at all times. For patriotic songs the danger is broader if one assumes that patriotism was an easily defined, stable, and commonly held attitude shared by those living within clearly delineated geopolitical boundaries. There is no better example than “Maryland, My Maryland,” one of the most pervasive Confederate patriotic songs then and now. Its genesis and reception are stocked with ironic contradictions that draw attention to the painful and seemingly inconsistent actions and beliefs that were both cause and effect of the war. For example, “Maryland, My Maryland” was written in Louisiana, not Maryland, and conceived of as a poem, not as a song lyric. Its belligerent and romanticized words were set to a harmless college glee in three-­quarter time that was first conxvi i n t r o d u c t i o n

scripted as a martial tune, then became popular as a Christmas carol. Most telling of all, it was adopted as one of a handful of Southern anthems, even though it celebrated a state that never joined the Confederacy. These ironies are tangible manifestations of some of the most important issues underlying the Civil War. Indeed, Maryland and its musical counterpart became microcosms of the war as a whole. The geographic specificity of the song’s original lyrics allowed the contest between regional and national loyalties to be fought on bandstands as well as battlefields; this in turn amplified the emerging division between soldiers and civilians as audiences and their role in bestowing musical meaning; and finally, “Maryland, My Maryland” contributed to the shift in patriotic allegiance from a specific, localized, and material place to an ambiguous, inclusive, and imagined space. Maryland, My Maryland: Music and Patriotism during the American Civil War tells the story of one of the most iconic songs from the war, showing how its fluctuating popularity with specific audiences mirrored the volatile progression of the conflict as a whole. It also reveals the key role that wartime popular music played in the restructuring and promotion of personal and civic identity at the regional and national levels. In so doing, it brings a number of important issues to light: the difference in communicative function between instrumental and vocal versions of popular songs, the disparity between soldier and civilian perceptions of war songs, the role of contrafactum (the use of preexisting music with new words) and the corresponding collision of meaning that such appropriations engender, and the unique parameters confronting Civil War songs that sought to promote patriotism. Although a handful of recent studies explore patriotic music during the Civil War (most notably Christian McWhirter’s excellent Battle Hymns), it remains to be seen precisely how these songs accomplished their purpose. Patriotism requires a locus of identity—­such as a specific place, a definable belief system, or a historical icon—­toward which one’s patriotism can be directed with some measure of confidence and stability. The presence of a shared cultural heritage, conflicting internal ideologies, introduction

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and ill-­defined borders made it difficult to delineate between the Union and the Confederacy in certain ways, while stubborn regional loyalties and competing political agendas made unity a challenge for both the North and the South. As a result, patriotism existed in a permanent state of flux as the Union and Confederate states—­as well as the Northern and Southern nations—­were reinterpreted and redefined at almost every stage of the war. Understanding a patriotic song during the Civil War requires understanding what patriotism meant to that song’s listeners at any given moment. As the story of “Maryland, My Maryland” shows, a successful patriotic song had to be specific enough to satisfy the basic tenets of a viable patriotic creed, but ambiguous enough to shift to new patriotic agendas should its audience have a change of heart. The methodology used here is guided to some degree by recent song biographies (such as Stauffer and Soskis, The Battle Hymn of the Republic, Kaskowitz, God Bless America, and Branham and Hartnett, Sweet Freedom’s Song), with notable differences. Instead of providing an epic history of a song, this book will focus on a small window of time to draw forth and examine the subtle yet significant variations in attitude that surround any song’s reception and use. This is a musical microhistory, an attempt to show how a single event, or a subtle change in public perspective, can deflect the trajectory of song, and how a popular song can weather a storm of praise, condemnation, appropriation, and misuse to become a canonic patriotic anthem. In addition, this chronicle begins not with historic or modern ideology but with practice. The goal is to clarify how the song’s nascent meanings resulted from its usage in volatile and ever-­ changing situations and how musical meaning was negotiated between performer, audience, setting, and social exigency. The Story of a Song Charles W. Mitchell aptly summarized the state’s situation in 1860: “Maryland, with proclivities North and South, found itself trapped—­culturally, economically, and geographically.”2 Marylanders had family ties both North and South, Maryland’s economy relied on business with both northern and southern xviii i n t r o d u c t i o n

1 & 2. Civil War art unashamedly manipulated emotions to harness patriotic commitment, as can be seen in various artists’ interpretations of the Pratt Street Riot. In the first image, Massachusetts Militia Passing through Baltimore (F. F. Walker, 1861), outnumbered Union soldiers appear as gallant men defending themselves from a rabid crowd of low-­lifes. In the second image, The Lexington of 1861 (Currier & Ives, c. 1861), the roles are reversed: the civilians are outnumbered and futilely defend themselves from relentless and uncaring Union soldiers.

concerns, and Marylanders tended to follow northern or southern cultural trends depending on where they lived (eastern cities sided with the South, while rural communities in the west were largely pro-­Union). Generally speaking, half of the state remained loyal to the Union, while the other half favored secession. And while many Marylanders were vociferous in their admiration or disdain for the North or the South, a large number of Marylanders preferred neutrality in any upcoming conflict. Plenty of music and poetry stoked the already inflamed passions in Maryland as it did in the other states. Expressing loyalty to one side or the other was relatively painless in 1860, a bargain patriotism that cost little so long as the horrors of war remained at a poetic distance. Such exhortations proved to be particularly inflammatory in those areas where allegiances were mixed or unclear. This made the border states a lively arena for patriotic art. Civil War Americans were generally loyal to their states first, so most successful efforts to sway public opinion relied on manipulating one’s attachment to the state. Many successful songs at this time targeted regional and state identity as opposed to broader patriotic or nationalistic sentiments. Yet as war grew increasingly likely, some recognized the need for music that did not promote one issue or the other but served to unify the country. Individual or regional expressions of outrage or loyalty were of short-­term value; useful patriotic music required a durable, communal voice. In other words, the Union and the Confederacy needed national anthems. With the firing on Ft. Sumter on April 12, 1861, anxieties peaked in Maryland with demonstrators from both sides demanding that their state pick a side while newspapers tossed praise and ridicule in all directions. Then on April 19 Baltimore civilians attacked Union troops as they attempted to transfer trains. The resulting casualties and the subsequent media storm thrust Maryland onto the national stage. James Ryder Randall, a Marylander living in Louisiana, immediately crafted a poem that lamented the state’s suffering and urged Maryland to “avenge the patriotic gore” and join the Confederacy. The poem caught fire throughout the South and soon appeared in Baltimore, where two pro-­Confederate sisters, Jennie and Hetty Cary, attached xx i n t r o d u c t i o n

the words to a popular college glee. The song was presented to a local publisher who promptly printed and distributed the new hit: “Maryland, My Maryland.” President Lincoln ordered troops into Maryland and declared martial law following the riot, so even as Maryland contributed a new patriotic song to the Southern cause, the state itself would remain a sullen member of the Union. The perceived bondage of Maryland in the lyrics to “Maryland, My Maryland” proved irresistible to the nascent Confederacy, and the song’s popularity quickly spread beyond the state’s borders. The new song then received a boost from a chance performance on a battlefield when Jennie and Hetty Cary, along with their Virginia cousin Constance, performed the song for Confederate troops stationed in central Virginia following the First Battle of Bull Run. The combination of stirring words set to a catchy tune and performed by beautiful belles had an immediate and lasting impact. The dashing Gen. P. T. G. Beauregard expressed his admiration for the song, local newspapers recounted the performance, and “Maryland, My Maryland” steamrolled on. Such was the success of the new song that within just four months of its creation Unionists began releasing Union parodies of the original. At the start of 1862, soldiers and civilians from both sides were still locating their patriotism between family, state, region, and country. “Maryland, My Maryland” admirably negotiated these treacherous waters, appealing to listeners throughout the Confederacy with its memorable melody and forcing Northerners to combat this success with more mockery even as they scrambled to produce a Union answer to the flourishing anthem. In fact, “Maryland, My Maryland” was so pervasive that its title and many of its key phrases were becoming common literary tropes. The phrase “Maryland, My Maryland” was often used in place of the state’s name, allowing writers to pull in the song’s multiple meanings with a simple reference. Other idiosyncratic phrases became commonplace in letters, speeches, and newspaper articles. So even as Maryland remained under Union control, “Maryland, My Maryland” was inches away from joining “Dixie” and “The Bonnie Blue Flag” as the next Confederate anthem. introduction

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Then the Battle of Antietam in September brought the realities of war onto Maryland soil, and the subsequent Confederate defeat immediately altered the song’s trajectory. Confederate bands had proudly played the song as soldiers waded across the Potomac on their way to the battle; now southern soldiers booed and hissed when their bands tried to play the song during the retreat to Virginia. Northerners gleefully threw the lyric back into the teeth of Southerners, and more parodies appeared mocking the failed invasion. A Boston publisher quickly released a Union version of the song with an entirely new set of lyrics. It did not help that Marylanders themselves were becoming suspect in the eyes of the Confederacy. The failure of the state to rise up in armed resistance was seen as a lack of commitment, and the state’s population as well as Maryland soldiers attached to both armies were often viewed with suspicion. Had the song not been so popular already, had it not some aesthetic hold over the populace, this might have been the end of the song’s tale. Yet despite attempts to discredit the erstwhile anthem, prisoners of war sang it in their cells, wounded soldiers sang it in hospitals, and more and more brass bands picked up the tune regardless of any confusion attached to its namesake. In a remarkably short time, “Maryland, My Maryland” had garnered unanticipated influence as a representation of Maryland’s plight and as a generic call to arms. Confederate soldiers were hungry for music that exhibited military if not civic patriotism, so what had started as a regional icon was adapting to serve as a much-­needed anthem for the Confederate armies. The release of the Emancipation Proclamation on January 1, 1863, and the shifting of abolition to the fore did little to impact the reception of “Maryland, My Maryland.” Randall’s poem, like so much verse of the time, blithely ignored slavery even as it bemoaned the purported bondage that held Maryland as part of the Union. Then the state once again became a focal point in the summer of 1863 as the battling Army of Northern Virginia and Army of the Potomac shifted north, passing through Maryland on their way into Pennsylvania. “Maryland, My Maryland” was played to encourage Maryland civilians to support the invasion, but a defeat at the Battle of Gettysburg left another xxii i n t r o d u c t i o n

stain on the song. However, in 1863 the Confederacy was shifting to a patriotism of sacrifice and suffering, an attitude that breathed new potential into Randall’s verses. The occupation and distress portrayed in the lyrics struck a renewed chord with many Confederates. Maryland may not be a material contributor to the Southern cause, but “Maryland, My Maryland” could still serve as propaganda against the enemy as it canonized the suffering needed to continue the fight. By the fall of 1863, Confederate civilians in Maryland held firm to the tune as their anthem, while their Union counterparts had no use for it. Surprisingly, the original song remained popular with a portion of the South’s population, but this was mostly true of civilians living far from Maryland and Virginia. Union soldiers were charmed by the melody even though they acknowledged it to be a Confederate anthem, while Confederate soldiers grew increasingly possessive of the tune when performed without the lyrics by their brass bands. The instrumental version—­without the regionally significant and inflammatory lyrics—­had become a military anthem for Confederate soldiers. At the same time, its gendered reception grew more pronounced as the vocal and instrumental versions separated. While its roots were in the parlor tradition, the meteoric rise of “Maryland, My Maryland” had skipped over the phase where it established itself as a parlor song. Now it reversed the progression, returning to Confederate homes where the words conveyed all the chivalry that one would expect in a wartime ballad. There were now multiple audiences for “Maryland, My Maryland.” In 1864 the state of Maryland faded into the background as the war moved into its final phase. Even the Battle of Monocacy in July, the last major fight on Maryland soil, did little to change attitudes toward the state or its people. But the song continued to provide useful service for its latest constituents. The instrumental version of “Maryland, My Maryland” had by this point divorced itself from the lyric and its place-­specific associations. Confederate soldiers could march to the tune without worrying about the state’s role within the geopolitics of war. Some Union bands began to play the piece. The vocal version, howintroduction

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ever, required modification before it could return to its place of honor, and what occurred was not a change to the lyric so much as a change in attitude toward the state itself. Maryland was transformed into a symbolic martyr to the Southern cause. While many Confederate civilians began to disregard the material state, the metaphoric Maryland began to thrive, largely as a result of the song. These trends continued into 1865. Confederate bands played “Maryland, My Maryland” right up to the surrenders, while southern ladies threw the song into the face of Union soldiers even after the war had ended. By this point the performance of the once and future anthem was in itself an act of defiance, irrespective of its originally incendiary content. In the decades following the war, “Maryland, My Maryland” and other icons lost their immediacy but soon experienced a new phase of popularity as the war was mythologized and its veterans received regional and national commemoration. Confederate sympathizers now found the song to be a fitting tribute to the Lost Cause, while later generations accepted it as an anthem of the Confederacy with little or no concern for Maryland’s role during the war. Some Civil War songs retained enough sectional patriotism to keep them from moving past their original contentious purpose, but a surprising number of songs, including “Maryland, My Maryland,” became detached from their original regional or national patriotism, instead coming to symbolize the past military community shared by the men. In the twentieth century “Maryland, My Maryland” suffered a number of textual alterations in an effort to diminish the song’s contentious character (with little success); in fact, Maryland adopted the providential tune as the state song in 1939. The Life Cycle of an Anthem “The electric success of ‘Maryland, My Maryland’ in the early days of the war has more to do with history than with literature or music,” wrote Irwin Silber in his seminal collection of Civil War songs, and this is true up to a point.3 Postwar critics gave it mixed reviews in terms of its poetic and musical value, but few could argue with its success. The story of “Maryland, xxiv i n t r o d u c t i o n

My Maryland” during the war clearly shows that it had enough specificity to immediately catch the interest of the general public, enough artistic craft to survive its honeymoon phase, and enough aesthetic appeal to survive associated setbacks such as Maryland’s failure to join the Confederacy and Robert E. Lee’s unsuccessful invasions of the North. It is this aesthetic appeal that makes “Maryland, My Maryland” a particularly appropriate topic for a study of music and patriotism during the Civil War. This song’s performances can be woven together with current events to gauge patriotic commitment at certain times and places for specific communities, but it is clear that the song functioned first and foremost as a piece of music and not as propaganda. Patriotic expression might explain an audience’s willingness to listen to or perform a song, but only aesthetic appeal keeps that song in circulation. Patriotism, the content of the song, could be found elsewhere. The music, the vehicle for the message, was unique. Randall’s poem was immensely successful throughout the South, but its lifespan would have been limited had it not been set to music. While it is undeniable that Randall’s fiery rhetoric (coming on the heels of the Pratt Street Riot) was a major factor behind the song’s initial acceptance, it was the song, not the poem, which secured a highly visible place within popular culture. And once “Maryland, My Maryland” gained popularity, it was nearly impossible to remove it from daily use regardless of any changes to its patriotic suitability. In fact, it is tempting to see the bounds of patriotism shifting to accommodate the song. Civil War patriotic songs were both private and public. Singing and listening to “Maryland, My Maryland” was part of the musical “technology of self,” as sociologist Tia DeNora defined it, the “social process of self-­structuration” wherein listeners were “constituting themselves as social agents.”4 By adopting the piece, listeners had made it a defining part of their character, just as their own usage shaped the public character of the piece. So instead of abandoning the piece when its credibility became suspect, listeners would search for ways to redefine or reinterpret the song to justify their aesthetic tastes. Listeners liked the piece, they wanted to keep hearing and singing introduction

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it, and so they modified the circumstances around the piece to explain its place in their canon of favorite works. In January 1864 the South’s poet laureate Henry Timrod considered the requirements for a successful national anthem. “Its verse must run glibly on the tongue,” he observed, with a sentiment that “appeals to some favorite pride, prejudice or passion,” and that verse must be carried by an “effective, but not complicated” tune. He then adds, almost as an afterthought, that the erstwhile anthem “must be aided by such a collocation of accidents as may not be computed.”5 Maryland, My Maryland: Music and Patriotism during the American Civil War is a study of those accidents, the seemingly random and trivial events that by themselves seem inconsequential, but when taken as a whole are seen to have shaped the future character, meaning, and function of one of the most prominent songs in American history.

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M a ry l a n d, M y M a ry l a n d

one

Maryland and the Coming of War Bargain Patriotism and the Need for an Anthem

“On Monday the citizens of Baltimore and vicinity observed with becoming spirit the eighty-­third anniversary of the Independence of the United States,” declared the Sun on July 6, 1859. Cannon fire at dawn opened the city’s celebration, and flags were unfurled throughout the city. It was a cloudless day with a soft breeze keeping the temperature mild, so the streets were packed with enthusiastic citizens. Despite the crowds, the paper was pleased to note that there was a lack of “rowdyism and violence, which too often characterize such occasions.” Celebrations at various spots around the city included speeches, readings of the Declaration of Independence, and musical performances. The Methodist Episcopal Sunday School of Avalon featured music by a local brass band as well as singing by the children, while in another part of the city the “excellent choir” of the Twelfth Presbyterian Church sang “some most beautiful sacred airs.” In the evening the “most perfect and extensive” fireworks displays were launched over Ashland Square, Federal Hill, and many other neighborhoods. Fireworks caused some fires, including a man who had his hat catch fire, and an unfortunate lady who “had her underclothes ignited by walking over some fireworks.” Music was a vibrant part of the evening’s merriment. The fireworks display at Monument Square was accompanied by the National Cornet Band, which “discoursed sweet harmonies seemingly without intermission,” while a band led by “Capt. Charles” entertained the crowd at the corner of Broadway and Baltimore Streets. One curious omission in this otherwise detailed and entertaining article is worth noting: there is no mention of what pieces

the bands performed. Only later in the article do specific song titles appear, and those were sung mostly by children’s choirs. When describing celebrations at the House of Refuge (a public orphanage), mention is made of the children singing “Auld Lang Syne,” an unnamed “original Fourth of July song,” and the doxology. In Towsontown’s festivities, the article describes children singing “Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean.”1 Why were titles given for the children’s performances, while the brass bands’ repertoire was left undefined? For one thing, the youth concerts had less to do with patriotism than they did with the children’s innate charm. It amused readers to envision the kids singing; knowing what pieces they were singing simply enlivened the description. There was no need to do the same for the bands and their music. Given the nature of the celebration, it is safe to assume that patriotic tunes were played alongside popular songs of the time. And as the residents of Baltimore were citizens of the United States, there would be no reason to name specific patriotic tunes that were already known by the readers. Marylanders still embraced “Hail Columbia” and “Yankee Doodle,” while “The Star-­Spangled Banner” was considered a birthright of all Marylanders. Little could the residents of this proud state imagine that within twelve months another song dedicated to their state would serve as an anthem for a new Southern Confederacy. The residents of Baltimore and Maryland as a whole were largely divided over the issues that were tormenting the country prior to the Civil War. Some were pro-­slavery, and others were abolitionists; some felt comfortable with the country’s move toward regulated industry and commerce, while others preferred the local autonomy of Jacksonian Democracy that had prevailed in previous years. There was one belief many held in common: Marylanders wanted such disagreements kept to the realm of verbal debate. Armed conflict was the last thing they wanted within their borders. Unfortunately, Marylanders could not always dictate the role their state would play in the coming conflict due to geography if nothing else. With Washington dc and Richmond (the eventual capital of the Confederate States of America) 2

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as neighbors, it was inevitable that Maryland would be pulled into any confrontations between the North and the South. Fate could also complicate matters. In July 1859, just as Baltimore residents were celebrating a safe and spirited Fourth of July, a man claiming to be Isaac Smith rented property southwest of Frederick, Maryland. It turned out that “Isaac Smith” was the abolitionist John Brown, and it was from Maryland that he and his sons launched their attack on the federal arsenal at Harpers Ferry. No one from Frederick had any idea what Brown was intending, and militia from Maryland assisted Col. Robert E. Lee in quelling the violence. Still, Marylanders were concerned that Brown had begun his operations in their state and equally concerned at the support that many Northerners displayed for Brown’s actions.2 Maryland before the War Maryland in 1860 occupied a tenuous social, political, cultural, and geographic location between the soon-­to-­be warring factions; many families could claim northern and southern kin, while local businesses traded freely throughout the North, South, and West. Maryland was the northernmost slave state; worse still, it surrounded Washington dc, the political if not physical heart of the Union.3 This fact alone ensured that Maryland had less control over its future than other border states. In addition, Maryland separated Pennsylvania from Virginia, two of the most committed states to their respective causes. No matter where their ultimate allegiance might land, Marylanders knew that their state would be ground under the tread of marching soldiers should war break out. The political situation in Maryland was tenuous even before the fighting began. Baltimore, the political heart of the state, had been in the iron grip of the nativist “Know-­Nothings,” otherwise known as the American Party. The Know-­Nothings came to power in Maryland through organized violence and maintained control of elections from 1854 until 1859. In letters to his sister, Daniel Thomas of Baltimore expressed his disgust with the rise to power of the Know-­Nothing Party and the violence associated with it. “Their principal occupation since the elecm a r y l a n d a n d t h e c o m i n g o f wa r

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3. A cartoon of June 30, 1860, uses the notorious “plug uglies” of Baltimore to mock the sectional animosity within the Democrat Party that led to two separate conventions in 1860. Vanity Fair, 30 June 1860.

tion,” he seethed, “has been to beat and maltreat every poor Dutchman or Irishman who is fool enough to go outside of his own door.”4 The riots surrounding the mayoral elections of 1856 proved Thomas right, as anti-­immigrant street gangs clashed with supporters of the Democratic Party. Sadly, the threat of violence remained up until 1860, making Baltimore a political tinderbox primed for another bloody eruption.5 The Democratic Party finally replaced the Know-­Nothings in Maryland, but this brought little stability to the situation. The approaching presidential election of 1860 led to divisions within the national Democratic Party (Northern and Southern Democrats ended up holding their own separate conventions). Some Southern Democrats then threw their support to the Constitutional Union Party and its candidate, John Bell of Tennessee. John Breckinridge (Southern Democrat) won the state of Maryland with John Bell a close second; President-­elect Lincoln came in last with a meager 2.5 percent of the vote. That same year the Maryland legislature voiced its commitment to join with the other southern states should the Union be dissolved, though they were not in session when South Carolina seceded, and Governor Thomas Holiday Hicks was hesitant to call a special session that might result in a secession vote. Hicks opposed abolition, yet was unwilling to break ties with the North, and his hesitation allowed matters to overwhelm the state and take the decision out of his hands. Later events would lead Lincoln to suspend the writ of habeas corpus in Maryland and move Union troops into the state, so when the secession vote was finally placed before the Maryland legislature, they elected to remain in the Union. Maryland was fractured in terms of economics as well as politics. The Eastern Shore was home to diverse crops with some slaveholding farms; southern Maryland (including Charles, Prince George’s, Calvert, St. Mary’s, and Ann Arundel Counties) still counted tobacco as a primary crop and used slaves more extensively; the western counties were the most diversified in terms of agrarian and manufacturing concerns. While Maryland’s agricultural production remained healthy, industry and mercantile efforts began to take hold due in part to the state’s m a r y l a n d a n d t h e c o m i n g o f wa r

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providential location within the nation. At midcentury, Baltimore shipyards and docks saw a surge in business: the Chesapeake & Ohio Canal reached western Maryland in 1850, and in 1853 the completion of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad linked the Ohio River and the Chesapeake Bay. Maryland was allied economically with both the South and the North; although there were many who saw themselves as “southern” in temperament, the majority of the state would prefer to maintain ties with the Union for economic reasons alone.6 Maryland legislators argued the advantages of staying with the Union or joining with the southern states, as each offered fiscal incentives in the midst of Maryland’s transitioning economy. Generally speaking, the Eastern Shore sided more with the South, while the western counties leaned toward the Union. Ironically, this transition was the result of a shift away from a slave-­ based economy, one of the primary causes of the war. In the first half of the 1800s, Maryland farmers drifted away from tobacco and took up less labor-­intensive crops. The lower demand for slaves led to increased manumission, so much so that by the start of the war Maryland’s slave population had dropped to half of its size in 1800, and the free black population was one of the largest in the country. Maryland had declined to participate in the Nashville Convention of 1850 where other slave states had gathered to discuss the growing hostility to slavery from the North. The Maryland legislature met on March 6, 1860, to finally address slavery and tentatively gave their support to the South, but that support was guarded; in historian William Evitts’s words, “Rhetoric was as far as Marylanders could bring themselves to go; the call to action was hesitant and hedged.”7 Slavery may have been a way of life in parts of Maryland, but it was not a defining characteristic of the state or a primary economic concern. In yet another ironic twist, Maryland would not be called upon to release its slaves in 1863 because it did not fall under the Emancipation Proclamation, which called for the liberation of slaves from those states under rebellion. As a result, the state would not implement emancipation until November 1864. “The actual state of feeling in Maryland was difficult to get at,” wrote journalist William W. Glenn just prior to secession. 6

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“Many of the staunchest supporters of the South at a later period were then really Union men . . . even the Secessionists per se were too timid to attempt to act without Virginia, and Virginia clung to the Union.”8 Yet while there were citizens passionately devoted to one cause or the other, many if not most Marylanders were primarily concerned with the material catastrophe that would fall upon their state should war break out. Merchants on both sides of the Potomac bemoaned restrictions on trade and were more anxious about their own commercial ventures than any grand political agendas. There was talk of forming a “middle confederacy” made up of the border states (including Delaware, Maryland, Kentucky, and Missouri), a buffer of sorts between those hardline states on either side with more of a stake in the war. Indeed, the possibility of an “armed neutrality” was debated well past the point where such concerns were even viable. Maryland would probably have preferred to follow Kentucky, which went Union in its elections but declared itself neutral in the conflict. This was never an option for Maryland.9 W. Wilkins Davis, a student at the College of St. James near Hagerstown, Maryland, released his nonpartisan frustrations in a letter to his father: “Can it be that northern men are so blind as calmly and indifferently to sacrifice their dearest interest for the attainment of an end so trivial? and can it be that southern men have been so carried away by high flown panegyrics on states’ rights, and vague declamations on northern aggression, as to allow their better judgement to be so utterly perverted?” Yet the sometimes precipitous acts of two anxious populations often triggered spontaneous allegiances from passionate young men; just five months later young Davis would proclaim himself “a straight out ‘Southern Rights’ man.”10 Sadly, Davis’s transformation was not unique. As talk of war intensified, emotions grew heated, loyalties solidified, and ideological differences deteriorated into interpersonal conflict and physical violence. Communities grew divided and families were split apart; Maryland would eventually supply regiments to both the Union and Confederate Armies.11 While Southern sympathizers in Maryland loudly lamented their treatment by fearful and autocratic Federals, Unionists in neighboring counties across m a r y l a n d a n d t h e c o m i n g o f wa r

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4. Rallies sprang up all over Maryland summoning partisans to steer the future course of their state. This September 1860 meeting in Frederick called upon “friends of the Union” to show their “detestation in which they hold Sectionalism.” David M. Rubenstein Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Duke University.

the border fared little better. In Loudon County, Virginia, purported Unionists were rounded up and sent to Leesburg to sign an oath of loyalty. Many Virginia Unionists fled to Maryland.12 Bargain Patriotism Whether focused on the immediate community or caught up in national debates, Civil War Americans were passionate in their beliefs. Years of debate had added weight to the already substantial issues dividing the country, so much so that previously distant issues grew increasingly personal. Robert Crist of Indiana was thoroughly disillusioned by the political wrangling he saw around him. A devout supporter of the John Bell–­William Everett ticket in the 1860 presidential elections, Crist was crushed when he learned that Bell had announced his support for the Confederacy. “I have lost all confidence in mankind,” he wrote his father, “a person dare not trust any one.”13 The political lines being drawn were no longer merely fodder for lively discussion. They were chasms that ruptured communities. Yet there was a naïveté underlying the passion. So long as no bullets were flying, it was easy to make bold claims and to see the issues as straightforward and readily defended or denounced. It was easier to talk about “right” and “wrong” than it was to do something about it. William Bullitt of Kentucky was firm in his beliefs but unwilling to even consider that the tensions would erupt in armed conflict. “Some are very much alarmed from a dread of civil war—­a ridiculous dread in my opinion,” he wrote his brother at the end of 1860. “If the South are firm and united—­The North dare not attempt such a thing—­The state of things give me no alarm—­nor regrets—­It is the first time in my life that I have seen the South take a manly course.”14 That the South’s “manly course” could indeed lead to violent bloodshed was not even a consideration for Bullitt. Sadly, such uninformed stubbornness also meant that neither side was willing to back down. “But reconciliation was impossible,” declaimed Rufus Cater of Louisiana to his cousin after having joined the Nineteenth Louisiana Infantry (csa) in 1861. “The seeds of discord and of hatred sown so long ago by factionists in northern soil had grown too deeply ever to m a r y l a n d a n d t h e c o m i n g o f wa r

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be eradicated. They were deaf alike to the voice of reason and the entreaties of justice.” While Cater’s diatribe echoes many such proclamations, his follow-­up thoughts ring with the tone of a zealot: “They recognized no God because they regarded not the laws of God and with curses and imprecations, with a madness unparalleled in the history of the world have rushed forward swearing to ‘wipe from the face of the Earth the southern People.’”15 Cater’s exuberance might be explained by his recent enlistment. Few could resist the allure of marching men in fancy uniforms, regimental bands playing stirring airs, flags waving, and crowds cheering—­in short, patriotic displays “made for good spectacle.”16 If nothing else, the glitz and glamour of military ceremonies was a known attraction for young recruits. “Blue cloth & brass buttons enlist more soldiers than patriotism if we are to judge from their actions,” observed the cynical Charles Haydon of Michigan.17 Not all were swept up in superficial displays, however. For some, the stirring sound of an anthem performed by a regimental band was inseparable from their patriotism; the music was a symbol of the country and cause for which they were volunteering to fight. The eighteen-­year-­old Albert Higley could barely contain his enthusiasm when he wrote his sister of the sights and sounds he witnessed after joining a regiment in Albany, New York: “Oh! Maria I wish you could be here and see us on Battallion drill once. . . . The band placed on a knoll which commands a view of the whole ground and playing to which every man keeps step. I tell you it looks fine. There was a hollow square formed and [General Clark] made us a speech inside of it the band then played the Star-­Spangled Banner and on the whole we had quite a patriotic time of it.” This was no passing fancy from a star-­struck young boy, as he explained to his sister. “Well the time has at last come that I have been so anxiously waiting and wishing for we are to be mustered in to the United States Service next Tuesday.” The music, the marching, the excitement he was feeling, the desire to serve: this was genuine patriotism as Higley understood it.18 For others, patriotic commitment was less boisterous and more restrained. Those who considered the true ramifications 10

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of a country at war with itself might see the gallant displays of patriotism as harbingers of the suffering to come. Opie Read recalled his first experience with the spectacle of patriotism in Gallatin, Tennessee, and how his naïve enthusiasm could not be curtailed by the voice of wisdom: The first Confederate flag reared in our town raised a shout of revengeful joy. To me it was not so attractive as the old flag, its stripes being too broad, but I heard the shouting that proclaimed it the emblem of new liberty and was willing to accept it. My school teacher, a [thoughtful] man, asked me whether I knew what it meant. “Music,” I answered as a band began to play; and into my ear he shouted, “Thoughtless boy, it means war, death and destruction.” . . . I couldn’t grasp the meaning of it all, but I wanted to fight to music. My combats had never been set to tune, and I longed to fire a gun with Dixie stirring in my soul.19

This was the bargain patriotism that music could inspire—­naïve, poetic, and deeply stirring so long as one cannot see the bloodstains it will leave behind. The Need for a National Anthem Read’s recollection speaks volumes for the power of music in times of war, a power that was particularly effective—­even necessary—­during the Civil War. “In many ways national symbols, customs, and ceremonies are the most potent and durable aspects of nationalism,” writes Anthony Smith in his study of nationalism. “They embody its basic concepts, making them visible and distinct for every member, communicating the tenets of an abstract ideology in palpable, concrete terms that evoke instant emotional responses from all strata of the community.”20 What had held the United States together prior to the war was more what historian John McCardell called a “set of experiences and goals” as opposed to a “universally shared culture,” nebulous or impractical ideologies, or bonds of proximity.21 To mobilize their countries for war, the Union and the Confederacy needed something toward which that patriotism could be directed; each country needed to become real in the minds m a r y l a n d a n d t h e c o m i n g o f wa r

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of its citizens. There are innumerable paths toward forming a national identity, but most of these were impractical for the Confederacy, as the new country needed something fast. The csa needed unity, cultural autonomy, and what Susan-Mary Grant called a “sectional barrier” against the established image of the Union and the social changes and ideologies promoted by their opponents from the North.22 Flags, songs, holidays, and other emblems of a country are experienced symbols that citizens can encounter on a daily basis. In Robert Wiebe’s words, such symbols “had tremendous emotive power not because they reasserted a government’s presence but because, in effect, they were its presence.”23 Wiebe also recognized that attachment to such symbols was optional. Voluntary bonding with a patriotic symbol requires a personal, sentimental, or emotional attachment, and it is here that the arts play a key role.24 A proven way to harness emotions and instill a sense of belonging among a population is through patriotic songs and national anthems. “Good” patriotic music—­that is, music that is popular and serves the country’s needs—­is necessary for unifying communities and helping both the soldier and civilian populations to keep faith with the cause. In fact, the “cause” is often communicated through patriotic songs. Anthems are a particularly focused form of patriotic music; the word anthem conveys official standing whether the song is acknowledged by the guiding organization or not. Generally speaking, national anthems are patriotic pieces in service to the state that symbolize a country’s unity as well as its mission or prevailing ideology. As such they establish a relationship between the state and the listener, as Branham and Hartnett have argued: “National songs therefore advance, implicitly or explicitly, at least two types of claims regarding national identity: claims about the nation and claims about the relationship between singer(s) and nation. These claims may be advanced textually (through lyrics), musically (through familiar melodies), or socially (through political or performative context) and usually entail rich combinations of all three.”25 Key to this definition is the need for the piece to be used as an anthem. A song’s lyric can profess patriotic sentiments, 12

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or its music may be deemed to be representative of a country, but these are ultimately less significant than the performance context. As Christopher Kelen observed: “As artifacts, anthems are symbolic shadows of nations, a kind of proof-­in-­ writing of a social abstraction’s reality; as events, anthems are the bringing-­to-­life of the abstract reality of nations.”26 The written lyric and musical notes may speak of patriotism, but they are inert objects. Only in performance does a piece of music realize its full potential. Performing a piece in a certain setting, with a certain intention, and having that piece repeatedly heard and accepted as having that intention; only then will it take on the status of a national anthem.27 In addition, singing a patriotic song is enacting patriotism. In times of crisis there comes a point where it is not sufficient merely to relay patriotic slogans in conversation; to be a true patriot one has to show one’s loyalty, to demonstrate that loyalty through actions, to perform an act of patriotism. Singing an anthem suits this requirement admirably.28 This performativity is what made patriotic songs such potent tools during the Civil War. Singing is a public display of personal belief and identity. A solo singer is saying, “This is who I am.” Add more singers to the performance, and the message becomes, “This is who we are.” By performing together the singers are forming a tiny community of shared purpose that expands to include the listeners.29 As Christopher Small argued, any musical performance is a ritual of social unification: “Members of a certain social group at a particular point in its history are using sounds that have been brought into certain kinds of relationships with one another as a focus for a ceremony in which the values—­which is to say, the concepts of what constitute right relationships—­of that group are explored, affirmed, and celebrated.”30 This innate power for congregating is amplified when the music’s goal is the unification of an even larger social body. For Benedict Anderson, singing national anthems creates “unisonance,” an “experience of simultaneity” that manifests the imagined community: “If we are aware that others are singing these songs precisely when and as we are, we have no idea who they may be, or even m a r y l a n d a n d t h e c o m i n g o f wa r

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where, out of earshot, they are singing. Nothing connects us all but imagined sound.”31 A successful anthem generates a sense of unity that may be at odds with reality. When singers and listeners accept a song as “national,” they believe that traditionally segregated groups are united regardless of whether this unity is transitory or even illusory. “Although many Others do not pertain to the mythic ‘we’ of a nation, a performance of a national anthem often leads people to overlook the differences that set them apart,” writes Robert Neustadt. “Overlooking the differences, people feel that they are part of the nation.”32 This tendency toward envisioning a unified republic is particularly apparent in times of crisis. For Maurizio Viroli, the result is a form of “intellectual hegemony” in cultural discourse that possesses a “unifying and mobilizing force of unique power.”33 By breaking from the Union, the Confederacy had given up access to much of America’s preexisting patriotic music. While there were attempts to retain control over pieces like “The Star-­Spangled Banner,” such efforts were doomed from the start. Confederate identity had to be new and different for it to succeed even as it retained many of the ideals that American patriotism had posited in previous decades.34 What the Confederacy needed was an anthem of its own. “The patriotic songs of the 1860s were expressions of loyalty and dedication, placed within the context of the Civil War,” argued historian Christian McWhirter, but this was not enough to ground the new nation. “An anthem was a broad nationalistic statement—­ defining a people’s goals and beliefs,” he continued. “Confederates sought such songs as they cast aside the traditional odes of the Union. They needed resounding numbers that embodied their new nation, both ideologically and emotionally.”35 This need had been apparent during the previous century; it gained urgency as the threat of secession approached, erupted as a major issue in 1860, and was then revisited throughout the rest of the Civil War.36 In an 1862 article titled “A National Hymn,” the Southern Illustrated News first denounced all existing anthems before calling for something new. “No nation was ever so destitute of a national hymn as the late United States,” 14

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the editors ranted. “With all its boasted learning, Yankeedom never could furnish one which proved acceptable alike to the high-­toned Southern gentleman and the sensation Yankee.” Secession provided the opportunity for Southerners to assert their moral and aesthetic superiority: “Now that we have separated forever from the fanatics of the North, it behooves the literary men of our native South to put themselves energetically to the work of furnishing our people with a national anthem.”37 There were plenty of Southerners who had similar feelings. The publisher J. Bloch Co. of Mobile, Alabama, printed a bold call on the title page of its sheet music: “The South must not only fight her own battles but sing her own songs & dance to music composed by her own children.”38 The call was answered; poems and lyrics appeared daily in Southern newspapers, and Southern publishers released an increasing number of stirring pieces.39 Indeed, the commercial music industry succeeded with astonishing results. “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” “Dixie’s Land,” and “The Southern Marseillaise” all attained a status and impact that was remarkable given the speed with which they were crafted and placed before the public. But despite the unstoppable popularity of works like “Dixie” or “The Bonnie Blue Flag”—­what Philip Bohlman would call “unofficial national anthems”—­many felt there was something lacking.40 Listeners were hesitant to embrace a national anthem that was unapologetically commercial, that is, recently composed by a professional songwriter and then mass-­produced by a major publisher. In 1861 A. E. Blackmar of New Orleans published one of the strongest contenders for national anthem, “God Save the South,” a song that remained popular long past the war and is still considered an unofficial anthem of the Confederacy. The lyrics were written by a Marylander, George Henry Miles, with music composed by Charles W. A. Ellerbrock, the man who would arrange the piano music for James Ryder Randall’s “My Maryland.” This song had the distinction of being the first Confederate piece of music published following the Ordinance of Secession and was reprinted countless times by publishers throughout the South. m a r y l a n d a n d t h e c o m i n g o f wa r

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God save the South, God save the South, Her altars and firesides, God save the South! Now that the war is nigh, now that we arm to die, Chanting our battle cry, “Freedom or death!” Chanting our battle cry, “Freedom or death!” God be our shield, at home or afield, Stretch Thine arm over us, strengthen and save. What tho’ they’re three to one, forward each sire and son, Strike till the war is won, strike to the grave! Strike till the war is won, strike to the grave!

Even a quick look at this piece reveals its suitability as an anthem, and it is somewhat a mystery why it never received official sanction. With short lines that are easy to remember, repetitious lyrics and a clear refrain, and a blatant reliance on divine sanction, this lyric was inspirational and easy to sing by a soloist or in a group. The musical setting could easily pass as a Protestant hymn given its measured, almost ponderous tread, a few dotted rhythms that most martial music requires, repeated short themes that build to a climax, and an expansive melody that emulates the overall gesture if not the exact shape of the successful “My Country, ’Tis of Thee” (which itself had borrowed the melody from England’s “God Save the Queen”). Perhaps it was this hymnlike stodginess that eventually worked against it. Hymns are fine to sing in church or at formal events, but less useful when marching or sitting around a campfire or parlor piano. The Confederacy needed an anthem that could reach as many people as possible, true, but it would help if the piece could function in as many situations as possible. Versatility and adaptability were key factors in the success and failure of Civil War songs; one need only look as far as “John Brown’s Body” / “Battle Hymn of the Republic” to see the value in musical flexibility. The South was not alone in its quest for a new national anthem. The Committee for a New National Hymn was organized in May 1861, and it offered a prize of $500 for a new anthem for the United States. The response was overwhelming; members were forced to examine more than 1,200 submissions of debatable merit. On August 9 the committee members 16

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5. The melodramatic cover to C. T. De Cœniél’s setting of George H. Miles’s moralistic ode to the Confederacy not only capitalized on romantic chivalry but also made a bid to be the new “National Confederate Anthem.” Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division, Cartoon Prints, American Collection.

threw up their hands and announced that no submissions were worthy of the prize.41 In a mission statement published in the New York Times, the committee first dismissed “Yankee Doodle,” “Hail Columbia,” and “The Star-­Spangled Banner” for various reasons (“The Star-­Spangled Banner,” for example, was hard to sing). Such tunes might have worked for previous generations, but with the current hardships facing the country, the committee felt it was appropriate that they take a hand in what before had been left to “inspiration.” They set forth criteria for a successful anthem, and while the committee’s prose threatened to be as poetic as the texts they were soliciting (the lyric, for example, must be “brief and nervous, the sentiment glowing and lively”), they agreed that the new anthem must be simple and that “fancy” or “high finish” should be avoided. An anthem, they rightly concluded, must be easy for everyone to sing. One curious suggestion was that the new anthem might use a preexisting tune, though they cautioned against choosing “commonplace” music or a piece “which already has fixed associations.”42 Two weeks later the Musical World and Musical Review translated the committee’s somewhat flowery guidelines into more pragmatic terms: 1. The Hymn is to be purely patriotic, adapted to the whole country—­not a war song, or only appropriate to the present moment. 2. It must consist of not less than sixteen lines, and is not to exceed forty, exclusive of a chorus or burden, which is essential. 3. It should be of the simplest form and most marked rhythm; the words easy to being retained by the popular memory, and the melody and harmony such as it may be readily sung by ordinary voices.43 So the piece should be timeless and universal, it should have a repeated refrain and not be too long, the text should be comparatively simple, and the tune should be easy to sing. 18

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These guidelines were relatively clear and arguably effective, and they probably made the task appear straightforward. But as Brander Matthews observed when looking back on the songs of the Civil War, a “national hymn is one of the things which cannot be made to order.”44 Unfortunately for many would-­be songwriters, a successful anthem had to be likeable, not just noble in sentiment or based on a popular tune. This was the problem facing the Confederacy with Daniel Decatur Emmett’s minstrel tune “Dixie’s Land.” This minstrel song satisfied the artistic criteria listed above, but it was never intended to be patriotic. It achieved popularity as a piece of music first, and only later was it adopted as an anthem. This explains why Union musician Christian Wolfram of Indiana could casually mention his band playing “Dixie,” a tune “which is always welcome and never wears out.”45 Consider Alansa Rounds Sterret’s first encounter with Emmett’s song in February 1861: “Frank sent me ‘Dixie.’ Charmed with song, words and all. Sung and played for Uncle Jed, Aunt Sara and everybody—­all delighted.”46 This was musical delight, not patriotic enthusiasm. Amanda Edmonds of Virginia summed it up best when she claimed that “‘Dixie’ is the national and favorite air.”47 Her words could be rearranged to say that “Dixie” was the national air because it was the favorite air. “Any attempt to nationalize either a song or a composer is—­with a few obvious exceptions—­doomed to failure,” concluded Richard Harwell. “The Confederates liked the music which suited their tastes, no matter what its origin.”48 National anthems were but one minor topic of concern in 1860. There were enormous decisions facing the nation, which is why Tuesday, November 6, proved to be one of the most anxious days in American history. The presidential election was hotly debated in newspapers, public events, and on street corners throughout the country with a passion not seen in recent memory. A stunning 81 percent of the country showed up at the polls. Abraham Lincoln won with 180 electoral votes; the Democratic Party paid dearly for splitting their support between Southerner John C. Breckinridge (a distant second with 72) and Northerner Stephen Douglas (12 electoral votes.) On the m a r y l a n d a n d t h e c o m i n g o f wa r

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other hand, Lincoln managed to secure less than 40 percent of the popular vote. On December 20, 1860, South Carolina seceded from the Union. Six days later Maj. Robert Anderson shifted his Union troops to the garrison at Ft. Sumter off the coast of Charleston; local officials demanded that Anderson leave and that the fort be given over to the state, requests that Washington ignored. Attempts to resupply the garrison met with cannon fire from the shore, and all eyes watched to see if those cannon might be turned on the soldiers in the fort. War, it seemed, was inevitable. Patriotism, previously a safe platform for harmless posturing, now bent under the weight of impending bloodshed.

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Spring 1861 The Pratt Street Riot and the Birth of a Song

“Among the significant customs of Old England at the inauguration of the birth of the New Year is the ringing out of the old and the ringing in of the New Year,” observed the New York Herald on January 1, 1861. The editors were pleased to see that the parish of Trinity Church in New York City continued this tradition as 1860 came to a close. While these chimes normally performed sacred music throughout the year, on New Year’s Day “greater latitude is allowed, and the quiet of midnight is agreeably broken by the ringing of our most popular, national, patriotic and favorite domestic airs.” With the dawning of 1861, the chimes at Trinity Church performed “Hail Columbia,” “Yankee Doodle,” operatic excerpts, and some popular songs.1 In previous years such an article would have been inconspicuous, nothing more than a cheerful description of a pleasant moment in the life of a bustling city. But as 1860 passed into 1861, this simple account held assumptions that might be offensive to some readers, since there were people in the city—­and many across the country—­who would not find “Hail Columbia” and “Yankee Doodle” to be “our” most popular national or patriotic airs. In fact, there were some who would take offense at a performance of these pieces, especially coming from a church spire. “National airs” presume the existence of a nation, and this New Year’s Day saw two countries competing for that honor. The previous month South Carolina had seceded from the Union, and other states quickly followed. First came Mississippi (January 9), then Florida (January 10), Alabama (January 11), Georgia (January 19), and Louisiana (January 26).2 On February 4 representatives from these six states met in Montgomery, Ala-

bama, to establish the new Confederate States of America, and a provisional constitution was drafted by February 8. Ten days later, on the steps of the capitol, Jefferson Davis of Mississippi was inaugurated as the Confederacy’s first president, with Alexander H. Stevens of Georgia as vice president. After his address, a local band struck up an arrangement of the popular tune “Dixie’s Land,” and the minstrel tune-­turned-­march began its reign as the new anthem of the fledgling country. On the other side of the Mason-­Dixon line, Lincoln took the oath of office on March 4, 1861, becoming the sixteenth president of the United States. By the time he was sworn into office, seven states were no longer part of his country. While the strains of “Dixie” had welcomed Jefferson Davis to his new role, it was “Hail to the Chief” that announced Lincoln’s presidency as he entered the Union Ball later that evening. “Dixie,” it must be noted, was used as part of the Republican campaign that placed Lincoln in office and remained a part of his musical environment for his entire time in Washington.3 The insoluble struggle between musical popularity and patriotism was apparent from the first days of the war. The political situation continued to unravel following Lincoln’s inauguration, and the country watched closely to see what the remaining southern states would do. The issue was brought to fever pitch on April 11 off the coast of South Carolina, when Governor Francis Wilkinson Pickens had demanded that Fort Sumter be surrendered to his state, a cheeky request that President James Buchanan had refused. As tension continued to escalate, Gen. P. G. T. Beauregard issued an ultimatum to Maj. Robert Anderson, who commanded the troops inside the fort. This demand was likewise rejected, and at 4:30 a.m., April 12, the guns around Charleston opened fire on the U.S. fort. Two days later Anderson surrendered and marched out of the fort to the sound of “Yankee Doodle.” On April 17, Virginia seceded, followed by Arkansas (May 6), North Carolina (May 20), and Tennessee (June 8). On April 15, three days after the firing on Fort Sumter, a pro-­ Union audience in Chicago heard the popular singers Frank and Julius Lombard perform “The First Gun Is Fired” (subti22

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tled “May God Protect the Right”). This newly written song had just been printed the previous day by one of America’s leading songwriters and publishers, George F. Root. Copies of the sheet music were distributed for free at the rally, and the song became the first of many hits for the Chicago publisher. Clearly the music industry stood poised to join the country in war.4 Maryland and Divided Loyalties As more states seceded, the combustibility already latent in the border states rose to the surface. The nested loyalties that most Americans displayed—­from town, to state, to country—­were no longer in step, leaving neighbors at odds with each other.5 While nationwide issues were debated in small rural communities as much as they were in major urban areas, it was those issues that directly impacted the neighborhood that dominated. Nationalistic rhetoric was pervasive, but it did not supersede concerns of the hometown and state. This was particularly true in the border states, and it was the root of much dissent to come. The outbreak of war triggered a constitutional crisis in the Commonwealth of Virginia when the northwestern counties used the secession vote as justification for forming their own state (loyal to the Union) while at the same time redressing long-­held economic and political inequities.6 In Missouri, pro-­ Southern governor Clairborne Fox Jackson convened a constitutional convention in early 1861 that, much to his surprise, voted to remain with the Union. Ironically, the elected leader of the convention was Sterling Price, who would eventually join the officer corps of the Confederate Army. Wary Unionists in St. Louis, Missouri, formed a secret “Committee of Safety” to oppose the mechanizations of their secessionist governor while armed companies known as “Wide Awakes” began drilling at night at local factories and homes.7 Bandsman Thomas Phillip of the Forty-­First Ohio found Union supporters as well as secessionists on his way through Maysville, Kentucky, in November 1861. “Dear me how strong is the contrast of Union Sentiment on the Banks of the La Belle Rivere [Ohio River],” he noted in his diary, “see the fluttering handkerchiefs of our better halfs and hear the shouting hurspring 1861

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ras of the men and the boys as we pass along.” While happy to see such encouragement, Phillip could not help but see some patriotic displays as foreshadowing the difficulties yet to come: “A loyal U[nion] Family on the Ky Side did salute us most heartily with the U. flag up side down,” he observed, “not an unfit emblem of Old Ky’s distress in the present struggle.”8 Maria Holyoke wrote her mother and sister about trauma that comes from the clash of personal loyalties she witnessed in Louisville. “Well these are heart-­breaking times, I don’t suppose you feel or realize them as we do, surrounded as we are by secessionists.” Yet Maria’s patriotic landscape was not limited to the Union and Confederacy. Like many living in border states, she separated the issue of slavery from that of the preservation of the Union. “However you are in the midst of that other class of traitors, ‘the abolitionists,’ which is bad enough,” she consoled her mother. Yet no matter the breach of faith, Maria felt little sympathy for those fomenting rebellion, and she particularly reviled those who violated the sacred symbols of her country. “But I trust all traitors will in the end be punished and that ‘our flag’ will again wave over a prosperous and happy country. How would it make you feel to see a young lady tear the American flag from its staff and wipe her feet on it, or have a man snatch one from the hands of a child and tear it in rags.” Curiously, her attachment to patriotic symbols seemed less firm when it came to music. In a follow-­up letter she added: “I suppose you have heard ‘Dixie.’ The melody is very bewitching.” While Maria’s musical allegiances might be up for grabs, her homegrown ethics were not. To her credit, Maria’s desire for vengeance did not blind her to the personal tragedy that a civil war generates. “How this state of things breaks up the family ties, carrying sorrow to so many happy homes.”9 The same clash of loyalties tormented Maryland, and the state’s volatile ambiguity was a major concern for both the North and the South. Journalists from both sides speculated on the state’s loyalty, and private citizens anxiously watched to see where Maryland would commit. While there was plenty of sympathy for secession in Maryland, the state as a whole was in no position to decide. The populace, as well as the executive branch, 24

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were split by strong feelings on both sides. Generally speaking, the Maryland press was not happy when Lincoln was elected, though this was due partly to Southern sympathies and partly for fear of the dissolution of the Union.10 The state’s muddled status may have found a paragon in John C. Campbell of Cambridge, Maryland. Campbell had been a captain with the ill-­fated First Eastern Shore Maryland Volunteers. When his company was disbanded, he tried but failed to recruit additional companies. Then in January 1862, Campbell suddenly slipped down to Richmond and enlisted in the Second Maryland Infantry (csa). He served with the Confederate Army for the rest of the war.11 Writing from her home in Virginia, Judith Brockenbrough McGuire’s outcry to her diary in May 1861 encapsulated much of the impassioned rhetoric and sociopolitical contradictions that enveloped any discussion of Maryland’s fragile position: I feel so much for the Southerners of Maryland; I am afraid they are doomed to persecution, but it does seem so absurd in Maryland and Kentucky to talk of armed neutrality in the present state of the country! Let States, like individuals, be independent—­be something or nothing. I believe that the very best people of both States are with us, but are held back by stern necessity. Oh that they could burst the bonds that bind them, and speak and act like freemen! The Lord reigneth; to Him only can we turn, and humbly pray that He may see fit to say to the troubled waves, “Peace, be still!”12

Regional patriotism seems to be her ideal when she pleads for “States” to be independent. While her use of the object pronoun “us” acknowledges the Confederacy, McGuire implies that the state is the primary political entity. At the same time, cultural nationalism infuses her rhetoric when she locates “Southerners” (“the very best people”) as a distinct people within the state’s population. Yet even as she expresses her sympathy, she obliquely chides these same people for not rising up and joining the Confederacy. McGuire did not accept neutrality as an option. Union advocates proselytized with equal passion. In June 1861 Dr. Samuel A. Harrison from Talbot County, in the heart of the spring 1861

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Eastern Shore of Maryland, regaled his journal with summaries of his neighbors’ political inclinations. He detailed arguments for and against the rebellion and berated “Rebels” as well as recalcitrant Unionists whom he saw as unwilling to toe the line. Like McGuire, Harrison held no sympathy for those unwilling to make a stand. In questioning Maryland congressman Henry May’s true loyalties, Harrison declared: “At these times silence is assent to treason, equivocation worse than avowed rebellion.”13 Maryland was a magnet for controversy even as the state tried to sort out its muddled loyalties. The tension was exaggerated when Lincoln’s head of security, Allan Pinkerton, uncovered evidence of a plot to assassinate the president-­elect as he passed through Baltimore on his way to the inauguration. Whether such a plot was true or not remains unclear, but Pinkerton eventually convinced Lincoln of the seriousness of the threat. Abandoning his previous schedule, Lincoln quietly passed through Baltimore in the middle of the night. The political fallout of Lincoln’s secretive trip was disastrous. Newspapers railed against what was deemed to be the cowardly behavior of the new president, and urban myths erupted throughout the country, including accusations that Lincoln wore disguises as he skulked through the city. Whether or not there was a plot, the mood in Baltimore was anything but cordial; the rest of the president’s party, including his family, found a cold reception as they passed through the city. In an effort to dispel apprehensions, Robert Lincoln led the party in singing “The Star-­Spangled Banner” as their train entered the state.14 Generally speaking, by the end of 1860 a portion of the Maryland legislature was leaning toward secession, while Governor Thomas Holliday Hicks was for remaining with the Union. Since Hicks would not convene a formal convention to consider secession, a popular convention gathered in Baltimore with meetings in January, February, and March, though little of substance was decided. Baltimore lawyer Daniel Thomas was optimistic regarding the statewide secession convention held on February 18, 1861. “At one time I thought we were sold to the North, but the feeling which has manifested itself here recently makes me hope everything is not lost yet,” he wrote his sister. “Nearly 26

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everybody here has given up all hope of Compromise, and the only question is, whose cause shall Maryland embrace, that of the North or that of the South.” For Thomas, the answer was clear: “I am satisfied that not only our sympathies and honor but also our material interests require us to side with the South. If Maryland does go North I for one go South.”15 In a move thought to garner support from the state, Lincoln appointed Montgomery Blair of Maryland to be his postmaster general on March 5. A strong Unionist presence in tandem with a Southern coalition uncomfortable with dissolution was enough to block any firm moves toward secession. Then on April 22, after relentless pressure from secession-­minded politicians and citizens, Governor Hicks called a special session of the general assembly to be held in Frederick (home to a strong loyalist community). Resolutions for secession were soundly defeated, though the delegates managed to agree on sending a commission to protest Lincoln’s heavy-­handed treatment of the state.16 Plenty of Marylanders were not fond of either the North or the South. Mary Patterson of Baltimore wrote to her son, a student at Princeton College, to share the family’s view of the escalating hostilities. “Your uncle David wishes that both Lincoln and the secession governments were at the bottom of the Red Sea,” she admitted, though her own feelings were less belligerent. “We ought to have a convention of all the States to separate peaceably, if we must separate at all. I do not want to go with the extreme South or North either.” As with so many nineteenth-­century Americans, Mary’s loyalty was to her state, so if Maryland must fight, it must be for the state’s benefit, not that of either nation. In response to Lincoln’s call for troops, she said clearly: “I would be glad if Maryland would not contribute one [soldier] for either North or South, unless invaded herself.” Yet issues of loyalty paled in the face of the suffering to come. “This is a most unnatural war, brother fighting against brother,” she sadly concluded. “May God help us in this our extremity.”17 Voices of reason seemed in the minority, however, as the fires of secession and the firm grip of Union challenged each other in the streets of America’s cities. Violence seemed inevitaspring 1861

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ble, and young men across the country were quick to join local paramilitary groups, either to prepare for the war to come or in anticipation of invasions from outside their states. Many Maryland counties were quick to form militia companies; Charles County alone produced four companies who were prepared to fight the “invading” federal troops.18 Eighteen-­year-­old Jonathan Thomas Scharf of Baltimore was so inspired that he rejected family and friends to join the Confederate Army. Twice he tried to leave home but was stopped by his father, who “threatened” Scharf with “personal violence” should he try again. But Scharf was adamant. “I did not like the white negroes, The North, The Yankees, etc., etc. I can not express my hate for them,” he wrote in his diary. “My father was a Union man and so was all my relations, and most of my friends, and the more I would see them the more I would hate them.” Scharf’s father tried hard to dissuade him, but the young man’s feelings were too firm to be swayed: “I thought it was my duty and the duty of all young men with southern feelings to join her standard and help his country out of the struggle she had gotten herself into. I was determined to do or die and I left home and cast my lot with the South and will stand by her to the last and I do not intend to go home until we gain our Independence as we wish it.”19 Scharf’s proclaimed hatred and his willingness “to do or die” reveals a chilling shift from risk-­ free patriotism to a loyalty grounded in rancor and violence. The Pratt Street Riot Things finally came to a head in the third week of April. On Monday the 15th, President Lincoln called upon states to provide regiments of volunteers totaling 75,000 to bolster the Union Army. Tennessee, Kentucky, and Arkansas flat out refused the request; Governor Hicks traveled to Washington and secured a promise from the administration that any Maryland troops called up would not be asked to leave their state. Many Marylanders were incensed by the call, and Baltimoreans in particular were alarmed, since their city was a hub for railways, and large numbers of Union troops were marching down their streets. In a stunning act of hubris, Baltimore mayor George W. Brown 28

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telegraphed President Lincoln that his citizens were “exasperated to the highest degree by the passage of troops” and were “universally decided in the opinion that no more should be ordered to come.” Brown professed to have done all that he could to contain the volatile situation, but he feared the violence to come should more Union troops pass through his city: “If they should attempt it the responsibility for the bloodshed will not rest upon me.”20 The tension finally erupted on Friday, April 19, when soldiers of the Sixth Massachusetts Infantry were attacked by Baltimore civilians as the regiment transferred stations to catch a train to Washington dc. Piles of rubble and uprooted tracks had forced the Federals to march down Pratt Street where pro-­Confederate mobs eventually surrounded the recruits, throwing bricks and firing shots until the soldiers retaliated with shots of their own. “I was on Pratt St yesterday when the conflict betwixt the rioters and the Northern soldiers took place,” wrote Judge Henry Stump to his wife. “The soldiers bore the pelting of the pitiless mob for a long time under a full trot, & more than three of them were knocked & shot down, before they returned the assaults. Then they fired about twenty five shots which killed several of their assailants and dispersed them. I saw three of the soldiers dead & dying being about half a square from the scene of the uproar.”21 Four Massachusetts soldiers and twelve civilians were killed by the time the soldiers reached safety. The crowd then turned on Pennsylvania volunteers who had been stranded behind the Massachusetts men, and casualties mounted. Looting and violence continued for a few days before the city returned to some semblance of order.22 Ernest Howard’s youthful memory of that bloody day leaves little doubt that the mood of the Baltimore crowd—­what he called a “vociferous army of howling wolves”–­was primed for violence. The brewing savagery was linked to what Howard saw as patriotism: “Everybody seemed full of patriotic fire, and warlike sentiment ran high. Knots of men some of them carrying guns and pistols hurried through the streets, and gave rent to loud expressions of vengeance against the ‘Northern Scum.’”23 Not everyone in the streets that day backed the attack on the spring 1861

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troops or even supported the Confederacy. Some Baltimore men who turned up for the muster on April 12 were opposed to the violence and disobeyed orders to impede the passage of Union troops through the city.24 Martial music played a small but revealing part in the Baltimore riots. The Sixth Massachusetts had a band with them when they attempted to march through the city, and as the melee grew, the musicians dropped their instruments and ran for cover. The poor bandsmen ended up hiding until rescued by reinforcing Union troops.25 The Thirty-­Third New York Infantry, one of the first regiments to pass through Baltimore after the riots, boldly marched “with their colors flying and Band playing,” and there is little doubt what music the New Yorkers provided to the recalcitrant citizens of Baltimore.26 Music had already gained significant symbolic and visceral power even this early in the war. Northern and Southern soldiers and civilians battled with music just as they had fought with rocks and bullets. Joseph Howland of the Sixteenth New York saw how music became part of the symbolic violence surrounding the riot. He described how his regiment marched through Baltimore “without music and with colors furled, in perfect silence.” The citizens reciprocated with silence of their own as well as hostile glares for the Yankee invaders, until a Confederate sympathizer broke the standoff. According to Howland: “Once a rough fellow in the crowd (a city official) asked tauntingly, ‘Where’s your music?’ and Colonel Davies, gritting his teeth, replied, ‘In our cartridge boxes!’”27 Sadly, both soldiers and civilians easily grasped the metaphoric transition from the music of bands to the “music” of bullets. Responses to the Pratt Street Riot were immediate and fervent throughout the country.28 Loyal Unionists lashed out with rabid hostility: “If I had ten thousand men under my command I would shell the city of Baltimore & not leave one stone upon another before I would allow them to treat the United States troops in such a manner,” wrote Horace Hooker to his wife in Rochester, New York. “Go around the city—­forsooth—­I would go through it or over it.”29 Yet despite the conspicuous political implications of the riot, the resulting implications for 30

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national loyalty were anything but clear. Hooker’s tirade was aimed at Baltimoreans, not Marylanders; his regionalistic outlook allowed for a distinction between those in a major urban area and those from the country. And while Baltimore newspapers tended toward Southern sympathies, the city itself was by no means united. Baltimore, the fourth largest city in the United States at the time, was a cauldron of indistinct and conflicting attitudes and populations. Here the nation’s largest population of free blacks and large numbers of recent immigrants coexisted with some of the country’s wealthiest citizens. A modern commercial and industrial energy hid behind a gloss of southern courtliness. The Pratt Street Riot provided rich material for effusive rhetoric, and ringleaders of either political inclination were quick to use the tragedy to gather support. Marshal Kane, chief of police in Baltimore, wired Southern activist Bradley Johnson demanding armed support from Frederick. “Streets red with Maryland blood!” shrieked the telegram. “We will fight them and whip them, or die.”30 The overwrought dispatch used the violence as both a justification for its demands as well as a template for its style. The gap between prose and poetry faded in the face of such intense passion; the rhetoric of bloody vengeance was fast becoming a standard of discourse. Daniel Thomas, a member of the local militia assigned to guard the armory, treated the riot and its aftermath almost as if it were a Shakespearean history. Impressed by the fervor by which pro-­Confederate men rallied, Thomas willfully proclaimed that the “first blood shed in our streets settled the vexed question and the Union cause is dead in Maryland.” American history was drawn in to defend the rioters’ actions: “How singular it is that this affair, so similar an incident to the battle of Lexington, should have happened on the anniversary of that battle.” A few weeks later Thomas’s use of artistic rhetoric turned explicit. “This morning a new act in the Great Drama was performed,” he grumbled after learning of the suspension of the writ of habeas corpus in Maryland. The lawyer in Thomas foresaw a literal and symbolic clash between the judicial and executive arms of the government, “the results of which of course spring 1861

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6. James Ryder Randall during the war. Francis Trevelyan Miller, The Photographic History of the Civil War, vol. 9 (New York: Review of Reviews, 1911).

will be the downfall of the former under the military power of the latter, & then what becomes of the Star Spangled Banner when one of the three arms of Government of which the three colors is the emblem is trodden out of existence by the armed heel of one of the other two.”31 Thomas’s fiery monologue is intriguing on a number of levels; his Romantic language portrayed the events surrounding the riot almost as if they were an artistic production, and he infused his oratory with potent symbology and history. In so doing Thomas foreshadowed the lyrical content and intent of the poem “My Maryland” and the would-­be anthem soon to come. The Song’s Creation News of the Baltimore rioting swept through the North and South with incendiary effect. Northerners were shocked and enraged by the bloody attack while Southerners praised the courage of the Baltimoreans. The Union could not help but question Maryland’s loyalty while the South gleefully awaited the state’s entry into the Confederacy. James R. Randall was a loyal Marylander teaching English literature at Poydras College in Louisiana in 1862. “I was 22 years old, full of poetry and romance,” he recalled many years later, “disturbed by the storms prophetic of the war to come.” Randall was stunned and angered by the news of the violence on Baltimore’s streets, especially since he had mistakenly heard that a friend of his had been killed in the course of the riot.32 That night, “after a vain effort to sleep, I rose from my bed, lit a candle, grasped writing material and, with a soul kindled into song, wrote the first verses of ‘My Maryland’!” The next morning he read the new poem to his students, who “applauded it vehemently,” so he sent it to the local newspaper. On May 5, 1861, the poem was published in the New Orleans Sunday Delta.33 Other Southern newspapers were quick to reprint the ardent verses, and on May 31, 1861, the South introduced “My Maryland” to the people of Baltimore with the following heading: “We have been respectfully requested to republish the following verses, which for some time past have been going the rounds of the Southern papers, as an indication of the sympathy felt spring 1861

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7 & 8. Jennie (left) and Hetty Cary, the belles of Baltimore who joined Randall’s poem to a popular college glee to create one of the Confederacy’s enduring anthems. Courtesy of the Maryland Historical Society, pp249.04, mc2382-­a .

for our city and State by the people of the south.”34 Broadsides of the volatile poem quickly blanketed the city. The despot’s heel is on thy shore, Maryland! His touch is at thy temple door, Maryland! Avenge the patriotic gore That flecked the streets of Baltimore, And be the battle queen of yore, Maryland, my Maryland! Hark to an wand’ring son’s appeal, Maryland! My mother State, to thee I kneel, Maryland! For life and death, for woe and weal, Thy peerless chivalry reveal, And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, Maryland, my Maryland! Thou wilt not cower in the dust, Maryland! Thy beaming sword shall never rust, Maryland! Remember Carroll’s sacred trust, Remember Howard’s warlike thrust,—­ And all thy slumberers with the just, Maryland, my Maryland! Come! ’tis the red dawn of the day, Maryland! Come with thy panoplied array, Maryland! With Ringgold’s spirit for the fray, With Watson’s blood at Monterey, With fearless Lowe and dashing May, Maryland, my Maryland!35 Come! for thy shield is bright and strong, 36

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Maryland! Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, Maryland! Come! to thine own heroic throng Stalking with Liberty along, And give a new Key to thy song, Maryland, my Maryland! Dear Mother! burst the tyrant’s chain, Maryland! Virginia should not call in vain, Maryland! She meets her sisters on the plain—­ “Sic semper!” ’tis the proud refrain That baffles minions back amain, Maryland, Arise in majesty again, Maryland, my Maryland! I see the blush upon thy cheek, Maryland! For thou wast ever bravely meek, Maryland! But lo! there surges forth a shriek From hill to hill, from creek to creek—­ Potomac calls to Chesapeake, Maryland, my Maryland! Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, Maryland! Thou wilt not crook to his control, Maryland! Better the fire upon thee roll, Better the blade, the shot, the bowl, Than crucifixion of the soul, Maryland, my Maryland! I hear the distant thunder-­hum, Maryland! The Old Line’s bugle, fife and drum, spring 1861

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Maryland! She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb—­ Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum! She breathes! she burns! she’ll come! she’ll come! Maryland, my Maryland!

The fiery poem was an instant hit in Baltimore, and as was often the case, broadsides were immediately printed that suggested a melody to which the words could be sung.36 In this case it was “Ma Normandie,” a recently composed French anthem, but this pairing would not last for long.37 Among those who were captivated by the new poem were the sisters Jennie and Hetty Cary of Baltimore. Avid supporters of the Confederacy, the Carys were members of the Monument Street Girls (also known as the Brown Veil Club), a group of pro-­Southern young ladies who sewed uniforms for local men in the Confederate Army. Hetty Cary recalled the fateful day that Randall’s poem entered their circle: The glee club was to hold its meeting in our parlors one evening early in June, and my sister, Miss Jennie Cary, being the only musical member of the family, had charge of the programme on the occasion. With a schoolgirl’s eagerness to score a success, she resolved to secure some new and ardent expression of feelings that by this time were wrought up to the point of explosion. In vain she searched through her stock of songs and airs—­nothing seemed intense enough to suit her. Aroused by her tone of despair, I came to the rescue with the suggestion that she should adapt the words of “Maryland, my Maryland,” which had been constantly on my lips since the appearance of the lyric a few days before in the South. I produced the paper and began declaiming the verses. “Lauriger Horatius!” she exclaimed, and in a flash the immortal song found voice in the stirring air so perfectly adapted to it. That night, when her contralto voice rang out the stanzas, the refrain rolled forth from every throat present without pause or preparation; and the enthusiasm communicated itself with such effect to a crowd assembled beneath our open windows as to endanger seriously the liberties of the party.38 38

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9. Members of the Brown Veil Club (also known as the Monument Street Girls) of Baltimore were ardent supporters of the Confederacy and sewed uniforms for its soldiers. Standing left to right: Henrietta Penniman Carrington, Rebecca Lloyd Nicholson; seated: Sophia Sargeant, Alice Wright, Rebecca Gordon, and Ida Winn. Courtesy of the Maryland Historical Society, gpvf.

As luck would have it, the Carys had been introduced to this college song by Burton Harrison, a Yale student who would go on to marry their cousin Constance Cary. Soon thereafter another member of the group, Rebecca Lloyd Nicholson, committed herself to having the piece published even though such an act could result in her arrest for sedition. In an instance of extreme irony, Rebecca was the granddaughter of Joseph Hopper Nicholson, the man who had suggested the tune “Anacreon in Heaven” to his brother-­in-­law Francis Scott Key as a suitable melody for the recently composed poem “Defence of spring 1861

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Fort McHenry.” Nicholson’s suggested music and Key’s poem together would become “The Star-­Spangled Banner.” The now-­ titled “Maryland, My Maryland” was quickly published by Miller & Beacham of Baltimore and immediately circulated throughout the South; within the next year it would be reprinted and distributed by publishers in New Orleans, Charleston, Macon, Mobile, Atlanta, Augusta, Baton Rouge, Wilmington, Savannah, and Memphis. Jennie and Hetty were notorious for their beauty as well as for their brazen support of the Confederacy. On one occasion Hetty is said to have stood at her window and waved a Confederate flag as a troop of Union soldiers marched by. When asked if she should be arrested, the Federal officer in charge replied, “No: she is beautiful enough to do as she —­pleases.”39 At the end of June 1861 Jennie and Hetty volunteered to smuggle materials (including quinine hidden in children’s dolls) across the Potomac to Maryland troops fighting for the Confederacy.40 As tensions in Baltimore mounted and the Cary sisters’ notoriety grew, Hetty and Jennie relocated to Richmond, Virginia, where they lived with their cousin Constance, and the trio of resolute young ladies soon became known as the “Cary Invincibles.”41 But the Carys left a musical legacy before leaving their home state, a new song that would soon resonate “from hill to hill, from creek to creek,” throughout their beloved Maryland and the entire South. Maryland after the Riot The day following the Pratt Street Riot, Confederate flags were flown along Baltimore streets, and according to one witness, the tune “Dixie” made an appearance as well.42 Music was a dangerous accelerant in such a charged atmosphere, and officials from both sides acknowledged its power. Isaac Trimble, a West Point graduate and colonel in the Maryland militia, was a Southern sympathizer who was placed in charge of “associations” (impromptu militia opposed to the Union) by Commissioner Charles Howard and the Board of Police. While Howard and Trimble both leaned toward the Confederacy, neither wanted to see violence erupt on the streets of Baltimore. Toward that end, 40

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Howard communicated to Trimble the need to maintain peace, which included curtailing musical performances that might add fuel to the fire. Howard suggested that Trimble “please direct the Associations under your command to refrain at this present juncture from using martial music in the streets. The sound of a drum at once collects crowds, and gives rise to the circulation of all sorts of rumours, calculated to produce unnecessary and mischievous excitement.”43 Union leaders were likewise sensitive to the power of music and other symbols. Gen. Benjamin Butler, a self-­aggrandizing political officer with little concern for civilian rights, was in charge of the Massachusetts militia that included the unfortunate Sixth Infantry, which had been caught on the streets of Baltimore. Upon hearing of the riot, Butler immediately set out with a second regiment (Eighth Massachusetts Infantry) and arrived in Annapolis the next day with all the vengeance his fierce Union loyalties could produce. He threatened to arrest legislators to keep them from voting for secession and even confiscated the State Seal of Maryland. On April 25, 1861, Winfield Scott, commander in chief of the Union Army, gave Butler command of the newly minted Department of Annapolis. Confident of his troops as well as his own virtue, Butler seized Baltimore on May 13 and declared martial law in the city. Included in his demands was a restriction placed on Confederate symbols: “No flag, banner, ensign, or device of the so-­called Confederate States, or any of them, will be permitted to be raised or shown in this department, and the exhibition of either of them by evil-­disposed persons will be deemed and taken to be evidence of a design to afford aid and comfort to the enemies of the country.”44 “Maryland, My Maryland” was illegal to sing on the streets of Baltimore even before it was published. Butler also arrested Mayor George Brown and any council members who were viewed as sympathetic to the Confederacy. While purportedly furious with Butler’s unauthorized “invasion” of Baltimore and his implementation of martial law, Scott neither removed the troops nor rescinded the primary points of Butler’s proclamation. Indeed, the Lincoln administration could quietly breathe a sigh of relief, since Butler’s spring 1861

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heavy-­handed approach ensured that Maryland would not join the Confederacy.45 The depth of Lincoln’s concerns about Maryland was revealed in the severe steps he took following the riot. He suspended the writ of habeas corpus, ordered the arrest of known dissenters, and stationed troops in Baltimore and at key locations along the Potomac. Once order had been restored (due in no small part to the presence of Federal troops), Baltimore Confederates were forced to withhold their ire. “Cut off from all help as we are, and wholly without arms it would be madness for us to attempt to do anything,” wrote Daniel Thomas to his sister back in West River, Maryland. “We must remain on the defensive and ‘bide our time.’” Despite the failure of Maryland to commit to secession, Thomas was not yet despondent: “When the time for action does come I feel assured that Old Maryland will fully redeem herself and wipe out the foul stigma of her present conquered position.”46 For Thomas and others it was as if tarnished honor mattered more than states’ rights when the poetry of rebellion took hold. On May 15 Butler was replaced by Brevet Maj. Gen. George Cadwalader, although Butler’s departure did not mean things were any better for Marylanders. On June 11 Gen. Nathaniel P. Banks of Massachusetts took over, and arrests of suspected traitors actually increased in number.47 Then Gen. John Adams Dix was placed in charge of the newly christened Department of Maryland on July 23. Dix was as severe in his attitude toward secession as Butler, and civil liberties in Baltimore took a beating. Like Butler and Banks before him, Dix cracked down on any displays of Confederate sympathy. On September 4 General Dix proudly wrote to General McClellan of the success he was having in squelching any Confederate support in the city: “No secession flag has to the knowledge of the police been exhibited in Baltimore for many weeks, except a small paper flag displayed by a child from an upper window. It was immediately removed by them.” Flags were not the only symbols to suffer at the hands of Dix and his lackeys. “They have been instructed to arrest any person who makes a public demonstration by word or deed in favor of the Confederate Government 42

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and I have prohibited the exhibition in shop windows of rebel envelopes and music.”48 Such threats could not be taken lightly; one year later a student at Loyola College would be arrested for singing “Dixie.”49 Dix’s retractors responded to his draconian orders with a song of their own, “Dix’s Manifesto,” released on broadsheet and sung to the minstrel tune “Dearest Mae”: On Barber’s pole, and mint stick He did his veto place He swore that in his city He’d red and white erase.50

Dix was followed by Generals John E. Wool and Robert C. Schenck, and between the three officers conditions in Maryland were difficult at best. Wool continued the suppression of Confederate patriotic expression, including the arrest of Charles H. Kerr, composer and publisher of the blatantly Southern song “The Stonewall Quickstep.”51 On June 3, 1861, the rhetoric of war finally became reality when Union and Confederate forces skirmished at the Battle of Philippi in Virginia. Seven days later the first significant land battle between North and South was fought on the Virginia Peninsula at the Battle of Big Bethel. The fight proved to be a sloppy affair, revealing how unprepared both sides were for the combat. The Confederate forces were the victors, fending off a poorly planned attack at the cost of only one soldier killed and eight wounded, whereas the Union losses were eighteen killed and fifty-­three wounded. To make matters worse, some of the Union casualties were the result of friendly fire. Big Bethel was irrelevant in terms of any strategic goals, but it was a public relations nightmare or coup, depending on which side you supported. The battle triggered a feeding frenzy for the press and set a standard for the rest of the war; battles would be carried on in the press and hence in the public imagination as much as on the battlefield. The manipulative power of the written word—­whether found in newspapers, poems, or songs—­was to play a critical role in the execution of the war. spring 1861

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three

“Maryland, My Maryland” Lyrics, Music, and Publication

“A national hymn is one of the things which cannot be made to order,” declared Brander Matthews in his 1887 review of Civil War songs for Century magazine. “No man has ever yet sat him down and taken up his pen and said, ‘I will write a national hymn,’ and composed either words or music which the nation was willing to take for its own.” For Matthews, there was an element of metaphysical chance in the creation and acceptance of a true national song. “There is often a feeling afloat in the minds of men, undefined and vague for want of one to give it form, and held in solution, as it were, until a chance word dropped in the ear of a poet suddenly crystallizes this feeling into song, in which all may see clearly and sharply reflected what in their own thought was shapeless and hazy,” he concluded. One of the few American works to achieve this rare state was Randall’s poem in Maryland’s honor: “It was Mr. Randall’s good fortune to be the instrument through which the South spoke. By a natural reaction his burning lines helped to fire the Southern heart.” For Matthews, only Randall’s “My Maryland” and the inescapable “John Brown’s Body” had “vitality enough to survive a quarter of a century.”1 This extravagant tribute certainly romanticized “My Maryland” but did little to explain how Randall’s poem-­cum-­song achieved the success that it did. If anything, Matthews sustained a mythic interpretation of the poem and song in language reminiscent of Randall’s original work. The Lyrics Randell’s larger-­than-­life lyric poem exemplified what Mark Twain called “the Sir Walter disease.” In Twain’s eyes the overt romanticism found in Scott’s novels and poems had seriously

tainted literature in America: “If one take up a Northern or Southern literary periodical of forty or fifty years ago, he will find it filled with wordy, windy, flowery ‘eloquence,’ romanticism, sentimentality—­all imitated from Sir Walter, and sufficiently badly done, too.”2 Randall’s imagery and stylized language was certainly elaborate, but regardless of Twain’s condemnation, the poem and song struck a chord with the public. The message and mode of expression worked extremely well during the Civil War; issues of literary style were secondary to the emotional and aesthetic impact that readers and listeners desired. Popular tropes such as honor, patriotism, and idealized femininity were braided into a cultural creed that resonated deeply with audiences, and Confederate poets and songwriters did not hesitate to sell syrupy images of the gallant Southern cavalier defending his country to eager readers and listeners at home.3 Randall’s elevated language also imbued the poem with a sense of cultural superiority. In contrast to the uncouth words of Emmett’s minstrel hit “Dixie”—­already establishing itself as a national anthem—­“My Maryland” reached for higher ground. Literary historian Coleman Hutchison examined Henry Timrod’s epic poem “Ethnogenesis: Ode on Occasion of the Meeting of the Southern Congress,” written two months before Randall’s poem, and how its use of a rarefied poetic form conveyed meanings beyond that of the words it contained. By choosing to set his text in the form of an ode, “Timrod makes a quiet claim about the intellectual capacity and refined tastes of the Confederate people. . . . Many southern littérateurs lobbied for polite Confederate literature—­that is, a literature that would be ‘refined, elegant, scholarly; exhibiting good or restrained taste.’” And while “My Maryland” fit well within such an objective, it was also circulated to a general audience through newspapers. Again, this was not uncommon, as Hutchison observes: “A great deal of the literature actually produced during the war was popular in orientation—­that is, ‘intended for and directed at a general readership.’ Thus, Confederate literature is characterized by an at-­times uneasy fit between polite and popular forms.”4 Randall’s poem was certainly both: an elevated work of “fine art” that could cross literary as well as economic classes to attract “maryland, my maryland”

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a sizeable audience. This success could bolster hopes for an “exalted national literature,” to use Michael Bernath’s phrase, that “would banish all doubts about the backwardness of southern slave society and bring respectability to the new Confederate nation.”5 It is not surprising that Randall’s lyric exhibits a number of parallels with Francis Scott Key’s “Star-­Spangled Banner.” Not only had Key’s work attained the status of unofficial national anthem, but Key was a native of Maryland, and his lyric described the bombardment of Fort McHenry in the Chesapeake Bay just as Randall was addressing the fighting in Baltimore. Indeed, the original seventh line of the fifth stanza was “And give a new Key to thy song” instead of “And chaunt thy dauntless slogan song,” a blatant allusion to Baltimore’s famous poet. This is not the first time a would-­be anthem opted to reach higher rather than lower for its audience. David Hildebrand showed how “The Star-­Spangled Banner” not only sold its message through elevated language but also adopted a more complex and involved tune for its setting, whereas a piece written at the same time, “The Battle of Baltimore,” featured much more plebeian language and chose “Yankee Doodle” as its musical platform. While the simplicity or mass appeal of the “Battle of Baltimore” might spark immediate popularity, Key’s highbrow lyrics and music apparently provided more lasting appeal to a nation looking for a “respectable” anthem.6 Randall’s poem fit comfortably alongside other poems in this elevated style such as Julia Ward Howe’s “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” The tone is bombastic with grandiose and romanticized imagery, yet there are utilitarian references (“The Old Line’s bugle, fife and drum” and the reference to Maryland’s past war heroes) that ground the poem and balance the potentially artificial sentimentality. The rhetoric of vengeance was fairly common, using chivalric imagery laden with religious overtones that implies moral approbation for the Southern cause.7 Opening with a portrayal of Maryland as the innocent victim of an invader’s brutal violence capitalized on an emotionally susceptible audience. The South already saw itself as the underdog in many respects, and assuming the mantle of righteous 46

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victim fit well within Confederate strategies for nation building. “Being a victim confers upon us a kind of moral authority—­a sense that we deserve to be treated specially,” observed psychologist Joshua Searle-­White in his study of nationalism. “In fact, being a victim is so powerful that we would expect people to assume victim status if they can. . . . Being a victim gives us the right to take action against our enemies while blaming them for the violence at the same time.”8 The current victimization of slaves is obviously avoided; if anything, Randall uses a subconscious dread of slavery’s horrors to trigger fear and loathing toward Maryland’s “captivity.” Locating the lyric in both time and place—­the riot-­induced “patriotic gore” on “the streets of Baltimore”—­is both a strength and a weakness of the song. As Herbert Kelman argued, for nationalism (and patriotism) to succeed requires that individuals adopt the nation’s (or country’s) identity as their own; they need to personalize it.9 Celebrating such a sensational local event in music attracts those who were most affected by the riot or who feel they have the most at stake with the riot’s aftermath. In this case, it meant Confederate Marylanders, a rather small population. Yet if the poem or song gained enough popularity, it could create a bond of some sort with those who were not from the area, “to make general the praise of place as a personal possession,” according to Christopher Kelen.10 “My Maryland” also served as journalism of sorts, relating contemporary events to a national audience albeit with poetic license. Many songs of the time (and other artworks) served to disseminate information regarding recent battles, notorious generals, and other topics of particular interest to the general public. Many of these were merely commercial endeavors (“General Joseph E. Johnston’s Manassas Quick March” for piano) while others attempted or presumed some contact with reality (especially the ever-­popular “Battle of Shiloh, or Pittsburgh Landing” by Charles Grobe). Such artworks could influence a listener’s perception of the event named even as the listener’s bias toward that event impacted their reaction to the work.11 Such topical specificity can limit the appeal and longevity of the song. The shock value eventually wears off, and newer “maryland, my maryland”

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events eclipse the riot and Maryland’s plight in general. Should any negativity become attached to the original location (as will occur later in the war), then the song can suffer dismissal when this disapproval carries over. Of course, by mourning the blood of Marylanders and not that of the soldiers killed in the riot, the song holds no current or subsequent appeal for Unionists. Maryland is referred to as a woman throughout the lyric, and her foe is invariably masculine. Such imagery was the norm, as discussions of patriotism and statehood were often couched in terms of gender relationships. Yet the conflict between genders here is telling in that “he” is not the Union or any abstract entity such as the personified Maryland but President Lincoln himself. The “despot’s heel” and “tyrant’s chain” are unambiguous references to Lincoln and his abuse of civil liberties. What is also unique is the presence of so many faces of womanhood: warrior, sister, mother, companion to Lady Liberty, and even blushing maiden. Randall drew upon all aspects of feminine strength and appeal. This may have been done for commercial reasons or to exploit sentimentality, as such imagery was commonplace and expected by contemporary readers. But it is also possible that Randall came to his gendered patriotism honestly in that he used this imagery to simultaneously reach backward and forward in time, to handle the paradoxical pursuit of peace through war, and to encourage a balanced perception of Maryland as both victim and savior. Randall strengthened his case by referencing a number of key figures from Maryland’s history in the third and fourth stanzas, including Charles Carroll (Maryland’s signatory to the Declaration of Independence) and Lt. Col. William H. Watson (who died commanding Maryland volunteers during the Mexican-­ American War). While all of Randall’s heroes are from Maryland and hence of particular meaning to Marylanders, most held enough historical stature to draw some measure of admiration from readers throughout the South. Drawing from the past is a tried and true method for instilling patriotic significance in song lyrics and other artworks. “The best [war poems] use memory to link the heroism of the moment to past tradition,” wrote James A. Winn. “They use prophecy to move 48

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beyond the violent moment to some consideration of its lasting meaning. From this wider perspective, it is possible to celebrate bravery while lamenting war’s costs, to sing both victor and victim.”12 Recycling heroes from America’s recent past gave readers and listeners a tangible basis for their patriotic commitment by reminding them of the gallant deeds of patriots and, ideally, by fashioning a connection between current affairs and the noble causes of the past. For a new country like the Confederate States of America, establishing continuity with America’s real or invented past was a necessary step in securing loyalty; it was a demonstrable means of validation.13 Anthony Smith, a leading scholar of nationalism studies, determined that there are certain “cultural resources” that artists draw on to construct nationalistic symbols, including myths of ancestry, community, territory, history, and destiny.14 Randall’s poem touches on each of these either directly or indirectly; in addition, there are clearly presented tropes of honor, gender, and patriotism that embodied those traits that Southerners saw as defining themselves and their cause.15 “My Maryland” blended these various threads and attitudes into a poem whose achievement is evident in the intense positive and negative reactions it triggered. The end product is somewhat confusing, a combination of real technique alongside hasty artificiality. There are powerful images alongside predictable metaphors, and there are creative uses of repetition, enjambment, and internal rhymes followed by forced end rhymes. The whole comes off as bombastic and grandiose, yet there is an affective genuineness that is difficult to deny. The result is a poem that blurs the line between war art and propaganda; the language and structure are elevated, while the meaning and intention are proletarian. Southern responses to Randall’s verses were predictably positive, with some critics heaping praise in terms as melodramatic as the verse they were praising. According to the New Orleans Crescent, the hardships of war inspired Randall (and other poets) to their greatest efforts: “As dolphins show their most brilliant hews, and swans give forth their sweetest notes when dying, and as flowers emit their most precious odors when crushed, “maryland, my maryland”

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so a people stricken with the calamity of war produce their most melodious poetry.”16 Author Augusta Jane Evans was effusive after meeting Randall in Mobile, Alabama, in May 1862: “Randall is a rich rare, tropical luxuriant soul, whose beautiful thoughts, and glowing images overflow continually, like a silver wine cup whose amber and purple foam ooze over the brim.” An obvious fan, she pronounced Randall the man “whose magnificent appeals to poor Maryland have so stirred the heart of our people.”17 Northern responses to the words were just as predictable but in the opposite direction. Loyalist Frank Moore, for example, rejected “Maryland, My Maryland” because “the sentiment was so false, and founded upon such gross misrepresentations, that it was offensive to any one not absorbed in the prevailing madness.”18 The Philadelphia Press published a sarcastic denunciation of the lyric, not by attacking the content but by damning it as a poor imitation of another poem. Randall, the article contends, had been praised on the structure of his poem as much as the content. Yet this structure was “plundered” from a previous poem. To add insult to injury, Randall’s content is pathetic compared with the imitated verse’s structure: “This is much the same as if a man should take pride in a richly-­carved book-­case, containing a few trashy volumes.” Randall’s source was a purported translation by Irish poet James Clarence Mangan titled “The Karamanian Exile”: I see thee ever in my dreams, Karaman! Thy hundred hills, thy thousand streams, Karaman! O Karaman! As when thy gold-­bright morning gleams, As when the deepening sunset seams With lines of light thy hills and streams, Karaman! So thou loomest on my dreams, Karaman! O Karaman!19

The article concluded: “The imitation is so palpable that we need not point it out,” an observation that was decidedly true. 50

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Forty years after the war, Randall visited with the Reverend Denis O. Crowley, and the two discussed poetry. Crowley observed that Randall and Mangan shared a similar sentiment in their works, and Randall admitted that he had “read and absorbed” Mangan’s poetry while teaching at Poydras College and that Mangan helped Randall decide how to set his words: “‘The Karamanian Exile’ of that great, though neglected Irish poet solved the metre of ‘Maryland, My Maryland.’”20 Randall’s modeling a respected poet was not unusual; what was surprising is that few made the same connection. Mangan was a relatively well-­known and respected poet, and a new collection of his works had come out in America in 1859. Still, the heart of the criticism was not simply that Randall based his poem off another. It was that his phrasing was not worthy of the model. A later critic disagreed on both accounts. The Reverend Louis A. Banks had no trouble with the imitation in his Immortal Songs of Camp and Field (1899): “The previous use of this form, which is perhaps the most effective possible for a battle hymn, by no means detracts from Randall’s stirring poem.”21 Other critics were unknowing or indifferent to Randall’s borrowing. In an 1865 lecture, Oliver Wendell Holmes acknowledged weaknesses in the poem, yet admitted that “you have to own that there is a real motive and movement in it—­that it fills the ear, that it stirs the pulses, that it came from a white-­hot passion and kindles our hearts in spite of ourselves.” This passion and the song’s suitability to its tumultuous time became the prevailing evaluation, as can be seen in historian Rollin G. Osterweis’s 1949 summary: “No more romantic poem came out of the South—­none more characteristic of Southern romanticism in its chivalric theme.”22 The Music The music chosen to carry Randall’s words is in some ways more intriguing than the lyric itself. Using a popular college glee, which was also a German folk song, to motivate Confederate soldiers seems somewhat odd, but it is the malleability of the tune “O Tannenbaum” that made it so successful. As Robert Neustadt noted, it is tempting to assume that a patriotic song “maryland, my maryland”

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10. One of the first broadsides of “Maryland, My Maryland.” The suggested music to accompany the words is “My Normandy,” and the original fourth verse is missing. Special Collections & University Archives, Wake Forest University.

or national anthem exhibits some intrinsic link between text and tune and that the words and music will “function in parallel, constituting a cohesive unit of poetic and musical representation.”23 The opposite is often the case, however; many of the most successful anthems are musically indefinite in terms of any preexisting patriotic or nationalistic inclinations. While initially counterintuitive, musical ambiguity makes a great deal of sense for national anthems. Since the words are the carriers of the patriotic creed, there should be no competition from 52

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the notes; the best anthems have music that can fit the lyric’s message, not impose its own.24 Depending on what account is read, one can find “O Tannenbaum,” “O Christmas Tree,” or “Lauriger Horatius” named as the melodic source for “Maryland, My Maryland.”25 This is not surprising, as they share the same melody. While modern ears hear “My Maryland” as sharing the tune of the popular Christmas carol, such was not the case during the war. To begin with, “O Christmas Tree”—­the translation of the German carol “O Tannenbaum”—­was not as prevalent in nineteenth-­ century America as it is today. And “O Tannenbaum” itself was known more as a German American folk song than as a household holiday tune. Nineteenth-­century Americans were understandably confused as to the heritage of the song. One writer suggested Poésies populaires latines antérieurs au douzième siécle (Paris, 1843) as an early source, though this same writer also believed that the lyric “My Maryland” was written by a “North German gentleman of musical attainments.” The eighteenth-­ century German composer Johann Abraham Peter Schulz was also suggested as the composer.26 There are numerous texts based on some variant of “O Tannenbaum” dating back to the sixteenth century. The version known during the Civil War was created by the Leipzig musician and teacher Ernst Anschütz and published in his Musikalische Schulgesangbuch (Leipzig, 1824). Anschütz modified a poem written five years earlier by August Zarnack of Potsdam, transforming it from a love song into a Christmas carol suitable for children. He then wedded the new text to the melody of “Es lebe hoch, es lebe hoch, der Zimmermannsgeselle,” which had been published in the Mildheimisches Liederbuch of 1799 by Rudolph Zacharias Becker, though no composer was listed for the song.27 Americans were introduced to an English version of the carol when Henry Wordsworth Longfellow published a translation as “The Hemlock Tree” in the 1845 collection The Belfry of Bruges and Other Poems. In a letter of 1884, Randall named “Tannenbaum” as the air to which his lyric was set.28 Yet at the same time, the man with whom he was corresponding, Brander Matthews, used the phrase “maryland, my maryland”

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“favorite college song” to define the musical source of inspiration when he published his account.29 Randall’s title for the song may have been a comment born of its time, as “Tannenbaum/O Christmas Tree” was much more popular at the end of the century than it had been during the war. On the other hand, Matthews had been in contact with Mrs. Newell Martin, better known as Hetty Cary, so his name for the musical source is more definitive.30 More important, however, is that many of those who described the music during the war, including Jennie and Hetty Cary, cite “Lauriger Horatius” as the source for the tune of “Maryland, My Maryland.”31 “Lauriger Horatius” is a Latin student song most likely based on Becker’s “Es lebe hoch” of 1799, the same tune Anschütz would choose for his “O Tannenbaum.” It first appeared in the German Kommersbuchen (student song books) in 1816. Richard Storrs Willis, an 1841 graduate of Yale University and composer of the music to the popular hymn “It Came upon a Midnight Clear,” visited Germany to study music where he encountered songs popular with German students. He brought back many of these songs, including “Lauriger Horatius,” to share with students at his alma mater.32 The first American print version came in the 1858 Songs of Yale, and Constance Cary claimed that it was a Yale student, Burton N. Harrison, her future husband, who first introduced her cousins to the glee.33 College songs were well known in many segments of American society at the time, and according to one writer, “Lauriger Horatius” was “the most charming of college songs, both for tune and words.”34 Lauriger Horatius, Quam dixisti verum! Fugit Euro citius Tempus edax rerum. Ubi sunt, oh pocula, dulciora melle, Rixae, pax, et oscula rubentis puellae? Laurel-­crowned Horatius, True, how true thy saying! 54

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Swift as wind flies over us Time, devouring, slaying. Where are, oh! those goblets full Of wine honey-­laden, Strifes and loves and bountiful Lips of ruddy maiden?

Although the primary melodic themes are the same between “Tannenbaum,” “Lauriger Horatius,” and “Maryland, My Maryland,” the phrase structure of “Maryland, My Maryland” is the same as “Lauriger Horatius” (aaba) whereas the phrase structure of “O Tannenbaum” is aba. The text and music of “Lauriger Horatius” start firmly on a downbeat, making it more like a march, whereas “O Tannenbaum” (and “Maryland, My Maryland”) starts more gently with an anacrusis, a quarter-­ note pickup into the downbeat. It is likely that the Carey sisters first heard “Lauriger Horatius” performed by young men at parties or during serenades, where the combination of a male chorus and an unfamiliar Latin text could predispose the audience to hear “Lauriger Horatius” as somewhat martial as opposed to the more lyrical “O Tannenbaum” sung by a soloist or mixed ensemble. The poem “Maryland, My Maryland” fits comfortably over the tune even though Randall never claimed that “O Tannenbaum” or “Lauriger Horatius” was the inspiration for his poem’s meter. The single iteration of “Maryland” at the end of each line supports this; in fact, the only change required for the poem to fit the music was the addition of the words “My Maryland” for the refrain. There were any number of opinions expressed during and immediately following the war as to the suitability of the music for this new patriotic anthem. A particularly intriguing example is an article that appeared in the New York Evening Post and was reprinted in Dwight’s Journal of Music in 1868. While addressing the history of “Lauriger Horatius,” the author felt obliged to discuss the tune’s attributes. Though factually incorrect in many ways, the musical observations were astute: “It is a melody which, being without any distinct musical character, may “maryland, my maryland”

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be sung to any metrical lines corresponding to the rhythm of the tune, which, being in triplet time, is easily caught by ear. . . . The melody is certainly anything but inspiriting, and is more adapted to words of a serio-­comic character or to such simple songs for children as that ‘O Tannenbaum.’” This was followed by a particularly shrewd reflection on the performative potential of this melody: It is well known that a melody sung slowly seems to acquire a different character. Even “Yankee Doodle” has been adapted to a church hymn, and when sung slowly can be hardly recognized. The melodies of many of the college songs and ditties . . . are excellent in their way, and quite inspiriting when “all the boys are on hand.” But I believe none of them will challenge any discussion as to their intrinsic musical merit. The same may, in some measure, be said of the melody to “O Tannenbaum” as adapted to “Lauriger Horatius” . . . and “My Maryland.”35

In other words, how one performs a melody—­slow vs. fast, loud vs. soft, lyrical vs. metronomic—­can shape the character of the song. This is particularly evident in the rhythm of this song. All three versions are written in simple meter with a repeated dotted-­eighth and sixteenth-­note rhythm. When singing “O Christmas Tree” many people soften the pattern, shortening the dotted note so that the pattern sounds more like a triplet. With “Maryland,” however, the tendency is to make the division between dotted eighths and sixteenth notes very rigid, making the piece sound more like a march. Factors like this help to explain why so many found the tune to be well suited to stirring the flames of patriotism even if they rejected the quality of Randall’s lyric. In recalling his time around Fredericksburg in May 1862, John Mills of the Twenty-­First New York shared a story—­part memory, part fantasy—­wherein the tantalizing sound of a girl’s singing drew him to a nearby window. Upon spotting him in his Union blue, the girl suddenly switched to “Maryland, My Maryland,” a contemptuous and confrontational gesture from the young Virginian. Mills then goes on to consider the tune: 56

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But the words aren’t very bad, considering how they come, and the music makes you forget them, for the air is really grand, and stirs you with as much enthusiasm and ardor as it does the “fair singers,” so you “face the music,” and, as it is meant for you, hear it out, and perhaps go away singing it over to yourself. . . . “O Tannenbaum!” is a song familiar to many Germans, who recollect that their fathers sang it a century ago, and the words of “My Maryland,” without the air, are anything but good.36

It is likely that Mills’s Northern proclivities biased him to some degree against Randall’s verses, though he certainly approved of the music. On the other hand, Matthew Page Andrews, a native Virginian and long-­term resident of Baltimore, claimed that the poem was “widely considered the greatest of American war lyrics.” Later generations would continue to alternate in their praise or condemnation of the lyric and song. When a collection of Randall’s verse was published in 1910, a writer for the literary magazine Bookman described the words as “sometimes good and sometimes rather crude” and added that it was the music more than the words that made the song successful during the war. In 1908 another writer claimed that the music “expresses perfectly the spirit of Mr. Randall’s fine lines, and the effect in a way is that of an American ‘Marsellaise.’”37 “O Tannenbaum,” “My Maryland,” and Contrafacta That “Maryland, My Maryland” reused a tune was by no means unusual. When the Committee for a National Hymn solicited materials from the public in 1861, they specifically noted that submissions could include “either words or words and music and the music could be original or borrowed from a pre-­existing piece.”38 Substituting a new set of words in a preexisting song—­ what musicologists refer to as a contrafactum—­had been common practice in sacred and secular western music for centuries. The American Civil War saw an abundance of contrafacta; in fact, some of the best-­known songs of the time used borrowed melodies. Julia Ward Howe’s “Battle Hymn of the Republic” replaced the lyric of the popular soldiers’ song “John Brown’s “maryland, my maryland”

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11. The first edition of “Maryland, My Maryland,” published in Baltimore by Miller & Beacham in 1861. Lester S. Levy Collection of Sheet Music, Sheridan Libraries, Johns Hopkins University.

Body,” which itself had borrowed music from the folk hymn “Say Brothers,” which had been popular at camp meetings in the decades prior to the war.39 Randall himself would defend the practice by (incorrectly) referencing “God Save the King,” “La Marseillaise,” “The Star-­Spangled Banner,” and “Home, Sweet Home” as respectable precedents.40 Still, a number of periodicals sought to use this against Randall’s budding anthem. In December 1862 the Lowell Daily Citizen and News snidely informed its readers that Union officers from Germany had identified the tune of “My Maryland” as originally from their country.41 A brief letter to the editor of Augusta’s Daily Constitutionalist took it upon himself to point out that “Maryland, My Maryland” was an act of “musical plagiarism,” though why the writer chose to raise this issue in the autumn of 1864 is a mystery.42 The Charleston Mercury published a more detailed critique of such borrowings (including “The Star-­Spangled Banner”) in 1862, and “Maryland, My Maryland” came under severe criticism. The author claimed to have read Randall’s “fine words” repeatedly and looked forward to hearing a musical setting worthy of the text. Instead, he discovered “an old German ditty . . . mostly favored by servants and children.” That a “Lady of Baltimore” took credit for the music on the title page of the sheet music he found a “bareface fraud” and called for new music for the poem: Randall’s noble words deserve a composition of its own. They need not strut in a borrowed dress; but if we possess so very little originality as to be willing to adopt as ours what belonged for so many years to another nation, O let us not in the darkness of night mistake the turkey for the peacock, for the day will come and ridiculously expose us. Baltimore has another “debt to pay,” that is to repurchase Randall’s copy-­right and offer a handsome premium for the best composition to these noble words, in order to hand them down from generation to generation, but for Heaven’s sake not in this old German tune!43

The debates surrounding the reuse of European tunes revealed that many Civil War Americans felt the need for a truly national “maryland, my maryland”

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anthem (ideally written by an American that sounded American) as well as a patriotic anthem (one that captured the nature and ideology of the country). If anyone would have resented the appropriation of the melody to “O Tannenbaum,” it would be German immigrants, though this does not appear to be the case. It is hard to find any reference to “Maryland, My Maryland” by German soldiers or civilians, an odd lacuna given that German soldiers were repeatedly described as fine musicians who often entertained other troops with music from their homeland.44 This might be due to an aversion to Confederate songs in general. Generally speaking, most German Americans had no love for the institution of slavery; they cared little for the notion of states’ rights, given the fragmented empires they had left behind; and many of those political parties that threatened the Union (such as the Know-­Nothings) were anti-­immigrant. This antipathy toward slavery carried over into the arts. German immigrants avoided performing or attending performances of the blatantly racist form of variety shows known as blackface minstrelsy, in stark contrast to Irish immigrants, who were central contributors to the immensely popular genre.45 Many Germans had settled in Baltimore and western Maryland in the early days of the republic, and a continued influx of immigrants made the German population a stable and powerful minority both economically and politically. This population favored the Union cause, though inclinations were somewhat split between upper and lower classes and urban and rural populations (some wealthy urban German immigrants supported the South). Frederick and Washington Counties, both of which possessed some of the oldest and largest German communities, were particularly hostile to the secession movement. None of these German Americans seemed particularly offended by having their tune borrowed.46 Germany was not the only country to have its music appropriated in America. England’s “God Save the King” was used for innumerable contrafacta, a trend that received both praise and condemnation. “God Save the South” was one of the more successful of these pieces, with lyrics by George H. Miles of 60

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Emmitsburg, Maryland, and published by Miller & Beacham in Baltimore.47 One of the South’s most popular songs, “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” was a contrafactum with European roots. Lyricist Harry McCarthy chose “The Irish Jaunting Car” as the vehicle for his hugely successful song. Of course, the music of “The Star-­ Spangled Banner” was imported as well, as “The Anacreontic Song” had been borrowed from an English gentlemen’s club. Given the status and significance of “The Star-­Spangled Banner,” it was inevitable that it too would suffer imitation during the war; one popular example was “The Southern Cross” by Henry St. George Tucker, first published in the Southern Literary Messenger in March 1861, although the sheet music did not appear until 1863.48 Oh! say can you see, through the gloom and the storm, More bright for the darkness, that pure constellation? Like the symbol of love, and redemption its form, As it points to the haven of hope for the nation. How radiant each star, as the beacon afar, Giving promise of peace, or assurance in war! ‘Tis the Cross of the South, which shall ever remain, To light us to freedom, and glory again!

More budding poets tried adding words to “The Star-­Spangled Banner” with little result. While not an official anthem of the United States, Key’s song had attained at least informal status as a national anthem, which made its modification difficult at best.49 “Yankee Doodle” was forced to share space with the less than impressive “Dixie Doodle” published in 1862: Dixie whipped old Yankee Doodle Early in the morning, So Yankeedom had best look out, And take a timely warning. Chorus Hurrah! for our Dixie Land! Hurrah! for our borders! Southern boys to arms will stand, And whip the dark marauders!50 “maryland, my maryland”

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Other recipients of this dubious honor included “Hail Columbia” (“A Southern Gathering Song”) and “Columbia, Gem of the Ocean” (“Dixie, the Land of King Cotton”).51 Current hits could be adopted for new lyrics as well. “Dixie” received some significant rewrites, most notably Albert Pike’s “The War Song of Dixie,” an attempt to distance Emmett’s hit from its minstrel past and give it a dignity more suitable for a national anthem. But “Dixie” was also handed some rather silly lyrics by cynical listeners and bored soldiers, such as “The Officers of Dixie,” which poked fun at the Confederate officer class.52 The list goes on: George Root’s “The Battle Cry of Freedom” was rewritten to be a Confederate anthem by William H. Barnes of Atlanta; “Cheer, Boys, Cheer” became “Song of the Southern Boys”; and “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” already a Confederate anthem, was transformed into a symbol of civilian patriotism with the release of “The Homespun Dress.” All told there were hundreds of broadsides printed in the North and South that offered new lyrics to well-­known songs.53 Not all contrafacta were concerned with patriotic sentiment. The tune “O Tannenbaum” was borrowed for additional, less noble songs. One version was a lighthearted soldier’s song that incorporated the popular phrase “Here’s Your Mule,” which was itself the title of a song by C. D. Benson that was published in 1862: Come Soldiers, listen to my lay Here’s your mule, your long eared mule. I’ll sing the warriors of the day, Here’s your mule, your long eared mule. Old General Bragg, he leads the way, And moves his army twice a day, And once at night, I’ve heard them say Here’s your mule, your long eared mule.54

One concern when dealing with contrafacta is the possible importation of meaning from one song to another. If the initial song has an entrenched, distinctive meaning for the listener, then it is likely that those denotations will shadow the new lyric and enhance, or perhaps conflict with, the new song’s intended 62

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meaning. This was not a major concern for “Maryland, My Maryland,” however. The meaning of “Lauriger Horatius” was trivial (a drinking song in praise of the Roman poet Horace) and probably unknown to most of the audience if sung in Latin, while the Christmas message of “O Tannenbaum” would only matter if the song was a staple of holiday celebrations, which was not the case at the time of the war. Even though there are dangers in reusing known tunes, the risks were well worth it. A well-­written contrafactum allowed for the immediate performance of a new song (since the music was already known) and guaranteed quick dissemination. In addition, utilizing preexisting music allowed performers and audiences to maintain a link to a desired past. As the Confederacy struggled to find a distinctive identity separate from the North, it simultaneously sought to retain a hold on those traditions and characterizations that Southerners saw as their birthright as Americans. Contrafacta occupied a unique place in the arsenal of patriotic symbols, with one foot in the present and one in the past.55 The Publication of “Maryland, My Maryland” The publication history of “My Maryland!” proved to be as tumultuous as the initial reception of the poem and song. In the first twelve months after its release there were differences among the newspaper reprints of the poem, broadsides, and sheet music. More words and lines were changed in the decades following the war, and two collections of Randall’s poems published shortly after his death—­Maryland, My Maryland, and Other Poems (1908), and The Poems of James Ryder Randall (1910)—­had discrepancies as well. In fact, the editor of both collections, Matthew Page Andrews, admitted that the earlier publication had been “incomplete, hastily prepared, and hurriedly printed,” and he said that the second edition would “correct the numerous errors and misprints” as well as introduce previously unpublished poems.56 Randall’s poem first appeared on May 5, 1861, in the New Orleans Sunday Delta. All his stanzas were printed, and the poem was titled “Maryland.” The second line of the first verse read, “His touch is at thy temple door,” whereas modern versions read “His torch is at thy temple door.” “Touch” was printed in “maryland, my maryland”

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most broadsides and newspapers; it was in 1862 that newspapers and some publishers began using “torch” instead. It would be tempting to assume that “touch” was Randall’s preference, as the 1862 sheet music published by Blackmar of New Orleans used “touch” and featured an endorsement from Randall. One of the earliest Union parodies of the verse, attributed to J. F. Weihampel Jr. and released in October 1861, replaced the line “His torch/touch is at thy temple door” with “His touch is on thy Senate door,” indicating that the Weihampel saw “touch” as the original word choice. The 1908 collected poems, published under the auspices of Randall’s friends, also used “touch.” Decades after the war, however, the word “torch” appeared in published versions of the poem that we can assume had Randall’s blessing, including a 1907 reprint in the newspaper Randall himself was editing and the collection of 1910.57 In 1938 the Baltimore Evening Sun published the lyrics with a brief explanation: “Several obvious errors have been corrected—­for example, the 1862 pamphlet version contained ‘His touch is at thy temple door,’ which was obviously a misprint for torch, as an examination of a photostatic copy of a manuscript in Randall’s own hand plainly shows.”58 Since then “torch” is treated as the correct word, though “touch” can still be found in use. Another alteration occurs to the third line of the second stanza. “Wand’ring” was in the original published poem, broadside, and sheet music; it was used consistently through the war but would be replaced with “exiled” in later years. The 1908 collection used “wand’ring” whereas the 1910 collection had “exiled.” The sixth line of the fifth verse began as “That stalks with Liberty along” but would change to “Stalking with Liberty along.” Also, the original seventh line of the fifth verse read “And give a new Key to thy song” (this version still existed in the collected poems of 1908). In a letter dated 1884, Randal claimed that the “pun was unworthy of the song, and I struck out or rather remodeled the whole line, soon after the publication of the poem.”59 The line was changed to “And chaunt thy dauntless slogan song” (this version appeared in the collected poems of 1910), then “chaunt” would eventually be replaced with “sing” in the twentieth century. 64

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In 1887 Brander Matthews published an article, “The Songs of the War,” which included a discussion of “Maryland, My Maryland” that he based on correspondence with Randall and Hetty Cary Martin. Matthews included the poem “printed here in full from the author’s manuscript.”60 This version has “torch” instead of “touch,” “exiled” instead of “wand’ring,” “Stalking with” instead of “That stalks with,” and “And chaunt thy dauntless slogan song” instead of “And give a new Key to thy song.” This is the official version recognized by the Maryland state government as the state song, albeit with a different order of verses. The order of verses in Matthews’s version has “Dear Mother! burst the tyrant’s chain” as verse 5 and “Come! for thy shield is bright and strong” as verse 6. This is the arrangement found in most published poems and songs after 1862. On the other hand, the first poem as printed in the New Orleans Sunday Delta, Baltimore’s South, Miller & Beacham’s first sheet music, the 1910 collection, and the current state anthem all have “Come! for thy shield” coming before “Dear Mother!” It was common practice during the war for newspapers to reprint material from other papers from around the country, and this practice helped spread Randall’s verses. For example, the poem appeared in the Richmond Daily Dispatch (June 1, 1861) and the Richmond Enquirer ( July 4, 1861), the Daily Missouri Democrat in St. Louis (October 17, 1861), Tennessee’s Clarksville Chronicle (November 15, 1861), and the San Antonio Ledger and Texan (June 1, 1861). In South Carolina the poem appeared in the Charleston Mercury (May 14, 1861, and again on January 18, 1862) and the Charleston Courier (January 28, 1862), while in North Carolina the Fayetteville Observer (January 20, 1862) and Raleigh Register (January 22, 1862) both published the poem. All of these versions faithfully reproduced Randall’s poem for the most part, though a number of versions found in smaller, regional papers such as the Civilian and Telegraph of Cumberland, Maryland (September 21, 1861), were clearly based on the original poem but contained significant changes to many lines. The South, a pro-­secession paper from Baltimore, published the poem on May 31, 1861. It too was titled “Maryland!” like the first published version from New Orleans, but there was “maryland, my maryland”

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a noticeable difference; the fourth verse (“Come! ’tis the red dawn of the day”) was omitted. This might have been done due to space limitations, or it might have been a mistake, but either way this was the version that made its way into the parlor of Jennie and Hetty Cary. One of the first broadsides of “My Maryland!” was likewise missing the fourth verse, implying that it was published in Baltimore and based on the poem as published in the South. The only change Jennie and Hetty made to Randall’s words was the repetition of the word “Maryland.” In the original poem, and in the first published versions, the end of each line is a single “Maryland!” Only the last line of each verse includes the line “Maryland! My Maryland!” When Jennie Cary set the verse to music, she added “my Maryland” to fit the rhythm of “Lauriger Horatius.”61 A number of other broadsides appeared in 1861 in many cities, some of which were true to Randall’s verse while others modified the lyric. These modified versions were clearly beholden to Randall’s original, reusing key words and phrases and retaining the scansion and form of “My Maryland.” In fact, most of these altered versions were printed after the song was released as they often sacrifice grammar and forced rhymes to keep the musical rhythm of the song’s lyric (especially notable in the refrain). For example, in one Confederate broadside (attributed to “A.”) the word “my” from the phrase “Maryland, my Maryland” was replaced with “sweet,” “sad,” “bold,” etc. So the first verse reads: Bride of the noble Chesapeake, Maryland, sweet Maryland. What means the blush upon thy cheek? Maryland, sweet Maryland. Alas! with base, ignoble power The tyrant smites Columbia’s flower, And o’er the clouds and darkness lower, Maryland, sweet Maryland.

There were Union broadsides that aped Randall’s verse and kept the musical setting proposed by the Carys. One early version, titled “My Maryland!” and attributed to J. F. Weihampel

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Jr., added “To the Air of ‘My Normandy,’” a common attribution at the time. The first verse shows how this poet was careful to rewrite but not replace all of Randall’s words. The traitor’s foot is on thy shore, Maryland, my Maryland! His touch is on thy Senate door, Maryland, my Maryland! Avenge the patriotic gore That flecked the streets of Baltimore, When rebel mobs thy banners tore, Maryland, my Maryland!

For Unionist Frank Moore, this version with “its fire was turned against the enemy” told the real story, “the true utterance of a patriotism that still lives among the people of Maryland—­as time will show.”62 That Randall’s verses struck a chord and were truly the right verses at the right time is evident in the speed at which so many reprints and parodies appeared. There was clearly something about his poem, or the combination of poem and music set forth by the Carys, that demanded immediate attention from readers and listeners both North and South. The first sheet music was released by Miller & Beacham of Baltimore in 1861, probably late in the summer. That they used the poem as it appeared in the South as their source is clear in that the sheet music is missing verse four. The title of the song is “Maryland, My Maryland!” The music was “arranged” by “C.E.,” and the lyricist is named as “A Baltimorean in Louisiana.” “C.E.” stood for Charles W. A. Ellerbrock, a Baltimore composer and music teacher who penned the music to a number of pro-­Southern songs including “God Save the South” (1861) and “The Southern Cross” (1861). It is likely that Ellerbrock was asked to write out the arrangement of “Lauriger Horatius” proposed by Jennie and Hetty. This version was published with the added title “The Confederates National Air” by E. Thornton & Co. in Montreal, possibly in late 1861 or early 1862. This was not the only international printing to appear; the publish-

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ers Hopwood & Crew of London released a version that was dedicated to “Confederate Exiles in Europe.” While it is difficult to determine precisely when a piece of Civil War sheet music was printed and released, it may be that the next printing of the song came from the house of J. A. McClure in Nashville, Tennessee. This version, titled “My Maryland” on the cover and “Maryland” on page 1 of the music, was part of a series titled “Southern Collection of Popular Songs for the Piano.” The first page of music has an 1861 copyright attributed to “A. E. Blackmar and Bro.,” and other songs in the series also claim a copyright of 1861. On the title page listing all the pieces, the name “My Maryland” seems to be in a slightly different type as if it were hastily added at the bottom before going to print. In the McClure version, the fourth verse has been reinserted; however, verses five (“Come! for thy shield is bright and strong”) and six (“Dear Mother! burst the tyrant’s chain”) have been reversed. This reversal will remain true in publications until after the war. The switched verses also raise the issue as to whether it was McClure who first set this version, or if he “borrowed” it from A. E. Blackmar and Brother. In 1862 Blackmar began releasing its versions of the song. At this point the song was titled “Maryland, My Maryland,” and Blackmar offered at least three versions. Randall is given prominent credit for the lyric, and now the music is attributed to “A Lady of Baltimore.” One of the later Blackmar printings lists Augusta, Georgia, as the location; the first is probably from New Orleans, since the Augusta version and later New Orleans versions feature a statement by Randall added to the title page: “Having disposed of the copy-­right of my poem, ‘Maryland! My Maryland!’ to messrs. A. E. Blackmar & Bro., I hereby certify that their edition is the only one that has my sanction and approval.” This endorsement was probably a response to the numerous versions appearing in New Orleans and elsewhere in the country; it is likely that Randall would favor a relationship with the respected publisher, having lived near New Orleans for some time. All of the versions published by Blackmar include the fourth verse that had been missing in the Miller & 68

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Beacham version. They also have verses five and six reversed from Randall’s original poem. In 1862 the New Orleans house of Werlein & Halsey also released a number of versions. It seems likely that this competition between Werlein and Blackmar is what led to Randall’s endorsement of the latter’s publications. Werlein reverses the fifth and sixth verses as does Blackmar. In what is probably the first Werlein version, the title page claims the tune was “Adapted and Arranged to the Favorite German Melody ‘O Tannenbaum’ by a Confederate,” while Randall is given credit for the lyrics in all versions. In the next version, the subtitle “The Popular Camp Song” is added, and the music is credited to “P.P.W.,” who would be the publisher himself, Philip P. Werlein. The title of this version is given as “Maryland Maryland.” Later that year Werlein released a third version, wherein the last verse is written out in four-­part harmony similar to what is found in the parlor songs of Stephen Foster. W. D. Zogbaum & Co. of Savannah probably released its own imprint of “Maryland, My Maryland” in early 1862, as Zogbaum was bought out by John C. Schreiner later that year. This is the simplest title page of all the versions discussed, with no authorial credit given for either words or music. What is curious about this version is that verse four is once again missing, suggesting that Zogbaum used Miller & Beacham’s version as the source for its imprint. Also in 1862 a different Baltimore publisher, George Willig, released a competing version of the song. Willig clearly took Miller & Beacham’s version as his starting point, as verse four is missing, but in this case he chose to supply new music to Randall’s verses. The composer is listed as A. F. Gibson. It is curious that Randall is listed as the lyricist on the title page, but on the first page of music the lyrics are credited to “A Baltimorean in la.” More confusion was created when Willig published a second version of “Maryland! My Maryland,” this time with new music by composer Carl Mahr. Regardless of the song’s popularity, three versions of one song, featuring the same lyrics and three different musical settings, all coming from one city in a twelve-­month period, seems excessive to say the least. “maryland, my maryland”

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To complete the confusion, Miller & Beacham printed a new version of the song in 1862, this time reusing the original music but adding a new lyric by Joseph Merrefield. This version was notable in that it was supportive of the Union: The Starry Flag waves o’er thy shore, Maryland, My Maryland! There may it float forevermore, Maryland, My Maryland! My Mother State, to thee I vow To be as faithful e’er as now—­ And to the Union true as thou, Maryland, My Maryland!

As Baltimore was under martial law, and Confederate sympathizers were being rounded up by Union troops, it seems that Miller & Beacham chose the better part of valor and released a Union version to please the authorities. The flurry of reprints and duplicate publications dried up in 1863. There were probably enough copies already floating around, but the troubled status of the state and its song may have led publishers to avoid the original in favor of new versions. For better or worse, the song and the state were now trapped in an uneasy dance with the fate of each shaping the course of the other.

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four

Fall 1861 The Cary Invincibles, Flags, and Symbolic Patriotism

The Battle of Big Bethel (June 10) was little more than a skirmish, but the Confederate victory on Virginia soil provided much needed fodder for the Southern press. The Northern press did not help the situation, excoriating the Union officers involved and using the loss as one more lever against the Lincoln administration. The Northern public clamored for action, so on July 16, Brig. Gen. Irvin McDowell led 35,000 Union troops against Gen. P. T. G. Beauregard’s 21,000 Confederates entrenched along Bull Run southwest of Centreville, Virginia. McDowell’s ill-­trained men took two days to travel the twenty-­ five miles from Washington to Centreville before having to rest and reorganize. On the 21st, McDowell finally attacked the Confederate line on Matthews Hill and achieved some measure of success until Confederate reinforcements under the command of Gen. Joseph Johnston, brought in by train from the Shenandoah Valley, strengthened the wavering Confederate ranks. Faced with fresh troops and the loss of key artillery, the Union advance faltered, then broke into a panicked retreat that did not stop until they reached the outskirts of Washington. Lincoln quickly replaced McDowell with Gen. George McClellan. The battle had a sobering effect on John Gill and the men of the First Maryland Infantry (csa). Crossing the ground vacated by a Union regiment, Gill passed over the body of a color-­bearer “who had entwined himself in the American Flag.” The symbolism was not lost on the Marylanders: “Our men, one and all, had a kind word for the gallant soldier.”1 The gallant soldier’s death did not keep Gill and other Confederates from appreciating the win, however. Poor planning and coordination on the Union side pitted against creative and decisive responses from their

Confederates counterparts made the First Battle of Bull Run a signal victory for the South. In the words of Emory Thomas: “On the night of July 21, 1861, the Confederate States of America was just about everything its founders had envisioned the Southern nation to be. In the minds of its citizens at least the Confederacy was the confirmed expression of Southern nationalism.”2 Certainly the Southern press presented the victory as such and for good reason: the fight at Bull Run proved to be a high point for the Confederate armies in 1861. Fighting in other parts of the country over the next six months was less favorable for Southern interests. In actions at Wilson’s Creek (mo), Glorietta Pass (nm), Cheat Mountain (wv), Port Royal (sc), and Kentucky Mills (ky), the Confederacy had conceded ground in Missouri, New Mexico, West Virginia, Kentucky, and large portions of Tennessee. To make matters worse, Federal forces were strengthening their position along the Mississippi River. Marylanders had watched the fight in Virginia with particular concern because Bull Run was less than thirty miles from their border. The results of this battle directly impacted whether the Old Line State would see fighting within its borders; in the following months many feared that Confederate forces would push up through Maryland to threaten the capital.3 Such fears led to a poorly planned Union excursion into Virginia and to the Battle of Ball’s Bluff on October 21, another humiliating defeat for the Union. Once again the soldiers’ lack of experience was telling. One man from Michigan admitted trying to return fire, but “whether I done any hurt or good is more than I can say.”4 Tensions between Unionists and Confederates were running high when John Scott and the rest of the Twenty-­Second New York Infantry passed through Baltimore, though in this case the tension came more from the troops than from the civilians. The Union soldiers were issued ammunition when they reached the city, but there seemed no need as they were met by cheering crowds. Then disaster struck when a soldier tripped and fell, “discharging his musket, which caused a scene of confusion that beggars description. 4 or 5 hundred shots were fired in the depot; in the dark and in all directions.”5 A number of New York men were killed during this debacle. Fellow New Yorker Albert 72

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Higley was naïvely enthusiastic about the chaos. “I can say that I felt no fear but felt determined to stand fast and sell my life as dear as possible,” he proudly claimed, somehow managing to sound patriotic in the midst of the self-­wrought catastrophe.6 For Robert Crist of the Twenty-­First Indiana Infantry, what he saw around him as he passed through the city in August left little doubt in his mind as to the inhabitants’ loyalties: “There is more secesh than union in Baltimore now.”7 On the other hand, Maj. Frederick Boardman of the recently formed Fourth Wisconsin would find plenty of genial hosts in Maryland following his regiment’s arrival in December. He was invited to numerous dinner parties in Baltimore and was asked to join another family in Frederick for Christmas.8 Unionist or Confederate, one thing was clear—­Baltimore and the rest of the state were being torn apart. Despondent after hearing a group of Baltimore women defending secession, Dr. Samuel Harrison described what the war was doing to his beloved Maryland: “Families are divided, attachments severed, sociability destroyed, kindliness soured, gentleness extinguished, sensibility blunted, delicacy of feeling obliterated. . . . Wife against husband—­Son against father—­ brother against brother—­Sister against sister—­friend against friend. . . . Even the children have caught the madness of their mothers & fathers.”9 The chaos was overwhelming for Virginia Warner, who described Baltimore as a large “insane asylum.”10 The war of words had given way to actual combat, and the price of patriotism was growing distressingly steep. Things remained tense in the other border states as well. While Union forces successfully kept Confederates from establishing control in Missouri, poorly handled diplomacy threatened to drive the state out of the Union. On August 30 Gen. John Frémont declared martial law and ordered the emancipation of slaves in the state. Lincoln was forced to rescind Frémont’s actions, not only to pacify Missouri’s populace but to keep from alienating Kentucky and the other border states. Fortunately for Lincoln, Gen. Ulysses S. Grant was much more circumspect in his dealings with Kentucky civilians, whereas Confederate Gen. Leonidas Polk’s “invasion” of then neutral Kentucky actually pushed the state’s legislature to side with the fall 1861

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Union. The Union and the Confederacy were fighting a war of perceptions, with each side selling their legitimacy, asserting their cause, and refining their identity in the hopes of swaying more of the country’s population to their side. The Carys, Beauregard, and Mythologization According to Branham and Harnett, a successful anthem needs to present a national identity even as it establishes a link between the singer and the nation though its lyrics, music, or performance in patriotic settings.11 In addition, it needed to be likeable. There was no way a song could become an anthem if people did not enjoy the piece. “Dixie” had a few years to build an audience heading into the war, while the early release of “The Bonnie Blue Flag” allowed for heavy marketing and distribution before war-­related shortages stifled Southern publishers. Both pieces proved to be musically satisfying to Southern audiences. “Maryland, My Maryland,” however, needed something more. For it to move from a regional emblem to a national anthem required external attachments or what might be called commercial-­patriotic publicity. During the Civil War such attachments were usually found in major battles and esteemed officers, but “Maryland, My Maryland” also needed a reimagining of its place in the unfolding conflict. The song needed “invented traditions,” a means of securing a niche within collective memory that granted the piece the weight of historically proven artifacts.12 Such efforts were often shaped by what John Kleinig called “founding and later historical myths—­idealized and even falsified stories of hardship, heroism, and triumph” that tied emotion and tradition together into a compelling foundation for patriotic self-­justification.13 The Carys were once again up to the task of moving their new song to the next level. The forthright sisters had made no secret as to where their loyalties lay; according to Mary Chesnut, at one point “Miss Hetty Cary had her hands tied behind her in Baltimore & insults offered to her person, pretending, the monsters, that they were searching for (flags) arms.”14 Wishing to transport uniforms to Maryland Confederates in Virginia—­and fearing Federal reprisals for their flagrant 74

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support of the Confederacy—­Jennie and Hetty fled Baltimore, sneaking across the Potomac and settling in Richmond with family.15 In September the Cary sisters, along with their cousin Constance Cary, were invited to visit General Beauregard’s headquarters near Fairfax Court House to meet with members of the First Maryland Infantry (csa). Granted honorary ranks in the army (Constance as “captain-­general,” Hetty as “lieutenant-­colonel,” and Jennie as “first lieutenant”), Col. George H. Steuart handed his sword to Hetty “and thus the regiment, amid much enthusiasm, was put through its manual by the prettiest woman in Virginia.”16 One evening the ladies were enjoying a serenade from men of the Washington Artillery of New Orleans. When asked how they might return the favor, the homesick young soldiers cried out, “Let us hear a woman’s voice,” so Miss Jennie offered up her new song.17 Constance Cary described the historic premiere: “At once we struck up Randall’s verses to the tune of the old college song, ‘Lauriger Horatius.’ . . . All joined in the ringing chorus, and when we finished a burst of applause came from some soldiers listening in the darkness behind a belt of trees.”18 Later Constance would elaborate on that memorable performance: “I can hear now the swing of that grand chorus, as the men gradually caught up the refrain and echoed it, and by next day, to our joy and pride, the whole camp at Manassas was resounding with ‘My Maryland!’”19 Hetty Cary described a similar effect: “The refrain was speedily caught up and tossed back to us from hundreds of rebel throats. . . . There was not a dry eye in the tent, and, we were told the next day, not a cap with a rim on it in camp. Nothing could have kept Mr. Randall’s verses from living and growing into a power.”20 The fortuitous pairing of Randall’s words with “Lauriger Horatius” may have produced an artwork capable of generating this extraordinary level of enthusiasm, yet it would be ingenuous to assume that the lyric and music were all that was involved. In particular, the identity of the performers cannot be removed from the aesthetic equation. According to Hetty’s memory, the soldiers cried out for a “woman’s voice,” not fall 1861

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12. Constance Cary Harrison, the third of the “Cary Invincibles,” who were instrumental in promoting “Maryland, My Maryland” in Virginia and Maryland. Virginia Historical Society, 2002.17.2.

a specific song. In addition, in almost all these anecdotes, the singers were described as exceptionally beautiful women. When Confederate artillery officer Edward Porter Alexander recalled the “excitements” in camp during the fall of 1861, he spoke of the performance by “the two very pretty Misses Cary, Hetty & Jennie,” not just the introduction of a new song.21 Another veteran mentioned the sisters as possessing “uncommon beauty and great intellectual attainments,” while many considered Hetty, known as the “Belle of Richmond,” to be the most beautiful woman they had ever seen.22 Such noteworthy and engaging performers would not hurt the premiere of “Maryland, My Maryland” to an audience of lonely soldiers far from home. This does not obviate the musical and poetic power of the song, but it certainly helps explain its meteoric rise to success. The Carys and their song gained even more publicity from Beauregard’s camp a few months later when a dramatic story that included Jennie and Hetty, “Maryland, My Maryland,” and the Confederate battle flag was picked up a number of Southern newspapers. According to this account, General Beauregard heard some slaves singing outside his window at Centreville. Impressed by the performance, the general requested “My Maryland,” “the sweetest and most touching song the war has yet produced,” but the slaves were unable to sing it. The next day a member of Beauregard’s staff printed copies of the lyric and sent them to the First Maryland Infantry (csa), a unit purported to have some excellent singers. That evening the Rebels from Maryland performed the piece for their general “with the power and pathos which exiles alone can give.” Beauregard thanked the men for their fine performance, then unfurled a new flag with the announcement: “Gentlemen, I present to you a Confederate battle flag, made in Baltimore by the most beautiful woman in that city.” The soldiers first cheered for Hetty Cary, but an officer from the First Maryland corrected them, noting that it was Jennie who had made their flag. Beauregard then continued: “I promised her on the honor of a gentleman, that I would, with my own hands, plant it upon the Washington monument in Baltimore.” The combifall 1861

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nation of patriotic symbols—­the new flag, the stirring song, the noble ladies—­all combined for an intense scene ideally suited to inspire the soldiers around Centreville as well as the civilian readers of this article. The correspondent concluded by noting that the Maryland troops “were literally transported with joy and enthusiasm.”23 Although General Beauregard had garnered mixed reactions from his military colleagues, the general public was fond of the dashing general. Attaching his name to “My Maryland” was a sure way to enhance interest in the song throughout the Confederacy. This linking of Randall and Cary’s song with Beauregard lasted for some time. In February 1862 the Charleston Mercury noted the “wonderful popularity” of “My Maryland,” wondering if “much of its success may be attributed to the fact that the music . . . is known to be the favorite air of Gen. Beauregard.” The editors were sympathetic to the “gallant exiles of Maryland, who are shedding their blood for our cause upon every battlefield,” and they remained hopeful that Maryland would still join the Confederacy.24 A few weeks later the Daily Morning News in Savannah, Georgia, announced a concert featuring what they called “Gen. Beauregard’s song, ‘Maryland, My Maryland,’” and the Charleston Mercury likewise reported a concert that included “the favorite air of Gen. Beauregard—­ Maryland! My Maryland!”25 In August 1862 another story that mythologized the song quickly circulated throughout the South. A traveler sent a letter to the Daily Richmond Enquirer telling of the atrocities he had seen as he passed through central Virginia. Just outside of Rapidan Station he came to a house that had been raided by Union troops. The mistress of the house told him of the horrors she had experienced when unruly Union troops first forced their way into her home, then played her piano and danced around the parlor destroying furniture: In the midst of these revelries, the ladies became alarmed for their personal safety, and Mrs. Roney, on bended knees, implored the aid of Heaven, not knowing at what moment she and her aged mother might be slaughtered and the house 78

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burned over their heads. In the midst of her supplication, a gentle breeze wafted into her lap that beautiful ballad “My Maryland.” She clasped it to her bosom and exclaimed, “Heaven has sent me this!” and arose and read a portion of those soul-­stirring verses in the hearing of her tormentors. It was more than they could bear. It acted as a mirror to expose their hideous deformity. They grew pale and tremulous, and left the premises, we hope, never again to return.26

This fervent, almost biblical story amplified the already compelling impression that “Maryland, My Maryland” held over Southerners. Now with divine favor added to the song’s attachment to flags, military leaders, and an exiled population, “My Maryland” was gathering the requisite props needed to rise from a regional popular song to a national patriotic anthem. Music, Flags, and Symbolic Patriotism Music was the fastest and most convincing genre from which to create new patriotic symbols. A song’s message is there on the surface to be heard and used; as the dramatic rise of “Maryland, My Maryland” demonstrated, it can be grasped, internalized, and retransmitted immediately. In addition, many listeners were sensitive to the subliminal or accidental messages that music could communicate during these uncertain times, especially when it was heard in a political or patriotic context. As a delegate to a Unionist convention in Baltimore, Dr. Samuel A. Harrison attended numerous meetings and speeches. At one gathering in June 1861 Harrison was troubled by something he witnessed: “A band of music serenaded [Congressman Henry] May, and the airs were those which have been adopted by the rebels—­Dixie’s land (a negro song) and the Marseillais–­(a French revolutionary one). None of the National Airs were played until the crowd had dispersed and the band taken into his house, when the ‘Star-­Spangled Banner,’ & ‘Hail Columbia’ were played to the satisfaction of Mr. May’s Union friends at his table . . . the crowd evidently considered it a secession triumph.”27 To Harrison the symbolic significance of these two performances reverberated far beyond fall 1861

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the sound of the band; they were acoustic symbols of the warring parties, and playing or listening to such pieces constituted an act of applied patriotism. Symbols were important, even necessary for the formation of both the Southern nation and the Confederate state. When historian Eric Hobsbawm claimed that the “mere setting up of a state is not sufficient in itself to create a nation,” the inverse is also implied, that the identification of a nation does not automatically guarantee the formation or success of a state.28 Both need their respective populations to participate in their existence, to acknowledge and in some way celebrate those factors or characteristics upon which the country or nation is based.29 State and country flags were paramount patriotic symbols during the Civil War. Flags represented history, territory, kinship, tradition, even ethical ideals. The symbolic importance of flags was not lost on Confederate civilians and soldiers; the torturous legislation surrounding the selection of a Confederate national flag is example enough, while the impassioned defense of state and regimental colors on the battlefield resulted in some of the most heroic deeds recorded. Rituals surrounding flags, similar to performances of patriotic pieces, were emotionally charged experiences that made patriotic sentiment a tangible reality. “Flags captured the main themes of love, courage, honor, and duty with far greater brevity than lengthy orations could,” wrote Robert Bonner. “Regimental colors given at these presentation ceremonies contained an extremely wide range of emblems, some drawn from previous militia traditions and earlier national symbols, others more recently adopted and circulated, either to represent a state or the new Confederacy.” Flag ceremonies, just like bands performing “Dixie” or families singing “Maryland, My Maryland,” were primary opportunities to be patriotic; they were participatory experiences that solidified the new country’s existence. Such experiences were particularly important at the start of the conflict. “Despite misgivings on the part of a few, popular nationalism, with flags flying, would be a part of the Confederate experience no less than that of the Union,” explained Bonner. “For both sides, the spring of 1861 was a 80

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13. Union soldiers glare as a “female rebel” strolls down a Baltimore street wearing a dress that resembles the Confederate flag. It is very possible that Hetty Cary was the inspiration for this drawing. Harper’s Weekly, September 7, 1861.

watershed in showing how flags might both stir patriotic passions and help to crystalize an understanding of collective purpose and political conviction.”30 Bonner also noted that the passions captured by flags “took flight not just in physical form but in the tunes and words of music.” Flags were one of the most common topics for songs both North and South, and the image of a flag appeared frequently on title pages to sheet music regardless of whether the fall 1861

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song mentioned flags. Selecting such a prominent icon for the title of the piece or as a key part of the lyric produced instantaneous patriotic music.31 It was no accident that “The Star-­ Spangled Banner” was considered one of the North’s leading anthems or that Francis Scott Key’s song suffered attempted revisions that included “The Flag of Secession” and “The President’s Chair.” Most notable of these was “The Southern Cross,” a new lyric about a Confederate flag written by Ellen Key Blunt to replace her father’s famous poem: Oh! say can you see, through the gloom and the storm, More bright for the darkness, that pure constellation? Like the symbol of love, and redemption its form, As it points to the haven of hope for the nation. How radiant each star, as the beacon afar, Giving promise of peace, or assurance in war! ’Tis the Cross of the South, which shall ever remain, To light us to freedom, and glory again!32

Instead of attempting to regain possession of the tune, other Southern songs admitted defeat with lyrics such as “Farewell to the Star-­Spangled Banner” (J. W. Davies & Sons, 1862). The symbiosis between flags and music also helps to explain the success of Harry McCarthy’s “Bonnie Blue Flag.” Linking a catchy song to a preeminent symbol all but guaranteed the success of the song as a patriotic anthem while simultaneously reinforcing the presence of the flag in the minds of Southerners: We are a band of brothers and native to the soil Fighting for the property we gained by honest toil And when our rights were threatened, the cry rose near and far Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star! Chorus Hurrah! Hurrah! For Southern rights, hurrah! Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.33

That the lyric goes on to name each state that joined the Confederacy did not hurt its market appeal either. 82

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Chaplain Frederick Heuring of the Twenty-­Fifth Indiana witnessed the reciprocal power between music and flags. He described an encounter with some Mississippi locals following the siege of Corinth in June 1862: “As we journey along today, we come to a farm where the gentelman and daughter are standing at the gate. As our band strikes one of its liveliest airs, the gentelman produces from under or among the folds of the Lady’s dress, a fine ‘Union’ flag, as he waves it triumphantly in the breeze, our boys send up a thrilling shout of joy.”34 Flags, like their musical counterparts, were flashpoints of competing loyalties and often joined with patriotic anthems in symbolic battles. Christian Wolfram, a band musician with the Eleventh Indiana Infantry, wrote his mother of an interesting altercation in Paducah, Kentucky, that centered around a flag. Apparently his regiment heard a rumor that one of the local civilians had waved a “secesh flag” from his house. The Hoosiers decided this affront could not stand, so they decided to plant the U.S. flag in front of the house. The post commander disagreed and ordered the men to return to camp. Gen. Lew Wallace, the original colonel of the Eleventh Indiana, sided with his former comrades and announced that the Union flag “must go up.” The entire regiment gathered and marched to the offender’s house, this time with the band leading the way. Yet even as this regimental band and its music could be weapons of patriotic subjugation, they could also serve as a tool of diplomacy; the previous week the same band had marched through town offering serenades at various homes and accepting invitations from the locals to join them for punch and oysters.35 Flags and patriotic anthems were exponentially more effective in the border states where they simultaneously inspired and infuriated mixed audiences. In Baltimore, Edward Spenser was chafing under the increasingly restricted civil liberties stemming largely from the imperious leadership of Union Generals Butler and Cadwalader. “A wonderful free land we live in,” he mocked, using America’s most prominent icon to round out his ironic harangue. “Hurra for the glorious ‘stars and stripes,’ and its patriotic, magnanimous, courageous upholdfall 1861

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ers! Oh that I may live to see the day of retribution—­to salute these men when they put on sackcloth and sprinkle themselves with ashes!”36 “Maryland, My Maryland” had a mutually beneficial connection to flags as well; for example, a group of patriotic ladies from Baltimore sent Capt. William H. Murray’s company of the Maryland Line a Confederate flag with the words “My Maryland” prominently displayed in the center.37 As noted above, flags were also a part of the song’s genesis mythology. The “Stars and Bars,” the first official national flag of the Confederacy, had caused problems on the battlefield due to its resemblance to the U.S. flag. Generals Beauregard and Johnston were in favor of a new design by William Porcher Miles, and when their suggestion was denied in Richmond, they adopted it as their own battle flag. In November the first of these new flags was brought to Beauregard in his camp at Centreville. And who should happen to make those first battle flags? None other than the self-­titled “Cary Invincibles”—­ Jennie, Hetty, and Constance—­the very same ladies who had engineered the success of Randall’s musical anthem. “They were jaunty squares of scarlet crossed with dark blue edged with white, the cross bearing stars to indicate the number of the seceded States,” Constance reminisced after the war. “We set our best stitches upon them, edged them with golden fringes, and, when they were finished, dispatched one to Johnston, another to Beauregard, and the third to Earl Van Dorn, then commanding infantry at Manassas. The banners were received with all possible enthusiasm; were toasted, feted, and cheered abundantly.”38 Hetty Cary also made a flag for the fledgling First Regiment Maryland Line, while Constance made one for the Washington Artillery of New Orleans. In April 1862 the grateful Louisiana battalion marched past her house in Richmond to the strains of Randall and Cary’s emerging anthem: “My heart beat high with pride as the officers saluted with their swords, the band played ‘My Maryland,’ the tired soldiers sitting on the caissons that dragged wearily through the muddy streets set up a rousing cheer; and there, in the midst of them, tak84

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ing the April wind with daring, was my banner, dipping low until it passed me!”39 While new flags and songs provided much needed impetus to fledgling notions of identity, the need for patriotic symbols also led to a renewed interest in “the iconography of the American past” and the ways in which each side could use them in “creating the symbolic foundations of their own nation,” according to Sarah Ruben.40 Americans were comfortable with epic narratives as part of their everyday self-­identity as well as the use of mythic heroes as the loci of their patriotism. Early in the century the American Revolution and its heroes (especially Washington) had been molded into unifying symbols of validation and then promulgated through speeches, poetry, songs, and textbooks.41 Writing from south of Yorktown at the start of McClellan’s Peninsula Campaign, Charles Haydon of Michigan could not help but reflect back to the last time an American army occupied the same location. “I presume however that our hardships, which indeed are not serious, must be light compared with those of our Revolutionary Fathers at this place,” he admitted in his journal. “If they could endure so much to found the Govt. surely we can with light hearts bear the small privations necessary to defend it.”42 The New Orleans Sunday Delta was well aware of the power of historical iconography when they boasted that “Stonewall [Jackson] is well known among his men as a ‘second Gen. Washington.’”43 It is no surprise that the Fourth of July was a volatile topic in both countries.44 Randall was no doubt aware of the same effect his historical references would have when he crafted his third and fourth stanzas. He drew upon “Carroll’s sacred trust” and “Howard’s warlike thrust” to bring forth the Revolutionary War, “Ringgold’s spirit for the fray” and “Watson’s blood at Monterey” in honor of the Mexican-­American War, and then included “fearless Lowe and dashing May” as current heroes from Maryland. Such historical imagery, symbolic significance, and layered meanings all helped to explain the initial impact and subsequent longevity of “Maryland, My Maryland” as a patriotic emblem. Of course, there still remained the requisite aesthetic pleasure regardless of its social or political message; a song must be fall 1861

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enjoyed as music before it can hope to have any broad or lasting impact. There is no recipe for musical success, and few songs can ever hope to achieve the success of a “Dixie” or “Maryland, My Maryland.” This did not keep professional songwriters and amateur wordsmiths from trying, and Americans were flooded with new music and lyrics in 1861. The First Musical Responses “Maryland, My Maryland” had quickly become a patriotic emblem for Confederate Marylanders, even though the state was still part of the Union. The rising popularity of the song demanded a response, so Unionists in Maryland reciprocated with their own versions that twisted Randall’s words to suit a Union agenda. In September 1861 the Civilian and Telegraph of Cumberland, Maryland, published a set of lyrics “altered for the Union” and, curiously, named “My Normandy” as the tune: The despot’s heel would press thy shore, Maryland! His touch pollute thy temple door, Maryland! Ashamed of patriotic gore, Of murdered men in Baltimore, O! be thyself again, once more, Maryland! My Maryland!45

The following month the Examiner of Frederick, Maryland, offered a version of their own: The traitor threatens now thy shore, Maryland, my Maryland! He would pollute thy temple door, Maryland, my Maryland! Remember April’s fatal day—­ The soul disgraced by ruffian sway—­ Oh! wipe the bloody stain away, Maryland, my Maryland!46

It is worth noting that the Frederick version repeats the word “Maryland” in the refrain while the Cumberland version has 86

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only one iteration. This shows that the Frederick version is a response to the song, while the Cumberland version answers the original poem. Parodies of popular songs, like contrafactum, were a tried and true practice in nineteenth-­century America. Parodies were a distinctive form of contrafactum wherein the lyric contains reference to, borrows words and phrases from, or obviously mimics the intention of the original song, usually for comedic or antagonistic effect. “Parody indeed has been the favorite refuge of hard-­pressed rhymesters on both sides,” wrote the Boston Daily Advertiser in a review of a recent collection of songs. Randall and Cary’s piece was judged to be “one of the most effective [ballads] that has been written on either side” judging by “the number of parodies provoked by ‘My Maryland.’”47 The key word here is “effective”: the success or influence of a patriotic song can be gauged by the number of parodies that seek to undermine it or use its popularity for their own effect. Were “Maryland, My Maryland” not widely heard and accepted as an up-­and-­coming anthem, then critics would have no need to craft a rebuttal for it. “Maryland, My Maryland” was not the only poem-­cum-­song that appeared following the violence in Baltimore, though it was surely the most popular. There was “Down-­Trodden Maryland,” sung to the tune of “Tom Bowling” released in Baltimore in November 1861, with lyrics surprisingly similar to Randall’s verses in tone and intent: Down-­trodden, despised see brave Maryland lie, The noblest of all States; Up and to ransom her let each one try, To hasten the plans of the Fates. Her land is of the greatest beauty, That e’er the eye gazed on; Fearless she roused her to her duty, Nor paused she till ’twas done. But yet she hopes for better things, When Jeff who all commands, This wanton war to an end quick brings, fall 1861

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With peace to our southern lands. And when the South is free once more, Twi’ll be her proudest boast, That forth the first her men did pour, To curb the invading host.48

Then there was the much less presumptuous “Camp Song of the Maryland Line,” released as a broadside in 1861 and sung to the tune “Gay and Happy Still”: We’re the boys, so gay and happy, Wheresoe’er we chance to be—­ If at home or on camp duty, ’Tis the same—­we’re always free. Chorus So let the war guns roar as they will, We’ll be gay and happy still; Gay and happy—­gay and happy, We’ll be gay and happy still.

The rise in popularity of “Maryland, My Maryland” likely prompted renowned songwriter Harry McCarthy to create his own state anthem. Writer of the immensely successful “Bonnie Blue Flag” of 1861, McCarthy turned his talents to a new song, “Missouri: Bright Land of the West.” Missouri! Missouri! bright land of the west! Where the way worn emigrant always found rest, Who gave to the farmer reward for his toil, Expended in turning and breaking the soil Awake to the notes of the bugle and drum, Awake from your slumber the tyrant hath come! Chorus And swear by your honor your chains shall be riven, And add your bright star to our flag of eleven.

Though reminiscent of “My Maryland” in many ways, McCarthy’s lyric lacked the sanguinary force or rarified tone that helped 88

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Randall’s verses gain a broad audience. Yet there were larger factors that would keep “Missouri” from reaching the heights of popularity that Randall and Cary’s song attained. The opening verse of McCarthy’s lyric celebrates farmers and immigrants, not something that would endear it to socialites and parlor performers in major urban centers. At the same time, those parlors were mostly east of the Mississippi; although the Confederacy pitched itself as a unified nation, focus was given to the more populated and culturally dominant Eastern Seaboard. These consumers would be less interested in Missouri’s fate. All told McCarthy’s lyric lacked the symbolic potential inherent in Randall’s poem.49 Southern historian Richard Harwell considered McCarthy’s song “a western ‘Maryland, My Maryland,’” but musically speaking McCarthy might have fared better had he written a contractum instead of composing new music for “Missouri.” He had chosen this route for his biggest hit, “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” which reused music from “The Irish Jaunting Car,” and the song’s success speaks for itself. An able composer, McCarthy produced a decent melody for his state anthem, but there was little chance the new piece could spread as quickly were he to have used a commonly known melody. The lukewarm response to “Missouri: Bright Land of the West” and other run-­of-­the-­ mill songs showed that patriotic icons did not have the luxury of time to establish their authority during the Civil War. They had to hit hard and fast, get their message across quickly, and leave a lasting impression if they hoped to survive aesthetic, commercial, and patriotic battles being waged for each country’s national identity. Encamped along the mouth of the Chopawomsic Creek where it empties into the Potomac during the winter of 1861, John Hatton joined other members of the First Maryland Artillery (csa) around a bonfire to enjoy a sing. First came the patriotic tune that was already capturing the hearts of Confederate Marylanders, “Maryland, My Maryland.” Then came the sentimental ballads, as some men called for “Annie Laurie” while others insisted on “Cottage by the Sea.” Unfortunately, the performance was rudely interrupted by the roar of cannon fire, and the men immediately ran to their guns.50 For these solfall 1861

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diers the sounds of war trumped the sounds of music, but only for a moment. Nothing could keep the men from partaking of their favorite form of entertainment for long. This impromptu performance blending a patriotic song with parlor ballads is a healthy reminder that music serves first and foremost as music, not as propaganda. So long as a piece is musically satisfying, it may continue to serve other purposes. Unfortunately for “Maryland, My Maryland,” the strength and endurance of its musical charm would face its first major test in 1862.

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five

Spring 1862 Marylanders, the Military, and Regionalism

On November 30, 1861, Harper’s Weekly introduced readers to “The Picket Guard,” a new work by poet Ethel Lynn Beers: “All quiet along the Potomac,” they say, Except now and then a stray picket Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro, By a rifleman hid in the thicket. ’Tis nothing—­a private or two, now and then, Will not count in the news of the battle; Not an officer lost—­only one of the men, Moaning out, all alone, the death rattle.

This sentimental story, notable for its antiwar sentiments and the recognition of class segregation in the media’s coverage of the war, found a welcome audience both North and South. Taken from a newspaper account Beers had read, the poem’s opening line—­“All quiet along the Potomac”—­quickly became a household phrase. In 1863 Southern composer John Hill Hewitt would set the words to original music, and his song would become one of the most popular pieces of the war. Newspapers and weeklies were key players in the popular music industry during the Civil War. Many poems and songs were introduced in the media, and their success relied on the circular nature of print culture; the more interest shown in a song or poem, the more exposure it would receive; each new mention of the piece would increase the size of the audience, and the work would gain even more popularity.1 This was certainly the case for Randall’s poem and Cary’s tune. “At the request of many of our readers we republish . . . this beautiful poem, as revised by its young but gifted author,” announced the

Charleston Mercury on January 27, 1862. “The song has attained a wonderful popularity throughout the whole Confederacy, but especially among the Southrons of the ‘debatable ground’ in Maryland and Virginia.” The next day the Charleston Courier and the Macon Daily Telegraph also published the poem turned lyric, and other newspapers soon followed. Curiously, some Northern papers joined the publicity parade. The Peninsula News and Advertiser of Milford, Delaware, printed the poem on January 31, and even the Boston Post would eventually print Randall’s words on September 22. So it would appear “My Maryland” had already gained a foothold in the public’s imagination by the start of 1862, and this interest would be amplified by each subsequent appearance in print. Locating Early Patriotism It was certainly “All quiet along the Potomac” during the first months of 1862. Gen. George McClellan, now general in chief of all Union armies, had used the six months following the loss at First Battle of Bull Run to fortify the defenses around Washington dc and to recruit, equip, and train the Army of the Potomac. Convinced that he faced an overwhelming number of Confederate troops, McClellan kept his army close at hand, so aside from the inconsequential Battle of Ball’s Bluff in October of the previous year, McClellan’s large army did nothing. Gen. Joseph E. Johnston, commander of the Confederate forces in northern Virginia, gladly used the time to organize and equip his troops and to prepare for the invasion that was sure to come. The one bright spot for Union forces in the East came from Gen. Ambrose Burnside’s attack on fortifications on Roanoke Island, North Carolina, in early February. Following a day of shelling by gunboats, around 10,000 Union troops landed and eventually surrounded the Confederate forts, compelling Col. Henry M. Shaw to surrender his force of 2,500 men. Though comparatively small in terms of the number of combatants and total casualties, this victory helped tighten the blockade that was already creating difficulties for the Confederacy. Unionists in the East finally had something to cheer about, while Confederates grew increasingly frustrated with the performance 92

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of their leaders on and off the battlefield. In Arkansas the following month, Gen. Samuel Curtis stifled a Confederate offensive at the Battle of Pea Ridge that left Missouri and northern Arkansas under Union control.2 That there was little to celebrate in terms of military victories did not mean that patriotism could be put on hold. There was still a naïve ambiguity pervading discussions of the war, as neither side had yet to fully grasp the need for a unified national identity or the demands such loyalty would entail. Soldiers and civilians remained enamored of bargain patriotism, and music was a painless way to encourage both regional and national pride. A letter to the editor of the Jefferson Gazette (Ohio) from 1862 captured the musical pomp and pageantry of a celebration of Washington’s birthday: “The Brigade . . . marched with the firm and steady tread of veterans to the splendid music dispensed to us, by the Cavalry and other fine brass bands present, the mountain passes and ravines echoed back the sound in wild melody. The scene was one that caused every heart present to thrill with joy, and increase the glow of pride and noble patriotism, for our great and glorious Government.”3 There was no mention of military accomplishments, political intentions, or anything related to the causes behind this exhibition of patriotic faith. It was the appearance of the troops, their martial performance, and of course the (presumably) patriotic music that represented and celebrated the government. The description of this military parade treats it as performed, self-­contained patriotism. Things were different in the western theater, where patriotic symbols were attaching themselves to real, increasingly meaningful events. In January Gen. George Thomas defeated Confederate forces at the Battle of Mill Springs (ky), helping to secure Kentucky’s place in the Union and providing a much needed victory for the Northern press to celebrate. Shortly thereafter, Gen. Ulysses S. Grant and Flag Officer Andrew H. Foote led a combined operation along the Kentucky-­Tennessee border, taking Fort Henry on February 6 and Fort Donelson on February 15. The surrender of thousands of Confederate troops from Fort Donelson was met with ecstasy in the North and susspring 1862

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picious antipathy in the South. “A few more such victory’s will put an end to the rebellion,” wrote an overly confident soldier stationed near Frederick, Maryland.4 This victory also saw the emergence of U. S. Grant as a modern-­day hero; here was a new icon around which patriotic commitment could be shaped. The Union sorely needed a military hero like Grant to act as an antidote to the flamboyant military royalty of the Confederacy who were the darlings of the press. With banners flying and music playing, Grant’s army performed a patriotic conquest even as they celebrated a military victory. Julius Seidel, a bandsman with the Forty-­First Ohio Infantry, described the entrance of the Army of Ohio into Nashville following the capture of Fort Donelson: “Our regiment was the first which entered the city accompanied by the music of the band. General Nelson took a company of the 6th Regiment, marched to the capitol, and hoisted the Union flag there. As soon as the [streamers] became visible from the city, the citizens went to the landing in droves, and welcomed us with great cheer, and many wept with joy.”5 The North had only two months to relish their victory before another battle in Tennessee would tarnish newly risen patriotic hopes. On April 6 Grant’s forces suffered a surprise attack by Albert Sydney Johnston and P. T. G. Beauregard along the banks of the Tennessee River. The unsuspecting Federals were overwhelmed and scattered, but the appearance of Union reinforcements under Don Carlos Buell allowed Grant to launch a counterattack the following day that forced the Confederates to withdraw. The fighting at the Battle of Shiloh was vicious beyond anyone’s conception of warfare to date; Union and Confederate forces suffered more than 23,000 casualties, almost 25 percent of the men who had entered the battle. The perception of war as a clean and noble affair, with gallant officers meeting on the field of honor, could no longer be sustained. The war—­ and the patriotism it relied on—­was now painted with blood. Both Grant and his subordinate, Gen. William T. Sherman, suffered recriminations from the press despite their victory on the second day. It appeared that the newly minted heroes of Fort Donelson would quickly fall to the hounds of public suspi94

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cion. For others, however, the power of patriotic symbols took on even more substance in light of the brutal fight in Tennessee. Union soldier Elias Perry of Missouri was captured at the Battle of Shiloh and was temporarily imprisoned in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. Looking out a cell window, he pointed out a sign across the street that featured “Washington’s profile & the Stars and Stripes on it.” Some guards overheard the prisoners chatting about the sign, and shortly thereafter someone “got some black paint and blacked it as black as a negro.” The emotional power of the flag was enough that the guards felt the need to remove it. When finally released, the pows were transferred to a Union transport, and Perry described the weak men struggling to reach the ship: “At length we got in sight of the old Stars & Stripes which gave us great courage.”6 The prison guards’ defacing of Washington’s face and the flag seems a petty gesture in some respects, but it did reveal a valid concern. To compete in the cultural war that paralleled the military war, the Confederate States of America had to create a viable and visible new republic grounded in historical traditions yet different enough to justify its separation from the United States of America. To do this it needed an iconography of its own, a set of symbols distinct from those of the United States yet still “American” enough to suit those Southerners who saw themselves as the true heirs to the American Revolution.7 Both Unionists and Confederates were well aware of this need and of the patriotic potential posed by new Confederate symbols. After the fall of New Orleans in April 1862, Gen. Benjamin Butler waged a musical war on the Crescent City. Liberally interpreting General Order No. 40 (which banned “any property of any kind or description whatever, of the so-­called Confederate States”), he harassed, fined, and even imprisoned anyone caught singing “The Bonnie Blue Flag.” Union soldiers sacked the offices of music publisher A. E. Blackmar and Brothers, destroying any Confederate materials they found. Owner Armand Blackmar was imprisoned and fined a whopping five hundred dollars. P. P. Werlein, the New Orleans publisher whose catalog boasted the first southern printing of “Dixie,” had his entire stock of sheet music confiscated by Butler’s troops.8 spring 1862

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In July the Daily Dispatch of Richmond informed its readers of the musical abuses suffered by pro-­Confederate civilians living in St. Louis. A group of young ladies were ordered to vacate their house within twenty-­four hours or they would find themselves carted off to jail by Union soldiers. Their crime? Singing and playing “Maryland, My Maryland.” A week later the Cincinnati Daily Commercial told of Union officials searching houses in Newport, Kentucky, where the residents were suspected of disloyalty. Guilt was indicated by the appearance of incriminating pieces of music such as “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” “The Southern Marseillaise,” and “Maryland, My Maryland.” In August a story circulated about a merchant in Norfolk who “displays in his window notorious secession songs such as ‘My Maryland,’ ‘Southern Marseillaise,’ &c.” Such treasonous behavior was unacceptable and “should be squelched.”9 What is noteworthy in each of these cases is that the offensive pieces of music were not limited to “The Bonnie Blue Flag” or “Dixie” but included Randall’s paean to a single eastern state. It appears that “Maryland, My Maryland” had secured a place as a Confederate emblem throughout the country. As might be expected, the song received the same treatment in its home state. On March 7 Gen. Robert Schenck, supervising the Union occupation of Maryland, issued an order that prohibited the sale of secession music. According to one sardonic eyewitness, “He even forbids the birds to sing ‘My Maryland.’”10 The Union occupation of New Orleans, the fall of Fort Pulaski near Savannah, Georgia, just a few weeks earlier, and the loss of Memphis in June left the Confederacy with no inspiring military victories upon which to build an optimistic patriotism. Quite the opposite; the series of setbacks that was shrinking the boundaries of the Confederacy forced many Southerners to rethink themselves and the war. Secession had sounded good in poetry and song, but its realization was proving more difficult than its instigators had foreseen. On February 22 the Confederate Congress met for the first time in Richmond, where they faced difficult choices. The results of their debates were hard for many Southerners to accept. Congress authorized the suspension of the writ of habeas corpus; President Davis declared martial law 96

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14. Music, the military, and patriotism came together in events such as this “Grand Military Concert” in Frederick, Maryland, which ended the program with “The Star-­Spangled Banner.” David M. Rubenstein Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Duke University.

in various locations; and a Conscription Act was passed that required three years of service from white men between the ages of eighteen and thirty-­five. Those Southerners who had signed up for twelve-­month service now found their commitment extended an additional two years. A country founded on notions of individual freedom and states’ rights now faced the worst of an invasive government. “Though the change was often subtle and unintended, the Confederates’ revolution, in the name of survival, altered many, if not most, of those traditional Southern characteristics it was designed to preserve,” wrote historian Emory Thomas. “The war experience challenged the chief tenets of the old Southern ideology and life style, and by the spring of 1862 it had become apparent that if the Confederacy were to survive, Southerners would have to fundamentally alter their world and their world view.” George Rable was even more direct in his evaluation: implementing conscription and the suspension of habeas corpus “raised serious questions about the very nature of the Confederate experiment.”11 What then should be the target for patriotism? With a country barely a year old, a government contending with internal strife, a military unable to gain strategic victory, and a nation of people redefining their identity and goals even as they tried to pull together—­such doubts guaranteed that loyalty to one’s family, friends, neighborhood, and state would remain a focus of patriotism even as the Confederate States of America struggled to establish itself as a worthy recipient of its people’s affections. Military and Musical Regionalism Regionalism and community attachment refused to step aside for nationalism in all parts of the country. Consider the case of Samuel Reid, a student at Asbury University in Greencastle, Indiana, who faithfully followed news of the war. While curious about events in the various theaters of operation, what interested him most was the performance of the western troops on his side of the Appalachians. “This has been a glorious week for the cause of the Union,” he wrote in his diary in February 1862. “The fall of Fort Donelson on the Cumberland River in Tennes98

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see, one of the rebel strongholds, and the capture of some 1400 prisoners cannot fail to have a very demoralizing effect upon the rebels. Their leaders must surely begin to see the hopelessness of their cause and see visions of hemp neck ties dangling above their heads.” While obviously a supporter of all western troops, loyalty forced him to defend his own state’s contributions in light of a neighboring state’s performance: “The western troops have indeed achieved a great victory and although Illinois, having the greater number of troops, can claim the victory as belonging mostly to Illinois, still the few regiments, both of Indianians, were not in any respect behind them in valor.” His pride in the performance of the armies of the West was paralleled by a disdain for troops in the East. “I suppose now that the western troops have gained this great victory, the eastern troops in Maryland and Virginia will turn, and, highly elated by the glorious news, have a ‘grand review.’”12 Reid’s commentary reveals the complex network of loyalties experienced by Americans during the Civil War. He defended the courage of his state’s troops, took pride in the performance of others from his region, and expressed competitive contempt for another region that claimed superiority, though he accepted Easterners as part of his larger community over those who had rebelled against the Federal government. In other words, Reid’s loyalties were to his state first, then his region, and eventually his country. This network of loyalties was the same for many if not most Americans. Allegiance began at the home and spiraled out to encompass the country as a whole. For the most part these communities were socially or ideologically compatible, and what differences did exist were often a matter of degree, not outright opposition. Yet the events leading up to the war had exacerbated differences and pushed forward issues that provoked conflict between previously cooperative if not congenial communities. Along with the declared conflict between North and South, now there was hostility between individual states, tension between East and West, and suspicion between urban centers and rural communities. Much of the patriotic rhetoric leading up to the war focused on two monolithic and impersonal entities—­the Union and spring 1862

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the Confederacy. Yet for most Americans these constructs were imagined at best. Most Americans’ loyalties were given to their immediate communities and states more than to the larger, abstract geopolitical bodies, and the issues under contention were examined less on their large-­scale ethics and more on their application to each individual’s community. In many respects the very nature of American nationalism during the Civil War was a contest between these “nested” loyalties and the economic and political entities known as the Union and Confederacy.13 Regional interests—­including political and economic gain—­ were significant blocks to gathering loyalty to either country. Yet regional loyalty could also work in support of national loyalty. Both the North and the South succeeded in establishing loyalty (at least in the early years) by presenting national patriotism as a logical extension of one’s dedication to their home state. If a state is a willing and contributing part of a country, and that country exhibits the same moral and political characteristics valued by the state, then national patriotism is no more than a broadening of local allegiance to include a larger manifestation of the local body politic.14 The successful integration of local and national allegiances was epitomized in the regiments that fought the war. Union and Confederate units may have fought for their respective countries, but they were first and foremost symbols of their states. The conduct and performance in battle of every regiment was seen as a reflection of a state’s character and honor. Regiments proudly carried their own unit or state banners along with their national flags, a bold reminder that the soldiers maintained a loyalty to their state even as they fought for their country.15 The presentation of the state emblem alongside the national flag embodied the relationship between the two; allegiance to one’s country during the Civil War did not require the abandonment of state loyalty. State loyalty was not the only local allegiance that predated Northern and Southern nationalism. Attempts to gain sympathy for a national cause had to contend with the strong emotional bonds that underlay loyalties centered not on the state but in the home. Nationalistic rhetoric may have “warmed respectable 100

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Americans in a blanket of commonality without determining how they lived or thought,” wrote historian Robert H. Wiebe, yet true loyalty remained with the social, geographic, and political locale in which Americans lived. “Their firm loyalties began at home and extended from the community through its surrounding area no farther than the state,” Wiebe continued, “the most distant unit that actually fed their enterprises and influenced their local environments.”16 Loyalty in these communities was bound up with family values, which meant that patriotism was grounded in family loyalty. Yet scholars such as James McPherson have noted that patriotic commitment to the country could come into conflict with this preexistent commitment to the home. Soldiers in particular experienced this problem in that their decision to join the military did not alleviate their responsibilities to home and family.17 In Jonathan Dean Sarris’s words, many soldiers “were never fully at home or fully in the field—­their duties were inextricably intertwined.”18 In this sense patriotism was grounded in morality as much as politics. Many nineteenth-­century Americans believed that physical locales encouraged powerful and lasting affections as much as culturally defined spaces. The material environment that one saw, heard, smelled, and felt, from childhood through adulthood, took priority over any manufactured social entities. This intimate attachment to one’s immediate surroundings—­ what Civil War novelist John W. De Forest termed “geographical morality”—­was considered a primary obstacle to the formation of a deep and lasting national identity in this country.19 Regional and state identity was seen by many as a marker of character. For example, Charles Haydon of Michigan deconstructed his social environment by state. Early in the war he saw Virginia men as largely indifferent to the war while South Carolina men were “rabid.”20 Haydon’s regional perspective was not limited to his battlefield opponents. While his fellow Michiganders were unbeatable in battle, other Union troops were suspect: “There are many N.Y. & Penn. troops in our army. I have little confidence in them. If they were from Michigan, God bless the state, or from any of the western or New England states there would not be a shadow of doubt as to their conduct.”21 Robert spring 1862

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Dabney, chaplain of the Eighteenth Virginia Infantry, defended the performance of his regiment and the men from his state by referring to their bravery at the First Battle of Bull Run: “Our troops displayed almost universal gallantry, but too much confusion and excitement. The Virginia Regiments exhibited all the heroism any Southern regiments could with a great deal more steadiness.”22 Many recognized the need for a wider basis of patriotic commitment even as they remained loyal to their states. When Lovell Rousseau was promoted to command of the First Division, IVX Corps, George Landrum of the Second Ohio Infantry felt secure because not only had Rousseau proven himself a brave man and a capable commander but he also loved “his country better than Kentucky.”23 Still, regional allegiances remained a stumbling block in the formation of national identities. In the North the incursion of regionally driven ideologies fractured the party politics that had sustained the Union through the rambunctious decades prior to the war. In the South soldiers and officers complained of regional favoritism in the commissioning and promotion of officers, politicking for command positions within regiments, and an unclear chain of command that left ranking officers in conflict with regional authorities. There was also concern at the distribution of arms and troop deployments that often sent men out of their own state to fight in distant regions.24 The preservation of local identities led President Davis to clash with Gen. Joseph Johnston and other members of the Confederate high command. Davis and the Confederate Congress supported the retention of brigades of regiments from a single state to maintain regional pride and loyalty, whereas Johnston wanted to integrate new regiments into whatever preexisting units needed reinforcing or to create new brigades made up of any available regiments, regardless of their state of origin. Such ethnocentric biases reached out past a state’s border to encompass the larger region as well. In particular, legislative disputes between eastern and western states (in many ways similar to those between northern and southern states) had produced hard feelings that lingered after war was declared; as eminent historian Merle Curti surmised: “The East was jealous of the 102

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West, the West suspicious of the East.”25 Such feelings came to the surface following the mobilization of the armies, when officers and troops from the East and West exchanged locales. Maj. Frederick Boardman of the Fourth Wisconsin, part of the Union force occupying New Orleans in 1862, told his mother of the imbalance in accommodations given to Union officers from the East and West: “These houses are confiscated the wealthy owners turned out and New England Yankees quartered in them.” After noting (and approving of) General Butler’s merciless treatment of Confederate civilians, he went on to grumble that the western regiments do the “hard work of the service” and that “if there is danger they are the first to be called upon. Of this we do not complain but it is a great outrage that we have to be associated with New England Yankees whom we begin to as heartily despise & hate as any rank secessionist—­ this feeling is universal amongst the three western regiments.” Four months later, Boardman’s attitude toward his fellow officers had not changed: “There are too many ‘down easters.’”26 These fractured loyalties and strong allegiances to individual states made patriotic anthems even more important though equally difficult to write. By targeting emotions shared by all sympathetic listeners, a successful anthem could unite disparate groups by avoiding many of the issues that might normally keep them separate.27 Unfortunately, musical practice at the time of the war was often stylistically and commercially segregated, and many songs at the start of the war reinforced regional as opposed to national identity.28 Such was the case with the lyrics to “Maryland, My Maryland.” The publishers Miller & Beacham must have been stunned by the broad reception and sales of “Maryland, My Maryland,” since the song seems trapped between two opposing inclinations. On the one hand, the lyric overflows with enough noble outrage and sanguinary vengeance to satisfy most bloodthirsty Southern fire-­eaters. Set to a well-­known tune, the song was primed to assume the mantle of national anthem. On the other hand, the lyrics clearly focus on one state’s circumstances. While one other state (Virginia) is named, there is no clear reference to the Confederacy or its political mission. “She’ll come! spring 1862

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She’ll come!” predicts Maryland’s declaring for the South, but as a whole the lyrics stress Maryland’s mistreatment and personal vengeance, not the cause of Southern independence. It is reactive more than proactive, and there seems little reason to assume that their new publication would move beyond local visibility to speak to the country as a whole.29 Maryland was not the only state to be graced with a song in its honor. In fact, what was probably the first published piece of Confederate sheet music was “The Palmetto State Song” by George O. Robinson, released only a few days after the signing of the South Carolina Ordinance of Secession. Published in Charleston, the title page featured an image of the signing of the ordinance while the lyric presents an aimless call for support but does little to promote national unity: All hail to the dawn of this glor’ous morning, The genius of liberty lights from the skies, Points to the Palmetto, our banner adorning, And bids us at once from our slumbers to rise! Shall we bend to the power that threatens our peace, Or stand for our country till being shall cease? Then beneath the Palmetto, the pride of our story, Like freemen we’ll stand, or we’ll perish in glory.

Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, and Virginia received original instrumental or vocal compositions in their honor, while the ever-­popular “Dixie” was modified to suit individual states or regiments.30 As noted earlier, songwriter Harry MacCarthy put forth “Missouri!” to serve Confederates in that state, much as Randall’s verses served Confederate Marylanders. A regimental or state song drew together all the principal elements toward which a soldier could direct his patriotism and possessed an immediacy that more comprehensive anthems had difficulty re-­creating. Such was the case for Curtis Burke, a private in the Fourteenth Kentucky Cavalry (csa) under the leadership of Brig. John Hunt Morgan. Burke spoke of returning from a raid into Union territory in Tennessee at the end of 1862. After ambushing part of the Army of the Cumberland at the Battle of Hartsville on December 7, the victorious soldiers 104

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headed back to the safety of their camp singing “Kentucky War Song.”31 This was another name for “Morgan’s War Song,” which was a rewrite of a British piece written by Charles MacKay and Henry Russell in praise of “Mother England.” Here a beloved military leader’s name was joined with that of his home state to become a personally significant piece of music for soldiers from Kentucky. With one performance Burke and his fellows could praise their commander, display pride in their state, and celebrate a return to their “home.” Other songs still contended for a place as Confederate anthems by targeting the entire South instead of specific locales. In 1861 the New Orleans publisher A. E. Blackmar had released “A Southern Marseillaise,” which transformed the French anthem into a Confederate battle cry. Sons of the South awake to glory A thousand voices bid you rise, Your children, wives and grandsires hoary; Gaze on you now with trusting eyes Gaze on you now with trusting eyes, Your country every strong arm calling, To meet the hireling Northern band That comes to desolate the land With fire and blood and scenes appalling, To arms, to arms ye brave! Th’avenging sword unsheathe! March on! March on! All hearts resolved On Victory or Death.

“A Southern Marseillaise” was fairly successful in the war’s early years with its well-­known and inspiring melody supporting frank lyrics geared toward the population as a whole. But as a national anthem it fell short. Ironically, its French roots inclined the song toward regional identity; many Louisiana soldiers, proud of their French ancestry, might accept the song wholeheartedly, but others around the Confederacy would grow less enamored of a “foreign” song already serving as an anthem for another country. It did not help that the Union also staked claim to the tune of “La Marseillaise.”32 spring 1862

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“The Bonnie Blue Flag” had brought each of the Confederate states into its lyric and gained commercial success and wide acceptance by the Southern public, although its lyrics emphasized the start of the war, not its continuation. Still, its wide popularity and catchy tune meant that it remained in the stable of Confederate songs. The regional inclusiveness of “Dixie” goes a long way toward explaining its success as an anthem. The literary “Dixie” was not state-­dependent, instead outlining an ambiguous place into which southern states could easily place themselves. This made the musical “Dixie” borderless and mobile. Just as the movement of large groups of soldiers from one state to another “symbolized its capacity for armed resistance, and forged a physical link between the different states that composed the Confederacy,”33 so too did its easy migration help “Dixie” to serve as both a location signifier and a national emblem. This merging of musical and geographic significance struck Confederate cavalryman Curtis Burke as he forded the Cumberland. “On top of the hill there is a square rock on the side of the road standing two feet above ground with Virginia, Tennessee, and Kentucky inscribed on its sides. It was where these states cornered. I rode around it consequently I was in a short space of time in all three states. I looked back and bid farewell to old Kentucky, just then some of the boys started the song Dixie and we all joined in.”34 Paradoxically, the loose spatial identity of “Dixie” made it easier to adopt by Union troops as well as their Confederate counterparts. George Landrum of the Second Ohio spoke of physically journeying into “Dixie,” in this case the geographic Confederacy, when he crossed from Kentucky into Tennessee. According to Landrum, the “drum and fife corps played ‘Dixie’ as we marched over.” Apparently the musical commemoration of changing locales superseded any patriotic backlash one would assume would result from playing what was considered a Southern song.35 Confederate efforts to establish both a regional and national musical presence were frustrated by the declining commerce and distribution between states. At the start of the war the South could boast of major publishers or distributers in fourteen cit106

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ies that produced an impressive amount of music, which local dealers and music stores in large cities and small towns then sold to the public. There were few southern engravers, so much of this music was set by northern firms. The Union occupation of many cities (such as New Orleans and Nashville) shut down many publishers, while paper and ink shortages made it increasingly difficult for southern presses to produce sheet music. These constraints limited the commercial success of popular songs, and many new works had to rely on broadsides, newspapers, and oral exchange for their circulation.36 Northern publishers suffered fewer material constraints than their southern colleagues. Most Northerners seemed content with traditional patriotic songs, though some states received new songs or adapted tunes to suit their needs. Michigan borrowed Maryland’s recent hit upon which to base their own “Michigan, My Michigan” in 1862. Such pieces promoted patriotism, spurred enlistments, and offered encouragement to those suffering hardships at home. Effective as it was, this still remained a form of regional patriotism, not state patriotism or nationalism. Marylanders and the Military Community The tenuous status of Maryland’s loyalties tainted attitudes toward both the people of Maryland and the budding anthem. Those outside the state realized that Maryland’s populace was divided; even overt signs of patriotic commitment (like the riot) failed to convince either side that Maryland was loyal to their cause. At the outset of fighting, people living in border states were viewed with suspicion if not outright hostility, including those who promoted neutrality. For some, the attempt to remain neutral was almost as distasteful as choosing the wrong side. George W. Landrum of the Second Ohio Infantry was unyielding in his description of the citizens of Bath County, Kentucky: “Nearly all the people around here are secessionists, or what is worse, compromisists, as they call themselves.” For Landrum and many others, there was no ideological middle ground afforded to those caught between the warring parties. Yet five months later he wrote home again, this time from Murfreesboro, Tennessee, claiming “we are now in Dixie,” so spring 1862

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while he saw no ideological median, his geographic model distanced the Union Ohio from Confederate Tennessee with poor Kentucky as an indeterminate physical and political buffer. In Tennessee the people at least made their beliefs clear: “The people are all Sesesh,” Landrum noted, “and don’t pretend to be anything else.”37 What seemed to grate on everyone was the lack of commitment either way. As J. Matthew Gallman has argued, patriotism went hand in hand with personal duty for Civil War Americans, and the lack of one implied the lack of the other.38 Edward Spencer of Baltimore, a proud Rebel himself, had nothing but disdain for those “Submissionists” around him who claimed to support the cause but refused to take any action.39 Spencer’s anger may well have been amplified by the number of young men he saw around him who for whatever reason were not serving in the army. Spouting patriotic slogans in a coffeehouse was insufficient proof of commitment; fighting for one’s country (or state) was the true measure of loyalty. While young men across the country might be scrutinized for not enlisting, their presence in a border capital like Baltimore was all the more suspicious to soldiers and citizens from both sides. The role of Marylanders in both armies would prove to be a telling feature of the state’s political position while also influencing the reception of “Maryland, My Maryland.” Many Marylanders served with distinction on both sides of the conflict. Harper Carroll of Howard County in central Maryland was the great-­grandson of a signer of the Declaration of Independence. He chose to follow his brother south and enlisted as a private in Company K, First Virginia Cavalry, and eventually attained the rank of lieutenant and served as aide-­de-­camp to Gen. Richard S. Ewell. Other notable Confederates officers from Maryland included Brig. Gen. George Hume Steuart, known as “Maryland” Steuart to avoid confusing him with J. E. B. Stuart, and Maj. Gen. Isaac Trimble, who joined Gen. George Pickett for his ill-­fated charge at Gettysburg. Notable Union officers include Medal of Honor winner Charles E. Phelps, colonel of the Seventh Maryland; Brig. Gen. and Division Commander John Reese Kenly; and Col. Andrew W. Denison, who com108

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15. Members of the First Maryland Infantry (usa) playing football in their camp near Winchester, Virginia. Showing the troops engaged in harmless fun may have helped to “sell” Maryland troops to Union readers from other states. Harper’s Weekly, August 31, 1861.

manded the Maryland Brigade from the Overland Campaign through the end of the war. Maryland’s ideological division was apparent in the ranks as well as in the civilian realm. Maryland men had enlisted quickly in both the Union and Confederate Armies where they were usually received well, though in some cases there were questions as to the strength of their commitment and reliability.40 Such misgivings likely arose from the Marylanders’ overt desire to be operating within their state and not in Virginia or Pennsylvania. A group of worried men from Battery B of the Purnell Legion wrote to the adjutant general of Maryland, John A. J. Creswell, expressing their views on leaving the state to fight. “We wish to know if we are compelled to go beyond the limits of the State of Md. If so we are deceived. We enlisted for the State Service, thinking our state would secede, and under no consideration whatever were we to leave the state.”41 Such an attitude would do little to endear the men to their commanding officers or to other soldiers around them. Other Maryland soldiers were spring 1862

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willing if not eager to go where ordered. Pvt. James R. Dorance of Clear Spring, Maryland, had enlisted in Company A, Seventh Maryland Infantry in August 1862. Dorance was clearly devoted to the Union, and his diary reveals no discrimination against him by other Union troops or officers: “I wish I was at home with my gun and 100 cartridges. . . . One can fight best when fighting for his home, but I will do my best elsewhere.”42 Randall’s increasingly visible verses were appropriated to help recruit Marylanders to the Union Army: Oh where are now the gallant boys Of Maryland’s first Maryland? Shall we ne’er hear brave Kenly’s voice Of Maryland’s first Maryland? As patriots they fell and bled. By traitors’ hands their blood was shed. Are they not numbered with the dead? Oh Maryland’s first Maryland!

By war’s end Maryland had contributed 60,000 men to the Union who formed twenty infantry regiments, four cavalry regiments, and six batteries of artillery. These units saw action throughout the eastern theater up to and including Appomattox Court House. In the fall of 1862, the First, Fourth, Sixth, Seventh, and Eighth Maryland Infantry (usa) were gathered to form the Maryland Brigade under the command of Brig. Gen. John Reese Kenly. Maryland also provided smaller units, often called the Potomac Home Brigade, who remained in Maryland and guarded locations along the Potomac. Maryland also provided six U.S. Colored Troops regiments. Approximately 25,000 Marylanders fought in the Confederate Army, forming two regiments of infantry, two of cavalry, and four artillery units, though many other Marylanders served in regiments from other states. These units had a more difficult time than their Union counterparts. Following the Pratt Street Riot and the subsequent occupation of Baltimore, a large number of young Marylanders with Southern inclinations fled to Virginia. Many of these men chose to join units from Virginia or other states, but a small group elected to form a reg110

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iment of their own, and on June 16, 1861, the First Maryland Infantry (csa) was mustered into service. These men dreamed of forming the Maryland Line, a brigade made up entirely of Marylanders in imitation of their revolutionary forefathers who had fought gallantly as part of Washington’s Continental Army. Unfortunately, the First Maryland Infantry suffered from a clash of personalities within its command structure and debilitating political infighting. In addition, this unit saw itself as distinct from other regiments and demanded special treatment from the Confederate War Department when it came to selecting their officers, terms of enlistment, even how and where the unit should be used. In the eyes of many, these Marylanders were more concerned about the prestige of their unit and liberating their state than they were with the defense of the Confederacy. The unstable nature of the First Maryland, in conjunction with a failure to raise a large number of recruits from Maryland, led Secretary of War George Randolph to disband the regiment on August 11, 1862. This was both a shock and a slap in the face to Marylanders who had seen themselves as a premier unit with a noble cause. Many of the displaced Maryland soldiers joined the newly established Second Maryland Infantry (csa). “Duty calls—­ Patriotism should obey,” touted the Richmond Whig, summoning Marylanders to join the new unit. “Let your war-­cry be heard adown the vales and on the hill tops of your native state—­ daily and nightly she agonizes for deliverance.” The newspaper drew upon the patriotic power of “Maryland, My Maryland” to strengthen the summons: “Let the melody to which you march be sung with a deeper feeling and a reality of meaning throughout the whole Southland—­‘I hear the distant thunder hum.’”43 Confederate Marylanders continued to agitate for a Maryland Line, and in mid-­1863 the new unit was approved and a call went out to Marylanders throughout the Confederate Army to join. Response was poor, however; few Marylanders were willing to leave the units they had fought with for years, and once again there were very few new recruits to be found. The Maryland Line proved to be a failed dream that hurt the status of Maryland in many ways. Had the unit excelled on the battlefield, spring 1862

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they would have become a beacon for Maryland’s honor and demonstrated the state’s commitment to the South. Instead, the problems surrounding the First and Second Maryland regiments did little to endear Marylanders to the Confederate high command or to Southern civilians in other states, especially in light of the perceived unwillingness of Marylanders to openly support the Confederate cause.44 Since Maryland would never join the Confederate States of America, Maryland soldiers who had joined the Confederate Army found themselves displaced geographically and emotionally. These men had a poignant bond with “Maryland, My Maryland.” Randolph McKim of Baltimore recalled the frustration and loneliness he experienced because he could not visit home on furlough in 1862: “True, we Maryland boys had no home waiting to open its doors to us during our furlough, but the Virginians always gave us a peculiarly warm welcome, and, because we were exiles, did their best to make us feel that their homes were ours.” McKim traveled through Virginia instead, finding some solace in a performance of “Maryland, My Maryland” with relatives in Clark County, Virginia, just across the border from Maryland.45 Pride in his state and his unit was regained at the battle of Front Royal in May 1862. Approaching the town, McKim and his fellow Marylanders sang of their home: Baltimore, ain’t you happy, We’ll anchor by and by; Baltimore, ain’t you happy, We’ll anchor by and by. We’ll stand the storm, it won’t be long, We’ll anchor by and by.46

Then came the inevitable fratricide that seemed to mock Randall’s plea for unity as the First Maryland Infantry (csa) went up against the First Maryland Infantry (usa). The Southern troops eventually prevailed, and many Federal troops were captured. Capt. William Goldsborough of Frederick County had the dubious honor of taking as prisoner his younger brother Charles, who served as assistant surgeon of the Union’s Fifth 112

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Maryland Infantry. After the battle, a correspondent for the New York Evening Post made a pitch for the loyalty of Maryland’s Union men by telling of a group of prisoners from the First Maryland (usa) who were paraded through the streets of Winchester, Virginia. The prisoners passed a Southern band playing “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” so the Union men responded by singing “The Star-­Spangled Banner” as loudly as they could, apparently claiming a musical and moral victory over the “squeaking of the miserable band.”47 According to one witness, a number of Confederate Marylanders went among the Union prisoners and shared rations and medical care with Maryland men who had been friends or acquaintances prior to the war.48 Unfortunately, such feelings of state kinship were by no means universal. A few months later, another Marylander felt little camaraderie toward his Union counterparts. Jonathan Thomas Scharf, an artilleryman with the First Maryland Artillery (csa), feared the reprisals he might face if captured following the Battle of Cedar Mountain on August 9. Despite his wounds he “hobbled” from the hospital to the rear lines, since “if we were caught our life was not very secure from the Maryland Yankees, as they were all desperadoes from Baltimore and a hard set of men. I feared if they saw me wounded, as some of them knew me, they would put me in the other world a little faster than I wished to go.”49 From Scharf’s perspective, regional discord was as real as regional unity despite platitudes to the contrary. His Maryland was a fractured state, just as his previous country was now divided in two. This was still a major challenge facing patriotic songs in 1862, and it remained to be seen if “Maryland, My Maryland” could maintain its upward course and unify the “anointed throng” dreamed of in Randall’s poem.

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six

Summer 1862 Tropes, Class, and the Rise of an Anthem

“Threatened Invasion of Maryland!” bellowed the Baltimore Sun on May 26, 1862. This was no journalistic scare tactic to boost sales; the previous day Stonewall Jackson had forced Gen. Nathanial Banks out of Winchester, Virginia, and was pursuing the Federals north toward the Maryland border. Tensions in Maryland mounted, and expressions of loyalty reached a fever pitch. William W. Glenn, a Maryland journalist with pro-­Southern sympathies, witnessed the reaction in Baltimore upon hearing the news: “Flags were hung out in all directions, throngs crowded the streets, the roughs moved around in squads, and it was dangerous for a known Southerner to walk along the thoroughfares.”1 The military threat proved illusory as Confederate troops made it no further than Harpers Ferry. But Maryland still had ample cause to worry during the summer of 1862. McClellan’s failed Peninsula Campaign followed by the Second Battle of Bull Run saw Confederate forces moving closer to the state, and the climactic Battle of Antietam in September would finally bring the war to Maryland’s soil. Young men were actively recruited for the Confederate Army, and some pro-­South Marylanders still sought to organize armed resistance to the Union occupiers. Confederates in Maryland and elsewhere held on to the hope that Confederate force of arms could bring Maryland into the Southern fold. The rhetorical battle over Maryland’s allegiance reached a peak of intensity as Randall’s “distant thunder-­hum” and “bugle, fife, and drum” rang closer and closer. “Maryland, My Maryland” as Literary Trope In late 1862 the editors of Frank Leslie’s Weekly took a stab at Southern culture with a sarcastic description of the entertain-

ments found in Virginia homes: “We are told that at the social gatherings in Richmond during the past year, a young lady has always made her appearance in the drapery of woe, and loaded with chains of corrosive tinsel, personating Maryland. The Perseus of the new allegory was Jeff. Davis, who invariably delivered Miss Andromeda Maryland from her chain, while the assembly sang, plaintively, ‘My Maryland!’”2 Moving on to the recent unsuccessful Confederate invasion of Maryland, the editors translated the theatrical characters into metaphors for the war as a whole, and in so doing used “Maryland, My Maryland” as a metonym for the real state. “Tired of this masking, Perseus Davis, a few weeks ago attempted the liberation of Maryland on a larger scale. But ‘My Maryland’ obstinately refused to be liberated.” Randall’s words and imagery were then used to mock any attempt to bring Maryland within the Confederacy, and a different set of lyrics was suggested as a final insult: “She evinced a decided predilection for the ‘Lincoln despotism.’ She clung to her chains, and turned up her nasal organ contemptuously at Davis’s ragged chivalry, who have been content to recross the Potomac, singing, instead of ‘My Maryland,’ the melancholy ditty, commencing, ‘I blame her not for rejecting my suit / But why did she kick me down-­stairs?’”3 Assuming the writer did not invent or exaggerate this tableau (always a possibility with journalists at the time), the report indicates the depth to which “Maryland, My Maryland” had penetrated public consciousness. Here a tableau transformed the Lady Maryland of Randall’s poem into a theatrical symbol that apparently resonated with Richmond audiences, accompanied by the song that had spread her fame. Even more telling is the Northern writer’s use of the tableau and the song as metaphors in their own right. “My Maryland” was now used to refer to the state, while Randall’s words were translated into suggestive yet concise journalistic prose. For this article to be understood, which it undoubtedly was, the content and intent of “Maryland, My Maryland” had to be so well known that audiences in Richmond and readers in the North could automatically recognize the subtext. That Americans had become so comfortable with “Maryland, My Maryland” is a testament to its hard-­earned and rapid summer 1862

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rise in popularity. With only trains and telegraphs to speed its course across the country, the song needed a network of personal exchange and public exposure to reach and influence so much of the population. For it to achieve such popularity by 1862 meant that its aesthetic appeal as well as its patriotic message were powerful indeed. Equally striking is the way in which the song insinuated itself into the minds of Civil War Americans. While the song remained a topic of frequent discussion, its title and certain lyrics were extracted from the performed song to become figures of speech in their own right. In 1862 “Maryland, My Maryland” became a literary trope in letters, diaries, and journalism.4 Catherine Edmondston of North Carolina combined a literary flair with an impressive sensitivity to current popular songs in a diary entry of May 29. Edmondston was thrilled to hear of Jackson’s success in the Shenandoah Valley, and she eagerly anticipated that he would move his troops into Maryland. Like many Southerners, she seemed dubious of Maryland’s loyalty or the state’s ability to support the Confederacy. To concisely and poetically summarize her point, she drew on two current songs: “It is whispered confidently that the next news we will hear of him is that he has led his victorious column into Maryland, so we shall see whether or not ‘there is life in the old Land yet,’ or whether the ‘Despot’s Heel’ has crushed it entirely out of ‘Maryland, My Maryland!’”5 There is a measure of humor in her reflection, as she chose two songs written by the same author: James R. Randall had just penned the words to “There Is Life in the Old Land Yet,” a new “National Song” set to music by Edward O. Eaton.6 Edmondston’s view of Maryland, as well as her use of the song as a trope, would change after the fighting that took place a few months later. “Details of the late great battle come in so slowly that the heart sickens at the delay,” she wrote of the recent Confederate victory at Second Bull Run. “God help those who have friends, husbands, sons in the army.” Aware of the importance of a move north into Union territory, she once again drew on Randall and Cary’s song to express her concerns: “It now remains for ‘Maryland my Maryland’ to prove her patriotism & devotion to the South116

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ern cause.” The song’s subject, “Maryland,” now replaces the physical state in Edmondston’s soliloquy, though her next sentence reinterprets Randall’s implied and explicit imagery in a decidedly less sympathetic fashion: “Whether she is really down trodden or a willing slave, opinions are diverse about her, but she must now show her hand.”7 Not all appearances of “My Maryland” as a trope were so blatant. James J. Archer, a professional soldier who had served in the Mexican-­American War, was stationed in the Washington Territory at the start of the Civil War. Originally from Harford County, Maryland, Archer resigned his position with the U.S. Army and was placed in command of the Fifth Texas Infantry in the Army of Northern Virginia. Stationed near Dumfries, Virginia, at the beginning of 1862, the proximity of his “captive” home state weighed heavily on his mind. “Our Maryland is throttled,” he wrote his brother. “Every day I see her across the Potomac—­the armed heel of the disgusting despot trampling upon her bosom—­And I can see no chance to relieve her or avenge her.”8 Archer’s choice of terms seems too close to Randall’s imagery for coincidence; the “heel” of the “despot” that requires Marylanders to “avenge” her (even the replacement of “breast” with “shore” was not uncommon). Such poetic echoes suggest that “Maryland, My Maryland” had already permeated the public mind by the beginning of 1862. As time progressed, the literary use of “Maryland, My Maryland” became more conventional. For example, in October the Baltimore Sun shared rumors of Rebel troops crossing the Potomac near Hagerstown, stating that it “looks as if another great battle would be fought before long on this side of the Potomac, but not on the soil of ‘My Maryland,’ but on that of our Pennsylvania.” In mocking the contents of a recently published Southern almanac, the Philadelphia Inquirer refers to Virginia, North Carolina, and South Carolina by their names, but used “Maryland! My Maryland!” to refer to the Old Line State.9 In addition, key phrases from the song, such as “despot’s heel,” “tyrant’s chains,” and “crucifixion of the soul,” appeared in newspapers and private correspondence with increasing regularity. In September the Inquirer again drew upon the musical trope, summer 1862

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in this case to dismiss the Confederacy’s attempt to conquer Maryland. In an article titled “Loyal Maryland,” the author used the song’s title to foreshadow his true attitude toward the Confederate view of the state. “The sufferings of ‘Maryland, My Maryland,’ under the iron rule of an ‘unprincipled despot,’ and her future release from the painful thralldom by her ‘natural protectors,’ had been the burden of innumerable popular songs composed and sung, since the commencement of the Rebellion, throughout the disloyal States.” The use of the song’s title as a metonym might have been predictable by this time, but the intertextual reference to popular songs reinforced a deeper metaphoric connection. The use of scare quotes was remarkably manipulative; putting these phrases in quotes right after naming “Maryland, My Maryland” implied that they were drawn from the song, which is not the case; the word “tyrant” appears once in Randall’s verse, the word “unprincipled” does not, and neither of the words “natural” or “protector” appear anywhere in the lyric. The meaning of “unprincipled despot” and “natural protectors” could be extracted from the lyric, however, and it is here that the power of songs as literary tropes was revealed. By mentioning “Maryland, My Maryland” the author had already pulled the song’s lyric to the fore of the reader’s mind. The song’s musical and poetic meanings were now part of the discourse without the writer having to cite them directly. Without stopping to think, the reader assumed that these phrases appear in, or are connected in some way, to Randall’s lyric, and any interpretation of this article was already colored by the song’s composite meaning. This point was reinforced when the author went on to provide what amounted to a history of the song: “The imprudent acts of a band of traitorous assassins in Baltimore, on the memorable nineteenth of April, doubtless first induced the belief that the State was in active sympathy with those which had severed their connection with the National Union, and this idea was naturally supported by the public harangues and private assertions of excited and disreputable men, who had fled from their homes and enlisted their fortunes with those of the representatives of the so-­called Southern Confederacy.” It is worth adding that three days later 118

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16. “The Rebel Chivalry,” a cartoon from Harper’s Weekly following the Battle of Antietam, shows how potent a trope “My Maryland” had become in the media. The caption reads: “As the Fancy of ‘My Maryland’ painted them. As ‘My Maryland’ found them.” Harper’s Weekly, October 4, 1862.

the Inquirer then used “Maryland, My Maryland” in a byline describing the Battle of Antietam.10 Clearly the song’s value as cultural capital was on the rise, though its value was somewhat dependent on the social class of its listeners. Patriotic Music and Social Class Laura Nisbet Boykin was the daughter of a well-­to-­do Georgia family. Her husband, Dr. Samuel Boykin Jr., was editor of the Christian Index, a Baptist weekly published in their hometown of Macon. On August 15, 1864, Laura reflected back on three years of war. “Weak and timid souls weep that a Revolution should occur in their days,” she proclaimed, “but for ourselves, we thank Heaven that we are endued with a strength commensurate with the occasion, and exalt in a pure patriotism that burns and glows so ardently, that the ills and privations we endure are lightly esteemed.” Southern women were no less patriotic than their men, willing to “spring forth in full armor” and to “shed her life-­blood” were it not forbidden by their “shrinking southern feminine nature.” Instead, each summer 1862

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woman had done what she must: “She has untiringly labored to clothe the soldier, to cheer with words of love and encouragement, and in these latter days—­to alleviate the miseries of hospital life. . . . The spinning wheel and loom have been introduced in almost every family and the grandest ladies of the land have donned the fabrics of their own hands—­and gloried in that sacrifice. Luxuries have been banished from almost every table, and even the delicious and sustaining beverage coffee has been interdicted, except by the wealthiest.”11 Sarah Fitch Poates might have taken issue with Laura Boykin over the nature of suffering and sacrifice. Sarah lived on a small plantation halfway between Vicksburg and Jackson, Mississippi. When her husband was conscripted into the Confederate Army, Sarah was left running the estate, hosting local visitors, feeding passing soldiers, and raising a one-­year-­old. Though supportive of Southern troops and grateful for news of Confederate victories, she had little time or inclination to dwell on issues of patriotism. For Sarah, her world consisted of her immediate responsibilities. “As to the war ending this year,” she wrote, “no prospect of it in my opinion. What a weary, weary existence I shall drag out separated from him whom I love so dearly. Duty, duty, only to sustain me.”12 It is no surprise that Laura’s diary was filled with musical references. An extremely talented performer, she and her friends played or listened to music by Liszt, Thalberg, Beethoven, and Chopin. Afternoon and evening get-­togethers usually included music of some kind, and regimental bands came by to serenade her. Sarah’s diary, on the other hand, detailed days filled with supervising and teaching local children, working in the kitchen, overseeing the plantation, and worrying if another group of unruly soldiers would show up to steal what little they had. It is not hard to deduce which of these women would have either the time or inclination to purchase and perform “Maryland, My Maryland” in the parlor. Indeed, what good would such a song have been for Sarah Poates? It is clear that Laura, the upper-­class urban woman, owned a piano while it appears that Sarah, the middle-­class rural woman, did not. The differences in their social environment would be 120

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reflected in the music they consumed; the cost of making music in the home dictated what type of music was favored. Pianos were expensive and required ample free time to learn how to play. Newly composed patriotic songs released as sheet music were also a luxury not everyone could afford. In 1861 a Southern publication might cost thirty-­five cents, but with inflation this became two or three dollars by 1865.13 This was a prohibitive expense for many Southerners who were more concerned with putting food on the table than they were sampling the latest hit song. Works of music can symbolize social boundaries just as they indicate geographic boundaries. Certain styles or genres are favored by one group while others are more popular with different groups. Music does not merely reflect class distinction. It also creates social division. Waltzing in formal wear to the music of a string quartet is a social ritual that consciously excludes those who are more used to dancing a reel to a solo fiddle at the local barn dance. This was equally true of attending concerts, where accessibility and the cost of tickets limited the audience to a privileged few living in urban areas. Young Anna Maria Tilghman of Talbot County, Maryland, attended a “fashionable” recital by world-­famous opera singer Adelina Patti in November 1862 while traveling in Georgia.14 She no doubt heard a program that included an operatic aria, an art song by Schubert, and lighter works such as “The Last Rose of Summer” or “Home, Sweet Home.” Such a diverse and musically edifying experience was not available to many, especially in the middle of a major war. The same could be said for nineteenth-­century parlor music.15 In 1862 Maria Fleet wrote to her husband from their 3,000-­acre estate near Richmond: “On your next trip to Richmond try to get Sister some music, I enclose a small list.” Her list included a few patriotic songs like “Beauregard’s March” and “Genl Jos. E Johnston’s Manassas Quickstep,” but the rest were ballads and instrumental works popular at the time such as Grobe’s “Shells of the Ocean,” Badarzewska’s “A Maiden’s Prayer,” and the “Sleighride Polka.”16 Maria’s shopping list provides insight into the commercial supply of vocal and instrumental music at the time as well as this family’s tastes and musical priorities. Patriotic songs were just a part of their musical diet. summer 1862

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Nationalism and patriotism claim to be inclusive; each projects unity that circumvents social divisions. The reality, however, is that both nationalistic and patriotic ideologies are constructed in such a way as to promote, or at least favor, certain classes within society. This was patently true during the Civil War.17 One need only consider the issue of race to see how the rhetoric of unity from both sides excluded African Americans from the discussion. Yet it was also true for social class. Utopian visions of nation and country were often constructed with no change to the social status quo. Those with economic and political power—­the ones who also oversaw the press, publishing industry, and other organs for disseminating patriotism—­projected their vision of the future. Equality was the rallying cry when calling for men to join the army, but it had little to do with matters beyond the battlefield. At the risk of oversimplifying, Southern soldiers went to war to protect their homes and states; the Southern bourgeoisie went to war to protect their way of life. “Maryland, My Maryland” was marked early as a highbrow song. As was previously noted, the music used by Jennie Cary, “Lauriger Horatius,” was what many referred to as a well-­known college glee. But being “well-­known” is contextual in this case, as few could afford to attend college, so the tune would be familiar to primarily upper-­class urbanites from the East Coast. In addition, Randall’s flowery language was clearly sophisticated and aimed at an urbane audience. The young writer was certainly trying to give voice to his patriotic fervor when he wrote his poem, but he was also trying to create an elevated work of art. There were some who drew attention to the surreptitious influence that social class had on patriotism during the war. The oddly named “Paradise Gained,” writing for the Milwaukee Sentinel, saw Baltimore as “half and half Secession and Union.” More astutely, he added: “The laboring portion are for the Union—­the aristocracy for secession.”18 Two years later the renowned orator and politician William Everett of Massachusetts gave a speech at Boston’s Faneuil Hall that used Randall and Cary’s song as a metaphor for the class-­based loyalties he saw in Maryland: “While the aristocracy of the south eastern counties of that State were shouting ‘My Maryland,’ the farm122

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ers of the western counties, in Cumberland valley shouted back ‘No, it’s our Maryland.’”19 Others drew attention to the class and character of those most likely to perform “Maryland, My Maryland.” The editors of the New York World described the “feverish disquiet” in Baltimore that General Wool found when placed in charge of Union forces in the area in March 1863. The “watch-­words of loyalty and disloyalty” served “to array class against class,” and performing patriotic parlor songs was a mark of the privileged: “[Wool] found on the one hand a considerable portion of the ‘upper classes’ sullen and hostile, given to private illuminations in honor of mythical confederate victories, wedded to the weird music of ‘My Maryland’ and ‘Dixie.’” A writer for the New Or­leans Daily Delta gave a similar portrait of Southerners, comparing the upper-­class ladies of Union-­occupied Virginia with those of northwestern Maryland: “For instance, while in such places as Norfolk and Suffolk, the ladies keep moodily in their houses, never allowing themselves to be seen or heard—­ except when they . . . break upon the stillness of the night with ‘Dixie’ and ‘My Maryland’—­the ladies of Hagerstown are to be constantly seen cheerfully promenading the streets, going upon errands of mercy to our wounded soldiers, and enlivening everything with their sweet presence.”20 Another sign of the socially elevated status of “Maryland, My Maryland” was its appearance on public concerts. In March 1862 a concert was held in Hibernian Hall in Charleston, South Carolina, the proceeds of which were to go to the Ladies’ Gunboat Association and their efforts to underwrite the construction of armored ships. “The ladies and gentlemen who will take part in the evening entertainment are among the most finished amateur vocalists and musicians whom the city can boast,” read an announcement in the Charleston Mercury, which stressed the refined nature of the music to be enjoyed. “The programme has been made up with taste and discrimination, and from the musical reputation of those who have undertaken the conduct of the concert, we feel sure that the pieces will be rendered in excellent style.” Included on the program were operatic excerpts alongside patriotic songs, and the concert would end with “the summer 1862

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favorite air of Gen. Beauregard—­Maryland! My Maryland!”21 While certainly a factor in instilling public enthusiasm for the war, occasions such as these were inherently exclusive. This announcement was directed to those who had access to the event, time to attend, and money to pay for tickets.22 “Maryland, My Maryland” as Emerging Anthem Whether on concert stages or in newspaper editorials, Maryland and “Maryland, My Maryland” had good cause to be in the minds of Americans north and south as the campaigns of 1862 unfolded. On March 17, after months of stalling, George McClellan started his epic move south. The bulk of the Army of the Potomac boarded transports and sailed for the tip of the Virginia Peninsula. His plan was to avoid fighting through the Confederate troops stationed in northern Virginia by driving up the peninsula directly to Richmond. Unfortunately, he ran into Gen. John B. Magruder entrenched at Yorktown, who through a variety of deceptions convinced the Union general that he faced an overwhelming force. McClellan obligingly encamped and prepared a siege. By the time he moved forward, McClellan found a stubborn Gen. Joseph Johnston ready for him. The resulting tug-­of-­war known as the Seven Days Battles eventually forced McClellan to retreat all the way back to the James River. A frustrated President Lincoln replaced McClellan as commander in chief with Maj. Gen. Henry Halleck. George Booth was one of the unfortunate Marylanders who saw the violent fighting up close. Following the failed attempt to dislodge the Union forces at Malvern Hill, the First Maryland Infantry (csa) was moved forward to serve as pickets. “Night came on—­a night of horror that will never be forgotten,” Booth recalled. “The wounded of both armies lay mingled on the field, each line holding its original position.”23 And while the Army of the Potomac and the Army of Northern Virginia did not fight near Maryland, anxious observers knew that the outcome of the fighting would determine whether the armies stayed south or moved north. Of more interest to Marylanders was the fighting in the Shenandoah Valley. The wily Stonewall Jackson was living up to his reputation, dancing his smaller 124

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army around Generals Frémont and Banks and ultimately pushing the Union Army out of the valley. Jackson was then able to shift his troops down to Richmond to help the newly promoted Robert E. Lee in defeating McClellan. By August Union Maj. Gen. John Pope and his newly formed Army of Virginia had moved into northern Virginia to regain control of the Shenandoah Valley and to force the Army of Northern Virginia to divide its attention. On August 28 Pope launched an unsuccessful attack against Stonewall Jackson over the same ground fought for a year ago. On the following day Pope tried again to displace Jackson, though this time he also faced reinforcements under Gen. James Longstreet. Pope’s army was overwhelmed and forced to withdraw. The Union retreat was a haunting reminder of the ignoble defeat of the First Battle of Bull Run, and the dispirited Union troops felt little joy upon returning to Union soil. “The men had nearly all given out,” wrote John Scott of New York, “so here we are in Maryland. . . . This has been a terrible march.”24 Five Maryland units fought at the Second Battle of Bull Run: three artillery batteries for the Confederacy and the First Regiment Maryland Volunteer Cavalry and Second Maryland Infantry (usa). The Second Maryland paid a terrible price at Manassas when their brigade got caught in a vicious crossfire and lost more than five hundred men killed, captured, or wounded.25 The total casualties for the two days was almost twenty thousand men; the remote violence of the Battle of Shiloh was now a reality for eastern troops. Jackson tried to follow up the victory by cutting Pope off from Washington, but Pope successful blunted the attack at the Battle of Chantilly on September 1. Even though this victory temporarily stopped the Confederate advance, it did little to diminish the alarm felt in Maryland and Washington. Civilians and politicians in the capital were convinced that the Confederates would soon be on their doorstep, and Marylanders dreaded that war had finally reached their state. The use of and reaction to “Maryland, My Maryland” by the summer of 1862 mirrored the emotional turmoil evident in soldiers and civilians from Maryland and neighboring states. It fulsummer 1862

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filled its most obvious purpose as propaganda, especially when armies were operating in or near the state’s border. As might be expected, there was a special link between eastern Confederate soldiers and the song—­sometimes real, sometimes manufactured. The fact that Maryland was so close to the fighting and could easily become a battlefield itself encouraged a unique connection between the song and the physical state. For Maryland soldiers serving in Virginia or other neighboring states, Randall’s words captured the nostalgia and fear they felt for their nearby home. After the battle of Malvern Hill outside of Richmond in July 1862, a young Confederate soldier from Maryland was described as playing “Maryland, My Maryland” and looking “with longing eyes” toward his home state.26 Civilians encouraged this link between their soldiers and the song. The Richmond Daily Dispatch cited “Maryland, My Maryland” and another popular song when describing the recruitment of Marylanders to the Chesapeake Artillery and to promote the anticipated victories to come: “The command numbers nearly an hundred men, with four rifled pieces, and being composed of Marylanders exclusively, the object in attaching themselves to the command is obvious. ‘Maryland, My Maryland’ is to be changed to ‘Home Again.’”27 This localized attachment was not enough to make the song attractive to the Confederate nation as a whole, however. For “Maryland, My Maryland” to succeed as a national anthem, it needed to present a national identity even as it established a link between the singer and the national community.28 The lyrical focus on its namesake limited its ability to define the Southern nation. Yet in the spring of 1862 Maryland’s political status provided enough uncertainty for optimistic Southerners to believe that the state could still join the Confederacy. In addition, this uncertainty indirectly worked in the song’s favor, as political ambiguity enabled the musical state’s symbolic function to supersede the material state’s true status. “Space is an actual geographical reality, yet it is also a construct, an idea that changes across time and place,” wrote Yaell Sternhell. Politicians sought to control the spaces they governed, and armies fought to occupy locations of various sizes, yet there were imag126

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ined spaces to be conquered as well. “Space loomed large in the minds of Southerners as a locus of ambitions and desires. The founding of the Confederacy was an act of spatial imagination, in which the territory of one section within the American Union was redefined as the Confederate States.”29 It was the imagined Maryland found in Randall and Cary’s song that served Confederate ambitions. This mythical state could serve as a patriotic emblem for the entire country, and when treated as such there arose a separation between the Maryland of Randall’s poem and the physical state of Maryland. Wilder Dwight of the Second Massachusetts was less concerned about the patriotism found in the Confederacy’s new song and more troubled by the state itself or, more precisely, the muddy terrain he found himself stationed in around Frederick, Maryland, in February 1862. “There is a secession song which enjoys a surreptitious parlor popularity here,” he wrote. “It is called, ‘Maryland,—­my Maryland!’ and rehearses, among other things, that ‘the despot’s heel is on thy breast!’ If that be so, all I have got to say is, that, just now, the heel has the worst of it.”30 Though implying that the soil of Maryland is not worthy of the Union’s heel might indicate his own political views, Dwight’s humorous rejoinder to the spite of Randall’s lyrics indicates that the song’s provocative patriotism was not threatening to this Northern officer. More intriguing is his reference to the “surreptitious parlor popularity” of the song. Furtive performances imply a significant weight already attached to the song’s message, at least in the minds of Maryland sympathizers, and that it is found in local parlors by February 1862 again demonstrates the remarkable speed by which “Maryland, My Maryland” had entered public consciousness. By summer, music retailers from Virginia to Louisiana were advertising copies of the sheet music for “Maryland.”31 A troop of Georgia soldiers were treated to an April concert by the young ladies of the Atlanta Female College that included “Maryland, My Maryland,” while in June a writer for the Daily Picayune described the sound of “Maryland, My Maryland” coming from the windows along the streets of New Orleans.32 Soldiers as well as civilians had embraced the song; Randolph McKim summer 1862

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claimed that “Maryland, My Maryland” was often the first song sung around the campfire each night by members of the First Maryland Infantry (csa) in January 1862, while Confederate officer McHenry Howard noticed that a newly formed regimental band began rehearsing “Maryland, My Maryland” the same month.33 The tune spread beyond the mid-­Atlantic states as well, as one Confederate soldier stationed in Tazwell, Tennessee, recalled a comrade making up his own lyrics to the now popular melody in 1862.34 The first publication of an instrumental version of the song was Munzinger’s “Maryland My Maryland Schottisch.” Published in Philadelphia in 1862 and written by a composer who released “The Grand Union Battle Polka” the same year, this piece seems geared toward consumers at home who were more interested in agreeable music than acrimonious politics. As noted above, “Maryland, My Maryland” was also proving to be appealing as a concert work, another indication of its acceptance by a national audience. A Savannah newspaper noted a concert in March featuring what they called “Gen. Beauregard’s song, ‘Maryland, My Maryland,’” showing that the link to the famous general was still used to market the piece. In Georgia newspapers announced that “Maryland, My Maryland” was presented in concert by “a lady of Baltimore,” a performance that electrified her audience: “Seldom have we heard a musical effort which thrilled and electrified the audience as did this one. . . . the listeners testified their gratification at the performance by loud plaudits at the close of each stanza; and were not satisfied until the song was repeated.”35 The Daily Columbus Enquirer felt the need to point out that the “original version” had been performed at a recent concert, a clear indication that imitations, arrangements, or variations of “Maryland, My Maryland” were already appearing to capitalize on the success of the original.36 In fact, the amazing success of “Maryland, My Maryland” and its parodies led Randall and the publisher, A. E. Blackmar, to team up for another patriotic song, although the resulting “There’s Life in the Old Land Yet” failed to achieve any recognition. With each of these performances the song’s popularity grew. What is more, its appearance in so many public settings strength128

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ened its performative meaning as an anthem. Anthems do not rely solely on inflammatory lyrics and inspiring music; they require participation from the community to reach such an elevated status. This participation included both the performers and the audience, be they soldiers or civilians, in formal settings or at impromptu performances. When engaging with the song, these singers and listeners were bonding in spontaneous communities, an activity that Benedict Anderson called “unisonality,” the “echoed physical realization of the imagined community.” This bonding transcends the immediate musical event; by participating with an anthem, one is participating with all others who hold the piece as their anthem as well. “If we are aware that others are singing these songs precisely when and as we are,” Anderson continued, “we have no idea who they may be, or even where, out of earshot, they are singing. Nothing connects us all but imagined sound.”37 And “Maryland, My Maryland” was doing just this. It was a new, timely lyric that celebrated the cause, set to a tune that was proving to be surprisingly popular. While not intended as such, “Maryland” was successfully establishing itself as an emotionally satisfying work that bonded Southerners through a symbolic artifact that was free from any Northern connections. Consider the case of Lucy Buck of Fort Royal, Virginia. The nineteen-­year-­old first heard “Maryland, My Maryland” on Christmas morning 1861 and voted it “a beautiful song.” The next day she heard a guest sing the song, so that evening she sat down and taught it to herself. The piece became a part of her repertoire, so much so that a few weeks later she told her diary of singing a baby to sleep with Randall and Cary’s song. Then in April she and her sister Nellie were driving around singing “Maryland, My Maryland” when they heard of some “young Baltimoreans” visiting their home, so they promptly returned and gave their guests “‘My Maryland’ in full chorus.” A few days later she and Nellie decided to write their own parody of what at this point seems to be one of their favorite songs. In May they serenaded some visiting Confederate soldiers with the emerging anthem, then in June she performed “Maryland, My Maryland” to display her disgust with a group of Union officers. While Lucy and summer 1862

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Nellie were clearly smitten by the new song, they valued its patriotic message as well. There is no denying that Lucy took her musical patriotism seriously: on May 17 she was outraged upon hearing “Johnston’s March to Manassas” played by a Union band. “Thieves!” she exclaimed. “They come to steal our liberty, steal our property, our slaves, and, not satisfied with this robbery, actually steal our National music, which I should think would be the very last thing they would desire to do.”38 If Lucy’s view of “Maryland, My Maryland” was any indication, then the song was already a Confederate anthem for some. It might be said that the success of a patriotic work can be judged not by its popularity with loyal citizens, but by the number of detractors who belittle the piece. If this is true, then “Maryland, My Maryland” was progressing well given the number of attacks it experienced. In October 1861, only a few months after the release of the sheet music, the Boston Evening Transcript had objected to the appearance of Confederate music in Baltimore, a nominally Union city: “Secession music gets published under the very guns of Fort McHenry,” griped the article, “and where the Star-­Spangled Banner received the spirited tribute of the patriot’s song, that has become a national rally.” Four pieces were discussed, including “Beauregard’s March,” “The Maryland Guard Galop,” and “God Save the South.” “Maryland, My Maryland” came under particular scrutiny, and the article cited “a single stanza of the distressing eight as a specimen of the agonizing brain work of the author.” Curiously, it was the eighth stanza, “Thou wilt not yield the vandal toll” that was chosen for condemnation. The author then brushed aside any threat that these pieces might entail, a shortsighted stance to say the least: “Well, these musical and poetical efforts of the secessionists are as harmless as they are amusing; and we are willing to run all the risk of all the danger the singing of them will bring upon the loyal land, and won’t call upon General Dix to suppress them.” The author could not resist one last dig at these “Southern” publications. “It is, by the way, a significant exemplification of the existing complication of affairs,” he smugly pointed out, “that these sheets of Secession music are duly copyrighted in the ‘United States District Court of Maryland.’”39 130

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Other writers avoided politics and focused on the artistic merits of “Maryland, My Maryland.” A New York critic disparaged the repetitive structure of Randall’s lyric and the resulting “doleful” musical refrain that produced “an unending monotony, would put to the blush the ‘vain repetitions’ of the most senseless barbarian.”40 Despite such witty attacks, the song’s supporters clearly outnumbered its detractors, so much so that by the middle of 1862 “Maryland, My Maryland” appeared ready to assume the mantle of Confederate anthem. Yet the events of September 1862 significantly altered the song’s trajectory and generated a new cloud of doubt around the song and the state.

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seven

Fall 1862 Antietam and the Battle of Parodies

In August 1862 Jennie and Hetty Cary decided to return to Maryland. After a hectic year in the Confederate capital, the creators of “Maryland, My Maryland” were anxious to see their mother and to spend time in their beloved city. Their brother Miles, now a staff member for Confederate Gen. Joseph E. Johnston, arranged for a clandestine passage through the lines. True to her nature, Hetty remained an outspoken advocate of the Confederacy, enough so that Union authorities considered arresting and deporting her. The young Louisa Wigfall Wright was starstruck with the bold Marylander, believing that Hetty had been imprisoned in Fort McHenry “for wearing a white apron with red ribbons, the Confederate colors!”1 Hetty wisely opted to return to Virginia in spring of the following year, a harrowing trip that included a fierce storm at sea in a sailboat and coming under fire from a Union gunboat. Jennie, however, elected to stay in Baltimore for the remainder of the war.2 The Carys’ return to the Old Line State was an inadvertent harbinger of larger things to come. In September Robert E. Lee began his Maryland Campaign, a bold move that many believed would draw Marylanders to the Southern cause. Many also believed that a major victory so close to Washington would seriously undermine Union morale, assure Europeans of the legitimacy of the Confederate state, and possibly pressure the Union’s leadership into negotiations to end the war. On September 4 the advance elements of the Army of Northern Virginia crossed the Potomac into Maryland. As might be expected, “Maryland, My Maryland” now appeared in every conceivable manner; voices sang it, brass bands played it, soldiers and civilians quoted it, and newspapers both praised and mocked it. This

was the apotheosis of an anthem—­or in the words of Col. James Nisbet of Georgia, “‘Maryland, My Maryland’ was in the air.”3 Invasion of Maryland The first stages of the invasion of Maryland had all the elements of a romantic military conquest worthy of biblical descriptions. At least that is how civilians and journalists saw it. The Richmond Whig reprinted a story found in the Rockingham Register of Harrisonburg, Virginia, which poetically detailed the Confederate Army’s crossing of the Potomac River. As might be expected, “Maryland, My Maryland” played a central role in the drama: When our army reached the middle of the river, which they were wading, the troops were halted, Gen. Jackson pulled off his hat, and the splendid bands of music struck up the inspiring air of “Maryland, my Maryland!” which was responded to and sung with “the spirit and with the understanding” by all who could sing, and the name of all who could then and there sing was legion. It sounded in the ears of the tyrants on the other side like mighty thunder. The fact that our army was to pass over the Potomac into Maryland was, of course, known to many of the gallant sons of that long-­oppressed and downtrodden State, and they were there to welcome the Confederate soldiers to the land of Howard, and Pinckney and Carroll. It is said that our army received, at once, an accession of five hundred gallant spirits, whose arms will assist in tearing the chains from the limbs of their captive fellow citizens.4

Some soldiers’ accounts tally with this evocative if overblown depiction. Henry Kyd Douglas noted in particular that a brass band playing “Maryland, My Maryland” created an “inspiriting scene.”5 For Jedediah Hotchkiss of Virginia, the song was inseparable from the landscape, and both joined with his optimism for the upcoming campaign to create a memorable vista: “The 10th Va. Regt. of infantry, preceded by a band and bearing a Virginia flag, was in the advance; as the band reached the Maryland shore it struck up the air, ‘Maryland, my Maryland,’ amid shouts of the soldiers. It was a noble spectacle, the broad fall 1862

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river, fringed by the lofty trees in full foliage; the exuberant wealth of the autumnal wild flowers down to the very margin of the stream and a bright green island stretched away to the right.”6 The crossing of the Potomac spurred poetic descriptions above and beyond the normal flowery language found in midcentury prose; it is as if there were a hope at the time (and in later recollections) that this moment would assume mythological status akin to Washington’s crossing of the Delaware. “It was, indeed, a magnificent sight as the long column of many thousand horsemen stretched across this beautiful Potomac. The evening sun slanted upon its clear placid waters, and burnished them with gold, while the arms of the soldiers glittered and blazed in its radiance,” recalled Maj. Heros von Borcke, a Prussian serving on Gen. Jeb Stuart’s staff. “There were a few moments, perhaps, from the beginning to the close of the war, of excitement more intense, of exhilaration more delightful, than when we ascended the opposite bank to the familiar but now strangely thrilling music of ‘Maryland, my Maryland.’”7 For other Confederate soldiers the reality was quite different, both in terms of the less-­than-­romantic difficulties encountered crossing the river as well as the underwhelming reception they found when they finally reached the shores of Maryland. Joseph Polley, a member of Gen. John B. Hood’s Texas Brigade, was frustrated that the gallant Rebel troops and their patriotic albeit regionally targeted music met with barely restrained hostility after struggling across the Potomac. After all, he pointed out, they were crossing the chilly river to remove “the print of the despot’s heel from Maryland’s shore.” Polley’s comrade had just stumbled and gone under the water, and with no Marylanders welcoming them on the opposite bank, Polley’s crossing of the Potomac was a memorable event for all the wrong reasons: “The coldness of the water, however, was more than equaled by the frigidity of the welcome extended,” he confided to his sweetheart, Nellie. “Not even the dulcet strains of ‘Maryland, My Maryland’ evoked from half submerged instruments by Collins’ band aroused the enthusiasm of the people.”8 Georgian James Nisbet was still able to find inspiration in Randall and Cary’s song, but he was forced to agree with Polley’s assessment 134

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of the civilians’ response: “Randall’s splendid appeal shook our hearts like a trumpet!” exclaimed the proud Southerner, though he sadly admitted that the lyric and reality may have been at odds. “‘She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb!’” he continued. “But Maryland remained a ‘mute, inglorious’ Maryland!”9 Once across the river, the band of the Eighth Georgia played “Maryland, My Maryland” and other Southern tunes for the ladies of Maryland, though they were understandably disappointed when one listener requested “The Star-­Spangled Banner.”10 Walter H. Taylor, assistant adjutant to the Army of Northern Virginia, heard not the foreign battlefield in Randall’s lyrics but the political implications of a unified Confederacy. For Taylor, time was running out for the Old Line State, and his musical patience was wearing thin. “Now is the time for Maryland or never,” he wrote to his sister. “After this if she does not rise, hush up ‘My Maryland.’”11 John Stevens, another member of the Texas Brigade, heard “Maryland, My Maryland” as well as other tunes as his unit crossed the Potomac onto the contested soil of Maryland, though for Stevens the explicit geopolitical denotation of the song cut through the lyric’s normally uplifting façade. The men sensed that fierce fighting was imminent, and fording the iconic river figuratively and literally placed them in the enemy’s backyard. Some soldiers were jubilant about the campaign and reveled in the music, while others like Stevens heard and saw a more ominous prospect: “I could not for the life of me suppress a feeling of sadness as I beheld this vast concourse of humanity wading the river, so full of music and apparently never once thinking that their feet (many of them) would never press the soil on the south side of the Potomac again.”12 Stevens’s feelings were in some ways more understandable than those of his merry comrades. By crossing the Potomac these soldiers were leaving the South and abandoning the security and comfort of their home nation to fight and possibly die in a land whose allegiance and character remained undefined. Indeed, most soldiers were more worried about their personal needs than they were about the pageantry of entering another state. “Nearly one-­third of the regiment are barefooted,” Capt. William Hardy of Mississippi wrote to his wife. “Many fell out from fall 1862

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hunger and weakness.” His men had received no new uniforms nor had a chance to wash. “Hence they are lousy.”13 Newspapers were divided in how they presented Marylanders’ reaction to the campaign. Quite a few Northerners remembered the riot of a year ago and still saw Maryland as a Southern state in temperament. A writer for the Philadelphia Inquirer observed that the Confederate troops “are everywhere received by the people of Maryland with wild expressions of joy. The farmers offer them the products of their farms free of charge, and the maidens sing ‘Maryland, my Maryland!’” A North Carolina newspaper concurred: “We rejoice to see accounts of the cordial reception of our army by the people in Maryland.”14 The Southern Illustrated News claimed that Marylanders “have shown themselves highly favorable to our cause, which is, indeed, their own,” adding that they had reports that Frederick County had already gathered enough men to form a brigade of infantry and 150 men for the cavalry for the Confederate Army. The World of New York City saw the situation differently: “Even in Baltimore, where there is an undoubted influential disloyal element, it was thoroughly cowed by the strong Union feeling displayed by the mass of the people.” This article predictably cited Randall and Cary’s song, only this time it prophesied a much different future: “From this time forth ‘Maryland, My Maryland’ will not be as popular as it has been in Dixie.”15 Both Union and Confederate soldiers marching though Maryland experienced the state’s political segregation firsthand. “We have not met with much sympathy in Maryland thus far,” wrote William Hardy of Mississippi, while a Georgia soldier wrote to his wife “that if the chains were stricken from her limbs, and her people free, that Maryland would be with the South.”16 Robert Robertson of New York found a warm welcome as he marched through Maryland: “A loyal people had shown us the contrast between union and secession, as we compared our reception in Virginia and here. . . . Sweet faced women carried baskets of fruits and flowers, and old women and children carried water to the parched lips of the weary, ragged and sunburned soldiers.”17 Both positive and negative reactions can be found in Northern and Southern writings, but most accounts agree with 136

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Virginian Walter Taylor, who found Marylanders “about equally divided in sentiment.”18 By September 7 the main body of Lee’s army had reached Frederick, Maryland. Dr. Lewis Steiner, a member of the U.S. Sanitary Commission, was little impressed with what he witnessed as Confederate troops passed through the city. For Steiner, patriotism, music, and moral character were inseparable, and he mocked the appearance and deportment of the Southern troops, denouncing the bands’ performances of “Maryland, My Maryland” and “Dixie” as “execrable,” “vile,” and “excruciating.”19 Perhaps Mrs. Charlotte E. McKay, who was serving as a nurse in Frederick, heard the same band. “A miserable band, with a few cracked and battered instruments, attempted to play ‘Maryland, My Maryland’!” she groused. “But the effort seemed soon to exhaust itself.”20 A correspondent for the New York Herald was likewise unimpressed with what he saw of Longstreet’s division after the Battle of South Mountain. The soldiers were “hungry, exceedingly ragged, and disgustingly filthy.” This correspondent could not resist throwing Randall’s words in their faces: “It is doubtful whether any of them will desire to visit ‘My Maryland’ again.”21 Upon reaching Frederick, Lee named Bradley Johnson, colonel of the First Maryland Infantry (csa) and a native of Frederick, as provost marshal. There was some violence against Unionists, including the sacking of the office of the pro-­Union newspaper, the Examiner. Unionists did not sit idle, and music was put to use as a form of passive resistance against the Southern invaders. According to the Philadelphia Inquirer, “Maryland, My Maryland” was “whistled at every corner, and choruses of the ‘Star-­Spangled Banner.’ The ‘Red, White and Blue’ hourly strike upon the ear here.” How “Maryland, My Maryland” was an emblem of Union solidarity at this juncture is not clear, especially as it was whistled and not sung.22 The resistance shown by Maryland Unionists prompted the creation of one of the Civil War’s most memorable myths. According to the story, ninety-­five-­year-­old Barbara Fritchie of Frederick took up a Union flag and waved it defiantly as Stonewall Jackson’s troops passed through her town. The heroic tale fall 1862

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was immortalized in the 1864 poem Barbara Frietchie by John Greenleaf Whittier, though it turns out that this stirring event did not occur in quite the way Whittier portrayed it. There were some eyewitnesses who claimed that Barbara Fritchie did indeed challenge the Confederates with a flag, but her neighbors pointed out that she was ill at the time and unlikely to be shouting at the troops. Mary Quantrell, another Frederick Unionist, was probably the person who waved a flag at the passing troops that day.23 The maneuvering of two vast armies exacerbated the tension between Union and Confederate sympathizers in Maryland. Most officers knew they were an imposition on the countryside and avoided antagonizing the local civilians as much as possible. Robert E. Lee went so far as to disseminate his “Proclamation to the People of Maryland,” and his rhetoric wisely blended regional and national patriotism with cultural nationalism: The people of the Confederate States have long watched with the deepest sympathy the wrongs and outrages that have been inflicted upon the citizens of a commonwealth allied to the States of the South by the strongest social, political and commercial ties. . . . Believing that the people of Maryland possessed a spirit too lofty to submit to such a government, the people of the South have long wished to aid you in throwing off this foreign yoke, to enable you again to enjoy the inalienable rights of freemen, and restore independence and sovereignty to your State.24

That the “people of the South” (in opposition to a “foreign” people) recognize a certain “spirit” in Marylanders projects a cultural bond; at the same time, it is the political body, the “States of the South,” who express their sympathy with the situation. Most effective, however, was the appeal to state loyalty and regional patriotism by proposing to reinstate “independence and sovereignty to your State.” While a masterful stroke of propaganda, later events ensured that Lee’s proclamation would have little effect on the citizens of Maryland. Unionists were unimpressed by Lee’s proclamation. “He professes to come to redeem the ‘downtrodden’ people of Mary138

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land, from the yolk of Uncle Sam, which is grinding them to the earth,” wrote the Philadelphia Inquirer on September 13, and once again Randall and Cary’s song is brought in to spice up the war of words: “Frederick Country will long remember this visit of the ‘redeemers of My Maryland,’ who have destroyed their substance like a swarm of locust. Washington County commences its suffering to-­day.”25 A Marylander fighting for the South used one of the most memorable lines from Randall and Cary’s song (“She bleeds, she burns; she’ll come, she’ll come. Maryland, my Maryland”) on a handbill that called for Marylanders to join the Confederate Army.26 A Northern journalist noted that regimental bands were “continually playing ‘Maryland, My Maryland’” as they sought recruits for the army, while a soldier from Mississippi heard that Maryland soldiers were “joining our army every day by thousands,” but this was wishful thinking, as few Marylanders were willing to join the fray at this point.27 On September 9 the Richmond Enquirer posted a lengthy article on “Maryland as the Seat of War.” After discussing the location and intentions of Lee’s army, the paper then considered what impact the invasion will have on the course of the war. As the article progressed, the prose became increasingly impassioned, and “Maryland, My Maryland,” both directly and indirectly, began to enter. “Now is their time to lift the heel of the despot from off their shore! If they shall prove timid or hesitating, their opportunity will be lost, and perhaps, forever.” Next came the often repeated and painfully ignorant reference to the state’s slavery: “If they shall prove unwilling to do and to dare, and to risk life and property, for liberty, they choose the portion of slavery forever.” But if Marylanders were to follow in the footsteps of their ancestors, then Maryland can “strike the shackles from her limbs and bid her be free forever!” This author argued that “a vast deal now depends on Maryland,” implying that the state’s participation could be a key to winning the war. At that point Randall’s lyrics were summoned to push the point home: “We hope to see the sons of Maryland rise up all over her fair borders, and take for their battle-­cry the words of one of her own poets”: fall 1862

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“Better the fire upon thee roll! Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, Than crucifixion of the soul. Maryland, my Maryland” And the glad answer will go back from the haste of the liberating Confederate army: “She is not deaf, nor deaf, nor dumb, She breathes, she burns! She’ll come! She’ll come!”28

Three days later the Daily Constitutionalist of Augusta, Georgia, expressed excitement at the prospect of a “freed” Maryland in prose that was strikingly similar to the Richmond Enquirer: “Maryland, so long oppressed and trodden under the foot of a vile oppressor, to have, at length, an opportunity of throwing off her shackles and joining her Southern sisters in the great contest for Constitutional liberty!” Once again, the literal institution of slavery was ignored in favor of Randall’s fictional enslavement of the state. Randall’s verses were then woven into the call to arms that summoned Marylanders to rise in support of the invasion. “Lee, with his gallant, victorious legions, plants the Confederate banner upon her soil, and calls upon her to ‘Avenge the patriotic gore.’ . . . He bids her strike off the chains of Black Republican slavery, and assert her independence. He is there to protect her from the oppressor’s bayonets, and to welcome her into the galaxy of the Confederate States. That she will respond to the call, who can doubt? Already, it seems as though the response was echoing through all the South: ‘She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb.’”29 For Marylanders the Confederate invasion had a profound effect on how they heard the song as well as how they heard and saw the war. John Hatton of the First Maryland Battery (csa) felt the song’s exuberance as his unit crossed the Potomac into their native state: “As the Maryland Infantry plunged into the stream, with our Battery following, a shout went up. The echo of ‘Maryland, My Maryland’ sounded far over the waters of the Potomac, and hearty cheers burst from the throats of her patriotic sons.” A few weeks later he recounted how he and his fellow Marylanders had been boasting of their state to some 140

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soldiers from North Carolina, a state that now held little attraction for the defeated troops. “They heard so much of Maryland being a rich state, a land flowing with milk and honey, that when they crossed the river they expected to find everything in abundance, citizens treating them to the best and opening up a Paradise to them. One of them scratched up a hand full of soil; looked at it; smelt it; tasted it; and threw it down with an air of disappointment, saying, ‘You are cheats,—­no milk and honey in this dirt!’”30 It is worth noting that Jonathan Thomas Scharf, another Marylander serving in the same battery as Hatton, did not mention any singing of “My Maryland” upon crossing the Potomac.31 Not everyone, it would appear, fell under the song’s spell. The irrepressible Jeb Stuart celebrated the invasion of Maryland by hosting a ball with some locals, but “Maryland, My Maryland” was not mentioned, either at the ball or in his other musical encounters with civilians. A well-­meaning civilian offered him “Southern Yankee Doodle” instead.32 John Stone of the First Maryland Infantry (csa) did not mention soldiers singing Randall and Cary’s song, but he did witness an impromptu concert by Gen. A. P. Hill’s wife prior to the battle, with “My Maryland being the piece most enjoyed.”33 After Antietam The approaching battle on Maryland’s soil had bolstered the song’s inspirational and associative power for Confederate soldiers. Sustaining this new intensity required victory, however, and this was not to be. George McClellan’s Army of the Potomac met the Army of Northern Virginia at the small town of Sharpsburg, shutting down the Confederate advance and forcing Lee to retreat back to Virginia. “Maryland, My Maryland” now sounded of defeat for Southerners, while Federals could approach the song with a new brashness. Maryland was represented on the Union side by the Second Infantry (now a veteran unit), the Third Infantry and Purnell Legion (both bloodied at the Battle of Cedar Mountain the previous month), and the untested Fifth Infantry. Batteries A and B, Maryland Light Artillery were there as well. On the fall 1862

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Confederate side only the Baltimore Artillery was engaged at Antietam, with other units having remained at Harpers Ferry or operating on the periphery. Those Marylander soldiers who did make it to the battlefield at Sharpsburg were moved by the severity of fighting in their home state. “It was possibly the hardest fought field of the war,” wrote Confederate George Booth. Richard Gist, Sixth Maryland Infantry (usa), was stunned to see that “bullet marks on the fences and trees were visible everywhere” when he passed through the area.34 Union artilleryman Frederick Wild was too late to join the battle, but he visited the hospital at Frederick. There he found members of the Fifth Maryland (usa) who had been his childhood friends in Baltimore, only to watch one of them die the next day.35 Needless to say, the relationship between the men’s state, the war, and perhaps the song would never be the same. Upon recrossing the Potomac, some Confederate bandleaders again sought to bolster spirits by playing patriotic tunes. Many were surprised, however, to find that “Maryland, My Maryland” was now met with derision. According to Walter Taylor, “One of the bands commenced the air ‘My Maryland’ & was prevented from proceeding by the groans & hisses of the soldiers. This will convey to you some idea of the effect of the recent invasion upon the sentiments of the army concerning the people of that unfortunate state.”36 For George Neese of Jeb Stuart’s Horse Artillery, the song and state were scorned in favor of the haven of loyal Virginia: “Our whole force had left Maryland, my Maryland—­that the bands played so much a few weeks ago—­behind, and we stood once more on the friendly hills of Virginia.”37 Capt. Greenlee Davidson was more than willing to replace “Maryland, My Maryland” with a song that spoke of a return to his native Virginia: “Every Company gave a cheer as it formed on the south bank of the River and I doubt whether there was a man in the army that did not rejoice that he was out of Maryland. For my part, I have had enough of Maryland. I don’t want to hear anything more of ‘Maryland, My Maryland.’ When I came in sight of the Potomac I felt like singing, ‘Oh carry me back Oh carry me back to old Virginia’s shore.’”38 For some soldiers ownership of the song was now up in the 142

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air. Virginian Walter Taylor, frustrated by the defeat and disgusted with his army’s lukewarm reception in Maryland, wrote home : “Don’t let any of your friends sing ‘My Maryland,’ not ‘my Westn’ Md anyhow.”39 On the Union side, John Harrison Mills of New York announced that “‘My Maryland’ was now sung by our men, with an alteration of the words to suit each singer,” while a soldier from Massachusetts incorrectly boasted that it “was ever after a Union song.”40 Such a claim was hasty, to say the least, as the lyrics and admittedly brief history of “Maryland, My Maryland” had already marked it as Southern in nature and worthy of anthem status. But the recent events in Maryland would forever color how the song was received by soldiers on both sides of the conflict. As James D. Nance of South Carolina declared, “One thing is very sure: the soldier sings ‘Maryland, My Maryland’ with far less zest than heretofore.”41 The response in the press was frenzied, and “Maryland, My Maryland” was knocked about with new creativity. The Frederick Examiner crowed after Lee’s retreat: “The familiar song ‘My Maryland’ is chanted no more; reproaches are now lavished upon those, who sacrificed home and friends for the ungrateful rebels.” According to the Philadelphia Inquirer, “‘My Maryland’ is played out. We have not heard it mentioned for a month.” Two days later, a headline in the Washington Evening Star read, “‘My Maryland’ Not Sung Now in Richmond,” with details in the article: “The Confeds are disgusted with Maryland. Before Lee’s entrance into that state, its redemption was the theme of all secesh. ‘My Maryland,’ which was heard on all occasions, in parlor, hall and on the street, is now tabooed and no one sings it.”42 Northern reporters delighted in replacing Randall and Cary’s song-­as-­state with another song that detailed the direction in which the Confederate Army was moving. “A few days since ‘Maryland, My Maryland’ was the most popular tune in Lee and Jackson’s army,” announced the Albany Evening Journal. “Now it is ‘Carry me back to Ole Virginny.’”43 The Louisville Daily Democrat took a slightly different angle: “We suspect that the rebel song ‘Maryland, my Maryland’ isn’t quite so popular in Dixie as it has been. We expect every girl in Dixie will be singing ‘I’m fall 1862

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Looking for Him Home.’” The Philadelphia Inquirer decided to invent their own song title to drive home the humiliation of the Confederate retreat: “The grand ‘liberating’ army had not found a spot whereon to rest its foot upon the soil of ‘Maryland, my Maryland.’ . . . That period of comparative quiet will be of very short duration. ‘Virginia, my Virginia,’ will have her sacred soil again touched by the foot of the Yankee invader.”44 Other journalists played with the grammar of the song. “The rebels entered Maryland, singing, ‘Maryland, my Maryland,’” wrote the Salem Observer. “It is now stated very confidently that they are willing to make a discount on the claim, and will sign off without stopping to parley.” One paper from Maryland gleefully reprinted an article from the New York Herald that focused on the title’s pronoun: “General Lee and Jeff. Davis must be pretty well convinced by this time that ‘My Maryland’ is our Maryland.” The Boston Post and the Massachusetts Spy, for whatever reason, decided that now was the time to print the original lyrics to “Maryland, My Maryland.”45 The Southern press was little inclined to play word games with the song or the state, although the use of “My Maryland” in reference to the real state had become so ingrained that many papers continued the practice. One of the most intriguing responses came in an article titled “Maryland, My Maryland” from the Richmond Examiner of October 29. The article reprinted a letter from Gen. George McClellan to Governor Augustus Bradford of Maryland (dated October 18, 1862), which the editors described as a “bitter commentary on that famous lyric, ‘Maryland, My Maryland,’ that we do not hear quite so much about of late.”46 This fascinating intertextual tangle placed a military communiqué and a popular song in dialogue even though McClellan does not mention the song or its lyrics. Another curious response was a call for a “National Hymn” that appeared in the Southern Illustrated News just ten days after the Battle of Antietam. No mention of the recent battle was made; instead, the need for cultural separation that had been so apparent prior to the start of the war was brought back. “No nation was ever so destitute of a national hymn as the late United States,” suggested the author. “With all its boasted learning, 144

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Yankeedom never could furnish one which proved acceptable alike to the high-­toned Southern gentleman and the sensation Yankee.” Having drawn cultural battle lines, the writer puts forth a patriotic summons: “Now that we have separated forever from the fanatics of the North, it behooves the literary men of our native South to put themselves energetically to the work of furnishing our people with a national anthem.” Included is a recent lyric by James Barron Hope (“The Oath of Freedom—­a National Hymn”) which the author hoped “may suggest to others the attempt.”47 While the call for a new anthem is nothing new, the timing of this article is fascinating; with the Confederate military failure in Maryland and the resulting decline in status of “Maryland, My Maryland,” some must have seen the need for a patriotic anthem to fill the void. Civilian response to the Antietam campaign was varied due to a welter of confusing accounts in the press. “We are vastly relieved here by the Exit of the Rebels out of Maryland,” wrote Elizabeth Blair Lee, “where there has been no rising & where I have ever maintained there would be none because even those who were considered Secesh have ever evinced the greatest reluctance to anything of the sort & pronounced it ruinous.”48 Those of a Southern bent felt differently. “This past week has been the most eventful of the war,” Daniel Thomas relayed to his sister in West River, Maryland. With journalists from both sides professing victory, Thomas was hesitant to jump to a conclusion, determining if nothing else that “the Federals were not whipped.” Thomas proudly noted the many civilians who gathered medical supplies and headed to Frederick to treat the wounded from both sides. “A large number of ladies were to go up today,” he said, adding a bitter side note: “The Union shriekers are furious at it, their nobly Christian & human sentiments being outraged at the idea of any thing being permitted to allay the sufferings of sick & dying rebels.” In comparison, Thomas denounced the treatment previously offered to Confederate pows by Unionists, prisoners who “were lying here dying in jail without even a cup of cold water being permitted to moisten their burning lips. Of such are the Kingdom of Lincoln.”49 Southern civilians far from the bloody clash at Antietam fall 1862

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could still hear the song as a glorious referent of Confederate unity. The fourteen-­year-­old Ellen Saunders of Georgia not only replaced the physical state with the metaphoric song but fantasized that the lyrics were actually reenacted: “Stonewall Jackson and his brave men are in ‘Maryland, My Maryland.’ The Mobile Cadets were the first to cross the Potomac, and when they were all over, General Jackson, at the head of his troops, prayed ‘that the chains of Maryland might soon be riven and the Confederate flag shield her evermore from the touch of the despot,’ and the soldiers knelt and kissed the soil of Maryland, brave Maryland.” Even with the loss at Antietam, poetic visions such as Ellen described were a key step in uplifting Randall’s already hyperbolic imagery into the realm of the mythic.50 The Battle of Parodies Northerners gleefully leaped on “Maryland, My Maryland” following news of the defeat of Lee’s army. The Washington National Republican offered “General Lee’s Wooing: ‘My Maryland! My Maryland,’” an original, somewhat pastoral poem that clearly responded to and perhaps hoped to replace Randall’s poem.51 Other newspapers published revised versions that slanted the song in favor of the Union. The Philadelphia Press reprinted a pro-­Union version that they claimed first appeared in a Unionist newspaper from Newbern, North Carolina. This revision paints Maryland in the best light, granting the state dubious credit for resisting Lee’s advance: Columbia greets her daughter true, Maryland, Fair Maryland, To thee a nation’s praise is due, Maryland, Fair Maryland, For thou has made the traitor rue The hour he placed his hopes on you, And hurl’d him from thy hills of blue—­ Maryland, Fair Maryland.52

From Albany, New York, came another version just two days later, the “Answer to the Authoress of ‘My Maryland,’ the Favorite Song of Rebellion.” 146

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Invaded is thy sacred soil, Maryland! Foes come for booty, blood and spoil, Maryland! Remember Howard, who beat back At Cowpens, Tarleton’s fierce attack, A chief that feared not ruin black, Maryland! Our Maryland!

This version referenced all the historic names that Randall included in his verses, then adds a few more, such as William Wirt and Francis Scott Key (“Who sang the war-­song of the Free”). The last stanza concludes: “Rebellion’s war-­cry must be hushed / The serpent of Secession crushed.”53 The Unionist Frederick Examiner, understandably bitter after having their office sacked by Confederate troops, printed a punitive revision on October 15 titled “Maryland, My Maryland No. 3.” This version is cast in the first person and certainly portrays the Confederates as villains: The yoke from our necks to take, In Maryland—­My Maryland, Abe Lincoln’s ‘hessian’ power to break In Maryland—­My Maryland, A naked, hungry, starving band Like Pharaoh’s frogs on Egypt’s strand Came on in droves to Maryland, To Maryland—­My Maryland.

Later stanzas quoted Randell’s original (“You are not ‘deaf, nor blind, nor dumb’”), cited historic emblems (“Fort McHenry’s dungeons”), and gave specific names to the invading force (“Bradley Traitor Johnson”).54 Instead of replacing “Maryland, My Maryland” with a Union version, some papers chose to mock the original song with humorous alternatives. The Boston Herald offered up one tongue-­ in-­cheek stanza: They took thy boots, they took thy coats, My Maryland! fall 1862

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And paid for them in ‘Confed’ notes, My Maryland! They gobbled down they corn like goats They rooted up they truck like shoats, But then—­they didn’t get thy votes Or volunteers—­my Maryland.55

Others lampooned the would-­be anthem for having its call to “burst the tyrant’s chains” fall flat. The October 11 issue of Harper’s Weekly featured a scathing parody of Randall’s verses: Ah me! I’ve had enough of thee, Maryland, my Maryland! Dear land! Thou art too dear for me, Maryland, my Maryland! I’ll take the nearest ford and go, I’ll leave thee, darling, to the foe, But do not let him kick me so, Maryland, my Maryland! You’ve dashed my hopes, ungrateful State, Maryland, my Maryland! Go! bless your stars I came too late, Maryland, you understand! I meant to dress you well in black, And scar you with the battle’s track, And I had scourges for your back, Maryland, my contraband! Oh where are Longstreet, Hill, and Lee? Maryland, my Maryland! And “Stonewall” Jackson, where is he? Maryland, my Maryland! Four coat-­tails streaming in the breeze, And that is all a body sees; Better than dangling from the trees, Maryland, my Maryland! Gray geese are flying southward, ho! Maryland, O Maryland! 148

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It’s getting cold up there, you know, Maryland, O Maryland! I should have thought it rather warm, South Mountain yonder took by storm, Antietam yielded in alarm, Maryland, O Maryland! Blood-­red my hand, and dead my heart, Native land, my native land! Columbia from her grave will start, Murder’d land, my murder’d land Thy flag is like a sword of fire I’ll fly, I’ll fly its vengeful ire, Beneath its stroke its foes expire, Native land, my native land!56

There is an interesting subtext behind the obvious humor. While the mocking tone is clearly hostile to the Confederacy, it is only the final verse that could be seen as positive to Maryland. The prior verses portray the state as a battleground or a place that refused to join the Confederacy, not a staunch member of the Union. Even the final verse, which could be seen as crediting Maryland’s defiance, points to the Union as much as to the state; the word “Maryland” is even replaced with “native land.” Modifications to the original song were fewer in the Southern press. A young lady from Biloxi submitted an additional stanza a month after the Battle of Antietam: ’Tis but the rebels’ joyful tread, Maryland! my Maryland! With Stonewall Jackson at their head, Maryland! my Maryland! He comes to burst the tyrant’s chain—­ Arise and fight, your rights to gain; For you’ll no longer be enslaved, Maryland! my Maryland!

The editors felt obliged to provide a caveat to this verse, no doubt reflecting the thoughts of many of their readers: “We fall 1862

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fear that pretty sentiments have been lavished on Maryland to very little purpose.”57 The Daily Constitutionalist of Augusta, Georgia, released a version of the lyric that replaced Maryland with Mississippi: And is it true thou too must feel, My sunny home! my sunny home! The hated despot’s iron heel, My sunny home! my sunny home! Too true, alas! but poise they steel, Thy honest blows with vigor deal, And suffer long but never kneel! My sunny home! my sunny home!58

Music publishers in the North were likewise quick to capitalize on the recent turn of events. In mid-­November a music dealer in Louisville, Kentucky, announced that they were selling the sheet music to the Union version of “Maryland, My Maryland,” an indication of just how quickly the new music had been composed, printed, and distributed.59 The Boston publisher Oliver Ditson had released a Unionized version with lyrics by Finley Johnson: The “liberating army” came, Maryland, my Maryland, Polluting thy soil in Freedom’s name, Maryland, my Maryland; They came with “proclamations” loud, They came with dirty, ragged crowd, To wrap thee in Secession’s shroud, Maryland, my Maryland. They marched along in bold array, Maryland, my Maryland, Expecting on thy soil to stay, Maryland, my Maryland; They came with bugle and with drum, They came from Hades, the very scum, To strike the sons of Freedom dumb, Maryland, my Maryland. 150

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Successful songwriter Septimus Winner of Philadelphia published his own tongue-­twisting version of the song. The title page says “Union Words Adapted and Music Arranged” by Winner, but this was a marketing ploy because the music is basically the same as all the other published versions: The Rebel horde is on thy shore, Maryland, my Maryland! Arise! and drive him from thy door, Maryland, my Maryland! Avenge the foe thou must abhor, Who seeks thy fall, oh, Baltimore! Drive back the tyrant, peace restore, Maryland, my Maryland!

Also from Philadelphia came a version from the house of J. W. Lawton & Co., this one titled “Maryland, Fair Maryland” with music by James W. Porter and lyrics by “Idlewild.” While newly written, the music is clearly in imitation of the original and features the same formal structure, dotted rhythms on the first beat, and two measure phrases followed by the “Maryland” tag: Columbia greets her daughter true, Maryland, Fair Maryland. To thee a nation’s praise is due, Maryland, Fair Maryland. For thou hast made the traitor rue, The hour he placed his hopes on you, And hurl’d him from thy hills of blue, Maryland, Fair Maryland.

While these Unionized versions were hastily produced and today seem poor shadows of the original, it appears that they had some measure of success. A correspondent from Boston noticed an officer from New Hampshire who “sang ‘My Maryland’ and other patriotic Union songs” while stationed in Falmouth, Virginia, in December 1862.60 If nothing else, humor could be used against the faltering Confederate anthem. The Philadelphia Press published a lengthy article on September 16 that dissected what they called the fall 1862

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“peculiarly pugnacious anthem.” The writer admitted that stanza one was “inspiring” but “rather vague.” With tongue firmly in cheek he questioned how the rebels would launch a campaign against Maryland with only a heel and a torch. Stanza two raised a predictable point for additional mockery: “We thought we should come to the irrepressible chivalry before we had read much further. What is this chivalry—­can anybody tell, and will any one assert that the name of a peer can be found on the list?” The “taking in vain” of famous names from history in stanza three is protested, especially given that their names are rhymed with “dust” and “rust.” Stanza four is challenged for bringing in Virginia and that state’s motto, while the calls for Maryland to “Come!” in stanza five are pushed aside, given that Maryland remained in the Union. The penultimate stanzas are evaluated like a theatrical production: “The beginning of the end approaches. The drop-­curtain is about to close on the last scene of the drama. Red and blue fire—­Maryland enthroned in queenly state, and half veiled from the rude gaze of mortals by a few square yards of gauze—­orchestral drums and [cymbals] crashing—­and then Virginia, a leading female character, steps forward with this utterance: ‘Hear the distant thunder hum.’”61 In any other situation such ridicule would likely ensure a song’s quick demise. Yet the extent of the mockery is telling. In fact, such overblown attacks are testament to the song’s perceived importance. It would take more than derision to push “Maryland, My Maryland” out of the spotlight. Patriotic Music and Ad Hominem Attacks Patriotism is an ideology based on separatism and elitism; as a patriot, you believe your country is distinct from and better than other countries. Most anthems and other patriotic emblems promote this agenda at some level. In addition, successful patriotic symbols flourish because they are internalized and owned by citizens. If an anthem is popular, that means it is appreciated and enjoyed aesthetically and emotionally (that is, subjectively) as well as for its political message. This personal attachment to certain pieces of music meant that parodies were a poignant offensive weapon in the cultural war of the 1860s. People take 152

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their music personally, and an attack on an anthem is felt as an attack on the individual.62 Music’s innate ability to connect with the individual even as it spoke to the masses made specific pieces or performances persuasive tools for attacking the enemy’s culture and morality. There is no better example than the bizarre story that began circulating after the Battle of Antietam. In March 1863 the Fayetteville Observer published a brief account taken from the London Morning Herald that purportedly described Lincoln’s visit to the battlefield: Fancy a President, sir, calling upon an officer on the bloody field of Antietam to sing him a song. It is a fact President Lincoln, when he visited the battlefield of Antietam, before the corpses had been buried, called an officer who had been reported to him as a good song singer, to “step out and sing me a song,” and then, in an open plain, in hearing of the dying, and in sight of the sightless dead, the officer sung for the President of the United States, “Jim along Josey.” What a splendid but much abused ruler old Nero was. He fiddled while Rome was burning but never called out one of his officers to sing “Jim along Josey.”63

There are any number of ways one could portray Lincoln as a callous leader, but the calling for a lighthearted song when surrounded by fallen soldiers was an effective, personal assault on the man’s character. Even more telling is Lincoln’s purported choice of song. “Jim along Josey” was a popular minstrel song, implying that Lincoln’s musical taste reflected his abolitionist politics. Not only does he want to free the slaves, but he also prefers their music. The following year this tale was retold in the form of a narrative poem that appeared in the Old Guard, an anti-­abolition paper from New York. Each stanza ends with the lines, “But carelessly rode Old Abe along / And called in that scene for a negro song.”64 Just as some Southerners attacked Lincoln through his musical preferences, some Northerners chose to attack Randall personally as a means of denigrating his song. On October 11, the same day that Harper’s Weekly released a parody of “Maryland, fall 1862

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My Maryland,” the New York Illustrated News released a cartoon that was anything but flattering to the poet. The Richmond correspondent for the Charleston Mercury got his hands on an advanced copy and described the image to his readers: “Randall is pictured as a tall, raw-­bony Scotchman, not unlike James Gordon Bennett, in rags, with a sorrowful face, a broken banjo in his hands, a string of stolen ducks and chickens tied about his waist. Thus ragged and forlorn, he is making diligent tracks from a stout fellow, who is bent on pitching into his undefended rear with a pitchfork.”65 Among the obvious insults (ragged clothes and stolen poultry) is the banjo, a less than subtle branding of Randall as a minstrel musician that linked his song with the lowbrow “Dixie,” unofficial anthem of the Confederacy, and to the African American community. Even more startling was the vicious ad hominem attack found in the Philadelphia Inquirer of September 18. “It is now some months since a man, possessed with a certain unsoundness of mind . . . sat down in a cheerless garret in Charleston, and produced a song, which he thought, no doubt, was to move the people of Maryland, even as the burning words of Rouget de Lisle roused revolutionary France, and be to the people of Maryland all that the ‘Marseillaise’ has been to the French.” The reader should be suspicious immediately, not only for leading words such as “unsoundness of mind” or “cheerless garret” but also because the location of the poem’s creation was simply wrong. The writer went on to describe the poet anxiously watching the response to his poem in hopes that it would produce “an explosion to shake heaven and earth.” But, this writer smugly pointed out, the poet watched in vain, for his poem produced “nothing more than the fizzling of a miserable squib.” Once again the critical reader should question this author’s point, for while the poem may have failed to bring Maryland into the Confederacy, it certainly succeeded in serving as a patriotic call to arms. Then came an attack on the poem itself: “[The poet] certainly was laboring under a great hallucination when he shouted out frantically, with all the froth and foam of an ancient Pythoness, such lines as these,” followed by the first stanza of Randall’s poem. At this point the gloves came off, and 154

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17. The caption to this derisive cartoon reads: “Enthusiastic reception in Maryland of the author of those affecting lines, My Maryland.” New York Illustrated News, October 11, 1862.

the author, emboldened by the recent Union victory in Maryland, excoriated Randall ex post facto. “That was all very well for a crack-­brained, ranting, son of a renegade Maryland in 1861,” he went on. “But the facts of the case do not agree thereto. In the month of September, say on the sixth of the month, in the year of grace 1862, General Lee, with a host of men, the dirty, ragged, hungry chivalry, came swarming up out of the muddy Potomac, like the frogs of Egypt out of the sacred Nile, shouting as they arose on Maryland soil.” The last half of the fifth stanza is then quoted. Enjoying the fact that Maryland “was not to be charmed by such a song,” this writer warned that Randall may try again. “The frantic poet will, perhaps, indite another song to utter forth the grief and indignation of his bursting heart,” he said, and instead he offered a new stanza to save Randall the “toil he ill can bear.” I heard the migh’y humbug! Lum! Maryland! But neither bugle, fife nor drum, Maryland! fall 1862

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To us she’s dead, or deaf and dumb; She spurns us all as Southern scum! Nor Lee nor Jeff can make her come! Maryland! Old Maryland!

Apparently unsatisfied with his rant so far, the author concluded with a final attack on Randall himself: “The poet was mad when he wrote before. As he sits in his garret and grinds his teeth at her utter refusal, he will naturally become more mad still, and our hints at emendation point out a way in which his madness would probably come to vent itself.”66 This article is noteworthy in its decision to attack the poet more than the poem as well as in the maliciousness of the abuse directed at Randall. Yet it is also noteworthy in that the extreme measures taken by this writer belie the fact that Randall’s poem had already succeeded in many of its goals. Marylanders may not have flocked to the Stars and Bars, but “My Maryland” and its musical version had become powerful patriotic emblems. The ferocity of this attack confirms the significance of the poem and song; both were so popular by this time that the only way to confront them was to attack the poet. In all fairness to Randall, he had achieved some status as a celebrity and as such was a target for Northern scrutiny, but he did little to draw attention to himself. As he humbly told a meeting of the Daughters of the Confederacy in 1905: “I awoke and found myself—­what shall I say?—­not famous, perchance, but a young poet who had found an audience.”67 Many newspapers published his whereabouts and activities, and the Chattanooga Daily Rebel labeled Randall as “a poet of the Young South” on par with Henry Timrod, one of the South’s most highly regarded artists.68 To his credit, Randall did not rest upon his newfound fame. He had remained in New Orleans until Union troops under Gen. Benjamin Butler occupied the city. Randall attempted to enlist in New Orleans’s recently reconstituted Crescent Regiment but was found physically unfit due to tuberculosis. Randall had suffered numerous bouts of pneumonia as a child, the lingering effects of which had kept him from graduating from Georgetown College.69 By May 1863 he had relo156

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cated to North Carolina where he met and began courting his future wife. In October 1863 he was employed for two months as a shipping agent for Power, Lowe & Company.70 He then worked with the Confederate Navy as a secretary to Capt. William F. Lynch, flag officer for the fleet in Wilmington, North Carolina, from February to August 1864.71 In addition to attacking the song and the poet, one could likewise attack those who performed the song. Journalist William Henry Hurlbert submitted letters to the New York Times describing his escape from house arrest in Richmond after having been accused of spying for the Union. The night of his leaving, a carriage pulled up to his door, raising the suspicions of his meddlesome neighbors. To paint an unflattering portrait of his observers, Hurlbert drew on their choice of music and their musical abilities: “From my windows we perceived that its advent had excited some degree of attention among a knot of Baltimorean detectives, who lived in a house nearly opposite, and were in the habit of making the summer night hideous with perpetual repetitions of ‘My Maryland,’ sung in a lamentable manner to the pathetic accompaniment of a diseased accordion.”72 Randall’s verses and Jennie Cary’s setting had suffered critical assaults of various kinds since its creation; now the performers were considered fair game. The song’s undeniable popularity, in conjunction with the military situation at the end of 1862, meant that sterner measures were needed to stifle the song’s success. Marylanders, “Maryland,” and the Confederacy Edwin O. Kimberly and the rest of the Third Wisconsin had been stationed in Frederick since the summer of 1861, serving as provost guards and helping in the arrest of suspected pro-­ secessionists. Kimberly alerted his parents when the regiment was finally ordered to move south in February 1862. “Since I last wrote to you we have moved [from] Md. to Va.,” he wrote, “or in other words from union to Secesch.” Kimberly’s geopolitical landscape was simple despite any lingering pro-­Southern sympathies he observed: since Maryland was still a part of the Union, Maryland was a Union state.73 Joseph Kirkley, a Maryfall 1862

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lander serving in the Union Army, was a little more particular in his appraisal following Lee’s invasion of Maryland. “The feeling of the people of Western Maryland towards the soldiers was, with very few exceptions, cordial and thoroughly sympathetic,” he recalled. “The Union sentiment seemed to waver in volume and intensity as you approached the border. It was in some measure doubtful, owing to the spirit infused by the Virginia Union refugees, that the loyalty of this Southern border of Maryland was of a flavor that the word bitter would but feebly characterize.”74 Politics aside, portions of Maryland still took pride in their cultural link to the South. Floride Clemson wrote of her visit to Baltimore, “I am perfectly delighted with this city, its cleanliness, elegance, and Southerness, the beauty of its ladies, & its hospitality.”75 As 1862 drew to a close, the Union and Confederacy began to reevaluate Maryland’s place in the war. For Southerners, the loss at Antietam was all the more frustrating given the failure of Marylanders to “meet her sisters on the plain” and “burst the tyrant’s chains.” Northerners remembered the Pratt Street Riot and rightly suspected that many Marylanders, especially in Baltimore, still proclaimed support of the Confederacy. The citizens of Maryland also had reason to reconsider what the war meant to them. Marylanders had now seen the realities of war, and bold proclamations of loyalty had been put to the test. Heading into central Maryland prior to the Battle of Antietam, Isaac Hall of the Ninety-­Seventh New York Infantry had been inspired by the support they found there. Union flags were seen on many houses, families gathered to cheer for the soldiers, and “goblets of cold water and viands” were provided to the hungry troops. These displays were all the more impressive to Hall given the divided loyalties he knew existed in Maryland. “Patriotism in this border State was not confined to sentiment, it was a living principle—­intensified by what it cost,” said Hall. “It is an easy matter to be a patriot where all are patriots, but not so easy nor safe when surrounded by traitorous neighbors.”76 For many Marylanders, poetic patriotism had given way to pragmatic patriotism. John Stevens of Texas, like many Southern soldiers and civilians, had been under the impression that 158

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Marylanders would leap to support the Confederate troops. “But we were destined to be sadly disappointed in our calculations,” he concluded. Stevens saw that the poetic heroism of “Maryland, My Maryland” and other anthems worked well for a population far removed from the fighting but fell short when the war arrived on their doorsteps. “While Maryland was friendly to us and doubtless her heart was very warm toward the Southern cause, yet, the romance had about all vanished from their patriotic sentiments, war was now a reality; they had learned that war meant fight and fight meant kill and kill meant to be dead.”77 Napier Bartlett of Louisiana also felt no surge of support for his uniform or his cause, though he blamed this on class division as well as a naïve view of war. According to Bartlett, Maryland’s “refined population could only see the result of long soldiering, rags and filth, and barefooted soldiers (totally indifferent or indisposed to the bright muskets), and so the sentiment of ‘My Maryland’ evaporated in poetry and paper.”78 Lee’s Maryland Campaign certainly brought the horrors of war to the Maryland home front. For example, a family from the tiny town of Keedysville survived the Battle of Antietam only to return home to find two dead soldiers in their yard, three in the house, and another in the barn. Even the soundscape was noticeably altered, since the war’s intrusion into Maryland was a sonic invasion as much as a military campaign. Writing from what had once been a quiet and bucolic area, Angela Davis of Washington County now spoke of “the rat-­tat-­tat of the drum, the shrill notes of the fife” waking her and her neighbors on many nights and signaling the passage of troops with the unmistakable sounds of war.79 A few miles outside of Frederick, John Scott of the Twenty-­Second New York was likewise struck by the conflict between the sounds of civilian Maryland and the noise brought on by war. “There is a churchbell ringing in the city,” Scott wrote in his diary on the day of the Battle of South Mountain. “How sweet it sounds compared with the hoarse roar of the distant cannon.”80 Yet compared with other locations throughout the country, portions of Maryland, including Baltimore and the Eastern Shore, had gotten off lightly. Joseph Kirkley of the Union’s Maryfall 1862

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18. The material and emotional scars left in the wake of the Battle of Antietam brought the true horrors of war to the people of Maryland. Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division, lc-­d ig-­c wpb-­01108.

land Brigade saw the differences between those states that saw major campaigns and those safe from the stain of battle. “In Virginia, roughness and sterility seemed the rule; however, farms and clearings were few and far between. In Maryland and Pennsylvania the whole face of the country, with occasional exceptions, appeared replete with life and plenty; dotted thickly with snug farmhouses, big red barns, white villages, and checkered with corn fields.”81 Writing from Warrenton, Virginia, less than forty miles from the border of his beloved Maryland, Lt. James Gillette of the Third Maryland (usa) recognized the genuine devastation that war can inflict on the land. “I would I had time and ability to describe the degradation to which the few Virginians that are left in the Valley are reduced by the war,” he wrote. A week later he tried to convey to his parents the difference between a war zone and the home front: “The amenities, privations and discomforts of those removed from the scene of 160

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war’s conflicts, away from the path of armies, know nothing of suffering or inconvenience compared with the horrors undergone by the people of Virginia.”82 Maryland may have suffered a “crucifixion of the soul,” but the state’s travails were minor compared with other locations. Maryland remained tense and conflicted even after the majority of troops departed the state. Governor August Bradford fought hard to keep Maryland in the Union even as he battled against the federal government’s intervention in his state’s management. Bradford may have been pro-­Union, but he was pro-­ Maryland first. Tensions also ran high between Union troops and the locals despite the civilians’ political inclinations. Pvt. Michael Guinan of the 128th New York was posted to Camp Millington outside Baltimore to guard against smuggling. “There are a great many secessionists out here,” he told his sister. “Last week there was said there was two men out of the regiment were poisoned down in Baltimore but I don’t believe it.” That such rumors could find willing ears was a sorry indication of the resentment percolating between soldiers and civilians. In a subsequent letter Guinan had to calm his sister’s fears regarding a similar rumor she had heard back in New York: “There has nobody been poisoned around our camp the peddlers do not sell poisoned apples around here.”83 Now that it seemed inevitable that Maryland would remain with the Union, exchanges between the Old Line State and the Confederacy grew increasingly difficult. William Lyons and his friends decided to join the Confederate Army, but getting to Virginia proved a challenge. It took more than ten days for the would-­be soldiers to get from Talbot County on Maryland’s Eastern Shore to Richmond, moving only at night, battling storms, and catching a ride on a blockade runner before finally reaching the Confederate capital. John Stone and his friends from the First Maryland (csa) took a similar course back to Virginia after a brief visit home and were nearly “run down” by a fast sailing ship.84 Henry Clay Mettam of Pikesville, Maryland, also went to great lengths to cross the Potomac only to find himself grabbed by the Provost Guard in Richmond under suspicion of being a spy or deserter.85 fall 1862

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Lyons, Stone, Mettam, and other Maryland Confederates must have been surprised by their reception when they finally reached Virginia. The failure of the state to rise in support of Lee’s invasion soured Southerners’ attitudes toward Maryland and its citizens. There was little distinction made between the physical state of Maryland, those living in Maryland, and any Marylanders living elsewhere. It did not help that Gen. John H. Winder, a native of Maryland, was put in charge of Richmond when martial law was declared in March 1862; even loyal Confederates found the conditions to be stifling. Tim Paca, having recently “escaped” from Maryland and traveled to Virginia in hopes of joining the Confederate Army, gave a less than flattering description of his fellow Marylanders whom he saw in Richmond: “Every young able man in Richmond in citizens clothes is a Marylander. There is an enormous number of [men] loafing here and all the riots and fights are caused by the Marylanders.” Paca’s particular scorn was for those whom he saw as having fled Maryland to escape the Union draft and who had no intention of fighting for either side. Paca’s patriotism was musical as well as political, and this was strained by his experience in Richmond. One night he attended a concert to hear one of the South’s most notable songwriters, Harry McCarthy. “I was much disappointed for having heard so much of McCarthy as an actor,” he told his diary, “and he being also the author of almost all the Southern National songs I expected something extra.”86 Both Northern and Southern papers picked up on the declining status of Marylanders. The Philadelphia Press offered a contemptuous account from a correspondent in Washington dc: The Maryland secessionists were only such in theory and not in practice. Secession to them was a fashionable vice, like the sipping of eau-­de-­cologne, or the unnatural use of cosmetics. It gave the ladies the exquisite opportunity of being in the minority,—­of making faces at Union soldiers, and singing ‘Maryland, My Maryland,’ to a plaintive and peculiar air. The men permitted it just as they have permitted everything that has been asked since the days of Adam. They may per162

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haps have allowed it for the sake of quiet family. But when Lee came over the border, with his multitude of hungry vandals, and appealed to their patriotism, they declined. They liked their homes.87

The Baltimore Sun told of four men from Maryland who had fled to Richmond to find work only to return to Washington because “the cold shoulder has been turned towards the Marylanders in Richmond” due to the “coolness of ‘My Maryland’ towards the Confederacy.”88 Sallie Brock Putnam of Richmond wrote of a recently passed congressional bill that conscripted Marylanders into the Confederate Army, and though personally sympathetic to Maryland’s plight, she shared another parody that was anything but sympathetic to Marylanders living in Virginia: Conscribers’ heels are at thy door, Maryland! my Maryland! So off to Baltimore we’ll go. Maryland! my Maryland! We can’t stay here to meet the foe, We might get shot and killed, you know; But when we’re safe we’ll brag and blow, Maryland! my Maryland!

As Putnam’s account implied, “Maryland, My Maryland” still occupied a place in the Confederate struggle for independence even as Marylanders were being dismissed. The Philadelphia Inquirer gave a description of the entertainment scene in Richmond at the end of 1862, noting that one could still find concerts, minstrel shows, and dances. “Concert saloons of the lower order do not flourish,” the writer observed. “Sometimes, however, a concert troupe will make its appearance. To gain favor with the populace, ‘My Maryland’ and ‘The Bonnie Blue Flag’ must be sung.”89 It would appear that the song’s popularity was weathering the media storm better than the state’s citizens. For certain Confederate soldiers, however, the defeat at Antietam tarnished the once inspiring tune. In 1865 the Hartford Daily Courant recalled what happened to Randall and Cary’s song on September 17 near the town of Sharpsburg, Maryland: “From fall 1862

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that day dates the decline in popularity of the song ‘Maryland, My Maryland.’ It was very seldom sung afterwards in presence of soldiers from other States without provoking contemptuous comments.” A veteran reminiscing of the war for the New Orleans Times concurred: “I date from that invasion the decline in popularity of the before famous song of ‘Maryland, my Maryland.’ It required considerable nerve, thereafter, for a Marylander to attempt to sing that song before soldiers from other States, their invariable comment being, ‘d–­–­n her, she deserves to have the despot’s heel upon her shore.’”90 John S. Robson, a member of the Fifty-­Second Virginia Infantry, provided a remarkable summary of how the events in Maryland became inseparable from the song: We Rebels didn’t have many songs peculiarly our own. We had no “Yankee Doodle,” no “Star Spangled Banner” . . . like our blue-­backed friends over the way. We had our old stand-­by, “Dixie”—­good yet—­and “Bonnie Blue Flag,” but we had another—­“Maryland, My Maryland”—­which, up to this time, we had sung with a good deal of hope and vim, for this song asserted positively that, “She Breathes, She Burns, She’ll Come, She’ll Come,” etc., but it didn’t take “us generals” of the ranks very long to see that there was a mistake about it somewhere. “Some one had blundered,” for she didn’t “come” worth a cent; and the people of this portion of Maryland didn’t flock to the “Bonnie Blue” in defense of Southern rights quite as unanimously as we had been led to expect—­ according to the song.91

Though written after the war, Robson’s account reveals the complexity surrounding the song’s reception by including both personal and political ramifications in the lyric and in the song’s performance. In addition, Robson’s metonymic references to song titles and lyrics indicates the inalienable bond that had arisen between the war’s participants and the popular song. Finally, Robson’s account reveals that his notion of Maryland, as a state and as a referent of the song, remained localized and tangible, unlike the civilian perception that was growing increasingly abstract. 164

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Autumn 1862 saw the hopes for the Confederacy holding firm despite the defeat at Antietam. The Confederate nation appeared capable of sustaining itself politically and militarily though its existence as a nation was still somewhat precarious.92 Major decisions handed down from both Richmond and Washington changed the tenor of the conflict, and significant modifications were made in the command structures of both the Union and Confederate Armies. The preliminary Emancipation Proclamation of September 22 had brought abolition to the fore, and more and more slaves fled their masters with many seeking refuge in Washington dc.93 In the South, the Twenty Negro Law of October (which allowed exemption for one white male for every twenty slaves owned) likewise made slavery an even hotter political topic. In an effort to find some sort of aggression and a willingness to pursue the war to its fullest, President Lincoln replaced Don Carlos Buell with William Rosecrans as commander of the Army of the Cumberland, while Ambrose Burnside took over the Army of the Potomac. Confederates under Braxton Bragg and Edmund Kirby Smith pushed into eastern Kentucky, but as was the case with Lee in Maryland, the Confederates did not find the local support they had envisioned, and though successful at the costly Battle of Perryville, the Southerners eventually withdrew to Knoxville. Meanwhile Rebel forces in northern Mississippi tussled with Grant at Iuka in September without success; Generals Van Dorn and Price went after Rosecrans at Corinth but failed to dislodge the Union Army. These battles were fiercely contended and left disheartening casualties, but none were viewed as signal victories for either side. In the East Burnside, newly appointed a major general, felt a great deal of pressure from Washington and set out to prove his merits with a move toward Richmond; unfortunately, he ran into Lee and the Army of Northern Virginia well entrenched at Fredericksburg. From December 11 to 15 the Confederate troops were able to fend off repeated desperate and ill-­conceived attacks that resulted in horrendous losses for the soldiers in blue. Burnside finally called off the assault, leaving the Union with another bloody loss on Virginia soil. For much of the battle fall 1862

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Marylanders once again were pitted against each other, as Batteries A and B, Maryland Light Artillery (usa), and the Chesapeake Artillery and the First Maryland Battery (csa) blasted away at each other across the Rappahannock River.94 “The crisis is on us,” wailed “Senex” in an article for the Raleigh Weekly Standard with the ominous title of “God and Our Country.” “Never before had we so much either to fear or to hope,” he continued, offering up a true Christian faith as the basis for Southern patriotism: Now is the time for every Southern man to stretch every nerve, for every soldier “to do or die,” for every patriot to pour forth of his abundance—­Great or small—­according to what he hath, into the treasury of the Confederacy; for every father, brother, son—­every mother, sister, wife, to cry mightily to the “God of battles,” who is a “shield and buckler to them that hear Him,” and “delivereth them that put their trust in Him.” If God be for us, we need not fear, though countless hosts be encamped against us.95

For “Senex,” patriotism was no longer grounded in state pride, or the preservation of a lifestyle, or even the defense of certain liberties. Patriotism was now shifting toward civil religion, expanding to encompass larger populations and redirecting loyalty and motivation toward a higher source. “From the start this had been a political war that proceeded not from moral cause to military consequence, but rather from military offensives to unquestioned moral validation on both sides,” wrote historian Harry Stout. “Once the sequence was established, it did not matter how horrendous the slaughters might rise; like forward-­moving troops and John Brown’s soul, the rhetoric marched on.”96 This shift in patriotic focus from localized and specific targets to broader and inclusive ambiguities would have a major impact on “Maryland, My Maryland” and other patriotic symbols of the time. By Christmas of 1862 there was little cause for “Maryland, My Maryland” to move up in the pantheon of Confederate anthems. Indeed, the story of Randall and Cary’s song could have ended with Lee’s retreat back across the Potomac. The 166

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failure of Maryland to secede and the loss of a major battle on its soil could have easily pushed the song out of the Confederacy’s repertory. This was not the case, however. The song’s candidacy for national anthem may have stalled, but the piece had already established a hold in popular culture. Once heard, the song could not simply be forgotten, so “Maryland, My Maryland” would remain in the public’s ears despite any attempts to be rid of it. In addition—­and perhaps more importantly—­ Randall and Cary’s song was revealing an uncanny ability to transform to suit its situation. In fact, it was surreptitiously separating itself from its namesake. The state’s reputation might be declining, but the song was still enjoyed as a piece of music, and listeners were unwilling to give up a piece they liked. It remained to be seen how military and political events of the following year might once again influence the meaning of the song and in what directions the relationship between “Maryland, My Maryland” and its audiences would evolve.

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Spring 1863 pow s,

Civilians, and Military Patriotism

On Thursday, January 1, 1863, a large group of soldiers and civilians gathered in Beaufort, South Carolina, to watch a regiment proudly receive its colors. A prayer began the ceremony, followed by a reading of Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation. Then the flag was presented to the regiment’s colonel, Thomas Wentworth Higginson. As Higginson held up the flag, the ceremony was interrupted by a voice breaking out in song, a gesture “so simple, so touching, so utterly unexpected and startling,” Higginson recalled. Beginning with one voice, but quickly joined by others, both men and women began to sing “My Country, ’Tis of Thee.” While not normally attached to New Year’s celebration or the presentation of a unit’s colors, this performance was eminently suitable as this audience—­consisting mostly of African Americans—­was observing the first day when the president’s proclamation made their hopes a reality. “Just think of it!—­the first day they ever had a country, the first flag they had ever seen which promised anything to their people,” exclaimed the stunned officer. After the song Higginson managed to gather his wits and finish what now seemed to him an inconsequential speech, as “the life of the whole day was in those unknown people’s song.”1 For those craving freedom and the chance to pursue new lives as citizens of the United States, “My Country, ’Tis of Thee” brought special significance to the celebration of patriotism, resurrecting the Founders’ notion of liberty and the pursuit of happiness. As Robert E. Bonner observed, however, the singing of a national anthem by those normally associated with slave songs or the minstrel stage would be “jarring” if not frightening to a white audience.2 For better or for worse—­and there were

19. Members of the First South Carolina Volunteers proudly receive their colors and celebrate the Emancipation Proclamation in Beaufort. A regimental band is shown adding a musical flair to the patriotic festivities. Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper, January 24, 1863.

plenty who opposed it—­patriotic commitment in the North now included the abolition of slavery. The same day that the First South Carolina Volunteers (usa) received its flags, William Moffett of Baltimore was feeling a little homesick. A member of the Baltimore Battery, Light Artillery, he was stationed on Maryland Heights overlooking Harpers Ferry with a view of his beloved state just across the Potomac. “I hope I am not too late to wish you all a happy New Year,” he wrote his father. “I seen the Old Year out & the New Year in as usual but under different circumstances.” In this case, “as usual” involved music for the avid musician. It was not “Maryland, My Maryland” or another patriotic tune that provided comfort, however; it was the church music Moffett had performed before joining the army: “I was standing guard this New Years Eve & not being able to make myself heard on the bells I supplied the descant by humming & whistling the old tunes I formerly played.”3 spring 1863

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There was no patriotic music to usher in the New Year for Moffett, no rousing “Battle Cry of Freedom” or righteous “Kingdom Coming.” For Moffett and others like him, their choice of music reflected their view of the war, which was comparatively sheltered if not naïve. Moffett had enlisted in August 1862, and during his short service he had seen no combat; indeed, he had ventured no further from his home state than Harpers Ferry. Short rations, poor shelter, and combat had yet to influence the young man’s view of his country and the war in which he was now an active participant. As a result, Moffett’s patriotism held little of the rancor or exuberance of so many others in 1863. Instead, his account is guided by his admittedly quirky sense of humor. For example, Moffett teasingly wrote his father concerning his cousin Mary’s arrival in his hometown of Baltimore: “Tell her I think it hard she did not come while I was a citizen but had to wait until I became a soldier.” His facetious complaint, with its lighthearted view of patriotism, provides a peculiar antidote to firebrands from both sides. “Ask cousin Mary what has become of that Young Lady who does not hold communication with strange young gentlemen,” he continued. “I was a school boy then but now I am a veteran soldier leaving home and friends to fight for the land of the free and the home of the brave (don’t you think that is a small effort to be patriotic).” It is as if Moffett’s view of war—­and any patriotic drive behind it—­is a source of amusement and that war is almost a game he is playing at. “I look quite patriotic sitting in the tent writing this letter,” he explained. “I have on a pair of Government slippers which we call ‘Gun boats.’ They are shoes large enough for a Canal Boat together with the woolen stockings we wear they make one look as ‘Dutch as Saur Kraut.’”4 Moffett was lucky to have a period of calm in which to celebrate the New Year and write droll letters. Elsewhere in the country things remained tense. In central Virginia, both Union and Confederate troops were still reeling from the chaos of Burnside’s failed attack on Lee’s army at Fredericksburg. Operations in North Carolina were put on hold after Union forces under Gen. John G. Foster destroyed important rail lines and bridges during the Goldsboro Expedition in December. Out 170

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west, Gen. John McClernand overwhelmed Confederate forces at Fort Hindeman, Arkansas, on January 11, while the rest of the Union’s Army of Tennessee continued to maneuver for advantage around Vicksburg. For the Confederate press, the most notable event was the retaking of Galveston on January 1. The colorful and somewhat unpredictable Maj. Gen. John B. Magruder led a force of two “cotton clads”—­gunboats with cotton bales stacked on deck for protection—­and a small force of soldiers from Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona against six Union gunboats and three companies from Massachusetts. Both Confederate ships were quickly crippled, but one Union gunboat was successfully boarded while another ran aground and was scuttled by her captain. The remaining Union ships retreated from the harbor, leaving the isolated Union troops to surrender to the delighted Confederates. All told, the South could feel relatively optimistic. “The Southern nation had endured, indeed prevailed, for two campaigning seasons without the loss of truly critical land or battles,” observed historian Emory Thomas. “And even though the war went on, Confederate prospects in 1863 looked far more hopeful than they had in 1862.”5 Southerners were well aware of the challenges they faced and the fragility of their situation, but there remained a belief that they could still emerge victorious. The definition of victory, however, had changed since the Confederate Congress first laid out their cause in Montgomery. Many now realized that survival was in itself a form of victory; the longer the Confederacy remained an intact geopolitical entity, the more likely they were to gain recognition from overseas, a key factor in attaining sovereignty and independence from the North.6 “Maryland, My Maryland” and Patriotism in Prison The Southern press may have enjoyed reporting Magruder’s surprising victory in Texas, but they had difficulty relaying what had happened in the small town of Murfreesboro, Tennessee, on New Year’s Eve. Here both sides experienced some of the worst fighting of the entire war, when William Rosecrans’s Army of the Cumberland fought off repeated attacks by Braxspring 1863

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ton Bragg’s Army of Tennessee along the normally placid banks of Stones River. Fighting on a holiday colored the emotional atmosphere surrounding the battle, enough so that it was a parlor ballad, not a patriotic song, which filled the air in Tennessee. On the evening of December 30, while troops sat waiting for the slaughter sure to come, a Union band struck up the song “Home, Sweet Home.” Other bands took up the melancholy refrain, and soldiers from both sides joined their voices in a swelling chorus.7 Curtis Burke, a private with the Fourteenth Kentucky Cavalry (csa), was captured on January 11, 1863, following the Confederate defeat at the Battle of Stones River. He and his fellow prisoners repeatedly sang to keep their spirits from sagging and sometimes offered to entertain their guards with a performance. The pows were eventually transferred to Ft. McHenry, Maryland. Burke recalled that “some” of the prisoners sang “Maryland, My Maryland” as their train crossed over into the state. While he noted that the “boys were all in a jolly mood,” it is curious that only “some” of the men sang Randall and Cary’s song; earlier he used the pronoun “we” when the pows sang “The Potomac” (probably the song “The Confederate Flag: Red, White & Blue,” to the tune of “The Bonnie Blue Flag”). Perhaps the men from Kentucky and other western states felt little attachment to the anthem of an eastern, non-­Confederate state, whereas the lyrics to “The Potomac” had been penned by a Georgia soldier. Certainly Burke had more attachment to his Kentucky comrades and their escapades in Tennessee and Georgia than with the distant state of Maryland. Upon returning to his company after being paroled, Burke admitted that “it felt like home,” and a short while later the men celebrated their camaraderie by singing “My Old Kentucky Home.”8 Regional loyalty still guided many soldiers’ musical preferences. Throughout the war pows drew upon music to dispel the gloom of their captivity and to remind them of the homes to which they hoped to return. According to Marylander Frederick W. Wild, a prisoner at Richmond’s Libby Prison, “One cannot express the feeling which these songs awakened, and how they cheered the down hearted, unless he had experienced such 172

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surrounding.”9 Sentimental ballads proved the most enduring source of sustenance for the prisoners, though patriotic music appeared with some regularity. On January 31, 1863, civilian James J. Williamson of Baltimore was arrested for suspicious activities in Richmond and for failing to take the Oath of Allegiance. He was immediately taken to Old Capitol Prison in Washington dc, where he remained for the next two months. He documented some of the songs favored by the prisoners, including the historical “Song of Marion’s Men” (William Cullen Bryant’s poem celebrating the Revolutionary War hero Francis Marion), the bipartisan “Soldier’s Funeral,” the Southern “Homespun Dress,” and some songs written by the prisoners themselves.10 As for patriotic tunes, Williamson named “Maryland, My Maryland,” “Dixie,” and “The Bonnie Blue Flag” as the most common. A pow from Alabama supported this, claiming that one young officer sat at the window to his cell in Baltimore and sang “Maryland, My Maryland” to passersby on the street.11 Williamson also noted that Randall and Cary’s song held a special place in the Old Capitol Prison due to one special performer, the notorious spy Belle Boyd. He recounted a prisoner’s response to hearing “Maryland, My Maryland” sung by the prisoners one day: You boys sing that well, but I’ve heard “My Maryland” sung here in the old building in a way that would make you feel like jumping out of the window and swimming across the Potomac. When Belle Boyd was here I was on the same floor. She would sing that song as if her very soul was in every word she uttered. It used to bring a lump up in my throat every time I heard it. It seemed like my heart was ready to jump out—­as if I could put my finger down and touch it. I’ve seen men, when she was singing, walk off to one side and pull out their handkerchiefs and wipe their eyes, for fear some one would see them doing the baby act.

Williamson seconded his fellow’s passion for Boyd’s voice, claiming that even the prison guards missed her singing following her release. One guard told him “it made him feel sad to hear her sing,” even though she was singing Rebel songs.12 spring 1863

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Boyd herself fondly recalled her performances in prison. She had no doubt that “Maryland, My Maryland” had already attained the status of patriotic anthem and “must be regarded as the ‘Marseillaise’ of the South.” She also took umbrage at the Federal authorities’ handling of Confederate woman and their music, stating, “Many a patriotic lady of Baltimore has been arrested by Federal officers for singing the patriotic song of ‘Maryland.’”13 A vivacious debutante and vocal supporter of the Confederate cause, Belle Boyd had attended school in Maryland before returning to her hometown of Martinsburg, Virginia, at the outbreak of war. In the following months she gathered information on Union troop movements which she passed on to Southern officers, in some cases risking fire to hand-­carry messages to Confederate camps. An intercepted letter led to her arrest and incarceration in Old Capitol Prison. Dennis Mahony, founding editor of the Dubuque Herald, was a prisoner in Old Capitol (for publishing seditious materials) when Boyd arrived at the woeful building. Mahony, like the other inmates, was struck not just by the song’s lyrics and tune but by the unique nature of the performance: “The first intimation some of us new-­comers in the Old Capitol had of the fact of there being a lady in that place was the hearing of ‘Maryland, my Maryland,’ sung the first night of our incarceration, in what we could not be mistaken was a woman’s voice. . . . I heard her voice, my first night in prison, singing ‘Maryland, my Maryland,’ the first time I had ever heard the Southern song.” Mahony’s claim that this was the first time he had heard “Maryland, My Maryland” may be the result of poetic license, but it is possible that the song had little exposure in the mostly pro-­ Union frontier state of Iowa. Mahony continued his story, clearly enamored of the performer and performance more than the music being performed. “The words, stirring enough to Southern hearts, were enunciated by her with such peculiar expression as to touch even sensibilities which did not sympathize with the cause which inspired the song. It was difficult to listen unmoved to this lady, throwing her whole soul, as it were, into the expression of the sentiments of devotion to the South, defiance to the North, and affectionately confident appeals to 174

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20. The notorious Confederate spy Belle Boyd, posing in Mathew Brady’s Washington dc studio. Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division, lc bh 82 4864a.

Maryland, which form the burden of that celebrated song.” For Mahony, these performances reached a rare depth of expression through a combination of the performer’s passion and the audience’s attitude toward the singer. “The pathos of her voice,” he concluded, “her apparently forlorn condition, and, at those times when her soul seemed absorbed in the thoughts she was uttering in song, her melancholy manner affected all who heard her, not only with compassion for her, but with an interest in her which came near, on several occasions, bringing about a conflict between the prisoners and the guards.”14 The mythologizing of Boyd’s singing of “My Maryland” reveals the importance of performance in the construction of patriotic symbology as well as the success of certain patriotic songs. In this case it was not the lyric that was the primary factor exciting the prisoners (especially given that many of them were not from Maryland); it was not the tune alone that they found inspiring (though some may have had a fondness for it); it was this performance of “My Maryland,” by a lady (apparently with both a good voice and musical talent), singing in a prison, that made this a profound patriotic event. Upon leaving the prison, most of the inmates would hold “My Maryland” in high esteem, perpetuating its patriotic import because of the special place Boyd’s performances held in their memories. Union guards at the Old Capitol Prison may have been able to enjoy “Maryland, My Maryland” despite its Confederate proclivities, but the situation was different for Union pows. Captured after the Battle of Chancellorsville, Pvt. George Stover of the 123rd New York was a gifted singer and entertained both his fellow prisoners and the Rebel soldiers guarding the wounded men. He told stories and sang a variety of tunes at the behest of his jailors, but when asked to sing “Maryland, My Maryland” and “Dixie,” he staunchly refused. Instead he offered “Home, Sweet Home,” which brought tears to all those listening just as it had momentarily bonded the soldiers facing each other at Stones River.15 Obviously Stover was unwilling to accept Maryland’s anthem on purely musical terms; it remained a potent emblem of the Confederacy for the imprisoned singer. As Stover’s story shows, captive performances of Randall and 176

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Cary’s song were not limited to prisons around Baltimore and Washington. John McElroy of Illinois listed “Maryland, My Maryland” as one of the most heard songs while he was imprisoned at Andersonville, though in this case it was guards, not the prisoners, who were the performers. “We heard these songs with tiresome iteration, daily and nightly,” McElroy grumbled, “to this day the remembrance of those soul-­lacerating lyrics abides with me as one of the chief of the minor torments of our situation. They were, in fact, nearly as bad as the lice.” He boasted that the prisoners took what revenge they could by singing “wicked, obscene and insulting” parodies back at the guards.16 For Confederate pows from Maryland, the imagined referent portrayed in Randall and Cary’s song grew even more substantial as memories of their beloved state were all that they had to sustain them in captivity. “We are pleased to be once more on the soil of my Maryland,” wrote Capt. James Anderson of Montgomery County, captured near Harpers Ferry in 1862 and recently relocated to the Union camp at Pt. Lookout, Maryland. In a subsequent letter his metaphoric geography expanded to include Dan Emmett’s constructed locale even as he rehashed specific tropes from Randall’s poem that allowed Maryland to retain an independent identity: “If you were to believe the Yankee accounts, you would think that our armies had all deserted, and that Dixie had grown ‘small by degrees and beautifully less,’ until there is very little of it left. Poor Maryland is sadly changed from what it was when I left it last August a year ago, and she seems doomed to feel the despot’s heel indefinitely.” Patriotic songs were not the only music on Anderson’s mind. After expressing his frustration that his young sister had not written to him recently, Anderson added a plaintive request: “Tell her, also, to get a song called ‘Rock Me to Sleep, Mother,’ and learn to sing it and play it for my sake. It is one of my favorite songs.”17 Civilians and Remote Patriotism From the parade ground to picket duty, from the prison cell to the parlor, context as much as content was shaping the interpretation of patriotic music and the performed—­or heard—­ spring 1863

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message in a song like “Maryland, My Maryland.” In its short life it had insinuated itself deeply into the everyday culture of Marylanders in particular, Southerners in general, and Unionists whether they wanted it or not. It seemed at times that the further one was from Maryland, the easier it was to accept the song. Julia LeGrand, a native Marylander whose family had relocated to Louisiana, told her journal about reading an article by Oliver Wendell Holmes in which he described Maryland as a state loyal to the Union. LeGrand adamantly rejected his claim: “This I know is false, or why have Maryland soldiers crossed the blue, peaceful Potomac to share the fortunes of their Southern brothers!” A few days later she revisited these thoughts after hearing a firsthand account of the troubled political situation from an acquaintance living in Baltimore. LeGrand remained tenaciously loyal to her state, but her comprehensive patriotism had begun to fragment: I, too, am distressed about Maryland’s position. I would not have believed once that the dear old State would have stood calm when the South was trampled on. However, many of her sons have left all to fight for a cause which their State has not adopted. They are noble fellows and will be exiles henceforth. God help this ruined land. I would rather that Maryland should help to form a new Confederacy than to remain a dishonored member of this one. There will, I expect, eventually be formed three Confederacies, if not now. New England should remain alone.

The strains of Randall’s lyrics eventually entered her monologue, leading her to admit that Maryland was “wrong” for not joining the Confederacy and somewhat deserving of the affronts bandied about Southern parlors. Yet the resulting distrust exhibited by those states slowly gave way to a different perspective: “She has been much sympathized with and pitied, and ‘Maryland, my Maryland’ has been sung with real and earnest pathos by thousands of Southern lips. They thought she was true, that she would come with us some day when her chains were taken off.” LeGrand saw the battle of Antietam as a turning point, the brief moment when Maryland had a chance to break from 178

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the Union. But this was not to be: “I wish Lee had never gone to Maryland. It was pleasant to dream of her relief in my own way.” At this point LeGrand’s rhetoric uncovers a notion that helps to explain the ironic yet enduring popularity of “Maryland, My Maryland”: “Now that she is the battle field, bleeding, dismantled and torn, she is loved.” By shifting from a beacon of Southern nobility to a symbol of gallant suffering, Maryland remained useful to Confederate propaganda.18 In LeGrand’s mind the song had become the place. Randall and Cary’s musical depiction of the beleaguered state became as much a reality as her memories might recall. This musical representation-­as-­surrogate was not uncommon; the place described by the song was immediate and encountered repeatedly by the listener, while the state remained distant and impersonal. The more familiar the song, the more concretized its realization of place became in the listener’s mind. For Sgt. Charles Kruse of Ohio, reality did not live up to expectations. He wrote to his parents from Nashville: “Well, I have sung the song of Dixie and now I have got here, I do not like this place very well.”19 On a lighter note, Julius Seidel, a musician with the Forty-­First Ohio Infantry, was captured by members of Morgan’s Rangers near Nashville in March 1863. As the group rode to their camp, one of his captors asked Seidel of his military duties, and Seidel replied that he was a musician. The Confederate soldier immediately asked if Seidel could play “Dixie,” to which the German-­born musician replied: “I am at home on Dixie,” an answer that the cavalrymen found quite amusing.20 Humor aside, it is telling that Seidel used his affinity for the song and the place-­specific word “home” to placate his captors. Yet there was a difference in the descriptions offered by the soldier Seidel and the civilian LeGrand based on their involvement with the locations to which they were referring. Seidel had “seen the elephant,” and for him battlefields and the zones of war were visceral locales defined by the experience of fatigue, hunger, ghastly wounds, and death. This was not the case for the civilian exile. Most civilians were suffering from the war to some degree, but what they faced was far removed from the actual experience. They lost fathers, brothers, sons, and husspring 1863

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bands; they saw the wounded who lay in hospitals, but they could not know the suffering in the field and the horrors of the battlefield. Poems, drawings, and music conveyed images from these settings but with an aesthetic buffer. This imaginary proximity allowed civilians a safe, vicarious glimpse of the soldier’s reality without having to experience the tragedy themselves.21 LeGrand’s sanguinary description of Maryland as “bleeding, dismantled and torn” echoed the violence of the battlefield but remained a sentimentalized component of her chivalric elegy. Her place was in fact more real in its poetic form than in its physical manifestation. Patriotic songs had no trouble celebrating the horrors of war in an effort to increase their impact (and improve their sales). The sanitized version of warfare that had contributed to the start of hostilities lingered in the minds of many despite the increasing death toll, though by this point it was mostly civilians who swallowed the performative glories of war. “I suppose it would be considerable of a sight for the folks at home to see one of these reviews,” wrote New Yorker Artemus Harrington of a military parade held at Stafford Court House, “a field covered with soldiers all up in line and passing around in review. It looks splendid I tell you.”22 With such glittering images to sustain a civilian populace, popular songs allowed for an imaginative reconstruction of what war entailed. The death and injuries could not be ignored, but they could be reframed with a patina of nobility. This worked well for those who still sought to encourage the fighting spirit, such as one writer with the Southern Illustrated News: “Battles fought without the spirit which should animate the soldier, solely upon the principle that ‘the strongest will win the victory,’ is but a ghastly mockery, such as wild beasts may fight, or savages throwing their lives upon the die give to their grinning god of battle.”23 Such words were easy when written from the comforts of home, but following the bloodbaths at Stones River and Antietam they seemed anemic encouragement at best. Set to a rousing tune, however, such attitudes proved attractive to civilians and served as tangible vehicles for patriotic expression. While “Maryland, My Maryland” was undergoing interpre180

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tive reformation by Southerners, Northern civilians had no difficulty treating “Maryland, My Maryland” as a straightforward emblem of Confederate patriotism. In January 1863 a letter purportedly from a Rebel agent claimed that Baltimore was swarming with Union “detectives” “who watch and listen about hall doors, by night and day, to see who goes in or out, and in whose houses the girls sing ‘My Maryland.’”24 The Washington Evening Star staff were suspicious of a concert announcement they had read based on the repertoire performed. “The secesh song of ‘My Maryland’ is sung at ‘Canterbury Hall’ and ‘The Varieties,’” wrote the editors. “This is a mistake, we imagine. Neither managers or audiences (largely military) are of that ‘persuasion,’ we take it.”25 Similar occurrences could be found in midwestern states as well. Union guards were passing by a house in Louisville, Kentucky, when they heard the sounds of a party in progress. Among the songs they heard were “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” “Dixie,” and “Maryland, My Maryland.” The soldiers informed their commanding officer, and a few days later he searched the house and found an autograph book filled with the signatures of Confederate generals as well as a rebel flag. The officer confiscated the materials and stationed pickets outside the house.26 Whether real or idealized, the patriotism of “Maryland, My Maryland” and other anthems was still a force to be reckoned with Nation, State, and Military Patriotism By the beginning of 1863 the Confederate States of America had survived the hasty formation of a government, military mobilization, shortages from the blockade, and a struggling economy—­all factors that could have extinguished the new country. Unfortunately, things were not getting easier: inflation was becoming a real problem, new taxes frustrated already ill-­tempered citizens, diplomats had failed to gain support from Europe, and President Davis continued to clash with a congress still maneuvering for partisan or regional gains.27 Shaky in many respects, the Confederate state strove to gain the respect of its populace with diminishing success. The November elections resulted in what historian George Rable called “a crazy quilt of idiosynspring 1863

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cratic, almost apolitical contests conducted before a largely apathetic though sometimes angry electorate.”28 The Confederate nation, on the other hand, remained strong. Southerners held firmly to their cultural distinctiveness and celebrated the perceived superiority of their people and way of life. A number of inspired victories confirmed the superiority of the Southern warrior, and Confederate journalists and artists continued to distance themselves from the North even as they espoused patriotic sentiments. By June 1863 Confederate culture had established a credible body of artistic works that lent credence to hopes of a culturally distinctive and intellectually independent nation-­ state. For Emory Thomas, “In the minds of its citizens the Confederacy was more a nation in June of 1863 than ever before or after.”29 Michael Bernath concurred: “Between 1862 and 1864, the movement for Confederate cultural autonomy experienced its heyday, as southerners witnessed a dramatic expansion and remarkable diversification of native cultural productions.”30 It appeared as if the nation and the state were moving in opposite directions.31 At the start of the war the two worked hand in hand, but the failure of the state to remain healthy—­or to evolve—­led many Southerners to redirect their loyalty back to the nation. This could pose a problem for patriotic emblems. Anthems, flags, poems, and other symbols were created to support the state or to be used in such a way as to form an attachment between the state and the artifact. The potential of patriotic symbols was not in jeopardy, only the entity toward which they would be directed.32 Philosopher Simon Keller raised this difficulty when defining the pitfalls of patriotism. “Patriotism involves an endorsement of some aspect of your country that you take to be central, distinctive, and enduring. It then involves evaluative commitments. It involves a commitment to a certain picture of your country, according to which the country is, in some central, distinctive, and enduring respect, good. . . . A person who does not find anything good about her country may nevertheless be loyal to her country, in some ways, but she is not a patriot.”33 With a state that they found increasingly frustrating and a nation that had yet to gain permanence, Confederates in 1863 found a solution on the battlefield. 182

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At the start of the campaign season of 1863, Confederates could be optimistic about their military position. In March Confederate cavalry under Earl Van Dorn and Nathan Bedford Forrest were manhandling their Union counterparts in Tennessee, while on April 7 Confederates were holding off a force of ironclads and monitors in Charleston Harbor. Yet the eyes of the public were mostly focused on cities representing the three primary fronts; Vicksburg, Chattanooga, and Fredericksburg. Vicksburg, though quickly becoming surrounded by Grant’s forces, had yet to fall and so remained a symbol of Southern tenacity. In Tennessee, it was the Confederates who seemed to hold the upper hand, as Braxton Bragg occupied secure positions northwest of Chattanooga and Rosecrans seemed little inclined to move toward the vital city. In Virginia, command of the Army of the Potomac was given to Gen. Joseph Hooker, who brashly announced he would trounce Lee at his first opportunity. On May 1 he got that chance, and much to the delight of the South, Lee and Jackson turned that hubris back onto Hooker. At the Battle of Chancellorsville, the outmanned rebels moved fast and attacked, confusing the Union commanders and leading to yet another embarrassing defeat for the armies in blue. Marylander James J. Archer, commanding a brigade of Tennessee and Alabama regiments, was in the thick if it: “I lost in killed & wounded more than a fourth of my brigade but I am satisfied did enough harm to the enemy to compensate a much greater loss.”34 Maj. W. Duncan McKim, a Marylander serving on the staff of Confederate Gen. Isaac Trimble (also of Maryland), lost his life on the battlefield.35 The Third Maryland, the only Union Maryland infantry at the battle, were overwhelmed on the morning of May 3 and broke from their position, though they were by no means the only regiment to flee the battlefield.36 On the opposite side of the battlefield, Confederate Marylanders from Brown’s and Dement’s batteries joined artillerists from Georgia and Virginia to lay down a shower of deadly shells on Union troops at Fredericksburg before joining the rest of the Confederate Army at Chancellorsville.37 This Confederate success, heralded by many as Lee’s most brilliant victory to date, was tempered by the loss of one of spring 1863

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the Southern public’s most beloved commanders, Thomas J. “Stonewall” Jackson, shot by a Confederate soldier when he and his aides passed back through the lines after reconnoitering the battlefield. This was a blow the Confederacy could ill afford, not only in terms of Jackson’s combat ability but also in terms of the symbolism attached to Jackson and the role he played in the public veneration of the Army of Northern Virginia. Indeed, Jackson’s reputation was not limited to Southerners; a Union officer visited Jackson’s grave and sent to his wife a “sprig of grass from his grave, and a chip from the headboard” in honor of the man “everybody reverences as a brave, pious, and skillful man.”38 The artistic response to Jackson’s death was staggering. A plethora of songs and poems eulogized the officer who had started his career drilling recruits to the newly formed Confederate Army. This outpouring of artworks revealed more than Jackson’s popularity, however. Since the beginning of military operations the Confederacy had been in search of something to tie the undefined nation-­state together. The government in Richmond was suspect to many Southern citizens, and the nation per se was still too young and undefined to retain patriotic loyalty in and of itself. It was in the escapades of their military stars that Confederates found something they could believe in, something that offered proof that they were a true community and a sovereign nation. So the officers and the armies they led became focal points for patriotic loyalty.39 The impact of these new symbols could be seen in the changing attitudes toward another primary symbol, the Confederacy’s national flag. The Stars and Bars had served ably since 1861, but by 1863 calls for a new flag led to new designs, all of which featured the Confederate battle flag made famous by the Army of Northern Virginia. The “Southern Cross” had, according to Ian Binnington, “consolidated Confederate symbolism on a basis of martial religiosity.”40 Such was the power of this new symbology that even military losses could be turned to serve the needs of patriotism. The poetic and musical deification of the Confederate military reinforced this attitude and in turn strengthened the role of the arts in focusing patriotism. The Confederate States of 184

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21. One of the most remarkable artistic commemorations of Jackson’s death was “Stonewall Jackson’s Last Words,” an 1866 song by Jules Meininger. The extravagant cover was printed landscape for full effect, and the lyric offered a fanciful expansion of Jackson’s dying words: “‘Let us cross over the river and rest us under the trees.” Library of Congress, Rare Book and Special Collection Division, m1642. m.

America had been born in war, and war had shaped its political and cultural identity; historian Sarah Ruben went so far as to claim that “the Confederacy had no real existence apart from war.”41 If a society defines itself by war, then the trappings of war—­including patriotic anthems as well as military leaders—­ gain in significance. The undeniable talents of many Confederate generals and their often brilliant victories against larger forces provided new topics for songs and poems, while the stoicism of poorly supplied Southern soldiers was a sentimental foundation upon which art and propaganda could build.42 So the newly birthed Confederate state was achieving some semblance of legitimacy and materiality due in no small part to the victories of its military leaders, particularly Robert E. Lee. On the other hand, perceptions of the war, just like the spring 1863

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nation-­state, could still be limited to those immediate areas in which a soldier or civilian was occupied. Consider what Union Pvt. Henry W. Mason of the Twenty-­Fourth Wisconsin wrote to his sister from Murfreesboro, Tennessee, concerning his regiment’s activities in March and April 1863. “Deserters and Conscripts say the rebel army is on half rations and they cannot get half enough forage to feed their teams,” he explained to her. “If we can believe their stories the rebellion is nearly crushed. Our army is in better spirits than before.”43 This observation was made shortly after Confederates repulsed Federal cavalry along the Rappahannock River at the Battle of Kelly’s Ford and only a few weeks before the Union loss at the Battle of Chancellorsville. Mason’s optimism seems motivated more by Grant and Sherman’s actions around Vicksburg than by anything happening in Virginia. Regionalism remained a lens through which the war was judged, even after two years of fighting. Such viewpoints were slow to change, but they did eventually begin to shift as the war progressed and grand strategy became increasingly important to both sides. Lt. Rufus Cater, encamped in Jackson, Mississippi, with the rest of the Nineteenth Louisiana Infantry (csa), was expanding his sense of the military community to encompass those fighting in distant locations. “The last news from Virginia augments the great numbers of fallen braves,” he told his cousin Fanny. “Louisiana mourns her heroes whose bones mingle with the soil of every Confederate state.”44 Emor Young of Rhode Island glimpsed the grand strategy that Ulysses S. Grant would implement later in the year: “The papers seem to speak favorable of the capture of Vixburg. This must fall so will Richmond Savannah Mobile and Charleston.”45 Such broader visions did not replace local concerns, so nationalism and regionalism still had to coexist in an uneasy alliance. Music continued to support both regional pride and national unity. While recognized anthems such as “God Save the South” and “Dixie” continued to serve the Confederacy as a whole, and “Maryland, My Maryland” had beguiled Southerners despite its geographic specificity, other pieces were directed toward smaller communities. When Susan Dixon wrote to her brother 186

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in November 1863, she included lyrics to a couple of songs (such as “The Fireside Rangers of Clarksville, Tennessee,” “Song of the South,” and a song about John Hunt Morgan) that displayed a regional bias or celebrated western heroes of the Confederacy.46 Leading composer-­publisher George Root released a new Union song in 1863, “Who’ll Save the Left?” that detailed the performance of one regiment at the Battle of Murfreesboro. The song’s dedication read: “To perpetuate the glory of the brave men of the 19th Illinois and their companions in arms who fell at Murfreesboro.”47 Root, composer of some of the North’s biggest hits, clearly felt no hesitation in producing a piece that targeted a small local audience. “Who’ll Save the Left?” achieved only modest success in homes throughout the rest of the country. In March a correspondent for the Weekly Patriot and Union of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, complained about the lack of quality Union music, claiming that Northerners “have seen none of ours yet that equal ‘Maryland, My Maryland!’ ‘Stonewall Jackson’s Way,’ ‘Bonnie Blue Flag,’ and others, the names of which we have forgotten.”48 High praise indeed for Randall and Cary’s accidental anthem, yet there were indications that the audience for “Maryland, My Maryland” was growing recalcitrant. The diminishing respect for Marylanders and the still questionable political status of the state meant that those outside of Maryland’s borders would find less and less connection to the impassioned and sympathetic rhetoric of Randall’s verses. On the other hand, the South desperately needed sustainable, popular artifacts to validate its cultural legitimacy, and “Maryland, My Maryland” had already carved out a place in the Southern psyche.49 For now “Maryland, My Maryland” managed to hold a tenuous place in the hearts and minds of Confederates.

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nine

Summer 1863 Gettysburg, Slavery, and the Patriotism of Sacrifice

Confusion and concern as to what the Army of Northern Virginia would do once again tormented Maryland following the cavalry fight at Brandy Station (June 9) and the Confederate victory at the Second Battle of Winchester (June 13–­15). The Battle of Brandy Station was the largest cavalry engagement of the war and included the First Maryland (usa), and though neither side could claim a tactical victory, the battle revealed that Confederate cavalry no longer held an advantage over their Union counterparts, a moral victory for Unionists. The battles a week later were less favorable for the North; in three days of fighting around Winchester, Virginia, Confederate Lt. Gen. Richard S. Ewell drove Union Maj. Gen. Robert H. Milroy out of the Shenandoah Valley and opened a path for Lee’s forces to move unopposed into Maryland. Many believed that support for the Confederacy in Maryland was no longer an issue. “Suffice it to say, that the secesh of ‘My Maryland’ don’t see at this date that their redemption is at hand,” the New York Herald confidently proclaimed on June 19. The next day, West Virginia became the thirty-­fifth state in the Union, literally and symbolically moving Maryland deeper into the Union. However, when Lee’s army started moving toward Pennsylvania, Gen. Robert C. Schenck, commander of the Union forces in Maryland, implemented martial law and did not remove it until after the elections in November. Southern sympathizers suffered for sure, but the strictness of measures did little to encourage affection from Unionists.1 For some Marylanders, the Southern cause remained a hot topic, and “Maryland, My Maryland” continued to evoke deep emotions. A letter recounting a visit to southern Maryland in

January told of a Confederate Marylander whose “eyes filled up” upon hearing children singing “Maryland, My Maryland.”2 For others, however, patriotic fervor for the Confederacy was waning. Baltimore lawyer Daniel Thomas, who had written fiery epistles to his sister full of passion for the Confederate cause, now turned his efforts to legal cases such as women accused of aiding deserters. He remained optimistic regarding military affairs. “The Southern armies are said to be in splendid condition,” he surmised, “and when military operations do commence ‘somebody will be hurt’ to a certainty.”3 Gone, however, was the effusive and violent rhetoric that had dominated his earlier letters. While still a patriot, Thomas was now more moderate in his outlook. Rebecca Davis of Brookeville, Maryland, also remained supportive of the Confederacy, but there were times when she seemed morally burdened by the events around her. “No dawning of a brighter day, all seems dark and I fear we are not yet sufficiently scourged for our wickednesses,” she would write after hearing of the end of the fall campaign in Virginia and the start of winter quarters. Six months later, after recovering from a debilitating illness, Rebecca managed to put her suffering in perspective: “Yet I had much to be grateful for, twas but a light affliction in comparison with what thousands of my fellow creatures were suffering.”4 But loyalty to Maryland, even an ethnocentric view of the state’s superiority, remained for much of the state’s population whether they were Unionists or Confederates. When describing the recent death of a comrade, James Gillette of the Third Maryland (usa) honored the fallen soldier by describing him as “a Marylander & as true a gentleman as ever stepped.”5 Military events in the East during the first half of 1863 did little to clarify the status of Marylanders or to strengthen the nationalistic potential of “Maryland, My Maryland.” This was true for Northern loyalists in the state as well as those who supported the Confederate cause. Politicians in Washington continued to tinker with legislation that sought to restrict or at least control trade to the South, since smuggling across the Potomac (and elsewhere) had grown increasingly lucrative. There was summer 1863

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an astonishing amount of trade between the purported enemies despite protestations from the military, who were quick to point out that this simply sustained the Confederate capacity for armed resistance. Patriotic commitment in the North faced an additional challenge on April 16 when Congress passed legislation that permitted the conscription of troops. The new bill affected those congressional districts that did not meet recruiting quotas, which led some states to start offering bounties for enlisting. More troubling for some, the new legislation allowed for drafted men to avoid serving by paying $300 or by supplying an able substitute in their place. While politicians and journalists filled the air with vitriolic rhetoric that excoriated their own governments even as they vilified the enemy, Maryland civilians continued to enjoy more wholesome sounds in homes, theaters, and churches. Concert artists such as soprano Adelina Patti, violinist Ole Bull, and pianist Louis Moreau Gottschalk stopped in Baltimore, and while not all parts of the state were able to host such fancy performances, civilian music of all types could be found throughout urban and rural Maryland despite the presence of troops and the social turmoil they generated.6 On May 13, just one week after the Union loss at Chancellorsville, one well-­to-­do family near Towson hosted “a grand entertainment” with more than two hundred in attendance. According to one witness: “It was a beautiful sight. The large room finely lighted and so many young and beautiful women gaily dressed, the music and dancing lending a peculiar grace to the scene.”7 No mention is made as to what music was performed, no “Maryland, My Maryland” or “Bonnie Blue Flag” for what was most likely a pro-­Confederate audience. It is likely that the musicians performed quadrilles, waltzes, and reels to keep the elegant belles and their gallant partners busy on the dance floor. The avoidance of patriotic music could be therapeutic in this setting by allowing the dancers to pretend that there was no war tearing their state apart. Yet this was a luxury not available to many; the working classes could ill afford the time or expense of such lavish entertainments, whereas soldiers in the field could only dream of leaving their martial environment. 190

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There were other songs heard in homes throughout Maryland in performances that actively sought to counterbalance the anxiety and hostility that “Maryland, My Maryland” and other patriotic pieces provoked. In the spring of 1863, a number of young adults from the area around Rockville, Maryland, attended a “singing circle” despite the fact that many held opposing views of the war. Twenty-­two-­year-­old lawyer Richard Williams described the potentially tense situation: “Since the commencement of the national troubles many old friends and associates had by political differences of opinion become estranged and separated from each other . . . and this entertainment attended as it was by many persons of both political parties, was a kind of reunion of the harmony and friendship that existed before the war.” Music that spoke of anything other than war, especially sacred music, remained a central means of bonding and an irreplaceable remedy for this small community torn apart by the war. Williams was particularly sensitive to the political divisions, as he was loyal to the Union, while his young fiancée’s relatives were “most violent and strenuous” in their Southern inclinations.8 Beyond its borders the status of anything related to Maryland was unstable as well. Maryland’s contested attachment to the Union continued to have a negative impact on Southerners’ views of Marylanders and their dedication to the Confederate cause. In June 1862 Frances Ann Holladay of Virginia had expressed her belief that if Stonewall Jackson moved into Maryland, and if pro-­Southern Marylanders rose in opposition, then Washington would have been threatened and Federal troops in Virginia recalled to defend the capital. By 1863 her impression of Maryland’s value and orientation had changed, when she wrote of an acquaintance with Southern proclivities who had “escaped” from Maryland to avoid persecution.9 Maryland was becoming less a captive sister and more a prison for Southern loyalists. Others were much less generous in their attitudes toward Marylanders. John B. Jones, an acerbic war clerk in the Confederate War Department, blamed the recent bread riots in Richmond on “crowds of women, Marylanders, and foreignsummer 1863

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ers.”10 Jones’s lumping of Marylanders together with those for whom he obviously held little respect was largely due to the influx of refugees that Richmond had suffered since the firing on Ft. Sumter. Even as the Confederate nation and state were seeking to minimize intersectional tensions, the appearance of large numbers of out-­of-­staters, who taxed already diminished resources, led those like Jones to feel little sympathy for the dispossessed.11 Catherine Edmondston of North Carolina had run out of patience with the wayward state: “No news from Maryland, she being so crushed by the ‘despot’s heel’ that she exhibits no feeling whatever.”12 Even pro-­Southern Marylanders were getting fed up. “The people of Maryland, who did not join the Southern Army, were southern as long as they thought their interests lay with the South,” wrote journalist William W. Glenn. “When their fortunes were in danger they were ready to abandon the cause.”13 Such factors increased the South’s misgivings toward the “peerless chivalry” of which Randall had written and the loyalty of Maryland in general. A writer for the Richmond Examiner compared the plight of Missouri to that of Maryland and found Maryland wanting. “What a contrast her long suffering and heroic deeds furnish to those of ‘My Maryland,’ whose soil has been almost untouched by the ravages of war and whose people have come among us only to get our offices and make money off us, and fill our streets with that nefarious class known as ‘blockade runners.’”14 The same was being said of Confederate soldiers from Maryland. William White of the Third Richmond Howitzers was sent to round up two men who were awol from his unit. He learned that they had encountered a “hard party of Marylanders and had been severely handled.” These Marylanders had stolen some liquor, then set about insulting ladies, beating up other soldiers, and even shooting at civilians. White was mortified by what he saw: “It is a burning shame that some of our men are so lost to all decency and good order as to act in such a manner, and in many cases, I am sorry to say the offenders come from ‘My Maryland.’”15 Randall’s lyrical portrayal of Marylanders as nobly sacrificing for the cause was increasingly suspect in the Union as well. 192

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Northerners were now questioning the face of chivalry that the Confederacy had been marketing since before the war. The portrayed ‘national’ character of Southerners came under increasing mockery as the war progressed. Lt. James Love of the Eighth Kansas Infantry offered a scornful description of his opponents. “Once the boasted Chivalry of King Cotton, worshipped of all the Earth—­now the most lousy ragged hungrey set of demons you ever imagined,” he wrote his fiancée, “& none so poor as do them reverence except for their national heirloom—­Anglo Saxon pluck & endurance—­base yet brave sons of noble sires.” Love, an Irish immigrant who also lived in Australia for a time, managed to combine both class and national biases in his rejection of highbrow Southern culture.16 The Gettysburg Campaign In July 1863 Lee once again moved the Army of Northern Virginia north for what would result in the Battle of Gettysburg. A successful strike into Pennsylvania would threaten Washington dc, force the Union government to recall troops from other theaters of war, and allow the Confederate Army to collect much needed supplies. Of course, a major victory anywhere in the North would bolster Confederate morale and dishearten Unionists. Regardless of such potential benefits, Southern soldiers expressed mixed reactions to the move. No doubt Antietam remained a painful memory, and homesick soldiers had little desire to leave their loved ones even further behind.17 It is worth noting that there was little idealism or symbolism surrounding the march through Maryland for this campaign; now it was simply a state to pass through on the way to a “real” Northern state. “We are all quite anxious to visit Maryland & Pennsylvania,” wrote an optimistic but cautious soldier from North Carolina, “yet we are prepared for the worst.”18 Once again Marylanders seemed to receive Union and Confederate troops with equal parts enthusiasm and disdain. Walter Jackson of the 130th New York Infantry described his regiment’s reception on passing through Maryland in July 1863: “Every where we are greeted with cheers and applause and women shouting God bless you and young maidens cheering us on to summer 1863

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victory. It does the heart of a soldier good to meet such a gathering.” Jackson had no doubt of the state’s loyalties: “The people are union here.”19 The somewhat irreverent Charles Haydon of Michigan had no problems with the citizens of Maryland or with their song. In fact, he and his fellows saw so many “pretty women” that “Everyone vowed to sing ‘My Maryland’ each day of his life.”20 Confederate soldiers offered similar descriptions. “In Maryland we met frequently, aye more so than I could have expected, a hearty sympathy with our cause,” according to Leroy Edwards of the Twelfth Virginia Infantry. He also felt some Pennsylvanians close to the Maryland border showed “favorable demonstrations.”21 William Nelson of Mississippi saw something different along the Maryland-­Pennsylvania border where “the citizens showed every sign of trepidation and alarm, fully expecting that we came to desolate and destroy, as they have done to our own beautiful South.”22 Such mixed reactions from the citizenry were understandable at this point in the war. Prior to 1862, notions of patriotism were attractive to Unionists and Confederates as long as the war was an abstract, chivalric, and harmless pastime. By 1863 the citizens of western Maryland knew better, having seen the worst that war could offer. Bodies had littered the countryside, and hospitals and homes throughout the state housed horribly wounded Rebels and Yankees. Thousands of soldiers had passed back and forth across the state, gathering up food and supplies each time and leaving the civilians in an increasingly precarious position. By 1863 Marylanders west of Baltimore were concerned about their daily survival as much as any abstract political goals. For civilians living in border states, the war was an emotional roller coaster. Not only did they tend to see more fighting and troop movements than occurred in other locations. They also saw the constant exchange of occupying forces; one week they might be inundated with Union troops, and the next week the blue departed and the gray moved in. Regardless of a civilian’s political inclination, this constant turnover made for an extremely tense situation that exacerbated preexisting local divisions. Patriotic music was a flashpoint in such settings, and 194

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22. Events like the destruction of Chambersburg, Pennsylvania, following McCausland’s raid on July 30, 1864, frightened Marylanders as the battling armies brought violence and bloodshed to their beloved state. Chambersburg ruins photograph, 1916, hsp photograph collection [v59], Historical Society of Pennsylvania.

the emotive power and receptive impact of a song like “Maryland, My Maryland” could shift significantly within the span of a few weeks. Mary Louisa “Lutie” Kealhofer was the twenty-­two-­year-­old daughter of a prominent Hagerstown businessman. A vocal supporter of the South, she (unlike many of her neighbors) was thrilled by the appearance of the Army of Northern Virginia in their normally placid town. The Confederate troops stopped in Hagerstown prior to their move into Pennsylvania, and the Kealhofer residence hosted many Confederate officers. On Sunday, June 21, the army moved on, and the following morning Lutie described the experience with a wistful and symbolic diary entry: “One week we had been in Dixie.” Three days later, as more Southern soldiers trooped past her house, she reiterated her desire for a transformed locale: “I feel that we are summer 1863

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really in Dixie for good.”23 In Lutie’s eyes, to be surrounded by the Confederate Army transformed her primarily Union community into a momentary Southern oasis.24 Things were particularly confusing in Union Mills, Maryland, as the Union and Confederate armies passed through on their way to Pennsylvania. This small town had been home to the Shriver family since its founding in 1797. Two brothers now resided there: Andrew lived in the original Shriver “Homestead,” while William lived across the Littlestown Pike from Andrew. The brothers had grown up in a slaveholding family, and Andrew still owned slaves at the start of war. Yet by the time the war began, William and his family were strong supporters of the Confederacy, while Andrew remained true to the Union. Four of William’s sons joined the Confederate Army, while Andrew’s oldest enlisted briefly in the Twenty-­Sixth Pennsylvania Infantry Militia. Remarkably, the brothers and their families remained cordial throughout the war, though according to one son, Louis, “Social discourse was always strained and often resulted in unhappy arguments.”25 Around 11:00 p.m. on June 29, Confederate cavalry under the command of Fitzhugh Lee and Jeb Stuart arrived in Union Mills. The troops were tired after their ride of more than one hundred miles, but the men remained upbeat and optimistic following their recent victory at Chancellorsville. As the troops encamped along the Littlestown Pike, the officers first checked in at the home of Andrew Shriver, where they found a chilly reception at best. The soldiers then crossed the road to the home of William Shriver. There they found a much warmer greeting that included food as well as the welcome attentions from the young ladies living in the house. The following morning the youngsters offered a musical treat to the homesick soldiers, and in gratitude, the general and some of his staff responded with musical gifts of their own. Thomas H. Shriver, William’s young son, described the festive gathering: “In the living room . . . was a large Steinway piano which was played by soldiers and [members] of the household while General Stuart sang his famous song, ‘If you want to be a jolly boy join the Cavalry,’ and the officers joined in, keeping the air resounding with additional 196

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melodies, ‘My Old Kentucky Home’ and ‘Annie Laurie,’ along with countless wonderful songs of National fame.”26 William’s daughter Sarah wrote to her sister about what she saw on that memorable morning: “While we were at breakfast, Mrs. Heard came in, she played [the piano] for them, and I wish you had heard Gen. Stuart sing, accompanied by all the rest . . . if you had seen him, he put as much enthusiasm in that song as I know he does into matters of a much more serious nature. . . . Genl. Lee joined and Maj. McClellan . . . played and sang some splendid songs, some with infinite pathos.”27 At 10:00 the next morning Stuart and his men galloped off on their way to Pennsylvania. Later that day, around 5:00 p.m., the leading elements of the Union’s V Corps appeared in their place, and they too chose to camp on Shriver property. Gen. James Barnes and his staff, commanding the vanguard, approached the home of Andrew Shriver. This time the soldiers’ reception was effusive, and just like their family across the street, the Shrivers provided musical entertainment for the Union officers. According to Frederick Shriver, “Sis & I gave [the soldiers] a few pieces for the piano & violin with which they seemed to be greatly pleased. One of them played on the violin extremely well though he could not give us much on acc. of the fiddle getting out of order & we had no strings to fix it. Several of them sung ‘When This Cruel War Is Over’ but they were so modest that they did not do it justice.”28 Obviously these musical exchanges on the eve of battle made a lasting impression on all involved, due in no small part, it would seem, to the avoidance of patriotic music. The widespread popularity of “Maryland, My Maryland” indicates the valuable role that patriotic music can serve in the cause of war. Yet the success of such songs tends to obscure the fact that not all music supports war. For some listeners, the mixing of music and wartime patriotism was unsettling. Joseph H. Coit, an instructor at Saint James College near Hagerstown, was torn in his reaction: “We had music on the steps after tea—­music and war do not seem to fit together very well. But I found both relief and pleasure in it.” Coit’s dilemma was understandable for a civilian living in an unstable area where music had been summer 1863

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transformed from a beacon of domestic tranquility to a symbol of martial strife. Two days after enjoying music with his tea, he noted: “About 5 we heard very distinctly the music of a military band not far off and our hearts began to fail for we thought that the road is again held by guards.”29 “Maryland, My Maryland” played a part in this second invasion of the North, though not to the extent that was seen in the previous year. A member of the Thirty-­Eighth Georgia Infantry recalled bands once again playing “Maryland, My Maryland” as they crossed the Potomac on their way toward what would eventually be the Battle of Gettysburg.30 The Thirty-­Eighth Georgia, it should be noted, fought at the Battle of Antietam, suggesting that whatever resentment the song had triggered the previous fall seems to have evaporated. And while a soldier from Georgia might have found this band’s rendition of “Maryland, My Maryland” to be entertaining, it was very different for Marylanders who were thrilled at the chance to return to the Old Line State. After fording the Potomac on June 19, Lt. John Stone of the Second Maryland (csa) wrote his sister that Gen. George H. Steuart “dismounted & kissed the ground” of his home state, which of course had an electric effect on the Marylanders in his brigade. It is worth noting that Stone had subtitled his letter “On the road Home.” Randall’s lyrics were foremost in Stone’s mind when he informed his sister that he had “started for My Maryland” and that the men “sent up one long loud shout for My Maryland” after fording the Potomac. Not only does his use of the trope “My Maryland” encompass the lyric’s meaning in two simple words, but the possessive “My” is also literally true for Stone and other Marylanders.31 After Gettysburg, Patriotism and Sacrifice On July 1 advance units of the Confederate Army came up against Brig. Gen. John Buford’s division at the small town of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. As the fighting intensified, both sides poured more and more men into the area, although the Union troops managed to hold their ground. The next day Lee ordered attacks against the flanks of the entrenched Union troops, now consisting of the bulk of the Army of the Potomac, to no avail, 198

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and both sides suffered significant casualties. On July 3 Lee attempted to crack through the center of the Union lines, pummeling the defenses with artillery for two hours before sending more than twelve thousand Confederates under Maj. Gen. George Pickett, Brig. Gen. J. Johnston Pettigrew, and Maj. Gen. Isaac R. Trimble across open fields and into the face of heavy fire. Although the Union line was breached at one point, the attack as a whole failed, forcing General Lee to withdraw from the field and retreat back through Maryland to Virginia. Granville Belcher of the Fifty-­Seventh Virginia probably summed up what most Confederate soldiers were feeling: “If I ever get over on the Virginia side of the Potomack River I will stay there if they do not march me back at the front.”32 The Battle of Gettysburg saw one of the largest concentrations of Maryland troops during the war. The Union provided the First Maryland (Potomac Home Brigade), First Maryland (Eastern Shore), Third Infantry, First Maryland Cavalry, the Purnell Legion, and Battery A of the Maryland Light Artillery. On the Confederate side was the First Maryland Battalion of infantry (Second Maryland Infantry), First Maryland Battalion of cavalry, First Maryland Battery of artillery, Chesapeake Artillery, and Griffin’s Battery of horse artillery. Probably the worst of the battle fell on those who were part of the terrible fighting at Culp’s Hill, where Maryland troops were part of the Confederate attack as well as the Union defense. The Gettysburg campaign was a particularly painful experience for Confederate soldiers from Maryland. To return to their state, to pass through familiar lands, and even meet up with kin, only to find themselves once again retreating back to Virginia, it was a harsh price to pay for their patriotism. Cavalryman McHenry Howard was reconnoitering in western Maryland after the battle, and though grateful to pass through Hagerstown with no difficulties, “it gave a peculiar sensation to march through a Maryland town. Oh, that it was Baltimore!” But there was no return to his hometown, and the significance of crossing the Potomac a second time was not lost on Howard. “And so we turned our backs on Maryland. We will in all probability never set foot on her soil again with arms in our hands. summer 1863

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What a change in one month! Could not refrain from some bitter tears as I stood on the Virginia shore and looked back to our beloved State.” There was no place for “Maryland, My Maryland” in Howard’s moment of sorrow, no “dauntless slogan song” to alleviate his disappointment. “Realize more than at any time before the probability of our being exiled from it forever. Last night the band played ‘Sweet Home’—­what a mockery to us [Marylanders]!”33 Following the Confederate loss at Gettysburg and the second hurried retreat across the Potomac, Southern morale and Confederate optimism toward Maryland and its song reached an all-­time low. Randall’s appeal for Maryland to “come to thine own anointed throng” had fallen on deaf ears, and Northern newspapers once again leaped at the chance to taunt the Confederacy with the poet’s words. “Gen. Lee’s Farewell to ‘My Maryland’” read a headline in the New York Herald, while the Philadelphia Inquirer teased General Lee for his attempt to “free” Maryland: “‘Maryland, my Maryland’ has no longer any charms for the doughty champion who was to strike the fetters from her limbs and bid her leap into the embrace of his covetous old master at Richmond.”34 Another writer for the New York Herald used Randall and Cary’s song to ridicule one of the South’s heroic generals as he passed through Frederick: “Jeb. Stuart was parading through the streets yesterday grossly intoxicated, and whistling ‘My Maryland.’”35 Even Southerners reused Randall’s verse in disdain: “News very bad from army in Maryland,” wrote James Albright of the Twelfth Virginia Light Artillery. “I fear ‘My Maryland!’ did not ‘come’ as she promised.”36 The loss at Gettysburg also triggered another wave of parodies. A Southern soldier recalled singing a parody of “Maryland, My Maryland” as they returned to Virginia: A desperate sore is on my heel, Here’s your mule—­Jeff Davis’s mule. You do not know how bad I feel. Here’s your mule—­Jeff Davis’s mule. I can’t stay here to fight the foe; I might get hurt or killed you know; 200

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But I’ll go South and take a blow, Here’s your mule—­Jeff Davis’s mule.37

A Georgia soldier wrote a parody of “Maryland, My Maryland” that encouraged members of his unit to remain united following a transfer to another brigade, while Jeb Stuart crafted his own parody in honor of his horse, which he had named “My Maryland” in honor of the Maryland troops who had given him the horse.38 Your master’s heel is in your flank, Maryland, my Maryland. I hear his restless saber clank, Maryland, my Maryland. He’ll ride you hard and you may thank Your stars, if not left lean and lank, Without the rations due your rank, Maryland, my Maryland. I hear your old familiar neigh, Maryland, my Maryland. Asking for your corn and hay, Maryland, my Maryland. But you must wait till break of day, And Bob will then your call obey, And make you look so sleek and gay, Maryland, my Maryland. I feel secure upon your back, Maryland, my Maryland. When cannon roar and rifles crack, Maryland, my Maryland. You bore me o’er the Po-­to-­mac, You circumvented Little Mac, Oh, may I never know your lack, Maryland, my Maryland.39

Obviously the almost sacred nature of Randall’s lyric was giving way to a more plebian—­and realistic—­perspective.40 The number of casualties after a year of harsh fighting ensured summer 1863

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that songs like “Maryland, My Maryland” accumulated personal as well as patriotic significance. Charles Merrick, a musician and hospital steward with the Eighth Ohio Infantry, listened to a performance by a young Union lady shortly after the Battle of Gettysburg. He noted that after he had enjoyed “No One to Love” and “Shells of the Ocean,” the mood turned dark when the content shifted to patriotic music. Merrick described the scene to his wife: “The captain leaned over to me and told me to ask them to sing the Secesh song ‘My Maryland.’ I did so but she replied ‘Excuse me but I must answer bluntly No sir never!’ and the color spread over her face. I felt awkward I thought I had offended her but the captain soon explained ‘she has lost a brother by the rebels and a more earnest hate of everything relating to the rebellion is hard to find.’”41 For Confederate Marylanders the song remained a potent trigger, retaining the ability to represent the ideals that Maryland had stood for even if the state itself was not a material contributor to the conflict. The song had begun to divorce itself from its overt physical referents, occupying an increasingly symbolic realm in both Northern and Southern ears. Rebecca Davis of Montgomery County, Maryland, a loyal Confederate, knew very well the patriotic power that Randall and Cary’s song retained and used it with great delight: “Ester & I were taking a moonlight ramble, as we approached the gate singing in loudest key Maryland! My Maryland! Up rode three Federals. We retreated to the house knowing such treacherous refrain would not be agreeable to their ears.” The officers served a summons, then entered the house to “take refreshment,” but the young ladies declined to offer any more music: “Sister & I do not make our appearance when Yanks are in the house, entertaining no sympathy for them.”42 While no doubt a heroic gesture in the eyes of these young ladies, the Maryland of which they sang was fictional and of little threat to the Union soldiers, since the real Maryland was, and would remain, a Union state. The loss at Gettysburg set the Confederacy back on its heels; the invincible hero-­symbol had failed to punish the unworthy Yankees. But the struggling nation was faced with more bad news. At the same time that Generals Pickett, Pettigrew, and Trimble 202

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were charging the Union line along Cemetery Ridge, Lt. Gen. John C. Pemberton was surrendering the city of Vicksburg to Ulysses S. Grant. Throughout May Grant had solidified his position around the crucial city and established a siege, securing control of the land around Vicksburg as well as the strategically vital Mississippi River. Grant’s siege was merciless; food was kept out while shells were sent in, despite the presence of civilians. Grant’s handling of Vicksburg confirmed for Southerners the diabolical nature of Yankees. Even more, it confirmed that the remainder of the Civil War would not be constrained by previous conventions but consist of total war. This combination of losses, just when it looked like the South had achieved military stability, threatened the image of the Confederate state and the status of their armies as patriotic icons. The symbolic role of the Confederate military required success for it to achieve full success, what Gary Gallagher called “battlefield triumphs won by national armies.”43 Certainly Lee and the Army of Northern Virginia were on track for attaining this status; in the West, many regional commanders retained the loyalty of their troops as well as the local populace, and given the right circumstances, these men and their armies could likewise become successful symbols of the state. Chancellorsville had seemed to solidify at least one of these symbolic constructs. But with the untenable setbacks at Vicksburg and Gettysburg, those military symbols were now tarnished. In place of victory by force of arms, Southerners were forced to fall back on the trope of noble loss and “the sacred bonds of suffering” that had been part of Confederate identity formation since before the war.44 Both sides had experienced loss at an unimaginable level by this point in the war. But as Drew Gilpin Faust notes, it was not the number of casualties alone that tortured Americans: “Death’s significance for the Civil War generation arose as well from its violation of prevailing assumptions about life’s proper end—­about who should die, when and where, and under what circumstances.”45 Death was an accepted part of nineteenth-­century daily life, but the loss of loved ones on distant battlefields and hospitals, without the ability to properly mourn the loss or celebrate the life they had led, summer 1863

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created an emotional void. Songs (as well as poems and imagery) sought to lessen the impact by offering comforting images of noble deaths and justifications that such losses were not in vain. Some songs, like William Shakespeare Hays’s “Drummer Boy of Shiloh” of 1863, were melodramatic works where theater threatened to overwhelm substance. Other 1863 songs, such as “All Quiet along the Potomac” by John Hill Hewitt, confronted the pain directly and challenged the true cost of the war. Songs like this provided what musicologist Jon Finson called “protocols of dying,” offering a rationale for death on the battlefield as well as guidance for how the living should handle the loss of a loved one.46 “The work of the song was to reclaim the importance of this individual life,” wrote Faust, “the husband and father who was just as dead in this night of ‘quiet’ as if he were one of the thousands who had perished in the din of dramatic battle. He was a man, the song insisted, who counts, even if he was not counted.”47 Confronting death led to an increased infusion of religious rhetoric within the language of patriotism. Sunday sermons, flag ceremonies, and civic ceremonies began to push the value of Christian sacrifice.48 And while the patriotism of civil religion appeared on both sides of the Mason-­Dixon line, in the Confederacy it was attached to the preexisting notion of the South as victim. As Paul Quigley concluded, the threat to the southern lifestyle that had originally led to the “War of Northern Aggression” had “united white southerners in a shared community of victimhood and suffering.”49 Victimhood in this context was not defeatist; quite the opposite, it was a secure and workable attitude that grew in strength as the war progressed. Joshua Searle-­ White offered a reason for this shift: “Being a victim of another’s aggression means that we have suffered unjustly. Being a victim confers upon us a kind of moral authority—­a sense that we deserve to be treated specially. In fact, being a victim is so powerful that we would expect people to assume victim status if they can. . . . Being a victim gives us the right to take action against our enemies while blaming them for the violence at the same time.”50 Sacrifice and suffering now became prideful banners of resistance. Rebecca Davis of Maryland met up with some old 204

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school chums from Virginia and was captivated upon hearing of the depravations suffered by these Southern ladies. Their suffering took on a symbolic cast as, in Rebecca’s words, “they gloried in it, being all done for ‘Dixie.’” Both “Maryland” and “Dixie” were becoming metaphoric lands of suffering, manufactured in large part by their eponymous songs.51 In cities like Richmond, “starvation parties” were held at private homes; money was collected to pay for musicians even as refreshments were curbed.52 Such austerity amplified the value of music. Civilians in Maryland and Virginia experienced a profound shift in the power and function of their music much like the soldiers around them were experiencing. The already deep link between popular songs and the home, family, courtship, and other domestic subjects intensified in both lyrical meaning and emotional impact. Old pieces took on new meanings, new pieces were consumed with atypical zeal, and the multifaceted process of musicking became even more central to their communal identities. The subsuming of loss and suffering within the rhetoric of patriotism was also a mechanism for turning military defeats into a means of sustaining patriotic devotion. Sacrifice and bloodshed were treated as a historically justified cost for building a new nation, and the death of Stonewall Jackson and the carnage of Gettysburg provided plenty of fodder for such musings. The surrender of Vicksburg, however, could not be explained away. Only the sufferings experienced by the civilian population could refocus patriotic ire against the hated enemy. The memorialization of Jackson, the portrayal of Confederate sacrifice on the hills and fields of Pennsylvania, the sufferings of civilian victims at Vicksburg—­all were new ingredients for patriotic manipulation. With the rise of sacrifice and suffering as viable postures for patriotism, “Maryland, My Maryland” could once again provide a message that Southerners were willing to hear. Randall’s verses had portrayed Maryland as a victim of the “despot’s heel” and the “Vandal’s toll.” Now such a message could raise empathy rather than sympathy. A change in patriotic priorities—­ and a shift in stance of listeners toward patriotism and to the summer 1863

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song—­meant that Randall’s verses could still play a role in the conflict to come. Perhaps it is not a surprise that a group of soldiers from Missouri sang “Maryland, My Maryland” along with “The Bonnie Blue Flag” and “Dixie” while enduring the siege of Vicksburg in the summer of 1863.53 Slavery and “My Maryland” The rhetoric of noble sacrifice and suffering may have reinvigorated patriotism for some, but not all Americans would have agreed on what constituted suffering in the summer of 1863. Some Confederate officers took advantage of the Gettysburg Campaign to round up any African Americans they found in Maryland and Pennsylvania and send them south under guard. Rachel Cormany of Chambersburg, Pennsylvania, witnessed one such raid: “O! How it grated on our hearts to have to sit & look at such brutal deeds—­I saw no men among the contrabands—­all women & children. Some of the colored people who were raised here were taken along—­I sat on the front step as they were driven by just like we would drive cattle.”54 Rachel saw what many were unwilling to acknowledge: that suffering during the Civil War was not limited to battlefield casualties, material shortages, or the separation from loved ones. Millions of African Americans still suffered in bondage or from the racism that ostracized them. “Maryland, My Maryland” may have called for justice and freedom from the “tyrant’s chain,” but clearly the message was not meant for everyone’s ears. These raids were all the more galling given that on May 22, 1863, the U.S. Army had issued General Order No. 143 establishing the Bureau of Colored Troops. This new department was to oversee the recruitment and training of black soldiers and to coordinate between preexisting units. A number of black regiments had already joined the war effort as a result of the Emancipation Proclamation of January 1, including the First South Carolina Volunteers in January, the Fifty-­Fourth Massachusetts in March, and the First Arkansas Volunteers of African Descent on May 1. Gen. Robert Schenck had begun enlisting black troops, including slaves, from Maryland in July 1862, caus206

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ing additional friction between Governor Bradford and the Lincoln administration that lasted for the rest of the war.55 The status of the South’s “peculiar institution” in Maryland was equally contradictory. On May 30, 1863, the National Anti-­ Slavery Standard proudly announced that “only” thirteen slaves were sold in the small town of Rockville, Maryland. The entire group was sold “for less than $1,000, or about $75 each. . . . Clearly, the ‘institution’ is in a bad way in ‘My Maryland.’” That slavery was declining in the midst of the Civil War should be no surprise. What is surprising is that slaves were still being sold only twenty miles from the nation’s capital. Yet Maryland’s relationship with slavery was as confused and confusing as the state’s mercurial loyalties to the Union and Confederacy. By the nineteenth century Maryland had the largest population of free blacks in the country. At the start of the war, there were almost as many free blacks as there were slaves. The shift in agriculture from tobacco to wheat and other cereals had required less slave labor, so farmers in certain parts of the state had slowly moved toward owning fewer slaves if not outright manumission.56 The use of slave labor held on in southern Maryland and the Eastern Shore, and these portions of the state held the most empathy for the South. Northern and western Maryland had drifted away from a slave-­based economy and tended to lean toward the Union. Slavery and abolition were powder kegs even in those counties not influenced by or committed to the Southern cause.57 While it may be true that slavery in Maryland existed “in its mildest forms” (to use Frederick Douglass’s words), this does not mean that it was a benign experience or that Maryland’s free black population did not face hostile discrimination. Many nonslaveholders displayed a barely hidden contempt for African Americans. A cynical Lt. John Rastall of the First Regiment (Eastern Shore) Maryland Volunteers used “‘Uncle Abe’s favorites’ of the ‘sable hue’” to describe the U.S. Colored Regiment that came to relieve his unit.58 Racial tensions in Maryland were distinctive, to say the least, with a dominant white majority, free blacks, and slaves nervously orbiting each other as the North and South grew increasingly pugnacious. Slaves in Maryland summer 1863

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followed the lead of those in other states, using the presence of Union troops to escape from their masters, although they met with mixed receptions from Union soldiers. Madge Preston of Towson, Maryland, was angered by the “ingratitude” displayed by two of her slaves who fled her home in August 1863.59 Tensions were amplified by the large number of European immigrants who competed with free blacks for jobs, especially in Baltimore.60 This situation presented a difficult challenge for a songwriter: how to deal with the issue of slavery when writing an anthem that commemorates Maryland? Randall, like most of his poetic comrades, simply ignored it. Randall did a skillful job of avoiding any mention of slavery, but it was impossible to prevent the specter of slavery from haunting his poem. Stanza one focused on the Pratt Street Riot and Union occupation, stanza two was a supplication to the state, and stanzas three and four presented a call to arms by referencing famous historical figures. In the fifth stanza, Randall called for Marylanders to join other Southerners who were “Stalking with Liberty along,” and a skeptic could ask if slaves were being asked to walk with Lady Liberty or if the invitation was limited to white, upper-­class Southerners. Then in stanza six Randall shouted for Maryland to “burst the tyrant’s chain,” a seemingly awkward choice of words. Leaving aside the assumption that Lincoln is more of a tyrant than a slave owner, it is hard to imagine that listeners could not hear the reference to “chains” without thinking of the chains that bound slaves on the auction block. Given the success of the song so far, however, this appears to be exactly what occurred. Equally ironic is that Randall’s lyric repeatedly posits Maryland as a victim while disregarding the victimization of African Americans. Joshua Searle-­White argued that assuming the mantle of victim “provides a sense of rightness and moral solidity that can help counteract the natural feelings of being flawed that we carry with us,” a strategy that worked to the Confederacy’s advantage on many levels. 61 Victims gain sympathy, which was a necessary perception if the Confederacy was to gain support from Europe. At the same time, pushing the image of the South as the victim of Northern aggression and as an underdog 208

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23. This 1865 image described the arrival of “freedmen and their families” in Baltimore as “an every day scene” as slavery came to an end. Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper, September 30, 1865.

in the conflict would encourage recruitment and help sustain commitment from the home front. For all this to work, however, slavery had to be kept from the discourse. While Southern anthems tried to disregard slavery, Northern publishers used it to their advantage. The Chicago publisher Root & Cady released “Kingdom Coming” by Henry C. Work in 1862, one of the first successful songs to directly introduce slavery as part of the war effort: Say, darkies, hab you seen de massa, wid de muffstash on his face, Go long de road some time dis mornin’, like he gwine to leab de place? He seen a smoke way up de ribber, whar de Linkum gunboats lay; He took his hat, and lef’ berry sudden, and I spec’ he’s run away! Chorus De massa run, ha, ha! De darkey stay, ho, ho! It mus’ be now de kingdom coming, an’ de year ob Jubilo!

Though written in dialect—­a broadside trumpeted that renowned minstrel singer Dan Bryant performed the song—­ summer 1863

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the clear message is one of liberation for slaves who were able to mock their former masters fleeing from the Yankees. George Root knew he had a winner in this song and launched a creative marketing campaign to ensure its success. The same year Root himself, under the pseudonym “G. F. Wurzel,” published his own abolition minstrel song, “De Day Ob Liberty’s Comin.”62 Of course Julia Ward Howe’s “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” set to the music of the Union marching song “John Brown’s Body,” had also appeared in 1862 and quickly swept through the North. Not all Northern publications addressed slavery, however. In 1863 Firth, Pond & Co. of New York joined the parade of “Maryland” imitations with “Maryland Our Maryland! or Maryland Redeemed,” returning to the original music but adding new words by Frank H. Norton. These words, it should be noted, made no reference to the plight of slaves or the abolitionist cause. This is not a surprise given the curious relation between music and the African American population in the eyes and ears of white America. In the North, a sudden interest in “authentic” black music led to publications such as Slave Songs of the United States in 1867, while minstrel shows (which featured white performers in blackface makeup singing and dancing in ridiculous imitation of African Americans) had been one of the most popular forms of entertainment prior to the war.63 In the South, white music, and religious music in particular, was one of many tools used to subjugate black Americans and to stifle their cultural identity, yet the resilient sounds of black America blanketed the land in the form of work songs, spirituals, and even popular songs.64 Popular songs about black Americans reflected the unsettled relationship between the two populations. “In sum, the attitudes toward blacks conveyed in nineteenth-­century songs are as confused, contradictory, and ambivalent as were the attitudes of Americans of the period,” wrote musicologist Caroline Mosely. “They are almost universally negative, although that negativity may be expressed in different ways.”65 Whether intentional or not, popular music reflected both musical taste and social attitude. “Maryland, My Maryland’s” evasion of slavery and its stance as the beleaguered victim rang true for its primary audience. 210

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Reactions to African American musical performances by white audiences during the war were a combination of confusion and combustibility. Rebecca Davis and some visiting friends went out on a picnic near her home in Montgomery County, Maryland. “Some danced to the music of an old darkey,” she explained, “who scraped one tune upon his fiddle, to our amusement but from his consequential air evidently thought himself a performer.”66 On the one hand, Davis and her friends were willing to call upon an African American to provide music that was apparently good enough to dance to. But she would not give the musician much credit or allow him to rise above his station. Yet just a few weeks earlier Davis had attended church and heard a visiting bishop speak to a mixed audience of local whites and “a large number of colored servants.” At one point the bishop asked the servants to sing a hymn, which they did, and the bishop was “much affected” by their performance. He informed the congregation that the singing “recalled to his mind past years when he had preached to their brethren in South Carolina, & had united with them in singing the same hymn.”67 Somehow the bonds of Christian hymnody had evaporated after a few weeks, leaving no room for musical equality to enter Davis’s worldview. A performance by a band of the U.S. Colored Troops in Maryland’s Eastern Shore magnified the contesting pro-­Union, anti–­African American feelings for Dr. Samuel Harrison of Talbot County, Maryland. Though supporting the Union’s cause, Harrison was admittedly a racist with mixed feelings regarding abolition. In October 22, 1863, he wrote in his journal about a rally he attended in Easton where those gathered met with a surprise: “Early in the afternoon a party arrived from Baltimore, accompanied by a Band of Musicians—­blacks, in U.S. Uniforms. This was a cause of much chagrin to a number of the more respectable Union Men. . . . Expressions of disgust were heard around me, by men of the most devoted loyalty & patriotism.”68 It is unfortunate that Harrison did not record what pieces were played. One can only imagine how a band of black musicians, in uniform, performing “The Star-­Spangled Banner” would impact this intractable audience. Would it be summer 1863

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disgust or fear that they felt? And would it have been different if the band had played “Maryland, My Maryland”? The African American reaction to “Maryland, My Maryland” is hard to gauge as there are few references to draw upon. “‘My Maryland’ is not sung now as much as it was. The song has become a jest,” wrote a Philadelphia correspondent following the Confederate occupation of Frederick in 1862. “The folks here, when they speak of ‘My Maryland,’ do it with a sneer. The darkie women sing it and the ‘Bonny Blue Flag’ in derision.”69 Without knowing the author’s views on abolition, it is safe to say that a black woman singing Randall’s anthem would be taken as a pointed insult by Confederates. In Richmond a free black man named Dan Ruffin was arrested for singing “Maryland, My Maryland” “at the top of his voice” on Main Street. The magistrate asked if Dan was from Maryland, assuming that the drunken performance might be excused as a patriotic gesture. Unfortunately, the honest Ruffin admitted he was from Virginia and was sentenced to twenty lashes.70 There is little doubt that the song, whether performed or not, was seen as an emblem of subjugation by African Americans. Civil rights activist William E. Matthews used “Maryland! My Maryland!” as the title of his impassioned article defending the accomplishments and contributions of black men from Maryland.71 Northern whites were willing to attach Randall and Cary’s song to slavery or, more precisely, to abolition. In Amherst, New Hampshire, a paper celebrated the freeing of Maryland’s slaves in 1864 by boasting that the “rebel’s claim to ‘my Maryland’ has entirely vanished, even if any part of it had lived through the three years’ experience of war.”72 The governor’s message read before the House of Representatives of the Dakota Territories in December 1864 applauded the elimination of slavery from Maryland and how the “loyal soldiers” of Maryland had “lifted the ‘despot’s heel’ from her breast.”73 William Lloyd Garrison’s antislavery newspaper from Boston, the Liberator, covered the 1864 Fourth of July celebration in Elkton, Maryland, where they also celebrated “emancipation in ‘My Maryland.’” The trope of Russell’s song title was extended by referencing “John Brown’s Body,” the well-­known marching song 212

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of Union soldiers in the East: “My Maryland now takes rank in the progress of civilization. Its soul is marching on.”74 A week earlier the Liberator had printed a lengthy account of a celebration filled with music that was held at the Cooper Union in New York City. A band played throughout the festivities; the audience sang the Methodist hymn “Blow Ye the Trumpet, Blow”; Mr. J. J. Spelman sang a new song, “Maryland’s Free” (Taylor and Greene, 1864) followed by Mrs. Sedgwick singing “Viva l’America” (Harrison Millard, 1859). Finally a choir performed “All Hail! Day of Gladness,” a poem by Robert Hamilton sung to the tune of “Annie of the Vale.” The chorus, while not citing “Maryland, My Maryland” directly, did use the song’s title in place of the poem’s original reference to Washington dc: “Sing! sing! ye grateful hearted! Bring Songs of triumphant melody! In sweetest numbers sounding, While hills and value resounding, My Maryland, My Maryland, is free!”

In the same issue, the Liberator published a new poem, “Maryland Is Free,” that likewise used Russell’s title to hammer home its point: “Forgive my sins—­yes, that was it; My Maryland—­ I’m free!”75 The Vermont Watchman took the next logical step, offering readers a new poem, “Jeff. Davis’s Lament over ‘My Maryland,’” that appropriated Randall’s lyric to lampoon the Confederacy after the abolition of slavery in Maryland: After what we had hoped of thee, My Maryland, my Maryland! That thou shouldst set thy niggers free, My Maryland! This cut of all was the unkindest, My Maryland, my Maryland! Nor tears, nor prayers, no threats thou mindest, My Maryland!76

Patriotism is usually treated as a proactive, unifying force that benefits one’s chosen country. Yet by elevating one counsummer 1863

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try over another, patriotism is also reactive and divisive. It requires the existence of the “other” against which one’s country is compared and judged to be preferable.77 Patriotism can be divisive within a single country as well. Not all citizens may agree with the state’s agenda at a given point in time. Moreover, patriotism can be grounded on the welfare or values of a select portion of the population. This was patently true for both the Union and the Confederacy. Both sides espoused propaganda that stressed liberty and freedom, yet both failed to include all those living within their borders. As historian Cecilia Elizabeth O’Leary observed: “As a settler nation, the United States could not claim the blood heritage of Native Americans it was in the process of conquering, nor did most Anglo-­Saxons feel inclined to recognize the multicultural heritages of enslaved Africans or most other European immigrants as part of a common American identity.” At stake during the Civil War “was whether patriotism would be grounded in aspirations to freedom and equality for all Americans.”78 In the South, the relation between slavery and patriotism was largely ignored, leaving what Ian Binnington deemed “a deafening black silence.”79 Generally speaking, Confederate patriotism disregarded slavery even though its presence was often assumed behind the rhetoric. The clear contradiction of fighting for one’s freedom while denying another’s freedom was avoided by widely distributed and semipermanent patriotic emblems and left to the spontaneous and ephemeral pulpit, newspaper column, and oration. Yet the presence of free blacks and slaves within the borders of the Confederate States of America could not be removed from the equation, and their existence widened the fracture forming between the Confederate state and Southern nation. Marginalized populations, including blacks and women, could be subsumed under the wings of the Confederate state even if they did not benefit from all the rights of citizenship, but including African Americans as part of the Southern nation was problematic even though their existence defined the nation economically and culturally. This as much as anything lay behind the resistance and fear that arose when 214

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the government in Richmond began discussing the enlistment of blacks into the Confederate armies.80 By no means was the covert yet presumed exclusion limited to the black population, either. Consider yet another parody of Randell’s much-­abused poem that concerns running the Union blockade: We rowed across the Potomac, Maryland! We put up cash and then rowed back, Maryland! We’re loaded deep with hats and shoes, Or medicines the rich can use–­ At prices that just beat the Jews! Maryland, my Maryland!81

The antisemitism behind these words was prevalent throughout the country, so it is not surprising to see Jews targeted by frustrated Southerners. But this passage also seems to mock blockade runners and the wealthy all in one jaded verse. The intended audience for this sarcasm is somewhat unclear; perhaps lower-­and middle-­class whites living in Richmond were themselves feeling threatened or disenfranchised and in need of a song of their own.82 A similar blindness toward African Americans and other marginalized communities existed in the United States of America, though Northerners were more likely to recognize that patriotism—­and nationalism—­could not be built around ethnic identity. The state was more clearly separated from the nation, and civil religion and historical tradition were emphasized instead of cultural unity.83 By no means did this diminish the tensions surrounding abolition and the inclusion of African Americans as part of the American dream. When asked how he felt about the Emancipation Proclamation, Ed Winkler of the Twenty-­Eighth Kentucky Infantry (usa) was “totally and irrevocably against it,” not only because he found it “unjust” and “unconstitutional,” but because it made Confederate troops fight that much harder, which would cause “the death of many brave and true men.” Winkler was frustrated, recalling how patriotism summer 1863

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had driven him and his comrades to take up arms: “What cause have we Kentuckians to fight for, but few can tell you they first enlisted in a good cause to crush and put down this rebellion, uphold the constitution as it was made by our forefathers, and to let that flag be unfurled and raised over the broad land and for its lustrous stars to shine for ever upon our nation.” Now his motivation was tainted: “I can scarcely say what I am serving the country for except for money and I believe it is a general thing among Ky. soldiers.”84 The inflammatory nature of abolition, along with the inclusion of African Americans as citizens, made the creation or selection of national anthems especially difficult for the South. Anthems had to specify some target for loyalty, and by catering to the majority most anthems contributed to the promotion of selective patriotism. In the North, parodies and newly composed pieces like “Battle Hymn” could bring a broader definition of freedom to the table, but in so doing they also circumscribed their primary audience. For both countries, any attempt to incorporate regional or ethnic styles would only exacerbate the situation, since cultural nationalism was musically exclusionary in much the same way as patriotic songs were exclusive through their lyrics.85 Yet patriotic music was not limited to its musical-­ cultural markers or its lyrically proclaimed identity. It was the performance of a patriotic piece—­by a certain performer, in a specific context, for a particular reason—­that firmly established the music as patriotic as much as the words or notes. By 1863 “Maryland, My Maryland” would not easily leave the public’s imagination despite its musical ambiguity and potentially contradictory message. In race relations at this time, what “Maryland, My Maryland” said mattered less than how it was used.

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Fall 1863 Women, Hospitals, and Diverging Audiences

One fall evening in 1863, a Union colonel hosted a party for the loyal locals of Frederick, Maryland. Eventually the soldiers began to sing Northern patriotic tunes that grated on the nerves of next-­door neighbor and Confederate sympathizer Harriet Pettit Floyd. “Soul stirring as such strains were to the lovers of the Union they were gall and wormwood to our Rebel ears,” she recalled. Harriet and her daughters decided to provide music of an opposing inclination, and quickly their piano trumpeted “Maryland, My Maryland” along with other patriotic songs. The performance was interrupted by the appearance of a Union officer at their door who “demanded the names of all present, telling us we must consider ourselves under arrest for insulting our loyal neighbors by singing secession songs, and must appear at the Provost Marshall’s office in the morning to answer the charges against us.”1 “Served them right,” wrote the disgruntled editors of the Frederick Examiner. “Maryland is a loyal State, and no one has a right to hiss treason to it.”2 The occupation of Maryland by Union troops was aggravating an already tense situation. Few Marylanders believed that their state would ever join the Confederacy after Gettysburg, but many, like Harriet Floyd, remained firm in their loyalty to the Southern cause. Unionists in Maryland were comparatively pleased with their lot, though they chafed under the heavy hand of the federal government, and many were displeased with the direction the Lincoln administration was taking, especially in regard to slavery.3 What made the situation worse was that citizens of both persuasions lived and worked side by side. Dedication to a cause, be it Northern or Southern, remained something that was not

simply assumed, and one’s loyalty was a badge of honor to be shown when needed. R. W. Ball of Salisbury, a member of the Tenth Maryland stationed along the Potomac, assured his cousin that the family remained committed to the Union cause. “You father is quite as uncompromising a Union man as ever,” he shared, “and perhaps, both of us are a little more so than formerly if possible.” A few weeks later Ball passed on a rumor that “Copperheads” in his county were going to organize “guerilla bands to harass the Union population.”4 The confusion resulting from the mixture of loyalties was not always easy to resolve. Confederate twenty-­year-­old Rebecca Davis of Montgomery County, Maryland, was devastated by news of the death of Willie Disoway, a lieutenant in the First New York Mounted Rifles and a young man whom she had known growing up. She accompanied Disoway’s sister to Baltimore to meet up with the parents and to secure the young officer’s remains. “I feel that though having no sympathy with his cause, I have always treated him as my own cousin & one to whom I was much attached,” Davis confessed. “I mourned with them his loss.”5 Most Northerners remained indifferent or somewhat suspicious of Maryland and its people even though the state never seceded. Cornelia Baily, recently married to Capt. David Baily of the Ninety-­Ninth New York, traveled through Baltimore in December with her husband on the way to his next command in Norfolk. She was not impressed with what she saw. “Here we are in the land of Chivalry and a pretty unpleasant place it is,” she informed her mother. “I should think Baltimore would be a pleasant city in pleasant weather but the inhabitants are a droll and alive set and the darkies are by far the most sensible.”6 Confusion and distrust seemed to follow Maryland soldiers whether in blue or gray uniforms. A Northern journalist concluded simply that many Marylanders “are not to be trusted as regards loyalty.”7 Lt. William H. Daneker of the Ninth Maryland Infantry (usa) told his parents that his unit was well received in Charleston, West Virginia, while an incoming troop of Massachusetts men were met with distrust. Danker even managed a cordial conversation with a young lady from Baltimore despite her “Secesh proclivities.”8 On July 20 some locals came to scav218

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enge the camp of the Seventh Maryland Infantry as they prepared to leave Middleburg, Virginia. According to Pvt. Joseph W. Kirkley, an interesting conversation occurred with some of the locals and one of the Maryland officers. When asked if they were all “good rebels,” a boy responded, “We all try be. You wouldn’t expect anything else in Virginia, would you?” The officer then turned to an older man, saying, “There was a time when the same thing used to be said in Maryland, but to day you see a Brigade of Maryland in this camp with the Yankee army.” The old man’s response was fairly blunt: “We have been grossly deceived with respect to Maryland.”9 It was almost as if the old Rebel was more comfortable with an honest Marylander in a blue uniform than he was with self-­proclaimed Confederate Marylanders. At least Maryland was spared any more fighting for the time being. Following the Battle of Gettysburg, Lee had recrossed the Potomac and settled in Orange County, Virginia. Here the Maryland Brigade (usa), consisting of the First, Fourth, Seventh, and Eighth Regiments, joined the Army of the Potomac after years of duty in West Virginia and Maryland. Meade, under pressure from Washington, tried to corner Lee in a number of small battles but to no avail. They alternated victories in the Bristoe Campaign and the Battle of Mine Run (November 27–­December 2) with little to show for either side, so in December both armies entered winter quarters. In West Virginia, Maryland cavalry and infantry clashed at the Battle of Charlestown, where Cole’s Cavalry (First Maryland Cavalry) took the surrender of more than 350 members of the Ninth Maryland Infantry (csa).10 Out west Gen. William Rosecrans began to move against Braxton Bragg’s Army of Tennessee after repeated prompts from Washington. After a month of maneuvering, Bragg defeated Rosecrans at the Battle of Chickamauga (September 19–­20) and forced the Federals to retreat back to Chattanooga. In October Grant was promoted to major general and placed in charge of operations between the Mississippi and the Appalachians. He replaced Rosecrans with Gen. George Thomas, and the Union forces were able to break the siege of Chattanooga. Dissension and personal animosity kept fall 1863

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the Confederate command from organizing a response, and on November 23–­25 Union forces defeated the Confederates and forced Bragg to retreat back to Georgia. This victory helped to secure Grant’s stature in the eyes of the public as the Union’s leading general. By the end of 1863 there was little change in the balance of power. The fall of Vicksburg was a major setback for the Confederacy, though the rest of the trans-­Mississippi remained a mess, since neither side seemed capable of securing an advantage. The North could claim Gettysburg as a significant victory, while Chickamauga was a banner win for the South. Events had shown that neither side was invincible; there was no end to the fighting in sight, and people were tired and homesick. During the retreat from Gettysburg, Harper Carroll, a Marylander serving on General Ewell’s staff, was dismayed that he could not see his wife as they passed hurriedly within five miles of his home. “Do not fear over my being whipped,” he told her. “One simple word, one smile from you my darling little wife would dispel in an instant all my troubles.”11 “Maryland” and Gendered Patriotism A truly remarkable article appeared in Pennsylvania’s Washington Report in the fall of 1863. Titled “Phases of Political Character,” the author scrutinized Northern women and their patriotism. He had nothing but praise for those who unrelentingly supported the Union; he credited mothers and wives who sent their men to die as well as those who had labored in hospitals. Then he turned his eye on “other shades of character,” mocking those “patriotic” women who displayed useless partisan biases or found nothing wrong with slavery. The worst offenders, however, were those ladies who had a “sympathetic admiration” for Southern culture (which included “Maryland, My Maryland”) and for gallant and “handsome” Confederate officers: One of these ladies sitting at her piano is requested by a young gentleman who had been a soldier on the Peninsula, and who had retired from the service disabled by his wounds, to favor the company with “We’re Coming Father Abraham,” or 220

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some other national song; but the reply is, “I’m not patriotic enough for that”—­“I can play you ‘Dixie,’ or ‘My Maryland,’ but Pa was a Democrat.” Well might the wounded soldier look up astonished, that the country to defend which he had been stricken down and carried helpless from the battle, leaving his own brother dead on the same field, was of so little value in the estimation of a beautiful and accomplished lady, that she could not even honor it with a national air! But then she “sympathizes” with the South.12

The intensity of this scathing denunciation leads one to wonder if the author was speaking from personal experience. Similar commentaries on women’s patriotism can be found in newspapers, letters, and diaries from all over the country, though most extoll the virtues of loyal women. Lt. James Love and the Eighth Kansas Infantry were passing through Kentucky on their way to Nashville. In one small town they were greeted by an enthusiastic woman who did not hesitate to show her support for the Union. “A young lady up in a Balcony waved a flag over us as we passed,” he explained, “while regiment after regiment tired & weary as they were cheered & cheered again as they saw it—­We found her & others at her post again with the same old flag.” Love admitted that it may not have been her loyalty alone that drew the admiration of the soldiers: “We found her also young & pretty with a very sharp nose & countenance, & a sharp tongue in which she advised us how to treat them to hemp—­shot-­&c.”13 Love’s account was not unique. In fact, it is hard to find a soldier’s letters, diary, or memoir that does not describe a similar encounter with a patriotic young lady waving a flag or singing a patriotic song. And while Love and his fellows may have been pleased with the appearance of this particular women, this does not diminish the impact of her gesture. Soldiers greatly appreciated such displays of patriotism on their behalf, recognizing that this was one of the few ways in which women could join the war effort. Indeed, there was a double standard when it came to displays of patriotism, not between Unionist and Confederates but between men and women. George Landrum of fall 1863

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the Second Ohio Infantry relayed the jumbled loyalties he saw in central Kentucky, where one town may be Unionist and the next for secession. In one town he let his frustration out: “The women in Paris [Kentucky] are nearly all secessionists, and they hurrahed for Jeff Davis and displayed Sesesh envelopes at their windows. We only wished that some of the men would do so, so that we could arrest them and show our power.”14 On January 23, 1863, Sarah Morgan Dawson of Louisiana set forth a testament of loyalty in her diary: “Well! I boast myself Rebel, sing ‘Dixie,’ shout Southern Rights, pray for God’s blessing on our cause, without ceasing, and would not live in this country if by any possible calamity we should be conquered; I am only a woman, and that is the way I feel.”15 Dawson’s self-­deprecating portrayal of herself and her patriotism would have resonated with women throughout the South. Unable to join their husbands on the battlefields, society dictated that they support the cause in the best ways that they could without leaving the bounds of propriety. There was the venerated link between women and flags; national and state banners were sewn by women and presented to regiments in elaborate ceremonies.16 Other women provided additional items to officers to express their gratitude and as patriotic gestures. A group of Baltimore ladies presented Maj. Gen. Isaac Trimble of Maryland with a sword belt and sash to honor his service to the Confederacy, making sure he knew that all of them were “natives of Maryland.”17 Other women sympathetic to the Southern cause provided supplies and wrote letters to Confederate prisoners of war.18 There was an implicit link between women and music during the Civil War, a link in different shades depending on the social circle of the musicians. For those from humble circumstances, music was a homegrown treasure you created with whatever instruments—­or talents—­were at hand. A woman singing would be a performance enjoyed by any soldier, but the sound of a woman’s voice in song would be as much about memory as it was about music for the small-­town soldier. For those from the upper classes, musical aptitude was considered the mark of a “proper” young lady, and her character could be evaluated in terms of her musical tastes and skills. In addition, many pub222

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24. In this privately published broadside, a Virginia lady urges her swain to “Fly South to me” and claim his “Southern rights and Southern name.” Should he remain in Maryland and “like a dastard calmly kneel, and cringe to the usurper’s heel,” then “Love to poltroon I’d ne’er give, but rather bid him die than live!” “Farewell to submission,” her lover replies, promising to come to Richmond and leave behind the “hordes of the North who pollute Maryland!” Special Collections & Archives, Wake Forest University.

lished sentimental songs were geared toward women, since they were the primary consumers of sheet music. The parlor, with a piano as the focal point, was considered the woman’s domain.19 Music was a defining characteristic of femininity, the antithesis of warfare in the minds of Civil War men, which made patriotic songs all the more potent when performed by a woman. So when Confederate Gen. Sterling Price visited Elizabeth Atwood in Shelbyville, Tennessee, it was with music that she displayed her bona fides: “I told him I was a rebel—­showed him my music.”20 “Maryland, My Maryland” was cloaked in feminine markers from its inception. On the title page of the first edition of sheet music, credit for the music was given to “A Lady of Baltimore.” Such deceptions were not unheard of at the time; as Candace Bailey observed, the use of a nom de plume avoided “publicly naming the composer and thereby compromising her ladyhood.”21 Randall’s portrayal of the state as a multifaceted female warrior immediately established a gendered identity; that it was published as sheet music for performance in parlors also implied women as a target audience. Finally, its “composition” and promotion by the Carys encouraged viewing the song as the female voice of patriotism. A woman singing “Maryland, My Maryland” personified the subject of the lyric; she became the very thing she was singing about.22 Starting in 1862, and increasing through 1863 and 1864, mention of impromptu public performances of “Maryland, My Maryland” specified women as the performers. Unionist Frank Moore claimed that upon publication it was “played and sung with great pleasure by the Secession ladies.” One reporter observed that “the maidens sing ‘Maryland, my Maryland!’” when troops passed through Maryland in 1862, while a writer for the Daily Picayune noted that it was “sung by sweet soprano and contralto voices” in New Orleans homes.23 When suspicious Baltimore detectives were searching for Confederate sympathizers, they looked specifically for those “girls” who were singing “Maryland, My Maryland.”24 The New York Herald complimented the women of Morgantown, West Virginia, for their steadfast loyalty to the Union, 224

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and credited both instrumental and vocal music as the primary weapons in the battle of allegiances: “When they sang it was the ‘Star-­Spangled Banner’ or it was ‘Hooker is our Leader,’ and when they played it was the Union edition of ‘My Maryland! My Maryland!’ and other such tantalizing performances. Never a song or a note could the secesh get in praise of their miserable cause.”25 In many concerts it was women who performed Randall and Cary’s song: for example, “a lady of Baltimore” sang it in Augusta, Georgia, while audiences in New Orleans heard a “young lady” whose “Maryland, My Maryland” and other patriotic songs appealed “to every Southron heart.”26 The conflation of gender and patriotism helped to explain the success of a performance of “My Maryland” prior to the Battle of Chickamauga in September. In a story surprisingly similar to that of Constance Cary, a Lost Cause champion and inventive chronicler of her husband’s life, LaSalle Corbell Pickett, told a romanticized tale of what transpired when noted author Augusta J. Evans and her mother visited the front to see her brother, a captain in Braxton Bragg’s Army of Tennessee. Late one evening the ladies were shyly approached by some soldiers who were anxious to hear the young author sing, and despite the late hour and her mother’s protestations, Evans agreed. According to the chronicler, “wrapping her traveling cloak and robe around her, she went into the moonlight with her mass of hair streaming in the wind like a flying cloud,” a sentimental image that, if true, would no doubt impact the soldiers as much as any music performed. The song performed was “Maryland, My Maryland,” chosen in part because Randall was a friend of Evans. The young lady’s singing “filled the audience with rapt delight,” and the enraptured soldiers demanded an encore, which was given. A moment of silence followed the second performance, and then the soldiers enthusiastically responded with “the high shrill quavering penetrating note of the rebel yell.”27 If true, this story is yet one more indication that performance context can be more important than the piece performed. If fictional, the story remains significant in that it promoted “Maryland, My Maryland” as a beloved anthem of Confederate soldiers throughout the counfall 1863

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try and strengthened the link between patriotic music and the courageous women of the South. At least one commentator believed that the message of “Maryland, My Maryland” was best suited to a female audience. In a review of contemporary writings on the Civil War, a British writer mentioned the wealth of information and interesting anecdotes to be found, concluding his essay with a nod toward popular songs: “Among other things, not the least acceptable to lady readers will be the words and music of the song of ‘Maryland, my Maryland,’ which now deservedly disputes with the more homely ‘Dixie’ the honour of being regarded the national song of the South.”28 It is intriguing that in England, if not America, “Maryland, My Maryland” might have supplanted “Dixie” as heir to “The Star-­Spangled Banner.” More curious is the implication that this song was more acceptable to ladies. Despite its bloody imagery and violent rhetoric, it seems that Randall’s high-­brow tone and potentially more genteel musical accompaniment were better suited to the rarified tastes of “ladies” than the coarse and plebeian “Dixie.” Gendered representations of nationalism and patriotism resonated with an audience steeped in the chivalric romanticism of Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe that had swept the nation.29 Gregory Barrett, lieutenant colonel of the Fourth Maryland (usa), thanked H. L. Bond of Baltimore for his correspondence, “for your letters have always that true ring of Loyalty and manhood which is so very rare these days.”30 Barrett goes on to castigate a common acquaintance for apparently shirking his duty, suggesting a link between cowardice and questionable loyalties that no “man” could ever condone. Visiting the Confederate Army in Frederick in 1862, Phoebe Key Howard (daughter of Francis Scott Key) questioned the manhood of pro-­Confederate civilians in the area. “I wish I could give you some intelligence of how things are going in Maryland,” she wrote to her husband. “I may expect too much & know very little but I am still disappointed in the people—­their timidity would . . . shame women. I believe it is this that keeps them back and may prove their ruin all along.”31 Maryland the state and “Maryland” the song were predisposed for such gendered interpretations of courage, honor, loyalty, 226

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and patriotism. Referring to states using feminine pronouns was common at the time, but Randall’s state-­as-­woman made such references even more effective, especially when the song’s title is transformed into a metonym. In 1863 the traditionally bipartisan Evening Star of Washington dc offered a picture of Maryland that twists masculine and feminine stereotypes into a pretzel: “I confess that I have no great hopes of grand results likely to flow from ‘Maryland, my Maryland.’ She has been so long held down and so long exempted from the ravages of war, that I believe the impulse of patriotism will be merged in the reflections of expediency and drowned in the calculation of interest and necessity. Had Virginia so argued, her manhood would have been long since destroyed, and her fame unenviable.”32 A year later the Honorable Henry C. Deming, past mayor of Hartford, Connecticut, gave a lengthy speech that at one point addressed the loyalty of the border states. Maryland was celebrated not for resisting the Confederacy but for being “saved” by the Union. Deming’s choice of words is striking less for what he says and more for his implied imagery: And Maryland! Maryland! the fairest of the Southern sisterhood while the family was yet one, where was she? Owning the soft impeachment, hesitating, and she that hesitates is lost, almost dropping into the arms of the greedy adulterer, who already hails her as ‘My Maryland!’ when she is suddenly torn from his grasp, and unpolluted, and robed in white, now sits an honored member of our household. The administration has done more for Maryland than if they had conquered whole continents, aye, hemispheres—­for they have not only preserved her spotless, but they have made her free.33

Deming’s oratorical strategy leaves little to the imagination. Maryland had stood as a chaste maiden whose virtue was saved from the ravages of the Confederacy by the timely intervention of Lincoln and his soldiers. The insinuation that the Confederate invasion was an attempted rape would be frighteningly compelling if not offensive to his upper-­class audience. Similar notions of femininity and manhood could be used to praise or, more often than not, to chastise Randall and Cary’s fall 1863

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song. In 1861 a writer from Boston had slammed “Maryland, My Maryland” for being a “sentimental ditty” that was “weakly whining, composed doubtless by some youthful Southron addicted to the guitar and moonlight serenades.”34 Here the male composer is denigrated for producing a work with negative feminine attributes as well as for presumably being “unmanly” in his own character. In an attack on Randall and his song following the Battle of Antietam, a writer from Philadelphia depicted Randall as “shouting out frantically, with all the froth and foam of an ancient Pythoness,” a curious and potentially damning reference to a priestess of the oracle at Delphi. This author then set up a confrontational (and confused) relationship between the state as woman and the poet as suitor: “But Maryland, the chaste and dignified mother of the frantic bard, was not to be charmed by such a song, and not to be won by such a shabby swain.”35 So while Maryland—­both the state and song—­found strength and sustenance from a gendered portrayal, the same could be turned against it, with oscillating masculine and feminine bearings brought to the fore to challenge or castigate the would-­be anthem and its troubled state. Music and Patriotism in Hospitals Following the decimation of the First Maryland Artillery (csa) due to the exploding mine that launched the Battle of the Crater at Petersburg, John Hatton found himself at Chimborazo Hospital in Richmond. The matron of his wing asked what unit he belonged to, and upon hearing his answer she exclaimed, “Maryland! Oh My Maryland! I’m a refugee from that state,” and they happily swapped stories.36 Connecting with a fellow Marylander was therapeutic for the wounded Hatton, especially given that it was a woman with whom he chatted. The association between women and patriotism—­and music—­was focused and elevated in hospitals. Since women were limited in their ability to express patriotic commitment, providing comfort to the sick or tending to the wounded proved an ideal service to their country and an act of empowerment.37 Following the Battle of Helena, Arkansas, in July 1863, Surgeon Robert Bell of the Tenth Missouri Infantry (csa) was 228

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overwhelmed by the reception given to him and his comrades by the women of that town. “I never witnessed so many acts of patriotism, and generosity, and self-­sacrifice, as were exhibited by the ladies of Helena. Day and night, they labored with the wounded, feeding and dressing them, and soothing their sufferings.”38 In Bell’s mind, providing for the wounded was more than an act of compassion; it was a patriotic gesture. Marcus Frost, an officer with the Tenth Missouri (usa), shared his counterpart’s sentiments. “I tell you, Ellen, the soldier in the field has a hard time, more so than you could imagine, fighting for a Union which I know you love, and when they have the misfortune to get sick or wounded, the patriotic ladies at home ought to then do their part,” he wrote to his sister. “It is all they are called upon to do, toward saving, or re-­constructing our old Union, and this they ought to do freely and willingly. Take some afternoon and go round and visit the Hospitals and I know it will well repay you for the time you spend.”39 Women often sang when tending to the wounded or visiting a hospital, a gesture that met with universal gratitude from soldiers. Many Civil War Americans recognized that music could be invaluable in the gloomy wards that housed convalescent soldiers.40 A song or hymn, especially when sung by a woman, was in some ways more valuable than medicine. When it was learned that a young medical volunteer from Rhode Island sang “like an angel,” she was quickly sent on a tour of the hospitals around Washington dc, bringing comfort to the wounded soldiers as well as to the mothers and wives who sat with their loved ones.41 The indomitable Carys—­Constance, Jennie, and Hetty—­offered the “sunlight of their smiles” and the curative power of their singing to Maryland soldiers around Fairfax Court House, Virginia, in 1861. They ministered to the sick, and in the evenings “the stirring music of ‘The Bonnie Blue Flag,’ ‘Maryland, My Maryland,’ and ‘Away Down South in Dixie’ floated through the camp, upborne by the rich voices of these noble women.”42 While “Maryland, My Maryland” provided comfort to Maryland’s ailing soldiers in Virginia, Randall and Cary’s song was not always used to placate the wounded. In December 1862 the Sunday Mercury ran a story of a young lady who took it fall 1863

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25. Three of the five images in Thomas Nast’s “Our Heroines” feature women tending to the wounded. An implicit bond between women and hospitals emerged during the war, where music served as a critical part of the therapeutic relationship between nurses and soldiers. Harper’s Weekly, April 6, 1864.

upon herself to pin a Confederate flag to her dress and sing “Maryland, My Maryland” at the Convent Hospital in Frederick, Maryland, much to the consternation of the patients and their attendants.43 Other women sang patriotic tunes in hospitals, but it was more likely to be hymns, sentimental ballads, or folk songs that were performed. Ultimately the choice of song was irrelevant; it was the emotional therapy that music provided, amplified by the cherished sound of a woman’s voice, that mattered more than the words.44 “Maryland, My Maryland” may have been welcomed in Southern hospitals, but Maryland soldiers met with a different response. According to Phoebe Yates Pember, even wounded Marylanders could be viewed with suspicion regardless of the uniform they wore. Pember was originally from South Carolina, although her family moved to Georgia when she was in her twenties. After the start of the war, she was invited to serve as a nurse at Richmond’s Chimborazo Hospital. Phoebe’s post230

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war account related her own innate regional biases as well as the attitudes of the soldiers she treated. She noted that in the summer of 1863, her ward was designated for Virginia soldiers only, a change she found “entirely agreeable.” She described the Virginia soldiers as “the very best class of men in the field; intelligent, manly, and reasonable, with more civilized tastes . . . they were a hardier race.” At the same time she noticed that a small group of wounded Marylanders were not given their own space but “were sent wherever circumstances made it convenient to lodge them.”45 Phoebe blamed this awkward situation on the attitude toward Marylanders at this time. There had been, from the breaking out of the war, much petty criticism, privately and publicly expressed, concerning the conduct and position of the Marylanders who had thrown their fortunes in the Confederate scale, and a great deal of ill-­feeling engendered. . . . The Virginians complained that the Marylanders had come south to install themselves in the comfortable clerkships, and to take possession of the lazy places, while those filling them defended their position on the ground that efficient men were required in the departments, as well as the field, and that their superior capacity as clerks was recognized and rewarded without any desire, on their part, to shun field duty. They were unfortunate, as they labored under the disadvantage of harboring, as reputed fellow citizens, every gambler, speculator or vagabond, who, anxious to escape military duty, managed to procure, in some way, exemption papers proving him a native of their so-­considered neutral State.46

Phoebe campaigned to have the Marylanders given their own space in her ward. She recounted the resistance she met with, adding an astute analysis of the political and social indeterminacy of her new patients: “To a woman there was a touch of romance in the self-­denial exercised, the bravery displayed and the hardships endured by a body of men, who were fighting for what was to them an abstract question, as far as they were concerned. No one with any reasoning powers could suppose that fall 1863

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Maryland in event of success could ever become a sister State of the confederacy.”47 An unidentified lady of Maryland told a similar story while serving as a nurse in Charlottesville. “Sue and I hunt up every Marylander who comes to this town,” she wrote. “They generally call when they know we are here but we do not wait we attack them whenever we see them without any hesitation. Yesterday there was seven here, three of them Baltimoreans.” This lady also felt the cold shoulder from her neighbors, though she at least admitted that Marylanders were partly responsible: “The Virginians accuse us of being clanish. Certainly the refugees are all clanish. We have a Md ward in our hospital, kept by a Md ward-­master. A Baltimore clerk in the surgeon’s office, who directs Mders to this ward & there Sue & I give our especial attention.” It is safe to assume that her “especial attention” including singing, since music was a key ingredient to her life in Richmond. For this young lady, unable to return to her home state, it was sentimental music and not patriotic songs that drew the most severe reaction: “Last night we had a splendid serenade from the band, it was glorious to hear them play ‘Dixie’ but they wound up with ‘home sweet home’ that had such a saddening influence over me that I cried myself to sleep. If I could only hear from home I would be so happy here.”48 “Maryland” and Its Diverging Audiences On May 18, 1863, the Philadelphia Inquirer claimed that “Maryland, My Maryland” had “ceased to be a popular song with the Rebels” since the Battle of Antietam. This was only partly true. There were plenty of indications that Confederate soldiers in the East were no longer as fond of the song as they had been, but these men represented only a portion of the listening audience. One month after the Inquirer made its claim, the Macon Daily Telegraph told of a group of refugees from New Orleans fleeing the Union occupiers. When finally out of sight of the Yankees, the group began waving the Stars and Bars and singing “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” “Dixie,” and “My Maryland.”49 Regardless of what readers in Philadelphia might believe, Con232

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federate civilians in Louisiana still saw Randall’s song as a functional patriotic emblem. The same could be said for Northern civilians. Cornelia Baily, a newlywed now ensconced in Norfolk with her soldier-­husband, encountered her Confederate counterpart in a musical battle that showed how “Maryland, My Maryland” remained a patriotic piece to her. Introduced to a friend of a friend who was “strong Secesh,” things remained cordial until the company moved to a piano where the Southern lady “ran over the notes of Dixie rather defiantly.” Cornelia would not be outdone: “When it came my turn to play the piano, I accidently thrummed Yankee Doodle. In her next, I was treated to ‘My Maryland’ and I responded with ‘Rally Round the Flag, Boys.’ I closed the entertainment.”50 Unionists and Confederates continued to see “Maryland, My Maryland” as a distinctively Confederate—­ and perhaps Southern—­token. In November 1863 the New York Herald ran a similar story that added a new dimension to the performative context of “Maryland, My Maryland” and patriotic music in general. Two Union gunboats came under fire from a battery in Secessionville outside of Charleston, South Carolina. The gunboats returned fire, which apparently “occasioned an immense commotion among a party of ladies from Charleston, who were enjoying the society of the gallant officers there at a tea party.” The ladies had been singing “Maryland, My Maryland” and other “popular rebel songs,” and a “second rate brass band” made an appearance as well. As the Union shells flew overhead, the ladies, their gentleman companions, and the musicians from the band beat a “hasty and unceremonious” departure. “Where the ‘Bonny Blue Flag’ went to we could not decide,” the article concluded, “but that and ‘My Maryland,’ and the ‘Lone Star’ were heard of no more during the night.”51 Of particular note in this humorous story is that “Maryland, My Maryland” was coming from the ladies and not the band. It was the civilian performance that was tagged as “rebel,” while the brass band was cast aside as unworthy of note. In other words, it was the song “Maryland, My Maryland,” sung by civilians, that was disloyal to this writer. The instrumental music was not mentioned. fall 1863

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A related transformation was occurring in Union and Confederate camps in central Virginia. In April 1863 the Union and Confederate armies found themselves encamped across the Rappahannock with little to do, so bands from each side entertained the gathered soldiers. Union bands played “Yankee Doodle” and other pieces, while Confederate bands reciprocated with “Maryland, My Maryland” and “Dixie.” Finally one band struck up “Home, Sweet Home,” and soldiers from both sides cheered and sang along. John B. Jones, a civilian clerk in the Richmond war department, was mystified by the event: “There may be something significant in this,” he acknowledged.52 An almost identical situation occurred five months later along the Rapidan River in central Virginia. Lt. Thomas Galwey of Ohio was on picket duty when he paused to listen to a Confederate band playing “Maryland, My Maryland” along with “Dixie,” “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” and what Galwey referred to as “other Southern music.” In Galwey’s mind, as in the mind of the Rebel bandleader, “Maryland, My Maryland” was a “Southern” piece of music. Despite this, Galwey had no difficulty enjoying the “pleasant music,” something the civilian John B. Jones clearly could not understand.53 At least part of the reason can be found in the occupational perspective of the audiences—­soldier versus civilian—­which was producing two related though distinct pieces named “Maryland, My Maryland.” These pieces were the result of different hearings, not just different performances, although the means of performance could reflect and exaggerate the differences between these two hearings. On December 3, 1862, the Daily Whig & Courier of Bangor, Maine, joined other newspapers in predicting the demise of Randall’s song: “The Raleigh (nc) Standard of the 22d believes that the tune ‘Maryland, My Maryland’ whistled or sung, is rather flat since Antietam.” While possibly no more than a journalistic turn of phrase, the curious inclusion of whistling raises an important issue. Would the melody alone have the same meaning or impact if it were performed with words? Was an instrumental performance of the tune the same as singing it? There was vast potential for divergence between these two modes of presentation. Performing the tune alone, with no 234

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words, would be patriotic only by previous association. The melody itself was neither Union nor Confederate; it had Confederate connotations only because of its connection with Randall’s lyrics. If one removed the words, then the song’s patriotism was associative, not immanent. Yet such lyrical associations could linger for quite some time, placing an even greater burden of interpretive responsibility on the listener, and it is clear that listeners during the war had trouble deciphering the confusion. The New York Herald had chided a supposedly inebriated Gen. Jeb Stuart for whistling “Maryland, My Maryland,” yet the same paper also praised Union women for playing a “Union version” of the same song on the piano.54 So was the tune to “Maryland, My Maryland” Confederate, Union, or neither? Did the performer’s politics matter more than the tune being performed? What all of these stories reveal is that soldiers and civilians were evolving very different attitudes toward the song that resulted in different versions coming into existence. Civilians from the South could still wallow in heroic lyrics and relish the implied nobility of the lyric’s call to arms, so “Maryland, My Maryland” remained a favorite in homes and public displays. Southern soldiers, intimate with the horrors of war and the truth of the fighting in Maryland, were little inclined to celebrate either Maryland or the state’s tragedy as portrayed in the lyrics, yet they still enjoyed hearing the piece in camp and on the march. What explains this puzzle is that there are now two audiences hearing two different pieces. At the risk of oversimplifying, civilians sang the words to “Maryland, My Maryland” while soldiers listened to the tune. The primary performance for a civilian would come from a piano, with a singer, while the most likely place for a soldier to hear the tune would be from a regimental band. In short, civilians were exposed more to the vocal version—­the song—­while soldiers experienced the instrumental version—­the tune. As a result, at this point in the war the reception of “Maryland, My Maryland” was becoming increasingly dependent on whether the listener was a soldier or civilian and whether the piece was sung or played. This division was complicated when partisan listening was brought in. Northern civilians could still rail against, or attempt to rewrite, fall 1863

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Randall’s words, but this was still treating it as a patriotic song. Northern soldiers, on the other hand, could easily dismiss the lyrical content and any patriotic baggage to engage with the work as an instrumental composition. In his brilliant work Musicking (1998), Christopher Small repositioned the piece of music in relation to musical meaning by replacing the question “What is the meaning of this work?” with the question “What does it mean when this performance (of this work) takes place at this time, in this place, with these participants?”55 Even instrumental performances would be interpreted differently were they heard by a soldier or a civilian. To a civilian, a performance by a band was presentational; it was listened to like a concert with an audience passively receiving the music from designated performers.56 To a soldier, band music was more participatory. It was their work music, heard every day, and though they were not themselves generating the sounds, they were still participants in the activity surrounding the performance. This perspectival separation could result in two different hearings of the same piece or performance. For example, a civilian correspondent described what he heard when Union troops forced the withdrawal of Gen. Joseph Johnston’s forces from Jackson, Mississippi, in July 1863. Just prior to the evacuation, a Rebel band appeared along the fortifications and played “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” “Maryland, My Maryland,” and “Dixie’s Land.” This gesture apparently angered the journalist and insulted his patriotism, for he dismissed these pieces as “plagiarized airs which they have adopted as national tunes.”57 Following the evacuation of the city, however, Arthur Utter, a soldier from Iowa, heard things in a subtly different way. He noted that upon leaving the city, the Confederate bands played “Dixie” and “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” while the following day the Federals entered the city with their bands playing “Yankee Doodle” and, somewhat surprisingly, “Dixie.”58 Unlike the civilian journalist, Utter took no offence from the Rebel bands’ performance, nor did he place his bands’ performance above his opponents. More strikingly, he took in stride the fact that the bands played the same piece, “Dixie,” apparently seeing no problem that a Union band was performing what was 236

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acknowledged to be a Southern anthem. What occurred in this instance is two individuals hearing the same collection of notes but interacting with two different works of art. For the civilian, “Dixie” was a despicable anthem for the Confederacy; for the soldier, it was a march played by a military band. The civilian was hearing a patriotic anthem, while the soldier was hearing a piece of military music. After two years of war, a large percentage of the soldiers were veterans, and the place of military music and patriotic anthems was fairly set in their minds. Their priorities were very different from civilians, and this is reflected in their musical attitudes. For them, a band’s performance of “Maryland, My Maryland” or another patriotic anthem was no longer an incendiary piece; it was the soundtrack to their lives in the army. They marched to these pieces during ceremonies and enjoyed them in evening serenades. As a result, patriotic tunes could expect a much longer life in band books than they could on parlor pianos, which might explain why the Richmond Examiner observed on June 30 that “Dixie” was “now seldom heard, except when played by bands” in the summer of 1863. Certainly Union bands performed Union music, while Confederate bands played their pieces, but in both cases it was more a geographical or occupational choice than an act of patriotism. A Union band may avoid performing “Maryland, My Maryland,” but Union soldiers could enjoy a performance of “Maryland” by a Confederate band. Civilian musical practice had also stabilized by the end of 1863, albeit with new routines, preferences, and expectations as to the role of music in daily life. Publishers were well aware of this, and one can see a shift in the focus of their attention as the war progressed. By the end of 1863, commercial songwriters had gravitated toward sentimental parlor ballads and away from stirring marches and patriotic declarations. In other words, this music was unapologetically targeted at the family in their home and not at the soldier in the field.59 The war had also limited the number of public concerts available to audiences across the country, which in turn made music in the home all the more important.60 And while inflation and fall 1863

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shortages negatively impacted the sheet music industry, especially in the South, the desire for music actually increased. The emotional hardships of war made the comfort that music provided all the more valuable. The reemphasis on the parlor as performance space, with the family as performer, gave weight to certain genres and styles and dictated the probable uses of music. Anthems, marches, even battle pieces were still to be heard in the home, but works that focused on sentimentality as opposed to propaganda found new life. Indeed, a friend confessed to young May Preston (who was attending St. Joseph’s Academy in Emmitsburg, Maryland) that she got a “scolding” and a “lecture” for singing “political songs” at home.61 There remained a tenacious musical patriotism even in parlor music, however. At the end of 1863, the Magnolia Weekly published a brief piece questioning recent advertisements of “Southern” pieces (such as “When This Cruel War Is Over” and “Who Will Care for Mother Now?”) that were in fact written and published in the North. “We confess that we have no desire to see those Yankee effusions palmed off upon the people as southern productions,” the writer concluded. “If we cannot compose our own music, for Heaven’s sake, let us not steal that of the Yankees.”62 Specific combinations of performer, audience, and location were changing the nature of music’s relationship with patriotism. This was true of both public and private performances. Piano virtuoso “Blind Tom” Wiggins began performing “Maryland, My Maryland” and other Confederate pieces, subtly redefining the piece more as an artwork and less as a martial tool. The composer Louis Moreau Gottschalk quoted “Yankee Doodle” and “Hail Columbia” in a blatant attempt to make his symphonic works sound American.63 In situations like this, patriotic anthems drifted more toward entertainment, or symbolic propaganda at best, instead of what had been direct, ideologically driven emotional engagement. As the war progressed, works like “Maryland, My Maryland” ran the risk of turning into concert pieces whether played on the stage or in the home. As noted before, the power of anthems came to a large degree from their communal nature; singing an anthem was literally and figuratively participating with the imagined community that 238

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the anthem celebrated. When the piece is transferred to the concert stage or treated as concert music in the home, it loses some of the collaborative connection between the individual, the community, and the piece. Passively listening to a patriotic piece as a nice song and not as an anthem becomes more an aesthetic experience and less an act of patriotism. By no means was the potential impact of patriotic music on soldiers and civilians diminished. “But, alas for us! who shall write our national song?” moaned a writer for the Magnolia Weekly as 1863 came to a close, “Nearly three years have elapsed since the birth of our nation, and we have produced but a very few respectable ballads, not one of which can be called ‘National.’” This author blithely dismissed “The Bonnie Blue Flag” and “Dixie,” and one is left wondering if “Maryland, My Maryland” would have sufficed had the state joined the Confederacy.64 While innumerable references to “Dixie,” “The Bonnie Blue Flag” or “Maryland, My Maryland” threaten to make such pieces commonplace, and settings and intentions of performances were enabling divergent receptions, both soldiers and civilians continued to recognize the power of patriotic music and the impact it could have on them. Ideology remained a prevailing motivation for soldiers and civilians on both sides of the line, and any piece of music that spoke to such beliefs could provide substantial stimulation. Yet by the end of 1863, a trend had appeared in how patriotic music was serving the population of the Confederate States of America. In the case of “Maryland, My Maryland,” civilians were still focused on the song—­and its words—­and hence more likely to retain and promote the song’s divisive, self-­righteous, and romantic text. Confederate soldiers were treating their anthems as participatory, instrumental works, more as emblems of the armies of which they were proud members than as referents to the country for which they fought. For both parties, Confederate songs found the imagined Southern nation easier to praise than the struggling Confederate state. In a “Letter from New Orleans” a correspondent for the Boston Herald told readers of a Federal officer who was asked to leave the house in which he was boarding. His landlady, it fall 1863

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seemed, could no longer “consent to have a Federal officer occupy her rooms.” The correspondent laughingly pointed out what the displaced officer would leave behind: “My friend will himself soon evacuate the premises, and thereby deprive himself of such musical luxuries as the ‘Bonnie Blue Flag’ and ‘My Maryland,’ which the children are instructed to sing to the Yankee boarders whose monthly payments keep the family pot boiling.”65 From a proud banner that led Confederate troops crossing the Potomac, to a song taught to children to annoy Union officers, then on to the concert stage, “Maryland, My Maryland” had spanned the gamut of performance opportunities in its remarkably short life. Of course, the war was not over, so the story of “Maryland, My Maryland” still had chapters to be written.

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eleven

1864 Monocacy and the Victory of Song over State

On December 19, 1863, the Southern Illustrated News informed its readers that it was “all quiet on the Rapidan.” The pun on John Hill Hewitt’s song “All Quiet along the Potomac” would not be lost on readers. There was no combat to speak of at that time in the East, and there were similarities between the current winter encampment in central Virginia and the Army of the Potomac’s extended stay in camps around Washington in 1862 that had led to the creation of Ethel Lynn Beers’s poem and Hewitt’s tune. In early 1864 there was a measure of apprehension behind the innocuous phrase. The lack of battles and dreaded lists of casualties in local newspapers was certainly a welcome relief, but after three years of fighting, both soldiers and civilians knew this was but the calm before the storm. Out west there were skirmishes and small battles in Tennessee, Kentucky, Alabama, Mississippi, and Georgia, with the largest engagements coming in the Battle of Olustee in Florida (February 20) and the fights at Mansfield and Pleasant Hill, Louisiana (April 8–­9). In the East there was the battle at Morton’s Ford, Virginia (February 6–­7), the seizure of the Union garrison at Plymouth, North Carolina (April 17–­20), and a naval engagement at Albermarle Sound (May 5). Were this 1862, these minor engagements would have received extravagant coverage from the media, but in the wake of the epic clashes at Gettysburg and Chickamauga, they garnered comparatively little response, and what commentary there was lacked the aggrandizement and aestheticizing that previous accounts had favored. And with the Army of Northern Virginia and the Army of the Potomac settled into winter quarters in Culpeper County, Vir-

ginia, there was little on the military front to occupy the minds of civilians at the beginning of 1864. Unfortunately, plenty of other concerns worried Southerners. Inflation in the Confederacy was at least five times worse than it was in 1863, prompting Richmond to propose a new tax bill. Revisions to the Conscription Act in February limited the number of exemptions and extended the age limit from 18–­ 45 to 17–­50. More frightening to many, there were proposals for arming the black population to swell the ranks of the Confederate Army. No surprise that spring of 1864 was a particularly fractious time in Richmond, and dissatisfaction with the Davis administration was on the rise.1 Southern soldiers grew increasingly concerned about the welfare of their families at home, perhaps the most substantial threat to their devotion to the Confederate States since the war had begun. On May 2, 1864, President Jefferson Davis addressed the Confederate Congress. He mentioned the current state of the treasury, prisoner exchanges, and new legislation regarding the tenure and compensation of military officers. He also mentioned recent engagements, citing victories in Florida, Mississippi, Louisiana, and elsewhere, while putting a positive spin on the situation in Mobile and Charleston. Throughout the address Davis called for the country to remain steadfast; in one telling paragraph he stressed the depth of patriotism exhibited throughout the Confederacy even as he acknowledged the different forms that patriotism could take, be it from different parts of the country or between soldiers and civilians: The sufferings thus ruthlessly inflicted upon the people of the invaded districts have served but to illustrate their patriotism. Entire unanimity and zeal for their country’s cause have been preeminently conspicuous among those whose sacrifices have been greatest. So the army which has borne the trials and dangers of the war, which has been subjected to privations and disappointments, (tests of manly fortitude far more severe than the brief fatigues and perils of actual combat,) has been the centre of cheerfulness and hope. From the camp comes the voice of the soldier-­patriot, invoking each 242 1 8 6 4

who is at home, in the sphere he best may fill, to devote his whole energies to the support of a cause, in the success of which their confidence has never faltered. They, the veterans of many a hard-­fought field, tender to their country, without limit of time, a service of priceless value to us, one which posterity will hold in grateful remembrance.2

In one well-­crafted passage Davis applauded past patriotism while calling for renewed commitment to the state. He brought in tropes of sacrifice and gender, and he suggested that the sacrifices already made will be recognized and valued well past the current crises. In fact, there is an air of prophesy in the last sentence, as if Davis foresaw the loss of the war and the fall of the Confederate state but the continuation of the Southern nation, that the attitudes and actions of loyal Confederates would extend beyond existence of the country. Davis’s stirring words were almost poetic and worthy of a musical setting. It is not hard to find themes and phrases reminiscent of “Maryland, My Maryland,” “God Save the South,” and other Confederate anthems. The timing of Davis’s speech was providential. Two days earlier, the U.S. House of Representatives had passed the Wade-­ Davis Reconstruction Bill that outlined the Reconstruction of the South following the war. It formally abolished slavery, kept Confederate veterans and government officials from voting, and required that a majority of voters in a state take the Oath of Allegiance to the United States before that state would be readmitted into the Union. President Lincoln had proposed a much less strenuous plan, and when the Senate also passed the measure, he pocket vetoed the bill, a move that infuriated much of Congress. While both governments endured partisan conniving, military operations finally commenced in earnest. On March 9, 1864, Ulysses S. Grant was promoted to lieutenant general and placed in command of all Union forces. This move changed the nature of the war; now there would be a grand strategy instead of regionalized and uncoordinated campaigns scattered throughout the country. Then on May 4 the Army of the Potomac, still under the command of Gen. George Meade, moved on Lee’s 1 8 6 4 243

Army of Northern Virginia for the start of the Overland Campaign. The two armies met first at the Battle of the Wilderness (May 5), an extremely harsh fight in poor terrain that left vast casualties for both sides. After days of fighting, neither side could claim victory, and Grant immediately pushed on and met the Army of Northern Virginia at Spotsylvania Court House. From May 8 through May 21, Union forces battered at the Confederate lines and once again ran up enormous losses. In the fighting at Laurel Hill, the Maryland Brigade (usa) saw their division commander, Gen. John C. Robinson, fall to a wound. Shortly thereafter Col. Andrew W. Denison, the brigade commander, was likewise shot; his replacement, Col. Charles E. Phelps of the Seventh Maryland, was then wounded and taken prisoner. All told, the brigade lost 192 men killed, wounded, or captured.3 On May 11 the Union cavalry were victorious at the Battle of Yellow Tavern, and the Confederates lost yet another icon when Gen. Jeb Stuart was killed in the battle. Lee eventually pulled back to the North Anna River and held off Grant for four days before Grant attempted to flank the Army of Northern Virginia. The move was unsuccessful, and Grant collided with his opponent at the Battle of Cold Harbor (May 31–­June 12). Thousands of Union troops died trying to dislodge the Confederates before Grant called a halt. Among the Maryland troops at Cold Harbor was the Third Maryland (usa), and this time it was they who held firm, rallying others around them to hold against a Confederate attack.4 Finally on June 12 Grant sent his army not against Lee but against the city of Petersburg south of Richmond. A surprised Lee now scrambled to intercept the Army of the Potomac. Had it succeeded, Grant’s plan might have brought a quicker end to the war. Unfortunately, hesitant Union commanders failed to take the city quickly, so the Army of the Potomac ended up surrounding the city and initiating a siege. Here they would sit for nine months. Marylanders in 1864 Priscilla Bond, a young Marylander who had wed and moved to Louisiana, met a paroled Confederate soldier in January 1864 who told her that “Maryland-­My Maryland-­had seceded—­that 244 1 8 6 4

Gov. Bradford has turned southerner & called all Maryland troops from out the Federal Army. God bless & preserve the dear old lady—­she has been chained, but she now has thrown off her gaulding chains & is another star in our bonnie blue flag.”5 This remarkable passage, similar in many ways to Julia LeGrand’s diary entry from 1863, managed to incorporate or at least imply three different pieces of music: “Maryland, My Maryland,” McCarthy’s “Bonnie Blue Flag” (“another star in our bonnie blue flag”), and the religious anthem “Chester” by New England composer William Billings where the opening line is “Let tyrants shake their iron rod, and Slav’ry clank her galling chains.” The power of patriotic song and music in general still held sway over at least one loyal young lady, but despite musical aptitude and literary flair, Priscilla’s optimism was sadly misspent. By 1864 there was little doubt as to whether Maryland would remain in the Union. The young Seymour Walton of New Or­leans wrote repeatedly in his journal of the unique troubles facing the border states, but to him this now meant Missouri, Tennessee, and Kentucky. Maryland was seldom mentioned. This might be no more than a regional bias, but it seems that failing to “spurn the Northern scum” left Maryland’s status as a border state in doubt.6 The people of Maryland, however, continued to display conflicted loyalties. On the one hand, a member of the Fifth Massachusetts noted that Baltimoreans greeted his unit with silence as they passed through the city.7 At the same time, Baltimore women hosted a state fair to raise money for the U.S. Sanitary Commission and Christian Commission, organizations tasked with overseeing the welfare of Union armies in the field. The festive event featured troops marching in parade, an orchestra playing “Hail to the Chief,” and a choir singing the blatantly pro-­Union “We Are Coming, Father Abraham.”8 Enough Confederate sympathy existed in southern Maryland and the Eastern Shore that Union authorities considered declaring martial law again, though fortunately it never reached this point.9 Things were uneasy for those who resented what they saw as an intrusive and unconstitutional aggression on the part of the federal government (whether slaveholders or 1 8 6 4 245

not), since Maryland remained under the sharp eye of loyalists eager to squelch any hint of sympathy toward the South. John Leeds Barroll, a prominent attorney and newspaper publisher in Kent County, Maryland, was one such victim. In 1863 Barroll had been arrested for reprinting an article in his Kent Conservator that was considered treasonous. After a brief imprisonment in Fort McHenry, he was escorted under guard to Virginia and forbidden to return across federal lines. Still exiled in 1864, the only way he could communicate with his family in Maryland was by sending letters under flag of truce.10 There were other devout Confederates living throughout the state, though some Union soldiers found this less upsetting than before. Charles H. Lynch of Connecticut was wandering through Maryland when the sound of a violin attracted his attention. He found a young teacher entertaining himself with music, so the soldier struck up a conversation. The young man was “inclined to ask us many questions, which we avoided answering. His sympathy was with the South all right.” But this apparently mattered little to Lynch: “Returned very much pleased with our tramp. Maryland is a fine country.”11 Unfortunately there was less confusion regarding Marylanders outside of the state. “Fifteen thousand Marylanders are reported to have joined us, but that we cannot believe,” wrote Catherine Edmondston of North Carolina. “The ‘despot’s heel’ has crushed ‘Maryland! my Maryland’ too thoroughly for that evidence of spirit.”12 Things were especially rough in Virginia. The end of 1863 had seen a new wave of suspicion and abuse toward transplanted Marylanders, especially from the press. “The Richmond rebels appear to have fully realized the character of the ‘chivalry’ which made their exodus from Maryland to Dixie since the breaking out of the war,” pronounced the Easton Gazette on October 17. The list of undesirables who had left the state included “broken down politicians” and “stock gamblers” who were “glad to avail themselves of the cloak of patriotism, to escape from their creditors.” Citing Richmond papers that blamed the rise in the city’s crime rate on this “Baltimore Dynasty,” the conclusion was obvious: “The Richmond people are getting heartily tired of these chivalrous sons of 246 1 8 6 4

Maryland.” Granville Belcher of the Fifty-­Seventh Virginia Infantry, still smarting from the loss at Gettysburg, had no desire to liberate the state or invade the North. “To my opinion ther is thousands of the suthern men that swears that they will never cross the Potomack again,” he firmly told his wife.13 This certainly did not bode well for the continued use of Randall and Cary’s anthem, at least in Virginia. Things declined further when a bill was put before the Confederate Congress that would enable Virginia to conscript men living in the state regardless of what state they called home. A writer for the Richmond Examiner admitted this odd bill was “intended especially for Marylanders.” During the debate a representative turned Randall’s words back on recalcitrant Marylanders: “We hear ‘Maryland, my Maryland,’ with ‘the torch upon her temple doors,’ and all that, sung about town, and no sooner does a man from Maryland come here [Richmond] than he enters into every sort of speculation, and leaves ‘his Maryland’ to be rescued from the ‘despot’s heel’ by Confederate valour.” Men from Kentucky and Missouri were being impressed in Virginia, whereas Marylanders had been granted exemption from the draft; the writer described “half a dozen finely-­dressed individuals from Baltimore, who stopped at one of the best hotels, and after dinner comfortably laid back and, picking their teeth, patriotically averred ‘that the South would certainly succeed,’ ‘the South must succeed,’ and similar encouraging declarations, but they took care not to come forward and proffer their aid to that success.”14 Ironically, two weeks later the Examiner announced that a member of Congress was feted by a group of Marylanders for his support of their state, and following the obligatory toasts came a performance of “Maryland, My Maryland.” A few days later a particularly hostile piece then attacked Representative Daniel Coleman DeJarnette of Virginia for opposing the motion to impress Marylanders into the army. “Mr. D, however, has a reputation for snorting and colicky eloquence in the House,” the paper chided, “and his invocation to ‘My Maryland’ was probably intended only to relieve his own bowels of some windy rhetoric.” After observing the verbal scuffle in Richmond’s papers, 1 8 6 4 247

26. A New York broadside offered a line-­by-­line “answer” to three verses of Randall’s impassioned plea for Maryland to join the Confederacy. David M. Rubenstein Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Duke University.

the Washington Evening Star drew the obvious conclusion that Virginia was “down on ‘My Maryland,’ and Maryland refugees.”15 A band of musicians was caught in the rhetorical crossfire. In April the Richmond Examiner shared a humorous story concerning the attempted conscription of a band of musicians. Members of the Iron-­Clad Opera Troupe had gathered for a rehearsal at Richmond’s Metropolitan Hall when conscript guards appeared, gathered up the group, and marched them to the provost marshal for impressment. All but a few of the musicians “exhibited neutral colors—­the Lion and Unicorn and ‘Maryland, my Maryland’” and hence were released. This curious turn of phrase, “neutral colors,” and the linking of Maryland by its song with the heraldry of Great Britain (“the Lion and the Unicorn”) treated Maryland almost as if it were a separate country.16 The use of “Maryland, My Maryland” as a trope in the Virginia press diminished in 1864. For the Old Dominion State it would seem that reference to Randall’s lyric no longer carried visions of a subjugated sister state waiting for liberation. Now the image of a “peerless chivalry” guarding the “temple doors” communicated scorn, not admiration. For both Maryland Unionists and Virginia Confederates, “Maryland, My Maryland” had become a tool to bludgeon Maryland Confederates. Some Union troops literally combined musical and physical violence against a Maryland citizen when they sang a mocking form of “Rally Round the Flag” after having beaten the man.17 In other papers the use of “Maryland, My Maryland” as trope now served as a placeholder for the state, not as a poetic indictment. For example, the Evening Star reported a number of Confederate deserters from Maryland. When asked why they had left the army, they said they were “tired of service and wanted to get back to ‘My Maryland.’”18 A soldier from the Sixth New Hampshire Heavy Artillery informed readers back home that their boys had “received orders to pack our knapsacks and take up our line of march for ‘My Maryland.’”19 In both cases there is no covert meaning behind the choice of words. The implied or observed connection between women and “Maryland, My Maryland” also continued in 1864. A correspon1 8 6 4 249

dent writing for Georgia’s Daily Constitutionalist wrote of passing through New York City where he sensed a residual sympathy for the South in the music that he heard. “One night about twelve o’clock, I heard a party of revellers pass down Broadway, singing the ‘Bonnie Blue Flag’ at the top of their lungs. On another occasion, some feminine was beating the hotel piano with ‘My Maryland’ in vocal accompaniment.”20 While often phrased in less-­than-­flattering terms, the established link between women and “Maryland, My Maryland” may have contributed to its sustained popularity when its patriotic links began to falter. Randall’s lady “Maryland” suits what Alice Fahs called “the feminized war,” where literature and the arts demanded “recognition not only of women’s contributions to the war effort but also, as the war wore on, of their intense suffering.”21 Perhaps listeners were subconsciously shifting their allegiance toward “Maryland” the suffering heroine, a poetic and musical icon of all that women experienced during the war. The Battle of Monocacy At the end of June, Pvt. John West Haley of Maine was remembering the previous year when his regiment was stationed in the agreeable surroundings of Taneytown, Maryland. Now Haley found himself in the less desirable terrain outside of Petersburg where Lee and his army were entrenched. Haley couldn’t help but chuckle: “Gen. Lee and his Rebel horde can hardly feel like singing ‘Maryland, my Maryland,’ under present circumstances.”22 Little could Haley realize that Lee certainly had Maryland on his mind, and he was not the only one. The optimistic editors of the Richmond Whig heard rumors that there might soon be an “uprising of the people of Baltimore” and prayed that “the devotees of liberty and independence in Baltimore may soon have cause to thank God for their deliverance from the brutal foe. ‘Maryland, my Maryland,’ may yet redeem herself.”23 What precipitated Lee’s thoughts of Maryland and the Richmond Whig’s hopes of salvation was a daring raid on Washington that was taking place even as Private Haley was fixing up his tent outside of Petersburg. Needing a way to divert the Army 250 1 8 6 4

of the Potomac and break the siege, Lee sent a force north to threaten the capital. Lt. Gen. Jubal Early, who had been aggravating Union forces in the Shenandoah Valley, led some 15,000 troops straight through Maryland. Early had expected a relatively easy, uncontested march, since only inexperienced local militia should be guarding Maryland and the defenses around Washington. In this he was only partly right; the Eleventh Maryland Infantry, for example, had been together only four weeks before marching off to Frederick.24 What Early did not know was that these new units were not alone; much to his surprise, Early ran straight into Gen. Lew Wallace and veterans of the Union VI Corps brought up from Virginia to protect the capital. On July 9 the two forces clashed just south of Frederick along the Monocacy River. While Early eventually defeated the outnumbered Federals, he was delayed a full day, which enabled more troops from Petersburg to supplement the defenses around Washington. By the time Early reached the outskirts of the capital, he found it an impossible nut to crack, so he withdrew back to Virginia. Henry Clay Mettam, a Confederate from Pikesville, Maryland, sadly noted that the First Maryland Cavalry (csa) were “the last troops that crossed the Potomac on Early’s withdrawal from Maryland in 1864.”25 Upon reading news of Jubal Early’s drive through Maryland, Unionist Dr. Samuel Harrison of Talbot County, Maryland, scoffed: “From this it would appear that they regard Maryland as no longer their friend.”26 The Stevens family from Cambridge were likewise angered and disgusted by the Confederate move against Maryland. E. May Stevens was visiting friends and family near Philadelphia when Early launched his attack. Her aunt and uncle did not feel it was safe for May to travel through Baltimore to her home on the Eastern Shore, and she conceded that the roads were probably clogged with troops. While frustrated by the turmoil around her, May had particular spite for those she saw as traitors to their state. “I suppose all those renegade Marylanders are with the troops ravaging their native state—­my dear state—­it seems hard after all her troubles she should be subjected to this.”27 Those who supported the Confederacy felt predictably dif1 8 6 4 251

ferent about the invasion. Rebecca Davis and her family gladly handed out shortcakes, milk, and apples to hungry Confederate troops as they retreated back to Virginia. Rebecca was proud to observe that many of the soldiers were Marylanders serving under Gen. Bradley Tyler Johnson, a native of Frederick barely thirty miles from her home. After she had fed a second passel of soldiers (this time cavalry under the command of Maj. Harry Gilmor of Baltimore), a few officers “begged” for some music, so Rebecca and her sister provided “Annie of the Vale.” It is curious that Rebecca chose to sing a prewar favorite, not Randall and Cary’s much-­abused song or any other patriotic anthem. Whatever the reason, Rebecca seemed more concerned with her singing skills than with the content of the song: “Almost forgot to be embarrassed, they were so free & easy, yes the idea of our tuning up our faint pipes for Major Gilmor &c. strikes me now as laughable in the extreme.”28 It is possible that this is an indication of Rebecca’s frustration with her state’s political position, but it is also likely that she and her visitors preferred hearing music with no connection to the war. In the eyes of at least one journalist, however, Randall’s song had lost its power over Marylanders: “Time was when the rebels claimed the State of Maryland as belonging to them, and the ballad ‘Maryland! my Maryland!’ was used to spread abroad the sentiment. But, in this invasion the practice of the enemy has disproved the thing so clearly that the attention of the world should be called to the fact.”29 Events surrounding the Battle of Monocacy did little to endear Confederate soldiers to Marylanders of either political inclination. Bitter about the destruction leveled against property by Union soldiers during the Shenandoah Campaign, on July 6 General Early sent cavalry under the command of Brig. Gen. John McCausland to Hagerstown to levy a ransom of $20,000 and to demand whatever clothing could be gathered. The Baltimore Sun, a newspaper with a history of Southern sympathies, could not soften the event: “Finally all the clothing that could be found was gathered up—­including children’s shoes and many other articles entirely useless to the army, and when about everything was got that could be found, the ‘Southern brethren’ of ‘My Maryland’ were content.”30 On July 30 McCausland 252 1 8 6 4

demanded the exorbitant sum of $500,000 cash or $100,000 in gold from Chambersburg, Pennsylvania, then proceeded to raze the town when his demands were not met. Even hardcore Confederates in Maryland had trouble defending such actions. McCausland made a similar demand at Hancock, Maryland, but approaching Union forces forced him to head for Virginia before he could follow through on his threats. Lt. William Bean of the Baltimore Light Artillery (csa) was enraged by what had happened in his beloved state. Following the burning of Chambersburg, he submitted his resignation from the army, claiming that his “sense of honor and rights as a man” and his “duty as a Christian” could not condone the “damning outrages perpetrated by our troops.” Bean was placed under arrest for “mutinous insubordinate conduct” and sent to the stockades in Staunton, Virginia. A few weeks later Bean sent a letter to Gen. Samuel Cooper, inspector general of the Confederate Army, stating that his previous words were written “under the influence of excitement and indignation at outrages committed in my native state, Maryland.” The charges were dropped, and Bean returned to his unit.31 On the lighter side, the Charleston Mercury decided to make the best of Early’s thwarted adventure in the Old Line State. Citing the cattle that Jubal Early had confiscated and sent back to Petersburg, the newspaper observed that hungry soldiers were looking forward to a real meal and that “many will no doubt sing ‘Maryland, my Maryland’ while eating it.”32 “Maryland” and the Confederacy in Late 1864 Early’s raid was the last time Confederate forces would threaten the North. Back in Virginia, there was no end in sight to the stalemate around Petersburg. On July 30 the men of the Thirtieth U.S. Colored Troops (organized in Benedict, Maryland) were ordered into the bloodbath known as the Battle of the Crater at Petersburg, losing their commanding officer, Col. Delevan Bates. The attempt to break the Confederate lines was an expensive mistake, leaving the siege to continue for months. In Georgia, however, things were heating up. Moving fast and hitting hard, Maj. Gen. William T. Sherman kept trying to out1 8 6 4 253

maneuver the Army of Tennessee under Gen. Joseph Johnston. Fights erupted at Dalton (May 7–­13, 1864), Resaca (May 13–­15), New Hope Church (May 25–­26), and Kennesaw Mountain (June 27), and despite mounting Union losses, the Confederates were forced to keep pulling back. Frustrated by what he mistakenly saw as a lack of aggression in his commander, President Davis replaced Johnston with Gen. John Bell Hood of Texas, an officer known for his assertive if not reckless style. Hood immediately launched a number of bloody attacks on Sherman that failed to dissuade the Union forces. By the end of July Sherman was in place to threaten Atlanta, and there was little Hood could do to stop him; in the words of one Confederate soldier, “All eyes are now turned west in almost breathless expectation.”33 In August Sherman began to encircle the city. Hood chose to pull out and drive north toward Tennessee in the hope of drawing Sherman’s army after him, but to no avail. On September 2 Union forces took possession of Atlanta. General Hood, having moved north to threaten Sherman’s supply lines, promptly ran into the Army of the Ohio under John Shofield at Franklin, Tennessee. The angry Hood launched an ill-­considered attack against well-­defended positions, burning up soldiers and officers he could not afford to lose. Shofield pulled back and Hood followed, only to face Gen. George H. Thomas’s healthy Army of the Cumberland. The resulting battle destroyed Hood’s army as an effective fighting force. Ignoring Hood’s movements, Sherman left Atlanta on November 15, driving southeast through Georgia and arriving at Savannah on December 21. Along the way he destroyed property, seized goods, and ultimately demoralized the Confederacy as a whole by his unopposed march through the heart of the South. Elsewhere Union forces were having similar success. Adm. David Farragut provided Lincoln with a much-­needed victory on August 5 when he seized Mobile Bay. Maj. Gen. Phil Sheridan was put in charge of Union forces in the Shenandoah Valley, eventually defeating Jubal Early at the Third Battle of Winchester on September 19. One month later Early caught that Union Army sleeping at Cedar Creek and overran their camps, but a desperate counterattack broke the Confederate 254 1 8 6 4

lines and forced Early into retreat. Early’s Army of the Valley was shattered and never again proved a threat. “We never witnessed a worse condition of affairs or worse demoralization among our troops,” wrote Confederate Marylander John Gill.34 The series of Union military victories might indicate that Union patriotism was riding high while Confederate patriotism was slipping. The picture was more complex, however. In the North, the elections of 1864 were almost as tense as they had been four years earlier, as not everyone was pleased with Lincoln’s first term in office. The Emancipation Proclamation and the mixed performance of the Union high command, coupled with partisan politics and a country tired of war, meant that Lincoln’s reelection was by no means guaranteed. Lincoln eventually won with 55 percent of the popular vote, but he gathered 78 percent of the soldiers’ vote, a sharp indication that soldiers shared the patriotic vision of their president. Lincoln won the state of Maryland by the slim margin of 7,414 votes, or 10 percent of the total votes cast. Southerners might have seen this as a sign of solidarity with the Confederacy had not another election occurred in Maryland in the month prior to the presidential elections. On October 13, a new constitution was placed before the citizens for ratification. It was approved with 30,174 (50.31 percent) in favor and 29,799 (49.69 percent) opposed. While the narrow margin was telling, even more significant was that a civilian majority voted against the new constitution; it was the soldiers’ vote that ensured ratification. The significance in this new constitution was the article that abolished slavery, making Maryland the first “slave state” to enact emancipation. “The Maryland soldiers have achieved one of the grandest victories of the war,” wrote Harper’s Weekly. “They have lifted “the despot’s heel” from the shore of their Maryland.” The redefinition of one of Randall’s most memorable images would not be lost on readers, and some Unionists seemed ready to welcome Maryland back into the fold. “God bless the Maryland citizens at the front and the Maryland citizens at home,” exclaimed the editors at Harper’s.35 To celebrate the event, the Boston Evening Transcript published a new set of words for Randall and Cary’s song: 1 8 6 4 255

Now hear the prayers we pour for thee, Maryland, my Maryland, Thy children are forever free! Maryland, my Maryland, The gloom that gathered o’er thy head Before pure Freedom’s army fled, Leaving a glory in its stead, Maryland, my Maryland.36

Southerners reacted differently to the new constitution and Maryland’s confirmation as a Union state. Judith McGuire of Richmond drew heavily from, and even amplified, Randall’s verse for her lament: “Maryland, alas for Maryland! the tyrant’s heel appears too heavy for her, and we grievously fear that the prospect of her union with the South is rapidly passing away. If we must give her up, it will not be without sorrow and mortification. We shall mournfully bewail her dishonour and shame.”37 John Hatton of the First Maryland Artillery (csa) was returning to Chimborazo Hospital in Richmond following a brief visit to Fredericksburg when he heard of the new constitution put before the people of Maryland. Believing the constitutional revisions would be defeated, Hatton offered a lengthy soliloquy on the impact this would have on the already troubled relations between Marylanders and other states. His words offered a shrewd summary of the tortured role of his home state during the war: It was hoped that this stand of Maryland, showing her principles the same as the South, would have a tendency to modify the ill will the Richmond people have against the Maryland refugee. It was a [notable] fact that many of the influential people about Richmond had a certain degree of contempt for the Marylander. It was hard to discover the origin of this feeling. It was explained that the Marylander fled from his state to evade the Federal draft and sought shelter in Virginia and became a corrupt and troublesome element. This may have been true to a certain extent. But there are often things to be taken in account. . . . Quite a number of the best families of our state found their way to Richmond through their support for the Southern cause, and were rendering valuable 256 1 8 6 4

services in different capacities about the seat of Government as well as other sections of the Confederacy. Also the Confederate army was augmented with the best blood of Maryland, not only by those who fled the Federal draft, but by many because of their unadulterated sympathy and patriotism for the Southern cause. Notwithstanding this, there was an unaccountable prejudice against the Marylander, no matter what his service had been. Our command never received praise for meritorious service rendered, but the newspapers of Richmond chimed in to laud as heroes the Virginia companies and artillery upon the slightest display of gallantry.38

There was much truth behind Hatton’s thoughts, but the fact is that some Maryland troops had done little to help the standing of their state in the eyes of Virginians and others. Squabbling and political machinations had led to the mustering out of the First Maryland Infantry in 1862, and though a new Maryland brigade was announced at the end of 1863, many Confederates were unwilling to grant them trust or respect. It would be curious to know how the audience felt when the Maryland Line Glee Club gave a “grand concert” in Taylorsville, Virginia, to raise money to buy clothes for “soldiers of the Line,” while the Stonewall Brigade Band of Virginia was raising money for widows and orphans.39 This bias could be found in Union as well as Confederate troops. John McElroy was a prisoner at the infamous Andersonville Prison. He described one prison official as “a moderate brained Baltimorean, and one of that horde of Marylanders in the Rebel Army, whose principal service to the Confederacy consisted in working themselves into ‘bomb-­proof’ places, and forcing those whom they displaced into the field.” McElroy followed the practice of using Randall’s lyric to vilify Gen. John H. Winder and other Confederate Marylanders: “Winder was the illustrious head of this crowd of bomb-­proof Rebels from ‘Maryland, My Maryland’ whose enthusiasm for the Southern cause and consistency in serving it only in such places as were out of range of the Yankee artillery, was the subject of many bitter jibes by the Rebels—­especially by those whose secure berths they possessed themselves of.” McElroy further lambasted the 1 8 6 4 257

Rebel prison officer for having been a part of the mob who attacked the Sixth Massachusetts Infantry during the Pratt Street Riot. “But, like all that class of roughs, he got his stomach full of war as soon as the real business of fighting began, and he retired to where the chances of attaining a ripe old age were better than in front of the Army of the Potomac’s muskets.”40 McElroy’s rant is surprising not only for its vehemence but for its similarity to complaints found in Southern newspapers. Of course, Marylanders were more than capable of sustaining their own regional prejudices. Lt. Col. Gregory Barrett of the Fourth Maryland (usa) indignantly corrected someone who had mistakenly named his regiment as belonging to the IX Corps. “I am very sorry if the 4th Regt. has been associated in your mind all along with the 9th Corps,” he huffed. “To belong to that Corps I should consider as great a disgrace as to claim citizenship in the State of New Jersey.”41 Barrett was no fan of George McClellan, who at this point was living in New Jersey and campaigning against Lincoln for president. Marylanders seemed fated to carry the burden of their state’s unlucky position between Union and Confederacy, unable to shake the blemish of uncertain loyalties and artificial patriotism. “Maryland, My Maryland,” on the other hand, had more success than the people of Maryland, somehow surviving years of misuse, altercations, denunciations, and worse. By the end of 1864 “Maryland, My Maryland” stood apart from its namesake. Victory of the Song over the State On May 4, 1864, the Charleston Courier printed yet another version of “Maryland, My Maryland” titled “Liberty! O, Liberty!” We have marked thy downcast, outraged mien, Liberty! O, Liberty! Thy garments blood-­stained we have seen, Liberty! O, Liberty! Oh, let our bodies be the screen, To guard this trust in all its sheen, And be to us what thou has been, Liberty! O, Liberty! 258 1 8 6 4

While there had been innumerable versions of “Maryland, My Maryland” released by 1864, there are two curious issues that make this one unique. First, there is no reference to North or South, Union or Confederacy. That this poem appeared in a Charleston newspaper leaves little doubt as to which country’s liberty is at stake, and there is only one line from stanza four (“And shall our nation born in line / Where gleaming guns and bay’nets shine, / Desist ere she can call thee ‘mine’?”) that points to the Confederacy. But the lyric itself is so vague and sweeping that it could apply to any country. In addition, there is no reference to Randall’s lyric. The claim that this poem fits the air “Maryland, My Maryland” refers to the now-­popular melody; in other words, it can be argued that this is a contrafactum on the tune “Maryland, My Maryland” instead of “O Tannenbaum” or “Lauriger Horatius” and that it is not a parody of Russell’s song. It was the music of “Maryland, My Maryland,” not the lyric, which had been appropriated. By 1864 the fortunes of the state had little impact on the meaning and reception of “Maryland, My Maryland.” Though some groups (like Virginians) might resent the song because of their antipathy toward Marylanders, those from elsewhere in the country had little reason to reject the song. In fact, for many civilians the original patriotic potential was still in force, and the song’s musical appeal remained firm. Susan Bradford Eppes of Florida was profoundly moved by “Maryland, My Maryland” when a Confederate officer performed the piece “so feelingly that it brought tears to many eyes.”42 Perhaps the fact that the officer was from Maryland, and wounded, intensified the performance; it might also be that those in Florida, geographically distanced from the tortured battlefields of northern Virginia and Maryland, felt less bitterness toward Maryland’s failure to join the Southern cause. For some reason the annual meeting of the Health Association in Augusta, Georgia, chose to end their meeting by singing “Maryland, My Maryland.”43 Northern propagandists still treated the song as a particularly contemptible Southern product. In his 1864 collection of anecdotes and poetry of the war, Ledyard Bill announced that “Maryland, My Maryland” “had scarce been heard” since Lee’s 1 8 6 4 259

27. The prominent printer Charles Magnus offered this colorful broadside that recommended both “O Tannenbaum” and “Maryland, My Maryland” as appropriate music for the lyrics. There are no overt references to Randall’s original verses. Courtesy of the Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library & Museum (alplm).

aborted invasion of Maryland. He claimed that “few would fail to appreciate” Finley Johnson’s Union 1862 lyric to the song: The “liberating army” came, Maryland, My Maryland, Polluting thy soil in Freedom’s name, Maryland, my Maryland, They came with “proclamations” loud, They came with dirty, ragged crowd, To wrap thee in Secession’s shroud, Maryland, my Maryland.44

While civilians in New York and Boston may have found pleasure in Finley’s insipid words, it is safe to say that most Union soldiers would have little use for such a song. In fact, it is likely that most soldiers had never heard it. Brash patriotic symbols may have retained significance for civilians, but for soldiers the situation had changed. By this point in the war an edge of melancholy grew to compete with, and in some cases replace, the chest-­beating that had pervaded soldiers’ statements in the war’s early years. After describing a recent battle, Harper Carroll, serving as aide-­de-­camp to General Ewell, expressed his wistfulness to his wife back in Maryland: “Little darling, I spend many sad moments away from you not knowing what it is that makes me unhappy till your face appears, then heartfelt wishes for this interminable war to end.”45 Carroll’s words echoed the sentiments of countless soldiers from both sides of the line. After so much suffering it is not surprising that pragmatism began to push aside politics in the hearts of soldiers; it was a conclusion to the war more than victory that now occupied their hopes. As a result, patriotic anthems were loosening their grip on soldiers. Patriotism for soldiers was becoming reflexive to some degree. While soldiers remained true to their countries, their allegiance was turning more and more to their comrades in arms and families at home. Soldiers’ patriotism was returning to a community-­based loyalty instead of the impersonal symbolic, state-­based patriotism that had dominated in 1861 and 1862.46 Kirsten Schultz’s detailed study of Confederate songsters revealed that although 1 8 6 4 261

soldiers performed and listened to many newly composed songs, late-­war publications “relied more often on antebellum lyrics than on ones written during the war.”47 “Maryland, My Maryland,” like other patriotic anthems, was losing its standing as a sacred artifact. It still functioned successfully in the service of patriotism, but patriotism itself was changing its colors. This shifting outlook helps to explain the increase in humorous treatments of Randall’s previously hallowed words. Walter Clark of the Eighth Georgia claimed that the “masterpiece” of his regiment’s rhymester was a parody of “My Maryland” that referred to notable members of the unit as well as their recent exploits. Come ’tis the red dawn of the day, Here’s your mule, Come, details, join our proud array, Here’s your mule, With Clayton panting for the fray, With Rogers urging on that bay, With Derry bold and Russell gay, Here’s your mule, Oh! Here’s your mule.48

This Georgia wordsmith was certainly above average, as his parody not only directly imitates Russell’s fourth stanza and its list of historic figures (replacing them with notorious characters from the regiment) but the refrain “My Maryland” is replaced with “Here’s your mule,” which was actually a popular phrase from the army that had become a trope—­and a song—­in itself. William Mason Smith, a wounded soldier visiting his mother in Greenville, South Carolina, found a “ridiculous” parody of “My Maryland” in an Augusta newspaper and sent it (along with a parody of “Charge of the Light Brigade”) to a young lady-­friend for her amusement.49 As Christian McWhirter observed, a national anthem is “a broad nationalistic statement—­defining a people’s goals and beliefs.”50 After years of bloody fighting, soldiers were now more interested in music that defined personal goals and beliefs instead of the beliefs of “the people.” Patriotic songs might or might not coincide with a soldier’s feelings in 1864, though this 262 1 8 6 4

did not mean works like “Maryland, My Maryland” lost their effectiveness as pieces of music. Hearing these pieces repeatedly during their years of service had established a bond of association if not affinity between the soldiers and patriotic songs. Remove the words, however, and these pieces could actually gain in potential. As noted before, instrumental versions of patriotic songs could shed their specific lyrical denotations; a band’s performance of “Dixie,” “The Star-­Spangled Banner,” or “Maryland, My Maryland” remained anthems by default of their original lyrics and usage, but the tunes by themselves could be enjoyed more as stand-­alone works and less as patriotic symbols. In addition, the absence of words made the importation of personal meaning easier; a Confederate soldier could hear “Maryland, My Maryland” or “Dixie” as representing his unit first, then as an emblem of the Confederacy. This might even make the work more patriotic for some, if the listeners substituted their loyalty to their comrades as the focus of their personal patriotism.51 Most patriotic songs had made their way into band books early and remained there despite any fallout from military or political battles. In January 1862 Maryland officer McHenry Howard noticed that a newly formed regimental band began rehearsing “Maryland, My Maryland” just six months after the song’s creation. The Richmond Examiner had noted that the city’s militia units were parading to “Maryland, My Maryland” in June 1863, then a year later noted that regimental bands played “Dixie” even though the song was sung infrequently.52 Many Southern bands continued to perform their version of Randall and Cary’s anthem despite the state’s mercurial status. In June 1864 S. Millett Thompson of the Thirteenth New Hampshire Infantry witnessed a battle between bands where the Confederate musicians offered “Maryland, My Maryland” as one of their national tunes. Delevan Miller of the Second New York Heavy Artillery described hearing bands from both sides play “national airs” on the Fourth of July, with Union bands offering “Yankee Doodle” and Confederate bands performing “Dixie” and “Maryland, My Maryland.”53 In these cases there was little antagonism directed toward the songs. Thompson and Miller were able to separate the performance from the song; the piece might have provoc1 8 6 4 263

ative potential, but not the performance.54 So while a journalist in New York could hear a group of civilians singing “The Bonnie Blue Flag” or a woman playing “Maryland, My Maryland” on a hotel piano as indisputable signs of Confederate sympathies, soldiers could listen to the same song and hear a military tune played by a regimental band.55 “Maryland, My Maryland” had one more transformation to endure before the war would end, as Union soldiers and bands began performing the song. As the distance between the civilian and soldier communities widened, the entire community of soldiers grew tighter. Yankee and Rebel troops did not become friends by any means, but there arose a bond of shared experience or professional respect between the battlefield opponents. This bond impacted their musical preferences. As noted before, an instrumental version of a patriotic song is more suggestive than definite, allowing soldiers to enjoy each other’s music more as works of art and less as patriotic emblems. So bandleaders took the next logical step. “The partisan connotations of these songs were further diminished as both sides demonstrated their renewed brotherhood by playing each other’s music,” wrote Christian McWhirter. Instead of using a patriotic anthem “as a weapon,” a band’s performance of the opponent’s music “made it a symbol of common wartime experiences.”56 Many Union ensembles, including the band of the Second Brigade, Third Division, XXIII Army Corps, included “Dixie” in their repertory.57 The band of the Eighty-­Seventh Pennsylvania Infantry performed “Maryland, My Maryland” onboard a transport as they shifted to Maryland prior to the Battle of Monocacy, while Gen. George Custer ordered his band to play “The Bonnie Blue Flag” as he rode past Confederate prisoners on his way to Appomattox Court House in April 1865.58 For all of these musicians to be able to play these pieces, they had to have enough time to copy the works into their books and to rehearse them. More curious are those few times when Union soldiers mention hearing or performing a vocal version of Randall’s song. Charles Perkins, bugler of the First Massachusetts Infantry, was entertained by a quartet of soldiers who sang “Maryland, My Maryland” (along with “Fishmans Shanty”) during a soldier-­ 264 1 8 6 4

28. This 1864 addition to the bounty of “Maryland” parodies substituted the president’s name for the state. The less than impressive first verse reads: “From California’s seagirt shores, /Abraham, our Abraham! / To where the great Atlantic roars, / Abraham, our Abraham! / The people cry with one accord, / Death! Death to all the rebel horde! / Let freedom conquer by the sword, / Abraham, our Abraham!” Library of Congress, Rare Book and Special Collection Division, Stern catalog 4978.

run singing school at Brandy Station, Virginia, on April 11, 1864. No mention is made as to whether this performance featured Randall’s words or Johnson’s Unionized version. Either way, it is difficult to imagine that these men from the Bay State heard much in the way of patriotic sentiment given that the sometime anthem was paired with “Fishmans Shanty.”59 J. W. Kincheloe of the Forty-­Ninth Virginia told of swapping songs with some Yankees across the Rappahannock, with each side using their own lyrics to common tunes.60 It would seem that soldiers in blue and gray were willing to accept each other’s anthems as enjoyable pieces of music and leave the rancor for the battlefield. Civilians, on the other hand, were much less accepting in their tastes. Some Confederates even continued to harp on the lack of a viable national anthem despite the ubiquity and general acceptance of the South’s favorite songs. A brief letter to the editor of the Augusta Daily Constitutionalist took it upon himself to point out that “Maryland, My Maryland” was an act of “musical plagiarism,” though why the editor chose to raise this particular issue at the end of 1864 is a mystery.61 A contributor to Southern Punch decided that the summer of 1864 was a good time to disparage the Confederacy’s current stable of anthems. “That much talked of ‘national song’ has not yet been written,” he griped. He disregards Pike’s lyrics to “Dixie’s Land,” “The Southern Marseillaise,” and “God Save the South” as poor imitations of better songs. Randall’s song was apparently the best of the crop, “the most popular, for a season, of all the songs mentioned,” but this author again criticized the derivative nature of “Maryland, My Maryland.” “Mere imitations are soulless because coldly artistic,” he concluded. “A song to live must be written in an inspired moment; and vibrates along the heart-­cords of millions of men.”62 That a journalist would choose this time in the war to critique patriotic songs seems more a statement on the health and disposition of Confederate patriotism than it does on the quality of musical anthems.

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twelve

1865 Performing Patriotism and Nostalgia after Appomattox

The first months of 1865 saw a combination of events that offered hope to some and despair to others. Northern soldiers had the most to look forward to, as larger and better supplied Union forces were advancing inextricably against their opponents throughout the country. On the other side of the lines, some Confederate soldiers remained true to their original motivations even as others began to desert in record numbers. Northern civilians grew increasingly confident and boasted of imminent victory, whereas Southern civilians experienced a jumble of hopefulness and despondency depending on their proximity to the fighting. Many on both sides were simply weary of war and hoped that the end was in sight. Almeda Harris Seeley of Cecil County, Maryland, expressed her pain and dejection to her diary on the first day of 1865. “War & Blood shed desolation have bin going on what Tears have bin shed, Mothers weeping for their Sons, slain in Battle, Wives weeping for the Husbands, some have gone in the bloom of youth, yes maney Homes have bin made desolate this last year, I feel it is so.” Almeda, a widower herself, shared the pain of women all over the country: “this New years day there is a vacant seat by our Fire side, that never can be filled, Wife & Daughter lonely in deed this butiful New years day.”1 In border states like Maryland, such sufferings were all the more poignant for those whose families had been torn apart by the war. In May 1865 Walt Whitman described one of his many visits to the hospitals around Washington dc where he came upon two young brothers from Maryland. “It was in the same battle both were hit,” Whitman recalled, providing a fitting epitaph to the

troubled state. “One was a strong Unionist, the other Secesh; both fought on their respective sides, both badly wounded, and both brought together here after absence of four years. Each died for his cause.”2 By 1865 concerns about Maryland’s place in the Union, its relationship with the Confederacy, and the loyalty of its citizens had drifted into the background. What fighting there was at the start of the year had no influence on the Old Line State. In the West there was scattered fighting, but the major Confederate armies were in no shape to pose a strategic threat. Union Maj. Gen. James H. Wilson led a cavalry force on a raid into Alabama and Georgia, destroying industry and taking large numbers of prisoners at Selma, Alabama, and at West Point and Columbus, Georgia. Wilson’s success stifled any hope of Southern military reorganization in the heartland of the Confederacy. In the east the Union seizure of Fort Fisher, North Carolina, on January 13 finally closed the blockade that had been strangling the Confederacy. The eyes of the public, however, were on the siege of Petersburg and on Sherman’s relentless drive up the coast of the Carolinas. Having taken Savannah in December, Sherman moved north and on February 16 began shelling Columbia. On March 4, 1865, a confident President Lincoln began his second term with a speech that sowed the seeds of reconciliation. Sadly, the beginning of 1865 brought tragedy to the Cary family. After a lengthy engagement, Hetty Cary married Gen. John Pegram of Virginia on January 19. The much publicized event took place at St. Paul’s Church in Richmond and boasted President Davis and his wife, Varina, among the attendees. Only three weeks later, Pegram was killed at the Battle of Hatcher’s Run. According to Miles Cary, the loss threatened to overwhelm Hetty: “My sister could not be induced to leave the body for a moment. Agonized and most crazed with grief, she lay on the pallet by the side of the lifeless clay, piteously apostrophizing it, and tenderly wooing back the noble soul that had fled. . . . As night grew on, the harrowing scene grew almost too intense for human endurance, and when dawn appeared, we tore her away almost by force.”3 The funeral was held at the same church in which the young couple had just been married. 268 1 8 6 5

“Maryland, My Maryland,” Patriotism, and Performativity For many soldiers in blue or gray, whatever patriotic cause had driven them into the ranks at the outbreak of war remained firm throughout their enlistment. For some it intensified, leading soldiers like Nathanial Gorgas to fall back on the most potent symbolism to convey his passion. After a brief stay in Washington, Gorgas was thrilled to learn that his unit (104th Ohio) was once again to be sent to the front. “The front! How familiar that sounds to the old veterans of the first or Gen. Reily’s brigade. They scarcely know what the rear is. We know that the laurels we have won will stand forth in history in glittering colors, and our great aim now is to add more to them.” Gorgas was by no means a glory hound, as his letters were littered with sharp and spiteful anti-­Confederate rhetoric and a genuine revulsion of slavery. For Gorgas, his will to fight is a logical outgrowth of his patriotism, something all should share: “My opinion is that if we all do our duty we can satisfy the rebel authorities this summer, that the ‘Star spangled banner shall triumphantly wave over the land of the free and the home of the brave.’” In a subsequent letter, Gorgas blended his regional bias with another popular song trope, “Jordan Is a Hard Road to Travel.” After describing some harsh fighting in North Carolina, he told his mother of rumors that Lee had left Richmond and was heading in his direction. “But let him come and the western boys will learn him a few tricks that he never seen in the show at Richmond. . . . We will learn him that Secession is a hard road to travel.”4 “Maryland, My Maryland” and all its progeny remained highly visible and continued to follow the distinct though parallel paths that had emerged in 1863. It could serve as an emblem of the Confederacy, it could be viewed as a Southern piece, or it could be heard as a pleasant tune regardless of its political connotations. As the end of the war approached, what mattered most was who was performing it, who was listening, and where the performance occurred. S. Millett Thompson of New Hampshire listened to some Confederate soldiers sing “Maryland, My Maryland” outside of Richmond in January 1865: “The 1 8 6 5 269

rebels the other day struck up ‘My Maryland,’ when a bad lot of Union men near by answered them loudly with the same air accommodated to a verse composed almost wholly of the vilest possible profanity. The rebels were disgusted and quit. Our men then sang another verse in the sweetest words and terms they could invent. This re-­assured the rebels, who were for once outdone in profanity, and they soon renewed the original concert.” Thompson’s evaluation of this musical battle indicated an unexpected allegiance. It was his fellow soldiers in blue who were named as a “bad lot,” not the rebels singing, and the crime was a combination of vulgarity and interrupting a performance that Thompson seems to have been enjoying. It is telling that Thompson chose the word “concert” to describe what he was hearing, implying that he was serving as the audience for this impromptu performance. That being said, “Maryland, My Maryland” still stood as one of the primary musical emblems of the South in Thompson’s ears, even when compared with another anthem of the Confederacy, Harry McCarthy’s “Bonnie Blue Flag,” which he named as “the principal rebel song—­unless ‘My Maryland’ stands first.” The difference for Thompson was that the tune to McCarthy’s anthem had lost its charm: “Its music, however, is flat, and the rebels have worn the stuff in it all to rags.” Apparently “Maryland, My Maryland” was still an enjoyable work of music for this Northern soldier.5 The reception of “Maryland, My Maryland” would also differ depending on where it was performed and whether the listeners were soldiers or civilians. Puckish drummer boy William Bircher enjoyed a spontaneous performance of “Maryland, My Maryland” by some Southern ladies while strolling down the streets of Savannah in January 1865. In return, Bircher and his comrades gave the ladies “The Star-­Spangled Banner,” and both sides seemed to enjoy the exchange regardless of the purported antipathy each song should elicit.6 No doubt gender played a significant role in this bipartisan exchange, but it is also likely that such patriotic anthems were losing their rancor for some. Either way, a song about Maryland sung by civilians in Union-­occupied Savannah did not have the same impact as an equivalent performance in Richmond or Baltimore would have had in previous years. 270 1 8 6 5

“Maryland, My Maryland” after Appomattox On April 2 Ulysses S. Grant broke through the lines around Petersburg, finally ending the nine-­month siege. Upon hearing the news, the Confederate government abandoned Richmond for Danville, Virginia. Robert E. Lee withdrew his battered army west to Appomattox Court House where fast moving Union forces cut off his retreat. After one attempt to break out, Lee surrendered his army on April 9. Five days later, John Wilkes Booth assassinated Abraham Lincoln, and Andrew Johnson, who held little patience or sympathy with Southerners and their situation, took the reins of power. Lee’s surrender started a chain reaction: Gen. Joseph E. Johnston, who had been trying to hold off Sherman’s advance, surrendered on April 26; May 4 saw the capitulation of Gen. Richard Taylor, commander of the remaining Confederate armies east of the Mississippi; and three weeks later Gen. Kirby Smith surrendered his forces in the trans-­Mississippi, then promptly fled to Mexico. Members of the Fourth Maryland Light Artillery (csa) were silent as their commander read Lee’s farewell to the Army of Northern Virginia. “The men listened with marked attention and with moistened eyes as this grand farewell from our old chief was read, and then receiving each his parole they every one shook my hand warmly and bade me good-­by.”7 Lt. Col. Gregory Barrett of the Fourth Maryland Infantry (usa) described how his Marylanders celebrated when they heard of Lee’s surrender: “Shouting, cheering, dancing, bands playing national airs, in fact we looked like a lot of lunatics.”8 Marylanders in blue had every reason to cheer, and the sound of their bands playing victoriously added a whole new dimension to the meaning of Union patriotic music. Yet the troubles that had plagued Maryland throughout the war could not be dispelled by a single event, no matter how significant that event might be. When describing the reaction to news of Lee’s surrender, Dr. Samuel Harrison recorded the subdued reaction near his home along the Eastern Shore of Maryland: “Our own people are too divided on sentiment, and the loyal are too far separated in position to be able to give a noisy demonstration of their joy of this great 1 8 6 5 271

29. The self-­styled “Les Miserables de Point Lookout” were Confederate prisoners held at the pow camp on Point Lookout, anxious to leave “My Maryland” and be exchanged at City Point, Virginia, across the Potomac River. Francis Trevelyan Miller, The Photographic History of the Civil War, vol. 9 (New York: Review of Reviews, 1911).

event.”9 Maryland Unionists celebrated victory, and Maryland Confederates bemoaned their loss, but both sides were relieved to see their soldiers return home. “Baltimore for the last few days has redeemed a good deal of its old looks; so many of our boys have come back, you have no difficulty in distinguishing even those with whom you have no acquaintance, by their healthy sunburnt faces,” wrote Daniel Thomas. It is impossible to determine where Thomas’s loyalties lay from his account; his pleasure at seeing familiar faces returning from the front overshadowed the color of their uniforms: “I really cannot describe the emotions with which I greet the return of these splendid fellows, to many of whom I was so strongly attached, and who with all their old qualities retained come back so vastly ennobled by the trying events of their four years Campaign.”10 Patriotic music, including “Maryland, My Maryland,” was somewhat displaced following the surrenders. During the war anthems had been asked to attract recruits, bolster morale, bring communities together, and define the subject and goal of patriotic commitment. With the passing of the original crisis, these motivations were no longer necessary. Patriotic music was now expected to celebrate the victory or lament the loss; in less 272 1 8 6 5

noble situations it was used to defy the victors and taunt the losers. This music still retained its original patriotic potential, but the change in patriotism’s needs meant that performances of patriotic music shifted to new functions and meanings. Mrs. A. C. Proctor of Perryville, Kentucky, described the tense situation that still existed in her divided home state following the war. She mentions the ill treatment of Confederate soldiers returning to Kentucky as well as her interaction with Federal soldiers in the area. “I told the highest officers I was not only a secessionist but I was a disunionist & had been for 30 years that I was for disunion in Heaven on Earth & in Hell!” Union troops in the area used music to appease diehard Confederates like Proctor and smooth over simmering hostilities with notable success (she considered these musical gestures a “complement”). Proctor was feted by Union bands on multiple occasions, but she does not mention what music they played. Apparently the performances meant more than the pieces performed.11 Soldiers appeared willing to treat patriotic pieces more as aesthetic objects than as patriotic symbols following the surrender at Appomattox. By no means was the impact of patriotic music lost on the men, however. Four years of brutal fighting had imprinted this music with baggage that could never be removed. Many soldiers were able to listen past the musical politics inherent in patriotic songs, but others still heard an anthem’s performance as a contentious deed. Henry Holcomb, a musician in the Second Brigade, Third Division, XXIII Army Corps, witnessed the residual power of his band’s music when playing for a crowd in Jamestown, North Carolina, just a few miles south of Greensboro. His band first performed for a “motley crowd” from the hotel porch. “I never saw people so eager for music; but doubtless it was better than they were accustomed to hearing,” he decided. After dinner the musicians participated in a flag-­raising ceremony, then the band serenaded local Union families. At this point some “stay-­at-­home rebels” began cursing the band, and an argument arose between the rowdies and a Union cavalryman, which “resulted in the secesh being pummeled by the cavalryman and sent to the hospital.”12 While the public gathering in support of the Union may have 1 8 6 5 273

been enough to trigger the Confederate loyalists, the performance of Union tunes probably pushed them over the edge. The following month Holcomb witnessed another negative reaction to his band’s performance of patriot music, though this time the audience was a group of young ladies. The brigade band decided to offer a serenade at the Glenn Anna Seminary in Charlotte, North Carolina. “During the progress of the 2nd selection—­a patriotic air,” Holcomb explained, “some of the men chancing to look up saw the front window shades closed and stopped playing. Other players, whose attention had been attracted by the musical vacancies occurring, ceased playing until all had stopped—­a sudden, ridiculous musical diminuendo that had its counterpart in the countermarch that followed.” Apparently the music and the band performing the music were anathema to these loyal young Rebels, so the disheartened musicians returned to the house where they were staying. There they were “cordially received and entertained” by a local family whose members included a Confederate soldier. The Confederate soldier, it seems, was willing to interact with the Union band members, while the Confederate civilians refused any contact.13 As for “Maryland, My Maryland,” the inconsistencies that had plagued its reception throughout the war continued even after the fighting had stopped. In many cases it was civilians who refused to let go of the divisiveness inherent in the song and its lyrics. Lt. Col. Homer Sprague of Connecticut discovered that some Southerners still wielded Randall’s verses as a weapon against their hated foes. Sprague told of an encounter he and his comrades experienced outside of Augusta, Georgia, in May 1865: A number of officers, at one of our halts, visited one of the fine residences and were entertained by several ladies with songs and instrumental music. One, more demonstrative than the rest, sung “Maryland, My Maryland,” with extraordinary gusto. Concluding, she turned to Dr. Clarke and said to that urbane gentlemen in a snappish way, “I spose that makes ye mad; don’t it?” To which the Dr. retorted with pro274 1 8 6 5

voking coolness, “O, no. We don’t care what ye sing, as long as we can lick ye!” She rejoined, “We’re not whipped. We’re only overpowered.” “That’s what we call licked in the North,” said the Doctor.14

The Cincinnati Daily Commercial decided to join the musical fray by printing a critique of “Rebel Lyrics” on August 10, 1865. The paper had obtained a recently published pamphlet containing Southern war songs, and after perusing its contents the editors decided the songs provided “an additional reason why the Confederacy turned out a failure.” Some songs were faulted for reusing national songs from other countries, including the North. The “rhetoric and imagery” were judged distinctively Southern in tone, meaning they were “extravagant in expression, and more forcible than neat and logical.” Included in the condemned list were three lyrics set to the tune of “Maryland, My Maryland”: the first, “Close the ranks,” as a soldier’s fighting song; the next, an “invocation” to “Mary Ann,” though it is difficult to determine if this is an awkward love song or a mockery of “Maryland”; the last was clearly a humorous parody that lamented Maryland’s failure to join the Confederacy. Many Union civilians likewise handled Randall’s song like a Confederate declaration. A New York paper told of some passengers aboard the steamer Magenta on the Mississippi River who complained to a Union officer of the ill-­treatment of Union soldiers by Southern passengers and crew. They also complained that “Rebel songs, such as ‘My Maryland’ and others, were sung in the cabin by Rebel officers and women.”15 A correspondent for the New York Semi-­Weekly Express expressed his hostility to the South by mocking the outdated fashions and music he found in Richmond. “Their personal adornments, like the furnishing of their houses, have an air of seedy respectability,” he criticized. Then he turned to music: “In musical matters they are also out of style. From every parlor window on Grace St., one catches the time honored strains of ‘Old Dog Tray,’ ‘Dixie,’ and other ancient tunes, with accompaniments from cracked and discordant pianos. Occasionally ‘The Vacant Chair,’ and ‘Just Before the Battle,’ may be heard, and once poor, played out 1 8 6 5 275

‘My Maryland’ greeted my ears.” This correspondent could not resist one last musical jab: “There is a fine opening for a piano tuner here; at least there is great need of one, and an enterprising young man of that profession, might do a good business, especially if disposed to adopt the credit system.”16 Mocking the financial difficulties facing postwar Virginians seems a low blow, and the facetious suggestion that the discordant sounds could be fixed by a piano tuner implied that the musical tastes in Richmond needed fixing as well. As these examples indicate, there remained an indistinct though plausible connection between “Maryland, My Maryland” and women. A satirical article claiming to be a letter found on a Confederate officer took full advantage of this to chide previously loyal Confederate women who seemed willing to court Yankee officers now that the war was over. “You will be astonished to hear that your friends of the female denomination are dropping off every day,” the letter writer informed “Brother Tom.” “Yes, dropping off, too, as willing victims into the arms of the ruthless invader.” Then began an inventory of ladies and the songs that defined their patriotism. “Just think of it! Mollie, the unconquerable, who used to parade that large Beauregard breastpin, and who used to sing ‘Maryland, my Maryland’ with so much pathos, was married some four months ago to a Federal with but one bar on his shoulder.” Sallie, another young lady “who used to sleep with the ‘Bonnie Blue Flag’ under her pillow,” married another Yankee officer. “And now, out your handkerchief, and prepare for the worst, my poor brother Tom,” the letter continued. “Your old sweetheart, Anna, the one to whom you dedicated your sweetest verses, and whose melodious voice so often mingled with yours in days of yore, who defied both generals and the whole 15th army corps . . . she, too, has hauled down the stars and bars, and is about to surrender at discretion.” While this fictional letter pokes fun at officers and ladies alike, its imagery drew on real attitudes toward music for its humor: “I should not have believed this, but to convince myself I passed her house the other night with a gentleman who protects us during your absence on purpose to find out the state of her political sentiments from her musical pro276 1 8 6 5

gramme.” Clearly one’s political inclinations and personal character could still be deduced from one’s musical tastes. “Take it like a man, Tom,” the letter concluded. “For I must tell you that I heard very distinctly the words of ‘Rally Round the Flag’ and ‘The Union Forever,’ sung in her best style, with a glorious tenor voice mingling with it.”17 Not only does the choice of music imply capitulation; the performance itself was treated as a sign of postwar submission. Perhaps the most interesting postwar handling of “Maryland, My Maryland” came from Europe and especially Great Britain. New York’s Commercial Advertiser discussed the changing image of the Union and Confederacy now that the war was over, drawing attention to the decline of any support for the South. “Even the street boys of London have exchanged ‘My Maryland,’ and the ‘Bonnie Blue Flag’ for ‘Marching Along,’ and ‘Old John Brown,’” the editors affirmed.18 These street boys were brought up a few months later to again evaluate the musical competency of the Union and Confederacy. According to the Pall Mall Gazette of London, “the vexed question of the popularity of the Yankee nation in England has been settled by those certain indicators of public opinion—­the street boys of London.” That there was sympathy for the South “is not altogether absurd,” but by gauging the reception of each side’s songs one can determine popular feeling. “It is true that ‘My Maryland’ and ‘The Bonnie Blue Flag’ may still be heard in the abodes of unfortunate but spiteful sufferers by the ‘cotton loan,’” the Pall Mall admitted, “but the great Federal war-­song is the favorite of the people—­of those who sing in the highways.” That “great” Union song was “John Brown’s Body,” despite its “somewhat lugubrious refrain, ‘Glory, glory, hallelujah!’” It would seem that the Union marching song was fast replacing a minstrel tune, “Slap Bang,” that was the current hit in London. As to one part of its success, the paper conceded: “The slight flavor of blasphemy which ‘Old John Brown’ contains does not apparently give any offence to the popular appetite; rather the contrary effect is observable!’”19 In Liverpool an “accomplished clergyman” and “warm friend of the Union” supplied a new set of lyrics to “Maryland, My Maryland” because, as the Reverend put it, he “should like to 1 8 6 5 277

spoil the Egyptians by appropriating their song ‘My Maryland,’ a sword which can no longer be of use to them.” The sound of war was in thine ear, Maryland, fair Maryland! Thy cheek was wet with many a tear, Maryland, fair Maryland! Thy cheek was wet but never pale, Thy ancient spirit shall not fail, Whoever may or dare assail, Maryland, my Maryland!20

Not to be outdone by the English, Frank Leslie’s Weekly announced that Irish patriots had adopted Russell’s anthem for use as a “Fenian Song.” Thy sons arise to break thy chain, Ireland, my Ireland! To free thee from the tyrant’s claim, Ireland, my Ireland! Avenge proud England’s selfish aim, To add thy hist’ry to her fame, Oh, Liberty, this land reclaim, Ireland, my Ireland!

Apparently Irish Americans should snatch up the new song, regardless of its quality: “The music, with the rhymes, such as they are, is published by Pond, 547 Broadway, and ought to be in the hands of the wearers of ‘the Green.’”21 Patriotism and Nostalgia John Hatton of the First Maryland Artillery had seen his unit devastated by the mine ignited at the Battle of the Crater on the outskirts of Petersburg, Virginia. Convalescing at the home of a sympathetic civilian, he watched as stragglers wandered down the street and waited for word from the front as to the state of Lee’s army. On April 17 four musicians “who had escaped from the Appomattox disaster” stopped by the house where Hatton was staying. His remarkable eulogy to a song and its country is worth repeating in full: 278 1 8 6 5

30. “Maryland, My Maryland” was included in the 1865 collection Sparkling Diamonds from the Chicago publisher Lyon & Healy. The title page has no reference to patriotism or the war, and this instrumental version of the former anthem now appears alongside classical works and popular tunes. Lester S. Levy Collection of Sheet Music, Sheridan Libraries, Johns Hopkins University.

They told pitiful accounts of the retreat, the fighting, and the surrender. After they had dispatched refreshments set before them, they accommodated us with pieces of music rendered upon weather beaten instruments which had pulled through the war. They accompanied the instruments with vocal effusion. Their camp-­songs and comic pieces were quite amusing and entertaining, and aroused considerable merriment. Finally, they tuned their instruments and measured their voices to accord, and struck off as though they had found the familiar note which would open the fountain of their soul. As the strains burst forth and filled the room, it was quickly recognized as “Dixie.” But did the audience manifest joy? Did they applaud as usual the national air? No! They remained as solemn as though listening to a funeral dirge. The men bowed their heads with lines of sadness drawn across their countenances—­the ladies wiped away the tears they could not suppress—­and the musicians themselves fingered the strings as though they thought they had missed the tune. Their instruments were not at fault, but the old ditty and the new conditions did not accord. The song was meaningless only as a reminder of the Lost Cause. Its former sweetness had turned to [gall]. Its inspiration of glee had changed to inspiration of sorrow. It was peculiar in that it still pleased the ear while it saddened the heart.22

Hatton’s stirring recollection of the emotive power of “Dixie” over these listeners reveals multiple layers of meaning and influence. For example, Hatton admitted the aesthetic power of music beyond lyrical or associative content when he noted that he still found “Dixie” pleasing even in such a sad situation. Most significant is Hatton’s recognition that there was more behind the sorrow than the initial reaction to Lee’s surrender. “The song was meaningless,” he judged, “only as a reminder of the Lost Cause.” Not to contradict Hatton, but this simple statement can be rephrased to better understand what was happening. The song was not meaningless; it was taking on new meaning. “Dixie” no longer supported the Confederacy or South that is. The song celebrated the South that was. 280 1 8 6 5

This shift to an even more abstract form of symbolic patriotism moved further away from literal interpretations or applications of patriotism. For a song like “Maryland, My Maryland,” this revitalizing approach—­one based on nostalgia and memorialization—­ once again encouraged the piece’s acceptance and use as an anthem. This time, however, it would serve as a national anthem (referencing the imagined South), not as a patriotic anthem in honor of the Confederate state. “Maryland, My Maryland” was now cut loose from its namesake and that state’s tortured allegiances, from the battles at Antietam or Monocacy, from the state constitution of 1864, and from all those factors that had biased its reception. This left “Maryland, My Maryland” as an ideal object of poetic patriotism, a reconstructed “mythic space” based on imposed values and preferred (even sanitized) memories as opposed to the physical place or material reality.23 Randall’s words were ideally suited to this new role. The tropes of sacrifice, of fearlessly defending against a powerful foe, of the state as a tarnished woman being redeemed, of the gallant defense of one’s beliefs—­all fit the Lost Cause agenda. Ironically, the lyric’s specificity no longer worked against it. With the end of the conflict there was no longer a need to evaluate the song in light of the state’s status. It was the passion behind the events described that mattered, not the location. Songs, just like history, are open to (if not dependent on) personal interpretation. When a piece is listened to, the listener takes that message and entwines it with his or her own attitudes toward whatever the message is or to whatever context the song is attached. In so doing, each individual’s personal history and beliefs seep into the song’s narrative. The song becomes part of our memories and shapes those memories even as our memories shape the meaning of the song.24 One step in this transformation was the belated recognition of “Maryland, My Maryland” as a Confederate anthem; that is, all the questions concerning Maryland or “My Maryland” as part of the Confederacy dream were removed from the equation. Now Randall and Cary’s song was accepted as having been an anthem. For example, a brief article from Century (1888) described how one Confederate soldier compared Union and 1 8 6 5 281

Confederate anthems. Immediately following the surrender at Appomattox, Richard Wentworth Browne visited Richmond where he was entertained by Union officers. An evening sing-­ along caught the attention of some paroled Confederate officers living across the street, who decided to join the gathering. Browne described what happened after the former enemies had listened to a number of Union songs: When the applause had subsided, a tall, fine-­looking fellow, in a major’s uniform, exclaimed: “Gentlemen, if we’d had your songs we’d have whipped you out of your boots! Who couldn’t have marched or fought with such songs? We had nothing, absolutely nothing, except a bastard ‘Marseillaise,’ the ‘Bonny Blue Flag’ and ‘Dixie,’ which were nothing but jigs. ‘Maryland, My Maryland’ was a splendid song, but the old ‘Lauriger Horatius’ was about as inspiring as the Dead March in ‘Saul,’ while every one of the Yankee songs is full of marching and fighting spirit.”25

It is noteworthy that this officer favored the lyric over the melody; indeed, comparing the well-­known and popular tune of ‘Lauriger Horatius’ to the piece reserved for military funerals seems unnecessarily insulting if not wrong. More intriguing is the inclusion of “Maryland, My Maryland” in the exalted ranks of Confederate anthems that included “Dixie” and “Bonnie Blue Flag.” For this officer, at this time, there was no doubt as to the status of Randall and Cary’s song. One wonders if he would have had the same opinion in previous years. The next step toward the sanctification of “Maryland, My Maryland” had already begun in 1864 and hit full stride following the end of the war. With the declining faith in the Confederate government and the eventual demise of the Confederate States, loyalty was transferred to the Southern nation. “Maryland, My Maryland,” “Dixie,” and other anthems were translated from patriotic to nationalistic symbols; in other words, nostalgic patriotism for the failed Confederate States of America became a form of Southern nationalism. Historian Emory Thomas believed that to “fulfill Southern nationalism, Confederate Southerners had to slaughter some of the 282 1 8 6 5

sacred cows and overturn some of the shibboleths that had previously defined them as a people.” While true in many respects, it might be better said that those cows got moved to a different pasture. While everyday patriotism had to adapt to an ever-­changing milieu, songs could sustain previous ideals if not their realization for future veneration.26 The South was becoming what Anthony Smith might call a “poetic space,” a combination of “myths, memories, values and symbols” that define a people’s self-­identity as well as the place where they call home. In Smith’s words, “Poetic and symbolic qualities possess greater potency than everyday attributes; a land of dreams is far more significant than any actual terrain.”27 Just as major figures and events from American history were used to ground Northern and Southern patriotism, now new legends and heroes were enlisted to build a mythology that emphasized continuity with America’s past. Lee and Jackson were now treated in the same way that Randall had used Ringgold and Watson in his poem. A correspondent for the New York World wrote from Raleigh, North Carolina, with a detailed account of the family with whom he was boarding. “They glory in their irrepressible devotion to everything rebel, and their inextinguishable hatred for all that is Yankee,” he explained. “These charming females brood upon the wrongs of the South over their tea, and nightly give swan-­like expression to their feelings in the execution vocally, and on the piano, of ‘The Bonnie Blue Flag,’ ‘Maryland, My Maryland,’ and that touching melody, ‘Then farewell forever to the Star Spangled Banner, Thirteen stars round the Palmetter tree.’” This journalist was willing to accept the pieces more as light entertainment than as confrontational anthems, observing that the family performed “very agreeably, for the piano is a good one, and our landlady’s daughter has an excellent mezzo-­ soprano voice.” It was the performers with whom he took issue, noting that they present these pieces “very openly, too, when we are up stairs, and the guard on the piazza, and Union officers all about. These women unquestionably are the devil.” What seemed to puzzle this correspondent is why they were even performing such songs in such a provocative manner: 1 8 6 5 283

The singing of these songs, under existing circumstances, has its amusing side, but there is also something about it that is painful. Who rallies now under their Bonnie Blue Flag; or what have they to do with Maryland? and is not the Star-­ Spangled Banner floating triumphantly from the dome of their capital, and streaming upon every street in town? Better for them, for a while, to follow the example of the children of Israel, and hang their harps upon the willows; or else learn another set of tunes that can be sung to the music of the Union.28

This writer recognized that these musical protests were symbolic not of the present or future but of the past. They embodied what the Confederacy had fought for, and throwing such pieces into the face of Union soldiers was more an act of cultural re-­ entrenchment than patriotic attack. “Maryland, My Maryland” now served as a nostalgic celebration of the Old South even as the Old South began to fade away.

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Epilogue “Maryland, My Maryland” after the War

On the second day of the 1868 Republican National Convention in Chicago, delegates from each state were polled for their nominations for president. The response from the Maryland contingent was as fervent as it was musically provocative: “Mr. Chairman, believing that our great captain will crush treason in the Cabinet as he crushed it in the field, ‘Maryland, my Maryland’ gives 14 votes for Ulysses S. Grant.”1 How ironic that the former commanding general of the Union Armies should be feted with a song that epitomized what that general had fought against. Not to be outdone, the Democrats also called on Randall and Cary’s much traveled song in July for their “Democratic Campaign Appeal.” Come, freemen, to your country’s call, Awake to break the despot’s thrall, The fairest of our glorious land Lies helpless, bound by tyrant hand; To them we speak the word of hope, For them we will with minions cope, While flinging to the azure air The flag of Seymour and of Blair.2

Perhaps it is not surprising that such a popular song would resurface so soon after the Civil War. What is surprising (and perhaps even humorous) about the use of “Maryland, My Maryland” during the 1868 campaigns was its apparent acceptance by Republicans and Democrats, Northerners and Southerners, even former Unionists and Confederates. Somehow the capricious anthem had insinuated itself into postwar culture to such a degree that it served as effective propaganda for previously antagonistic communities.

In the years following the surrender at Appomattox, “Maryland, My Maryland” joined other icons of the war in a brief period of hibernation because they were no longer needed, at least in their original form. “Maryland, My Maryland” remained in circulation, however, though more often as a popular song than as a patriotic anthem. The sheet music was reprinted by various publishers, and the song appeared in numerous anthologies, some for voice and piano, others for piano alone. Randall’s poem appeared in numerous collections that featured Confederate poetry or songs of the South. The appearance of “Maryland, My Maryland” in these collections indicated a continuing interest in the piece even as it was placed before a new generation of readers and listeners. The original utility of a war song is removed when there is no more war, which is why some successful Civil War songs were quickly appropriated as tools for new social crusades. “My Country, ’Tis of Thee” found use in the temperance and suffrage movements, while “Battle Hymn of the Republic” proved particularly useful to civil rights activists.3 “Maryland, My Maryland” would likewise be called upon to serve other causes, appearing as a suffrage anthem or as a firecracker in regional political campaigns.4 Yet much Civil War music still reminded listeners of tragedies endured as well as the deep-­seated hostilities that had led to war. “The anniversary of the day of our National Birth has once more returned but what melancholy reflexions does it bring with it?” wrote Charles Howard, proud Baltimorean, unreconstructed Confederate, and husband of Elizabeth Key, the daughter of Francis Scott Key. “Happen what may, no one I suppose can really believe, notwithstanding the 4th of July speeches that will this day be made, that our Constitution can be restored. It is broken and its fragments lie shattered in the dust.”5 Union veteran William Plummer was another who was unwilling to forget. Writing from Evansville, Indiana, in 1868, Plummer snidely informed his brother and sister that only the Ohio River separated him from “that Rebel state of Kentucky.”6 There were many like Howard and Plummer who were not inclined to forgive and forget, so patriotic songs could retain their animus long after the war. The Missouri Democrat mockingly reported 286 e p i l o g u e

that notorious Copperhead Marcus “Brick” Pomeroy, founding editor of New York’s Daily Democrat, had employed “an Italian organ grinder to sit on the front steps of his office” and perform Confederate songs as a means of drumming up support for his paper.7 Clearly the Confederacy’s leading anthems had lost none of their partisanship. In fact, it was quite the opposite. As Christopher Phillips argued, these emblems allowed antebellum Southerners to share in the cultural and emotional heritage that now defined the imagined South.8 The jingoism of Randall’s original verse retained enough force that the figurative use of “Maryland, My Maryland” likewise continued unabated. Its use as a referent—­for the state and for associated meanings beyond that of its original call for Maryland to join the Confederacy—­remained strong enough for it to appear in numerous contexts. Journalists and politicians in particular kept the combustible memory of the song alive. “‘My Maryland’ Wavers! The Bonnie Blue Flag Droops!” shouted the Portland Daily Press when Republicans appeared to be gaining ground in Maryland’s elections of 1871, while the Evening Star went so far as to quote Randall’s verse—­“She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb”—­to celebrate recent acts in Maryland that curtailed the disenfranchisement of former Confederates.9 “‘My Maryland’ is again exciting the sympathy of every man who believes in the freedom of elections,” touted the Daily Avalanche of Memphis, Tennessee, as the battle over the Fourteenth Amendment raged through Maryland and other states in 1866. Apparently the song was more effective in resisting constitutional reform than it had been for promoting secession, seeing as how Maryland would not officially ratify the Fourteenth Amendment until 1959. And one modern author selected “Maryland, My Maryland” as the title for her slim volume defending the state’s southern cultural heritage.10 “Maryland, My Maryland” as Confederate Emblem “Maryland, My Maryland’s” reception in postbellum homes depended largely on the listeners’ attitude toward the war as much as any residual allegiance to the warring nations. Annie Adams Field of Boston told of a performance of “Maryland, My e p i l o g u e 287

Maryland” and “Dixie” by noted author Charles Dickens and friends at her home in 1868. Apparently Mrs. Field felt no revulsion to the song, while the choice of two Southern anthems by Dickens is curious given his shifting views toward the South and Americans in general.11 In other homes the call to Southern pride remained a key ingredient to the song’s success. An admirer from Boston wrote James Randall an effusive letter in 1884 praising the creator of such memorable lyrics. She explained that for ten years she had been living in Florida, “so I feel that I am almost a southerner.” It was there that she first heard and fell in love with “Maryland, My Maryland,” and since then she had performed the song “a hundred times always electrifying any southerner who was present—­and even the coldest hearted Northerner has never failed to acknowledge the grander and soul-­stirring effect of the words.” After downplaying her abilities as a singer, she admitted that at one performance “every one in the room was on his feet” and the ladies had “their eyes all aflame with patriotic fire.” At another performance a former soldier “sprang to his feet . . . and stood trembling with the rush of memories and the flood of emotions almost forgotten.” This veteran told her that his regiment had sung the song going into battle, a peculiar admission given that he said he fought with a regiment from New Orleans, not Maryland.12 “Maryland, My Maryland” had encountered some resistance during the war due to its regional emphasis, but in the years that followed, such resistance faded and Southerners were more inclined to accept it as a Confederate anthem ex post facto. For example, Jefferson Davis attended a wedding in Montreal as part of his tour of Canada in June 1867. After the ceremony the organist launched into “Maryland, My Maryland” to honor the ex-­president, and the crowd responded with enthusiastic cheers.13 The Georgia chapters of the United Daughters of the Confederacy used “Maryland, My Maryland” to open their celebrations in Atlanta on November 9, 1895.14 At the 1907 annual convention of the udc, a delegate announced that a modification of “Maryland, My Maryland” had been introduced in the public schools, and it was suggested that the udc make a formal protest “against any change in the song as originally 288 e p i l o g u e

written.”15 At the same time, performances of the erstwhile anthem could face hostility from former Unionists. A journalist from Iowa was livid that two Confederate songs were sung at the 1872 Democratic convention in Baltimore (“Maryland, My Maryland” and “Dixie”) as opposed to only one Union song (“Yankee Doodle”), and that “Maryland, My Maryland” (“this war cry of disunion, this appeal to a State to secede, this exultation of the Baltimore murderous mob as ‘patriots,’ this denunciation of Union soldiers as ‘Northern scum’”) received the most applause.16 The rise and empowerment of veterans organizations breathed new life into many songs from the 1860s, and “Maryland, My Maryland” awakened to a new phase of popularity as the war grew increasingly mythologized and its veterans received regional and national commemoration.17 The song retained its hard-­earned stature as Confederate anthem in the minds of veterans from both sides despite its adoption for other uses. One old Confederate described meeting with his Yankee counterpart at a 1912 reunion when the topic of music came up. While the northern gentleman fondly recalled such warhorses as “Marching through Georgia,” “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” and “The Battle Cry of Freedom,” his southern companion countered by mentioning “Maryland, My Maryland” along with “Dixie” and “The Bonnie Blue Flag.”18 Confederate veteran Albert Sydney Morton placed “Maryland, My Maryland” in the triumvirate of true Confederate anthems after attending a Confederate reunion in Richmond, Virginia, on July 2, 1896.19 Despite such lingering loyalties, Civil War music became increasingly bipartisan for subsequent generations and even to some veterans. Some songs, like “Marching through Georgia,” retained enough localized patriotism as to keep them from ever losing their divisive purpose. Yet a surprising number of songs grew increasingly distanced from their original sectional patriotism, instead coming to symbolize the military community shared by the men, not the countries for which they had fought.20 In Philadelphia a benefit concert featured both Union and Confederate songs, and “Maryland, My Marye p i l o g u e 289

31. A nostalgic twentieth-­century postcard featuring Randall and Cary’s song with an undeniable “Southern” slant. Private collection.

land” and “The Battle Cry of Freedom” were accepted equally. “The war seems to be over, even in Philadelphia,” observed a Sun reporter.21 There was even a remarkable gesture of reconciliation stemming from the Pratt Street Riot. In 1891 Charles Lafevre of Maryland contacted Capt. Fred Davis of the Massachusetts Volunteer Militia with a touching offer. Lafevre was a Baltimore cabinet maker, and it was in his shop that Addison Whitney of Company D, Sixth Massachusetts Militia, had died following the Pratt Street Riot. Lafevre offered to return a cap and scabbard believed to belong to Whitney. In gratitude, he was made an “honorary member of the Worcester Light Infantry for life.”22 Memories grew cloudy as more time passed, and the continued visibility and influence of Civil War music began to color recollections of the war and to diminish any lingering doubts about “Maryland, My Maryland” and its namesake. Much of the turmoil that had surrounded the song would fade with an untarnished local and national patriotism reborn in its place. Luther Hopkins, a veteran of the Sixth Virginia Cavalry, merged the sound of the song with his memory of the events of 1861 to such a degree that fact and fiction become inseparable. At the start of his memoirs he recorded: “A Massachusetts regiment, in passing through the streets of Baltimore, was mobbed, and the song ‘Maryland, My Maryland’ was wafted out on the air. Maryland boys, under cover of night, were crossing the Potomac to help drive the invaders back. They came singing ‘The Despot’s Heel Is on Thy Shore.’”23 While perhaps unintentional, Hopkins’s terse and fanciful wording blurs the sequence of events (the song, of course, was written after the riot), with “Maryland, My Maryland” becoming a soundtrack that underlay Hopkins’s recollection of an entire year. John Stevens of the Texas Brigade paused in his recounting of the Battle of Antietam to insert a vision of the battle’s commemoration that glorified (and apparently forgave) the citizens of Maryland by misquoting Randall’s verses: “The chorus of lovely daughters of old Maryland—­a state which through all time had been an asylum for religious liberty and has sent brave men to battle by sea and by land—­will make the woods melodious with that e p i l o g u e 291

ever memorable song ‘Stonewall Jackson Is on Your Shore, My Maryland, My Maryland.’”24 The evocative power of patriotic songs could ultimately rewrite certain memories. A particularly glaring case of musically reconstructed memories involved detective Allan Pinkerton and the plot to assassinate President Lincoln as he traveled to Washington for his inauguration. Twenty years after the war, Pinkerton retold the story of Lincoln’s stealthy passage through Baltimore where people around the depot were heard singing “Maryland, My Maryland” and “Dixie.” This, according to Pinkerton, was a clear indication of the danger to the president-­elect from the pro-­Southern crowd.25 The problem with this story is that Lincoln passed through Baltimore on February 23, two months before Randall wrote his famous lyric. These anecdotes—­whether true, imagined, or somewhere in-­between—­underscore the tenacious emotional grasp of Civil War songs and remind us that the baggage accompanying patriotic songs came not only from their musical or lyrical content but also from their use in highly charged situations.26 The memory of a given piece of music within the context of an event becomes an intense and multifaceted vision; recalling the event renews the song’s connotations (albeit with a perspective altered by time), while hearing the song feeds and intensifies the historical recollection. Music as a social act helps to perpetuate a memory; it also arranges or reprioritizes those memories of which it is a part.27 The suggestive flexibility of art, as historians David Blight and John Neff have ably demonstrated, proved irreplaceable to the reconciliation movement that grew out of the shadow of the war’s commemoration.28 Holiday Carol, Instrumental Tune, International Anthem, and State Song The longer “Maryland, My Maryland” remained in the public consciousness, the more it could jettison political baggage and acquire new, less provocative meanings. As the Civil War drifted further into the past, Randall and Cary’s song could be found in surprisingly benign or bipartisan settings. A 1905 children’s concert in Medford, Massachusetts, included it on 292 e p i l o g u e

the program, and delegates to a mock convention hosted by the Women’s National Republican Club in 1928 also sang it.29 In neither situation was the original patriotic plea a part of the modern presentation. In 1909 “Maryland, My Maryland” was adopted as part of the opening ceremonies at the Preakness Stakes, the second leg of the Triple Crown of horse racing, held in Baltimore every year. Guest ensembles such as the U.S. Naval Academy Glee Club have been invited to lead the song, though in recent years only the third (and least offensive) stanza has been performed. The emergence of “O Christmas Tree” as a holiday favorite in America helped to diffuse some of the political immediacy of “Maryland, My Maryland.” The use of pine trees to celebrate Christmas in the United States grew slowly during the nineteenth century, a tradition introduced by German immigrants. And as the tradition became more widespread, so too grew the popularity of “O Christmas Tree,” a translation of the original German “O Tannenbaum.” It is in the 1880s that mention of the budding carol began to appear in newspapers, magazines, and private accounts with any frequency. “O Christmas Tree” provided an effective antidote to “Maryland, My Maryland,” replacing the original song’s violent underpinnings with a gentle message of peace. While veterans would always hear the music’s original intentions, new generations and especially children would now associate the tune with Christmas and not with the Civil War.30 The same can be said for the music without the words. Even during the war, instrumental versions of “Maryland, My Maryland”—­with little to no affiliation with their patriotic progenitor—­had proven to be as appealing as the song, and the trend continued. In 1866 a set of variations for piano by Charles Kinkel was published in the series Gems of the South by J. L. Peters of New York and T. G. De Motte of Chicago. An “Improvisation” for piano on “My Maryland” by Theodore von La Hache of New Orleans was published by Boston’s Oliver Ditson in 1892. Both of these publications were geared toward home performance, but professional musicians presented their own versions on concert stages throughout the country. In Indiae p i l o g u e 293

napolis a cornet soloist captivated audiences with a set of variations on “My Maryland” in 1876, while the renowned Patrick Gilmore Band and the Marine Band under the baton of John Philip Sousa included versions of “Maryland, My Maryland” on their concerts.31 Separating the tune from the words allowed the melody of “Maryland, My Maryland” to take on a life of its own far removed from the state of its origin or its service as a war song. In 1885 the periodical of the Delta Gamma sorority included a song of sisterhood set to the tune of “Maryland, My Maryland,” a noteworthy return to its roots as the college tune “Lauriger Horatius.”32 Such musical popularity easily crossed stylistic boundaries. “Maryland, My Maryland” was then brought into a new world when the jazz craze swept the country at the beginning of the twentieth century. Bands led by legendary figures such as Kid Ory and Sidney Bichet added the tune to their books, and countless artists recorded versions for broadcast. In 1927 the Hungarian-­born American composer Sigmund Romberg launched his operetta My Maryland, a romance set in Maryland during the war that was loosely based on the play Barbara Frietchie by Clyde Fitch. The work included the music to “Maryland, My Maryland” as well as other Civil War songs.33 It turns out the Jennie Cary was not the only person to see the melody of “Lauriger Horatius” or “O Tannenbaum” as the perfect vehicle for an inspirational lyric. In 1889 Irishman Jim Connell wrote “The Red Flag,” a socialist anthem sung to the same tune. To this day “The Red Flag” remains the official anthem of the Social Democratic and Labour Party of Northern Ireland and the Irish Labour Party. On the other side of the world, schoolchildren sang “Philippines, My Philippines” when the island republic was a U.S. colony. This was no coincidence; in 1913 the governor-­general of the Philippines was Francis Burton Harrison, the son of Constance Cary Harrison.34 Schools that have adopted the song include St. Bonaventure University (New York), the College of Emporia (Kansas), Cornell University, and Trinity College of the University of Toronto, as well as primary schools in Missouri, Hawaii, and even China. Whether cited as “O Tannenbaum” or “Maryland, My Mary294 e p i l o g u e

land,” the obviously popular tune has been used at one time or another by college fraternities and sororities, Rotary International, the Boy Scouts of America, the City of Albany (New York), and Iroquois County (Illinois), to name just a few. In 1895 a story circulated around American newspapers that told of a young Russian lady “who lives at Archangel, north of Siberia, and learned to sing it there.”35 Finally came the predictable apotheosis to Randall and Cary’s song. On the day featuring Maryland at the 1876 Centennial Exposition, a brass band played “Maryland, My Maryland” along with “The Star-­Spangled Banner,” one of the earliest instances where the song was clearly presented as a state anthem as opposed to a Confederate anthem.36 Needless to say, “Maryland, My Maryland” had carved out a central place in Maryland’s popular culture, so much so that in 1939, the centennial of James Ryder Randall’s birth, Maryland officially recognized “Maryland, My Maryland” as the state song. Curiously, Maryland was not the first to grant official recognition to the melody as a musical emblem of their state. The melody of “Maryland, My Maryland” proved attractive to many states as a means of expressing state pride. “The Song of Iowa” was written in 1897 and officially adopted in 1911, and “Michigan, My Michigan,” written in 1862, remains the popular if not official state song of Michigan to this day. In 1913 Florida adopted “Florida, My Florida” as its state song before replacing it with Stephen Foster’s “Old Folks at Home” in 1935. The tune to “Maryland, My Maryland” may have been appealing to countless people, but not the words. There was resistance to the song at its elevation to Maryland’s state anthem in the 1930s, and by the middle of the twentieth century “Maryland, My Maryland” found itself once again the center of controversy.37 Americans were growing weary of Lost Cause rhetoric, and a demonstrably pro-­Confederate anthem seemed anachronistic if not immoral. Maryland governor J. Millard Tawes declared the first week of 1962 “James Ryder Randall Week” to honor both the song and the poet, yet by 1970 attitudes toward the admittedly provocative lyrics were swinging in the opposite direction. Many were uncomfortable if not offended by a song e p i l o g u e 295

that glorified the Confederacy, denounced Abraham Lincoln, encouraged sedition, and indirectly supported racism. A new set of lyrics, written in 1894 by a teacher named John T. White, offered a new take on the song. White’s version has been put forward as a substitute for Randall’s troublesome verses: We dedicate our song to thee, Maryland, my Maryland. The home of light and liberty, Maryland, my Maryland. We love thy streams and wooded hills, Thy mountains with their gushing rills, Thy scenes our hearts with rapture fills, Maryland, my Maryland.

Bills to change or modify the state song were brought before the Maryland legislature numerous times to no effect.38 The horrific church shootings in Charleston, South Carolina, on June 17, 2015, reignited the controversy surrounding Confederate symbols, and a panel was formed to examine the suitability of Randall’s words as a state song. In 2016 a new bill containing revisions to the lyric passed the Maryland Senate but failed to make it through the House of Delegates. In 2017 the University of Maryland marching band announced that they would no longer program the piece before football games. James Ryder Randall and the “Cary Invincibles” James Ryder Randall weathered the Civil War better than most, spending the last two years in Wilmington, North Carolina. After an extended courtship, Randall married Katherine Hammond of South Carolina in 1865. The couple had five surviving children including a daughter they named “Maryland.”39 Randall’s career following the war was devoted to journalism, not poetry. He moved to Augusta, Georgia, and wrote for the Constitutionalist and later the Augusta Chronicle when the two papers merged, eventually serving as editor. He then relocated to Washington to act as a correspondent for the Chronicle and other newspapers while also serving as secretary for Congressman William H. Fleming and Senator Joseph E. Brown 296 e p i l o g u e

of Georgia. His reputation in journalistic circles was such that he was offered numerous editorial positions, some of which he accepted, including the Anniston Hot Blast (Alabama) and the Morning Star, a Catholic newspaper in New Orleans.40 Randall’s editorial duties, family responsibilities, and a substantial amount of travel kept him from producing much poetry. A devout Catholic, Randall devoted much of his limited creative time to spiritual poetry. “Colonel Randall,” as he was sometimes called (though he never held that rank), only began to gain critical recognition toward the end of his life. Friends and family said the poet was “heartbroken” that his native state had never granted him the honors he felt he deserved; he had tried to get an edition of his poetry published in the early 1870s to no avail.41 “I have been afflicted with poverty for six years,” Randall wrote an admirer in thanks for providing an “honorarium.” “I have shared the calamities of many poets, and, in my native city, and in the State I sang about, I have been a beggar.”42 Things were beginning to change, however. Randall was recognized at the Maryland Day celebration (part of the Jamestown Exposition) on September 12, 1907, and he was the guest of honor during Maryland Homecoming Week in October of the same year. Randall proudly wrote a friend that there was a “movement in Maryland to bring back their exiled son” and to publish a volume of his poetry.43 Governor Edwin Warfield of Maryland was taking steps to further honor the poet. Randall left Baltimore to spend the holiday with his family in Augusta and was looking forward to a return visit already planned to celebrate the publication of a book of his poems. He took ill while at home and developed severe influenza. He died shortly after 4:00 p.m. on January 14 and was buried in Magnolia Cemetery to the sound of a choir singing “Maryland, My Maryland.”44 As is so often the case, Randall’s death triggered the response he would have preferred to see in his lifetime. In 1908 the Maryland legislature passed a resolution placing Randall’s portrait in the old Senate Chamber. That same year it also granted his wife of forty-­three years, Katherine Randall, an e p i l o g u e 297

32. A picture of Randall from 1899. Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs. https://​www​.loc​.gov​/item​/2002725420​/.

annual pension of $600; she died in 1914. The United Daughters of the Confederacy spent years raising the funds to erect a statue of Randall in Augusta, finally unveiled to great fanfare in 1936. Jennie Cary remained in Baltimore after the war to live with her mother and brother. Unlike her vivacious sister and cousin, she kept a low profile. Jennie never married, and she spent her life helping to run the Southern Home School (founded by her mother) out of their home on Charles Street. She passed away on November 16, 1925, and was buried in the family plot at St. Thomas Episcopal Church outside of Baltimore. The widow Hetty Cary Pegram returned to Baltimore in 1865. She was promptly arrested, along with her mother and Jennie, but immediately released by the order of Gen. Ulysses S. Grant himself. The family was repeatedly harassed by former Unionists for months.45 Hetty worked with her mother and sister at the Southern Home School for many years. In 1874 she sent a handmade banner to the Ladies Memorial Association of Augusta for a fund-­raiser, and the Augusta Chronicle headed their report with “Maryland, My Maryland: A Handsome Present from a Baltimore Lady,” proving that Hetty’s role in the song’s creation was not forgotten.46 She then traveled to Europe where she met Henry Newell Martin, a British physiologist who soon came to Baltimore and accepted a position at Johns Hopkins University. They were married in 1879 and became prominent members of Baltimore society. Hetty died September 27, 1892, at the age of fifty-­six. At the end of the war Constance Cary stayed briefly with relatives in New Jersey before spending the winter of 1865 in Paris. In 1867 she married Burton S. Harrison; the wedding had to wait until after Harrison was released from Fort Delaware where he had been held due to his role as Jefferson Davis’s private secretary during the war. The couple settled in New York City to raise their three sons, with Burton pursuing law and politics while Constance continued writing even as she became a central figure in New York’s social scene. In 1920 she died in Washington dc at the age of seventy-­seven. She is buried in Ivy Hill Cemetery, Alexandria, Virginia. e p i l o g u e 299

In Conclusion Drew Gilpin Faust offered a powerful description of nationalism in her seminal study of Confederate identity: “Nationalism is contingent; its creation is a process. It is not a substance available to a people in a certain premeasured amount; rather, it is a dynamic of ideas and social realities that can, under the proper circumstances, unite and legitimate a people in what they regard as reasoned public action.”47 Though crafted to help explain Confederate nationalism, this statement should be applied to regional and national patriotism as well as musical practice during the Civil War. The turbulent reception of “Maryland, My Maryland” indicates how regionalism, patriotism, and music intersect and influence each other. A static view of any of these factors ignores the fluidity of the situation, not only in terms of the intended meaning of a sociopolitical concept or a song’s lyric, but also in how both patriotic commitment and musical reception can be redirected given the right set of circumstances. The success of “Maryland, My Maryland” is difficult to decipher. The lyrics ostracize a majority of the country’s population from the outset. Maryland’s failure to join the Confederacy then diminishes its appeal even to its intended Southern audience. As a poem, there is much that would be appealing to sentimental, upper-­class Americans, but it was by no means the only example available at the time. The music provides no clearer answer. The original piece, a simplistic, repetitive, medium tempo tune in three-­quarter time, does not seem suitable as a military march, a stirring patriotic song, or even a paean for a martyred state. Even more confusing is the reaction to the tune; both during and after the war, listeners were inclined to either praise it for its inspirational energy or damn it as unsophisticated and banal. Yet the saying “There is no such thing as bad publicity” is appropriate to the story of “Maryland, My Maryland.” The unending barrage of praise and condemnation actually kept the song in the public eye. Attempts to denounce it ultimately solidified its place in American history. All told I would argue that “Maryland, My Maryland” expe300 e p i l o g u e

rienced the perfect storm in terms of the events surrounding its creation, distribution, and reception. The fervor attached to all things Maryland following the Pratt Street Riot proved a golden opportunity for a new piece of music to ride a wave of sensationalism. That the melody was already known to countless people simply added to the speed with which it was accepted. Transferring the tune into band books then allowed the melody to continue its own new trajectory even as the lyrics lost currency for Southern patriots. It may be that the simultaneous existence of two versions—­the civilians’ song and the soldiers’ tune—­allowed “Maryland, My Maryland” to survive when another song might have faded into obscurity. A fluid, adaptable notion of patriotism likewise fueled the song’s success. At the start of the war, regionalism and nationalism were uneasy partners, but eventually regional loyalty and national patriotism joined forces, with one substituting for the other within almost any rhetorical situation. This was a plus for a patriotic song named after a state. Later military and political developments may have detached regionalism from national patriotism, but by that point “Maryland, My Maryland” had already entered the canon; by 1863 it was less a matter of keeping the song popular and more that of rationalizing its popularity. The imposed alterations to the song’s reception following the losses at Antietam and Gettysburg reveal an intriguing shift in the construction of musical space and place. Randall’s words and the Cary sisters’ conversion of his poem into a song designated a real place: the state of Maryland and its people. This musical and material place had immediate and intimate connotations, especially for those living and fighting within Maryland’s borders. Yet after the failure of the state or its population to join the Confederacy, the song grew increasingly divorced from the state, and “Maryland” became a metonymic space, an idealized, even fictional entity that served as a symbolic martyr for the Southern cause. This allowed civilians to retain the song in their patriotic pantheon even as the state and its people grew superfluous to the war. Many listeners cared little for what occurred in the real state, preferring instead the imagined realm of the song’s metaphorical land of suffering. e p i l o g u e 301

The success of “Maryland, My Maryland” could be attributed to its timeliness, rhetorical intensity, patriotic functionality, or performance history. But each of these explanations, if taken individually, falls short. All these factors must cooperate to generate the remarkable success of a popular and enduring patriotic song. And perhaps most important of all, the piece must be liked; art must triumph over politics for a song to survive. As Richard Harwell surmised in his study of Confederate music, “Perhaps the best propaganda is that which develops spontaneously and is adopted by the people, not as propaganda but as a genuine expression of national emotions—­or as a good tune.”48 Politics, patriotism, performance, gender, or social class can only justify the song’s success to a point. In the end, all such ideological baggage is relegated to a secondary position behind the aesthetic appeal of the song; it must be musically popular before it can be patriotic, and this is where the power of art resides. The context surrounding any historical artifact, event, or person contains innumerable “facts” or “objective” details. Artworks are capable of incorporating and synthesizing their context, then re-­presenting that cultural context in an inherently subjective mode that not only contains the original information but demands personal interpolation and interpretation. By including the listener and performer in its ongoing creation, a patriotic song as communal statement becomes a personal experience even as it takes the voice of the individual and melds it back in with the communal voice. Perhaps this is the lesson to be learned from the erratic rise of “Maryland, My Maryland” to Confederate anthem. The interpretive elasticity of a well-­crafted song allows it to navigate an ever-­ shifting social landscape—­from year to year, month to month, even day to day if necessary. With appropriate lyrics, a suitable melody, and a willing audience, a patriotic song can speak for its time and place even as it secures a permanent place within the listener. And “Maryland, My Maryland” was the right piece, in the right place, at the right time.

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Notes

Introduction

1. Stoddard, Inside the White House in War Times, 144. Michael Burlingame pointed out that Stoddard’s memoir “has not impressed every reader as a reliable source of information about Lincoln.” His sketches, however, “are more trustworthy, for they appeared shortly after the events described” (vii). 2. Mitchell, Maryland Voices, 3. Robert Brugger saw midcentury Maryland as a “sectional netherland, a mix of free and slave economy, Northern and Southern culture.” Brugger, Maryland, a Middle Temperament, 248. 3. Silber, Songs of the Civil War, 54. 4. DeNora, Music in Everyday Life, 47. 5. Daily South Carolinian, January 24, 1864. 1. Maryland and the Coming of War

1. “The Fourth of July in Baltimore and Vicinity,” Sun, July 6, 1859. 2. Evitts, A Matter of Allegiances, 123–­27. 3. Delaware had yet to adopt abolition, but the practice of slavery had all but disappeared by the beginning of the war. According to the editor of the Wilmington Journal and Statesman, “We of Delaware live in the South. It is a Slave State; and yet there is no man within her boundaries who dares utter seriously the word secession. We are all for the Union.” Harper, Lincoln and the Press, 69–­70. Harris admits this is probably a bit of an exaggeration. 4. Letters to sister, November 12, 1855; see also March 28, 1859, Daniel M. Thomas Papers, Ms. 1970, mdhs. 5. Violence against both loyalists and secessionists was not limited to Baltimore’s streets; beatings and even deaths can be found elsewhere in the state. Ernst, Too Afraid to Cry, 19–­22. 6. Brugger, Maryland, a Middle Temperament, 251–­70. 7. Evitts, A Matter of Allegiances, 139. 8. Glenn, Marks, and Schatz, Between North and South, 17–­18. 9. Evitts, A Matter of Allegiances, 185–­86. Despite the hardships that Maryland experienced, the war years were far less violent than in Missouri, a border state that ended up going to war with itself. 10. W. Wilkins Davis, letters of December 9, 1860, and May 22, 1861, in Hein, Religion and Politics in Maryland, 102, 119. 11. Taylor, Divided Family in Civil War America, 13–­34; Bardaglio, “On the Border,” 313–­31; Cottom and Hayward, Maryland in the Civil War.

12. Chamberlin and Peshek, Crossing the Line, 1–­7. 13. Robert Crist to father, August 21, 1860 [May 4, 1861], Robert H. Crist Letters, fhs. 14. William Bullitt to Tom, December 1, 1860, Bullitt Family Papers, Thomas Bullitt Personal Correspondence 1860, fhs. 15. Rufus Cater to Fannie, June 26, 1861, Douglas J. and Rufus W. Cater Papers, loc. 16. Branham and Hartnett, Sweet Freedom’s Song, 99. 17. Entry of May 20, 1861, in Haydon and Sears, For Country, Cause & Leader, 9–­10; Heaps and Heaps, Singing Sixties, 74–­123. 18. Albert Higley to sister, [June] 1861, Civil War Letters of Albert E. Higley, Washington County Historical Society, Fort Edward ny. 19. Read, I Remember, 7–­8. 20. Smith, National Identity, 77. 21. McCardell, Idea of a Southern Nation, 6; O’Leary, To Die For, 15. 22. Grant, North over South, 154. 23. Wiebe, Opening of American Society, 355. The everyday presence of patriotic and nationalistic symbols is investigated in Billig, Banal Nationalism. 24. Woods, Emotional and Sectional Conflict in the Antebellum United States. 25. Branham and Hartnett, Sweet Freedom’s Song, 17; Revill, “Music and the Politics of Sound.” 26. Kelen, Anthem Quality, 31. 27. For an illuminating example of how government sponsorship and usage shape the acceptance of anthems, see Hanson, “German National Song in the Third Reich”; Hermand, “On the History of the ‘Deutschlandlied.’” 28. Beyond possessing a love of one’s country, “It is important to spell out that the patriot’s love of his country is a love expressed in action. It involves certain beliefs about and feeling for one’s country; but the touchstone of one’s patriotism is what one is prepared to do for it.” Primoratz, Patriotism, 10. 29. Small, Musicking, 43, 95, 134. Related arguments are found in Barrett, To Fight Aloud Is Very Brave, 18; Finnegan, Hidden Musicians, 330; Kelen, Anthem Quality, 59. 30. Small, Musicking, 183. 31. Anderson, Imagined Communities, 145. 32. Neustadt, “Reading Spanish American National Anthems,” 4. John Bush Jones argues that during war there is an overriding desire for a single song that satisfies a set of poorly defined and frankly unattainable criteria. Jones, Songs That Fought the War, 10–­14. 33. Viroli, For Love of Country, 14. 34. Ferris, Star-­Spangled Banner, 34–­58. 35. McWhirter, Battle Hymns, 60. 36. Shive, “National Martial Music and Songs.” 37. “A National Hymn.” Americans’ insecurity with their lack of a unified musical culture is examined in Ostendorf, Sounds American, 16–­41. 38. Abel, Confederate Sheet Music, 107. 39. “At the most basic level, they believed that nationality—­true and enduring nationality—­must be rooted in culture. As a result, they launched a comprehensive campaign immediately following secession to build and bolster

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the self-­supporting and uniquely southern culture that their vision of Confederate nationhood required.” Bernath, Confederate Minds, 3–­4. However, Harwell claimed that Confederate music was not used as “planned propaganda.” Harwell, Confederate Music, 7. 40. “Unofficial national anthems serve all the functions of a national anthem . . . but they do not have the top-­down section to represent the nation beyond its borders.” Bohlman, Music of European Nationalism, 150; McWhirter, Battle Hymns, 54. 41. McWhirter, Battle Hymns, 36–­41; Heaps and Heaps, Singing Sixties, 25–­26. 42. New York Times, May 18, 1861. 43. “$500.00 for a National Hymn.” 44. Matthews, “The Songs of the War,” 619. 45. Christian A. Wolfram, Civil War Letters, ihs; see also Welsh, “A Union Band Director Views Camp Rolla, 1861,” 317. 46. Alansa Rounds Sterrett, diary, February 15, 1861, Augusta County Letters and Diaries, vots. 47. Edmonds and Baird, Journals of Amanda Virginia Edmonds, July 19, 1861, 53. 48. Harwell, Confederate Music, 94. 2. Spring 1861

1. “The Birth of the New Year,” New York Herald, January 1, 1861. 2. Texas had approved secession on February 1 but called for a popular vote to be held on February 23. Seven Texas delegates were sent to the Montgomery convention. 3. Bernard, Lincoln and the Music of the Civil War, 4; Sandburg, Abraham Lincoln, 144. 4. Carder, George F. Root, Civil War Songwriter, 103; Kirkland, History of Chicago, Illinois, 1:158. 5. “When a person’s nested loyalties clash there is a problem regarding the relative authority of parts and wholes. Is it better or more rational to support my city to the disadvantage of my neighborhood, or to support my neighborhood to the disadvantage of my city?” Oldenquist, “Loyalties,” 31. 6. Stealey, “West Virginia’s Constitutional Critique of Virginia.” 7. “Life of John Dunlap Stevenson,” John Dunlap Stevenson Papers, mhm. 8. Thomas D. Phillip, diary, 8–­9, fhs. 9. Maria Holyoke to mother and sister, August 18 and September 8, 1861, Holyoke Family Papers, fhs. 10. Evitts, A Matter of Allegiances, 154–­57. And being loyal to the United States did not always assuage the situation; there was perpetual tension between Maryland Unionists and the Lincoln administration. Harris, Lincoln and the Border States, 42–­79. 11. Baynard, A Year in the Guard. 12. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, 15. 13. Samuel A. Harrison, journal entry for June 13, 1861, Ms. 432.1, mdhs. 14. Stashower, Hour of Peril, 290–­94. 15. Daniel Thomas to sister, February 10, 1861, Daniel M. Thomas Papers, Ms. 1970.2, mdhs.

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16. Brugger, Maryland: A Middle Temperament, 277–­78. Hick’s untenable position, combined with his perceived hesitancy, led to his vilification by both Unionists and Confederate alike. 17. Mary Patterson to son Wilson, April 15, 1861, Mary L. Patterson Papers, Ms. 1865, mdhs. The tension between state loyalty and national identity plagued numerous states. See Lang, “‘Upon the Altar of Our Country.’” 18. Steers, “Maryland, My Maryland,” 45. 19. Scharf and Kelley, Personal Memoirs, 2–­3. 20. George W. Brown to Abraham Lincoln, April 18, 1861, Abraham Lincoln Papers, loc. Brown (and Governor Hicks) later claimed that this telegram was sent on April 19 following the riot; circumstances suggest this was not the case. Evitts, A Matter of Allegiances, 177–­78n125. 21. Stump, “An Eyewitness to the Baltimore Riot, 19th April, 1861.” 22. Towers, “‘A Vociferous Army of Howling Wolves’”; Klugewicz, “‘The First Martyrs.’” 23. Towers, “Military Waif,” 429. 24. For example, see the transcript of the testimony of Charles E. Phelps before the U.S. Grand Jury, June 1861, David Creamer Diary and Notes, loc. 25. Catton, Coming Fury, 344–­45; Olson, Music and Musket, 58. 26. Judd, Story of the Thirty-­Third n . y . s . Volunteers, 38. 27. Letter of Joseph Howland, June 30, 1861, in Howland, Bacon, and Hoisington, My Heart toward Home, 57. 28. While Maryland suffered the fallout of the Pratt Street riot, a similar event took place out west. On May 10 the First Missouri (usa) arrested members of the pro-­Confederate Missouri Volunteer Militia, who were drilling outside of St. Louis. While leading the prisoners back into town, a crowd of angry citizens attacked the soldiers and a riot ensued that left twenty-­eight people dead and many more wounded. 29. Horace Hooker to his wife, April 21, 1861, Hooker Family Papers, box 3, file 5, ur. 30. Brown, Baltimore and the Nineteenth of April, 1861, 69–­70. 31. Daniel Thomas to sister, April 21 and May 27, 1861, Daniel M. Thomas Papers, Ms. 1970.2, mdhs. 32. Jones, “Origin of the Maryland Anthem.” 33. James Ryder Randall, speech given to the meeting of the Daughters of the Confederacy in Baltimore, January 19, 1905, James R. Randall Papers, Ms. 1397, mdhs. Other accounts of the creation of “My Maryland” can be found in Brander Matthews, “The Songs of the War,” 620–­22; Crowley and Crowley, Songs, Sonnets, and Essays, 71–­91. For Randall’s years before the war, see Randall and Andrews, Poems, and the curious autobiography published in a series titled “Memoirs of a Busy Life” in the Baltimore Sun from July to August 1907. 34. South, May 31, 1861. 35. This stanza appeared in the Sunday Delta but was not printed in the Sun and did not appear in the first version of the song. 36. The earliest broadside versions of “My Maryland” altered words, changed entire lines, and added new verses. It is clear that the Carys used the newspaper version and not a broadside as their source. 37. Randall and Andrews, Poems, 12–­13.

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38. Matthews, “The Songs of the War,” 621. Rebecca Lloyd Shippen told a different story. She claimed that it was H. Rozier Dulany who brought Randall’s poem to the Monument Street Girls and that he identified “Lauriger Horatius” as a rhythmic match for the poem. Shippen then identified herself as the young lady who took the lyric and music to Miller & Beacham (Hester Dorsey Richardson, “Side-­Lights: On Maryland History—­Randall’s Stirring Song,” Sun, September 25, 1904). Jennie Cary denied this recollection, claiming that she had met Dulany after she and her sister had set the words to music. Unfortunately, Jennie also claimed that while she altered the words, it was Hetty who picked “Lauriger Horatius” as the music (Randall and Andrews, Poems, 14). Jennie’s brother Miles recalled that Dulany showed the poem to Jennie and expressed his frustration at being unable to find a suitable tune to match (letter to Henry P. Goddard, January 30, 1909, Cary Family Papers, 1865–­1914, vhs). Constance Cary Harrison gave full credit to Jennie (Harrison, Recollections Grave and Gay, 57–­58). For more on the tangle of claims and attributions, see James A. Davis, “Bravely Meek: Jenny Cary and the Music to ‘Maryland, My Maryland,’” Maryland Magazine of History, forthcoming. 39. Wright, A Southern Girl in ’61, 121–­22. 40. Loughborough, Recollections of Margaret Cabell Brown Loughborough, 85. 41. Miles Nelson Cary to Henry P. Goddard, January 30, 1909, Cary Family Papers, 1865–­1914, vhs; Harrison, Recollections, 57–­58; Hughes, Rushing, and Harrison, Refugitta of Richmond, xv–­xviii. 42. Brown, Baltimore and the Nineteenth of April, 1861, 64. This account is questionable in that Brown claims that it was a bugler who played “Dixie,” something that is impossible on most bugles, so either he mistook the performer or the piece or the entire account is spurious. 43. Isaac Trimble, letter of April 22, 1861, Trimble Papers, Ms. 1449, mdhs. Later testimony would claim that Trimble took steps to prevent Union troops from entering Baltimore. Once it became clear that Maryland would not join the Confederacy, Trimble offered his services to the Army of Northern Virginia, where he served with distinction up to the Battle of Gettysburg, when he received a debilitating wound. 44. or, series 1, 2:31. 45. or, series 1, 2:28–­32. 46. Daniel Thomas to sister, May 8, 1861, Daniel M. Thomas Papers, Ms. 1970.2, mdhs. 47. Harris, Lincoln and the Border States, 59–­74. 48. or, series 2, 1:579. 49. Anderson, “Civil War Diary of John Abell Morgan,” 42. 50. Semmes, ‘“Vignettes of Maryland History,” 51. 51. or, series 2, 4:271; Clark, “Suppression and Control of Maryland.” 3. “Maryland, My Maryland”

1. Matthews, “The Songs of the War,” 621. 2. Twain, Life on the Mississippi, 469; Osterweis, Romanticism and Nationalism, 41; Wilson, Patriotic Gore, 444–­47. 3. Randall’s poem fits surprisingly well within Ian Binnington’s framework of Confederate tropes such as “the Worthy Southron, the Demon Yan-

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kee, the Silent Slave.” Binnington, Confederate Visions, 3. On a similar use of tropes, see Watson, Normans and Saxons, 201–­34. 4. Hutchison, Apples and Ashes, 13. 5. Bernath, Confederate Minds, 246. 6. Hildebrand, “Two National Anthems?” 7. Fahs, Imagined Civil War, 79–­81; Winn, Poetry of War, 198. 8. Searle-­White, Psychology of Nationalism, 92. 9. Kelman, “Nationalism, Patriotism, and National Identity.” 10. Kelen, Anthem Quality, 31. 11. McWhirter, Battle Hymns, 84–­89; Morgan, “War on the Home Front,” 381–­408. 12. Winn, Poetry of War, 11. 13. Hobsbawm and Ranger, Invention of Tradition, 1. Reference to past heroes added what Melinda Lawson called a “mystical aura” that promoted nationalistic attachment. Lawson, Patriot Fires, 11. 14. Smith, Ethno-­Symbolism and Nationalism, 90–­91. 15. Thomas, Confederate Nation, 4–­5. 16. Reprinted in the Charleston Mercury, January 28, 1862. 17. Letter of May 31, 1862, in Evans and Sexton, A Southern Woman of Letters, 40. 18. Moore, Rebellion Record, 2:107. 19. “My Maryland,” Press, September 20, 1862. Mangan’s poem first appeared in “Ottoman Poetry,” Dublin University Magazine in May 1844. See also Fegan, “‘Every Irishman Is an Arab’”; Lloyd, “James Clarence Mangan’s Oriental Translations and the Question of Origins.” 20. Crowley and Crowley, Songs, Sonnets, and Essays, 73–­74. 21. Banks, Immortal Songs of Camp and Field, 211. 22. Holmes, “Lecture–­186”; Osterweis, Romanticism and Nationalism, 105. 23. Neustadt, “Reading Spanish American National Anthems.” 24. Kelen, Anthem Quality, 32–­42; Bohlman, Music of European Nationalism, 155; Hermand, “On the History of the ‘Deutschlandlied’”; Hanson, “German National Song in the Third Reich.” 25. A few sources list “My Normandy” (or “Ma Normandie”) as the tune to which the poem should be sung, though there is no evidence of a song with this title using music similar to “O Tannenbaum.” “Ma Normandie” is a song by Frédéric Bérat (1801–­55), the semiofficial anthem of the Balliwick of Jersey in the Channel Isles. The prolific American composer Charles Grobe wrote “My Normandy, with Variations” for piano in 1856, so the tune was probably familiar to Americans. What may be a loosely translated English version of Bérat’s song titled “My Normandy” appeared in the mid-­1800s. This version at least closed each stanza with “My Normandy! My Normandy!” But any similarity to “O Tannenbaum” ends there. 26. “Lauriger Horatius,” 336; “Review of Carmina Collegensia,” 125. 27. Heller, “‘O Tannenbaum’”; Widmaier, “O Tannenbaum (2007)” and “Es lebe hoch, es lebe hoch, der Zimmermannsgeselle (2008).” There is confusion as to the earliest source of the melody. Similar texts and the melodies associated with them have been traced back to a manuscript lute book of 1590, which then reappeared in a 1615 publication by the German com-

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poser Melchior Franck along with the text “Ach Tannenbaum.” This tune bears no resemblance to what became the melody of “Maryland, My Maryland.” Erk and Böhme, Deutscher Liederhort, 543–­48. 28. Randall to Brander Matthews, December 1, 1884, James Ryder Randall Papers, Ms. 1397, mdhs. 29. Matthews, “The Songs of the War,” 621. 30. In the same letter Randall suggested that Matthews get in touch with Hettie Cary, as it was she who put Randall’s words to the tune of “O Tannenbaum.” This is curious, as it was Jennie Cary, and not Hettie Cary, who matched lyric to music. 31. A few years after the war, one writer recalled hearing soldiers at the Battle of the Wilderness singing “Lauriger Horatius,” not “My Maryland.” “Old Lauriger,” College Courant. 32. Schiff, “For a Song.” 33. Randolph, “Three Latin Students’ Songs”; Harrison, Recollections, 57. 34. “Old Lauriger,” Littell’s Living Age, 66. 35. “Lauriger Horatius,” 336. 36. Mills, Chronicles of the Twenty-­First Regiment, 179. 37. Andrews, Women of the South in War Times, 66; “Maryland, My Maryland!” Bookman; “The Author of Maryland, My Maryland,” 158. 38. “$500.00 for a National Anthem,” 122. 39. Stauffer and Soskis, Battle Hymn of the Republic, 17–­41. 40. Randall to Strahan, May 9, 1896, James Ryder Randall Letters, 1874–­ 1904, du. 41. This article gives the original song the curious title of “Don’t hug me now—­some other time.” Lowell Daily Citizen and News, December 27, 1862. 42. Daily Constitutionalist, September 24, 1864. 43. “The Song, ‘My Maryland,’” Charleston Mercury, March 6, 1862. 44. Bungert, “The Singing Festivals of German Americans, 1849–­1914”; Keller, Chancellorsville and the Germans, 34–­35; Kamphoefner and Helbich, Germans in the Civil War; Mehrländer, Germans of Charleston, Richmond, and New Orleans. 45. Efford, German Immigrants, Race, and Citizenship in the Civil War Era, 76–­77; Nowatzki, “Paddy Jumps Jim Crow.” 46. Barnett, “The Brandstetter Tunebook”; Cumz, “The Maryland Germans in the Civil War.” 47. Goodman, “Transatlantic Contrafacta, Musical Formats, and the Creation of Political Culture”; Harwell, Confederate Music, 60. There followed nine Confederate editions by five publishers in Augusta, Charleston, Macon, New Orleans, and Richmond. 48. Harwell, Confederate Music, 65. Ellen Key Blunt, a relation of Francis Scott Key, also wrote new words to her ancestor’s anthem. 49. Heaps and Heaps, Singing Sixties, 25. 50. Harwell, Confederate Music, 67. 51. Examples of these parodies can be found in Moore, Rebel Rhymes and Rhapsodies. Published versions can be found in Abel, Confederate Sheet Music, and Hoogerwerf, Confederate Sheet-­Music Imprints. 52. Cornelius, Music of the Civil War, 34–­37; Silber, Songs of the Civil War, 51.

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53. Heaps and Heaps, Singing Sixties, 23–­24. 54. Daily Union, July 14, 1863. Another version can be found in Ridley, Battles and Sketches of the Army of Tennessee, 634. 55. In Branham and Harnett’s words, such practices “reflect the conflicting nationalist impulses of a South that is rooted in sentimental attachments to a forsaken Union (and its most cherished melodies) yet fired with the separatist imagination of a new white nation.” Branham and Hartnett, Sweet Freedom’s Song, 129. 56. Randall and Andrews, Poems, v; Randall, Maryland, My Maryland, and Other Poems. 57. Randall to Doctor [Edwin D. Newton], July 29, 1907, James Ryder Randall Papers, 1855–­1864, 1905–­1912, ug. 58. “Maryland, My Maryland,” Baltimore Evening Sun, September 5, 1938. 59. Letter to Brander Matthews, December 15, 1884, quoted in “How ‘Maryland, My Maryland’ Was Written.” 60. Matthews, “The Songs of the War,” 619–­20. 61. Some have credited H. Rozier Delaney with suggesting this modification, though there is little to support this. Knight, A Standard History of Georgia and Georgians, 1285. See also the annotations found on the original sheet music held by the Library of Congress. 62. Moore, Rebellion Record, 2:107. 4. Fall 1861

1. Gill, Reminiscences of Four Years as a Private Soldier, 40. 2. Thomas, Confederate Nation, 117. 3. Steers, “Maryland, My Maryland,” 45–­46. 4. Letter to Hannah Folsom, November 7, 1861, Alonzo W. Phillips Papers, umd. 5. Diary entry of June 30, 1861, John S. Scott Diary, wchs. 6. Letter to sister, July 1, 1861, Civil War Letters of Albert E. Higley, wchs. 7. Letter to “father and friends,” August 27, 1861, Robert H. Crist Letters, fhs. 8. Letter to mother, December 21, 1861, Boardman Family Papers, mchs. 9. Entry for August 4, 1861, Samuel Harrison Journal, Ms. 432.1, mdhs. 10. Quoted in Mitchell, Maryland Voices, 159. 11. Branham and Hartnett, Sweet Freedom’s Song, 17. 12. Hobsbawm and Ranger, Invention of Tradition. 13. Kleinig, “The Virtue of Patriotism,” 38; the same point appears in Binnington, Confederate Visions, 2. 14. Entry of July 9, 1861, in Chesnut, Woodward, and Muhlenfeld, Private Mary Chesnut, 93. 15. Miles Nelson Cary, letter to Henry P. Goddard, January 30, 1909, Cary Family Papers, 1865–­1914, vhs; “How ‘Maryland, My Maryland’ Was Written,” 483–­84. 16. Sorrell, Recollections of a Confederate Staff Officer, 51; Harrison, Recollections Grave and Gay, 59. 17. “How ‘Maryland, My Maryland’ Was Written,” 484. 18. Harrison, Recollections Grave and Gay, 56–­58; Matthews, “Songs of the War,” 622–­23. Other accounts have this memorable performance occurring during the summer of 1861. Crowley, Songs, Sonnets, and Essays, 79; Evans, Con-

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federate Military History, 64–­65. Constance Cary herself makes reference to a summer visit, with troops singing “Maryland, My Maryland,” so it is likely that the Carys visited this location twice, once in the fall of 1861 and again in the summer of 1862. 19. Harrison, “A Virginia Girl in the First Year of the War,” 609. 20. Matthews, “The Songs of the War,” 622, 21. Alexander and Gallagher, Fighting for the Confederacy, 62. 22. “Flag Presentation to the Washington Artillery.” 23. “Beauregard and the Fair Baltimoreans,” Charleston Mercury, January 4, 1862. 24. “Maryland, My Maryland,” Charleston Mercury, February 28, 1862. 25. Daily Morning News, March 11, 1862; Charleston Mercury, March 20, 1862. 26. Daily Richmond Enquirer, August 30, 1862. 27. Entry for June 13, 1861, Harrison Journal, Ms. 432.1, mdhs. 28. Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism since 1780, 78. 29. Nationalism for Anthony Smith is an “active movement inspired by an ideology and symbolism of the nation” (Smith, Ethno-­Symbolism, 61), while for Sarah Ruben, nationalism and Confederate identity “were constructed out of a combination of institutions and symbols.” Rubin, A Shattered Nation, 1. 30. Bonner, Colors and Blood, 76, 60. 31. Bonner, Colors and Blood, 60–­68; Teachout, Capture the Flag, 86–­87, 99–­100. 32. Southern Illustrated Messenger 34, no. 10 (October 1862): 573. 33. Bonner, Colors and Blood, 30–­31. 34. Entry of June 15, 1862, Frederick A. Heuring Papers, ihs. 35. Letter to mother, November 20 and 25, 1861, Christian A. Wolfram Civil War Letters, ihs. 36. Letter of May 24 [1861], in Bradford and Wanzer, “Dearest Braddie: Love and War in Maryland, 1860–­1861, Part 2,” 337. 37. Richmond Daily Dispatch, December 22, 1862. 38. Harrison, “Virginia Scenes in ’61,” 165–­66. 39. Johnson, Confederate Military History, 43; Harrison, Recollections Grave and Gay, 78; “Flag Presentation to the Washington Artillery.” 40. Rubin, A Shattered Nation, 19. Others have made similar observations. Peter Parish identified the “glorification” stemming from a “compensation for the lack of an ancient history.” Parish, Smith, and Grant, The North and the Nation in the Era of the Civil War, 61–­62. For Quigley, Southerners “did not completely reject their Americanness.” Quigley, Shifting Grounds, 8–­9. Ian Binnington observed that the past could be reshaped to suit a “mythic present.” Binnington, Confederate Visions, 2. 41. Koch, “Teaching Patriotism”; Bodnar, Remaking America, 21–­38. 42. April 7, 1862, in Haydon and Sears, For Country, Cause & Leader, 217. 43. Daily Delta, November 11, 1862. 44. Bond, “Clinging to Patriotism.” 45. Civilian and Telegraph, September 26, 1861. 46. Examiner, October 30, 1861. 47. Boston Daily Advertiser, August 4, 1864.

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48. Like “My Maryland,” select phrases from “Down-­trodden Maryland” were taken up as tropes in private correspondence and newspapers. Mitchell, Maryland Voices, 159, 302. 49. Harwell, Confederate Music, 59. 50. Memoir, 200, John William Ford Hatton Papers, Manuscript Division, loc. 5. Spring 1862

1. Elizabeth Morgan showed how one song, Charles Grobe’s “Battle of New Orleans” (1862), relied on biased media accounts for its lyric. Morgan, “War on the Home Front,” 400–­404. 2. The Confederate Navy could do little to help as they were grossly outmanned; in February they could claim thirty-­three ships, while the Federals had three hundred ships in service. The brief success of the ironclad css Virginia in March provided a symbolic victory for the South but had little lasting impact. 3. “Letter to the Editors,” Jefferson Gazette, February 22, 1862. 4. Letter to Nellie, February 23, 1862, “Soldier named ‘Sumner,’” Maryland Manuscripts Collection, umd. 5. Letter to family, March 10, 1862, Julius Seidel Papers, mhm. 6. Elias Perry Letter, Civil War Collection, mhm. 7. Rable, Confederate Republic, 64–­87. 8. Abel, Singing the New Nation, 55; Bailey, Music and the Southern Belle, 228n49; Harwell, Confederate Music, 10–­11; Heaps and Heaps, Singing Sixties, 8; McWhirter, Battle Hymns, 109. 9. Daily Dispatch, July 14, 1862; “Searching Secesh Houses,” Cincinnati Daily Commercial, July 24, 1862; Philadelphia Inquirer, August 8, 1862. 10. Tuckerman, Life of John Pendleton Kennedy, 314. Some residents sought revenge by secretly circulating a song that mocked Schenck’s draconian policies. Clark, “Suppression and Control of Maryland,” 267. 11. Thomas, Confederate Nation, 147–­48; Rable, Confederate Republic, 153. 12. Entry of February 21, 1862, Diary of Samuel Peck Reid, Gore-­Helfenstein Papers, mhm. 13. Oldenquist, “Loyalties,” 31. 14.Bodnar, Bonds of Affection, 8–­11; Greenfeld, Nationalism, 472–­75; O’Leary, To Die For, 11; Potter, “The Historian’s Use of Nationalism and Vice Versa,” 48–­49. 15. Bonner, Colors and Blood, 19–­38. 16. Wiebe, Opening of American Society, 355. 17. McPherson, For Cause and Comrades, 95–­98; Oldenquist, “Loyalties,” 31. 18. Sarris, A Separate Civil War, 82. 19. LeMenager, “‘Geographical Morality’”; Cuba and Hummon, “A Place to Call Home.” 20. September 15, 1861, in Haydon and Sears, For Country, Cause & Leader, 88. Additional examples are found in McPherson, For Cause and Comrades, 82–­84. 21. Entries of May 25, 1862, and June 28, 1862, in Haydon and Sears, For Country, Cause & Leader, 244, 257.

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22. Letter to Betty, [July] 22, 1861, Dabney Family Papers, vhs. 23. Letter to sister, July 16, 1862, George W. Landrum Letters, wrhs. 24. Foner, Politics and Ideology in the Age of the Civil War, 34–­53; Rable, Confederate Republic, 111–­31. 25. Curti, Roots of American Loyalty, 159. 26. Letters to mother, December 5, 1862, and March 1, 1863, Boardman Family Papers, mchs. 27. Bonner’s Colors and Blood is one of the few works that stress the role of emotional attachment in patriotism (and not nationalism). See also Kelen, Anthem Quality, 31. 28. Hutchison, Apples and Ashes, 11; Ostendorf, Sounds American, 7. 29. Slobin, Subcultural Sounds, 17–­19. 30. Harwell, Confederate Music, 8, 42–­43, 69–­70; Hutchison, Apples and Ashes, 150–­63. Harwell isolated an extreme example of musical regionalism: “‘Somebody’s Darling’ was in every sense a Georgia production. The composers were Georgians, it was printed in a Georgia town, and the paper upon which it was printed was manufactured in Georgia.” Harwell, Confederate Music, 37. 31. Entry of December 7, 1862, Curtis R. Burke, Civil War Journal, ihs. 32. Entry of January 19, 1861, in Richards and Venet, Sam Richards’s Civil War Diary, 42; McWhirter, Battle Hymns, 62–­65; Ostendorf, Sounds American, 101–­2. 33. Sternhell, Routes of War, 43. 34. Entry of October 20, 1862, Curtis R. Burke, Civil War Journal, ihs. 35. Letter to Amanda, November 12, 1862, George W. Landrum Letters, wrhs. 36. Coleman Hutchison is right to stress the oral or nonstandard transmission of songs as a central part of everyday musical life. Hutchison, Apples and Ashes, 143–­72. 37. Letters of October 15, 1861, and March 19, 1862, George Landrum Letters, wrhs. 38. Gallman, Defining Duty in the Civil War. 39. Letter of May 16, 1861, Bradford and Wanzer, “Dearest Braddie,” 83. 40. Ruffner, Maryland’s Blue & Gray. 41. Letter to Creswell, February 12, 1862, John A. J. Creswell Papers, loc. 42. Letter to sister, September 8, 1862, in Keller, Crossroads of War, 223–­57, 226. 43. Richmond Whig, August 29, 1862. 44. Ruffner, Maryland’s Blue & Gray, 179–­211. 45. McKim, A Soldier’s Recollections, 63, 66, 81. 46. McKim, A Soldier’s Recollections, 97. 47. “Marylanders True to the Star-­Spangled Banner,” Daily National Intelligencer, June 7, 1862. 48. Goldsborough, Maryland Line in the Confederate Army, 53–­54. 49. Scharf and Kelley, Personal Memoirs, 34–­35. 6. Summer 1862

1. Glenn, Marks, and Schatz, Between North and South, 62–­63. 2. Charades, melodramas, and tableaus (brief scenes featuring costumed characters and music that depicted or described historical events or allegories) were popular with Richmond’s elite during the war. The Cary Invincibles were frequent participants.

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3. “My Maryland,” Frank Leslie’s Weekly, October 4, 1862. Two months later the New Orleans Daily Delta announced that a “Union Play” titled My Maryland, or the Battle of Antietam was performed at the Charles Theatre (December 24, 1862.) 4. In this way “Maryland, My Maryland” takes on the characteristics of what Michael Billig deemed “banal nationalism.” Billig, Banal Nationalism, 8. Binnington identified a cluster of overt and surreptitious tropes in Confederate discourse that included “the Worthy Southron, the Demon Yankee, the Silent Slave, and a sense of shared history that we can call ‘Confederate Americanism.’” Binnington, Confederate Visions, 3. 5. Edmondston, Crabtree, and Patton, Journal of a Secesh Lady, 184. 6. Abel, Confederate Sheet Music, 222. The composer listed on the first publication was “E.W.C.” Frank Key Howard, grandson of Francis Scott Key, supplied his own set of words to “There Is Life in the Old Land Yet.” 7. Edmondston, Crabtree, and Patton, Journal of a Secesh Lady, 250–­51. 8. Hopkins, “The James J. Archer Letters,” 125. 9. Sun, October 23, 1862; Philadelphia Inquirer, August 2, 1862. 10. Philadelphia Inquirer, September 17 and 20, 1862. 11. Entry of August 15, 1864, Boykin, Shinplasters and Homespun, 1–­2. 12. Entry of September 18, 1864, Sarah Fitch Poates Diary, wchs. 13. Harwell, Confederate Music, 22. 14. “Miss Adelina Patti’s Concert,” Daily Constitutionalist, November 18, 1860; entry of November 17, 1860, Anna Maria Tilghman Diary, Tilghman Papers, Ms. 1967, mdhs. 15. Scott, Sounds of the Metropolis; Stokes, “Introduction: Ethnicity, Identity, and Music,” 4–­5. 16. Letter to Fred, November 17, 1862, in Fleet and Fleet, Green Mount after the War, 184. 17. Levine, Fall of the House of Dixie. 18. “Letter from ‘My Maryland,’” Milwaukee Sentinel, October 8, 1862. 19. Boston Daily Advertiser, February 11, 1864. 20. World, March 25, 1863; Daily Delta, October 28, 1862. 21. Charleston Mercury, March 20, 1862. Curiously, the editors felt the need to push Randall and Cary’s song: “This plaintive and beautiful melody has never before been sung in public here, and well executed, as we know it will be, it will be listened to with peculiar interest.” 22. This process leads to the increased commodification of musical performances, including patriotic songs. Cavicchi, Listening and Longing: Music Lovers in the Age of Barnum. 23. Booth, Personal Reminiscences of a Maryland Soldier, 51. 24. Entry of September 7, 1862, John S. Scott Diary, wchs. 25. or, series 1, 12:2:545; Hennessy, Return to Bull Run, 259–­64. 26. Herring, “Beginning of the War in North Carolina.” 27. Daily Dispatch, May 30, 1862. 28. Branham and Hartnett, Sweet Freedom’s Song, 17. 29. Sternhell, Routes of War, 9–­10. 30. Dwight, Life and Letters of Wilder Dwight, 194–­95.

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31. While many Southern publishers were suffering due to the war, the demand for sheet music continued to rise. The prominent Northern firm of Root & Cady significantly expanded their publishing capabilities in May 1862. Carder, George F. Root, Civil War Songwriter, 112. 32. “Richmond Hussars, Co. B,” Augusta Chronicle, April 24, 1862; Daily Picayune, June 19, 1862. 33. McKim, A Soldier’s Recollections, 53; Howard, Recollections of a Maryland Confederate Soldier, 65. 34. Confederate Veteran 15, no. 1 (January 1907): 10. 35. Daily Morning News, March 11, 1862; Augusta Chronicle, April 25, 1862. Similar accounts can be found in Daily Picayune, June 19, 1862; Daily Columbus Enquirer, January 31, 1862; Macon Daily Telegraph, April 12, 1862; Charleston Mercury, March 20, 1862. 36. Daily Columbus Enquirer, January 31, 1862. There were arrangements or variations by Edward Mack, James Bellak, Theodre La Hache, and Charles Grobe. 37. Anderson, Imagined Communities, 145. 38. Entry of December 25, 1861, Buck and Baer, Shadows on My Heart, 77. 39. Boston Evening Transcript, October 8, 1861. 40. World, May 22, 1862. 7. Fall 1862

1. Wright, A Southern Girl in ’61, 119. 2. Goddard and Zon, Good Fight That Didn’t End, 260–­62; Miles Nelson Cary to Henry P. Goddard, January 30, 1909, Cary Family Papers, 1865–­1914, vhs. 3. Nisbet, 4 Years on the Firing Line, 149. 4. Richmond Whig, September 16, 1862; reprinted in the Daily Constitutionalist, September 18, 1862, and the Charleston Mercury, September 23, 1862. 5. Douglas and Green, I Rode with Stonewall, 147. Innumerable veterans recalled hearing bands play “Maryland, My Maryland” when crossing the Potomac. Confederate Veteran 9, no. 12 (December 1901): 557. 6. Hotchkiss and McDonald. Make Me a Map of the Valley, 78. 7. Borcke, Memoirs of the Confederate War for Independence, 127. 8. Polley and McCaslin, A Soldier’s Letters to Charming Nellie, 80. 9. Nisbet, 4 Years on the Firing Line, 150. 10. Wilkinson and Woodworth, A Scythe of Fire, 181. 11. Taylor, Tower, and Belmont, Lee’s Adjutant, 43. 12. Stevens, Reminiscences of the Civil War, 66. 13. Letter to Sallie, September 8, 1862, Hardy Papers, usm. 14. Philadelphia Inquirer, September 9, 1862; Carolina Observer, September 22, 1862. 15. Southern Illustrated News, September 20, 1862; World, September 15, 1862. 16. Letter to Sallie, undated [September 1862], Hardy Papers, usm; letter to wife, Frances Marion Coker Papers, Ms. 59, ug. 17. Robertson, Personal Recollections of the War, 36. 18. Taylor, Lee’s Adjutant, 43; Ernst, Too Afraid to Cry, chapters 1–­3. 19. Steiner, Report of Lewis H. Steiner, m . d ., 8, 21.

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20. Moore, Women of the War, 283. 21. New York Herald, September 18, 1862. 22. Philadelphia Inquirer, September 15, 1862. 23. Ernst, Too Afraid to Cry, 50–­53; Bardsley, “Frederick Diary,” 137. 24. Proclamation of General Lee to the People of Maryland, September 8, 1862, Broadsides Collection, mdhs. 25. Philadelphia Inquirer, September 13, 1862. 26. Philpot, “A Maryland Boy in the Confederate Army.” 27. Philadelphia Inquirer, September 13, 1862; Jonathan Clark to Margery Clark, September 11, 1862, Clark Family Letters, usm. 28. “Maryland as the Seat of War,” Richmond Enquirer, September 9, 1862. 29. “The Confederate Army in Maryland,” Daily Constitutionalist, September 12, 1862. 30. Memoir, 442–­43, John William Ford Hatton Papers, loc. 31. Scharf and Kelley, Personal Memoirs, 52–­53; Clemens, “The ‘Diary’ of John H. Stone,” 116. 32. Davis, “A War of Manners”; entry of September 12, 1862, Bardsley, “Frederick Diary,” 136–­37. 33. Scharf and Kelley, Personal Memoirs, 52–­53; Clemens, “The ‘Diary’ of John H. Stone,” 116. 34. Booth, Personal Reminiscences, 72; letter to aunt, October [5], 1862, Gist Family Collection, loc. 35. Wild, Memoirs and History of Capt. F. W. Alexander, 15. 36. Letter to Mary Lou, September 28, 1862, in Taylor, Lee’s Adjutant, 46. 37. Entry of September 19, 1862, Neese, Three Years in the Confederate Horse Artillery, 126. 38. Davidson, Captain Greenlee Davidson, c . s . a ., 49. 39. Letter of September 21, 1862, in Taylor, Lee’s Adjutant, 44. 40. Mills, Chronicles of the Twenty-­First Regiment, 289; Committee of the Regimental Association, History of the Thirty-­Fifth Regiment Massachusetts Volunteers, 25. 41. Letter to Laura, September 24, 1862, quoted in Glatthaar, General Lee’s Army, 166. 42. Examiner, October 1, 1862; Philadelphia Inquirer, October 8, 1862; Evening Star, October 10, 1862. 43. Albany Evening Journal, September 24, 1862; similar statements appear in Milwaukee Daily Sentinel, September 23, 1862; Vincennes Gazette, October 25, 1862. 44. Louisville Daily Democrat, September 24, 1862; Philadelphia Inquirer, September 24, 1862. 45. Salem Observer, September 27, 1862; Easton Gazette, September 20, 1862; Boston Post, September 22, 1862; Massachusetts Spy, October 8, 1862. 46. Richmond Examiner, October 29, 1862. 47. “A National Hymn,” 4. 48. Letter to Phil, September 20, 1862, Lee and Laas, Wartime Washington, 183. 49. Letters to sister, September 22, 1862, Daniel M. Thomas Papers, Ms. 1970.2, mdhs. 50. Entry of October 6, 1862, Saunders, “War-­Time Journal of a ‘Little Rebel,’” 451.

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51. “General Lee’s Wooing,” National Republican, October 8, 1862. 52. Press, October 8, 1862. 53. Evening Journal, October 10, 1862. 54. Examiner, October 15, 1862. No. 1 came in October 30, 1862, and No. 2 in April 29, 1863. 55. Boston Herald, December 8, 1862. 56. “My Maryland,” Harper’s Weekly, October 11, 1862, 642. 57. Mobile Register, October 18, 1862. 58. Daily Constitutionalist, October 16, 1862. 59. Daily Democrat, November 13, 1862. 60. Boston Herald, December 4, 1862. For more on Northern versions, see Heaps and Heaps, Singing Sixties, 31–­32. 61. Press, September 16, 1862. 62. People take patriotism personally in a similar fashion to music. Kleinig, “The Virtue of Patriotism,” 21; Bernath, Confederate Minds, 35–­76; Quigley, Shifting Grounds, 9. 63. “The President’s Song at Antietam,” Fayetteville Observer, March 26, 1863. 64. “Lincoln at Antietam,” Old Guard 2, no. 11 (November 1864): 262. 65. Charleston Mercury, October 11, 1862. 66. “My Maryland,” Philadelphia Inquirer, September 18, 1862. 67. Speech delivered to a meeting of the Daughters of the Confederacy in Baltimore, January 19, 1905, James Ryder Randall Papers, Ms. 1397, mdhs. 68. Chattanooga Daily Rebel, January 25, 1863. 69. A doctor’s report from January 17, 1864, is reprinted in Lilian MacGregor Shepherd, “Reminiscences of James Ryder Randall,” Charlotte Observer, November 22, 1908. Randall addresses his physical condition in a letter to Katherine Hammond, May 18, 1864, James Ryder Randall Papers, #1526, unc. One author gives 1861 as the date of Randall’s attempted enlistment; Knight, Georgia’s Landmarks, Memorials, and Legends, 1:45. Perhaps the most trustworthy biography of Randall can be found in the introduction to Randall, Poems, 1–­34. Randall produced a biography of sorts in a series of five articles for the Baltimore Sun titled “Memoirs of a Busy Life” (July 7–­August 11, 1907). See also Johnson, “James Ryder Randall and ‘Maryland, My Maryland.’” 70. Letters to Katherine Hammond, October 8 and 12, 1863, January 15, 1864, James Ryder Randall Papers, #1526, unc. 71. or, series 2, no. 1, 313, 323; letter to Katherine Hammond, February 5, 1864, James Ryder Randall Papers, #1526, unc. Randall described his appointment as that of a “passed midshipman” or third lieutenant, equivalent to an assistant adjutant general (February 14, 1864). 72. Hurlbert, “Fifteen Months at the South,” New York Times, October 30, 1862. 73. Letter to parents, February 3, 1862, Kimberly Family Papers, whs. 74. History of the Seventh Maryland Volunteers, 27, Joseph William Kirkley Papers, loc. 75. Entry of January 1, 1863, McGee and Landerm, A Rebel Came Home, 27. 76. Hall, History of the Ninety-­Seventh Regiment, 82–­83. 77. Stevens, Reminiscences, 68. 78. Bartlett, A Soldier’s Story of the War, 130.

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79. Quoted in Ernst, Too Afraid to Cry, 23, 157–­58. 80. Entry of September 14, 1862, Diary of John S. Scott, wchs. 81. October–­November 1862, unpublished history of the Seventh Maryland Volunteers, 18–­19, Joseph William Kirkley Papers, loc. 82. Letter to parents, June 28, 1862; letter to mother, August 12, 1862, James Jenkins Gillette Papers, loc. 83. Letters to sister, September 19, 1862, and October 25, 1862, Michael Guinan, Civil War Correspondence, Ms. 2749, mdhs. Guinan and his comrades expected to march to Baltimore to put down any unrest as a result of the draft; October [29], 1862. 84. Diary of William H. Lyons, Ms. 1860, mdhs; Clemens, “The ‘Diary’ of John H. Stone,” 113–­14. 85. Miller, “Civil War Memoirs of the First Maryland Cavalry, c.s.a.,” 137–­72. 86. Paca, “‘Tim’s Black Book,’” 456, 461. 87. Press, September 17, 1862. 88. Sun, September 26, 1862. 89. Philadelphia Inquirer, November 4, 1862. 90. Daily Courant, June 12, 1865; New Orleans Times, June 18, 1865. 91. Robson, How a One-­Legged Rebel Lives, 118–­19. 92. Rable, Confederate Republic, 154–­73; Thomas, Confederate Nation, 163–­65. 93. Fields, Slavery and Freedom on the Middle Ground, 117–­22. 94. O’Reilly, Fredericksburg Campaign, 147–­61; Richter, Three Cheers for the Chesapeake! 53–­56. 95. “God and Our Country,” Weekly Standard, November 19, 1862. 96. Stout, Upon the Altar of the Nation, 97. 8. Spring 1863

1. Higginson, Army Life in a Black Regiment, 40–­42. Sadly, Higginson’s uplifting account is countered by a purportedly positive but painfully racist account of the celebration in Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper, January 24, 1864, 3. 2. Bonner, Colors and Blood, 144–­45. 3. Letter to father, January 2, 1863, Edwin W. Moffett Papers, Ms. 1373, mdhs. 4. Letter to father, [February] 1863, Moffett Papers, Ms. 1373, mdhs. 5. Thomas, Confederate Nation, 190. 6. In other words, what arose was recognition of the necessity of political victory instead of military or cultural victory. As Thomas said, “The South would become more Confederate and less Southern in the fateful year of 1863.” Thomas, Confederate Nation, 166. 7. Worsham and Heiskell, Old Nineteenth Tennessee Regiment, 68–­69. 8. Entries of February 14, March 7, and June 21, 1863, Curtis R. Burke, Civil War Journal, ihs. 9. Wild, Memoirs and History, 80. 10. James Joseph Williamson Papers, Ms. 912, mdhs. 11. Daily Dispatch, July 3, 1862. 12. Williamson, Prison Life in the Old Capitol and Reminiscences of the Civil War, 49–­51. Williamson also mentions “Ain’t You Glad You’re Out of the Wilderness?” which then became “Ol’ Joe Hooker, Come Out of the Wilder-

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ness.” In both cases this was probably the song “Jine the Cavalry,” one of Jeb Stuart’s favorite pieces. 13. Boyd, Belle Boyd in Camp and Prison, 28–­32. 14. Mahony, Prisoner of State, 268–­72. 15. Bull and Bauer, Soldiering, 73. 16. McElroy, Andersonville, 334–­37. 17. Letter of February 16, 1864, and letter of late February or early March 1864, Anderson, “A Captured Confederate Officer,” 64, 65, 66. 18. Entries of March 2 and 8, 1863, Waitz, Rowland, and Croxall, Journal of Julia LeGrand, 174–­75, 204–­5; McPherson, For Cause and Comrades, 104–­10. 19. Letter to parents, October 3, 1863, Charles T. Kruse Letters, nl. 20. Letter to family, March 10, 1862, Julius Seidel Papers, mhm. It is also possible that Seidel, a native of Germany, simply spoke in broken English. 21. Sontag, Regarding the Pain of Others, 10; Shaw, Suffering and Sentiment in Romantic Military Art, 4–­5; Morgan, “War on the Home Front,” 381–­408. 22. Letter to parents, March 20, 1863, Civil War Letters of Artemus Harrington, wchs. 23. Southern Illustrated News, January 23, 1863, 28. 24. Daily National Republican, January 20, 1863. 25. Evening Star, March 28, 1863. 26. Louisville Daily Democrat, May 6, 1863. 27. Escott, After Secession; Powell and Wayne, “Self-­Interest and the Decline of Confederate Nationalism,” 29–­46. 28. Rable, Confederate Republic, 215. 29. Thomas, Confederate Nation, 221. 30. Bernath, Confederate Minds, 151; Hutchison, Apples and Ashes, 11. 31. This idea was shaped by Smith’s differentiation in National Identity between “state” and “nation.” In Anne S. Rubin’s words, “The Confederate state ultimately could not withstand a combination of internal and external pressures and collapsed in April–­May 1865. But attachment to a symbolic or sentimental Confederacy, or at least to a separate Southern identity, existed independently of the political Confederacy, and thus was able to outlast the state.” Rubin, A Shattered Nation, 2. 32. Ian Binnington notes that while Confederate banknotes of 1861–­62 had emphasized Southern virtues, subsequent notes shifted to “Confederate in tone.” This may be because currency comes from the government, not the people, and therefore reflected the Richmond government’s effort to build support for the struggling state. Binnington, Confederate Visions, 75. 33. Keller, “The Case against Patriotism,” 58. 34. Archer to Nannie, June 14, 1863, Hopkins, “The James J. Archer Letters,” 149. 35. McKim, A Soldier’s Recollections, 131–­32. 36. Sears, Chancellorsville, 321 37. or, 25:1:840–­47. 38. Letter to Celia, June 12, 1864, Van H. Bukey Papers, fhs. Not everyone was pleased with the excessive commemoration of Jackson. Glatthaar, General Lee’s Army, 254–­55.

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39. Historian Gary Gallagher sees Lee and the Army of Northern Virginia as “the preeminent symbol of the Confederate struggle for independence and liberty” (Gallagher, Confederate War, 85) while Ian Binnington sees the entire Confederate military as “the preeminent symbol of the wartime nation” (Binnington, Confederate Visions, 7, 115–­40). 40. Bonner, Colors and Blood, 97. 41. Rubin, A Shattered Nation, 11; Rable, Confederate Republic, 174; Thomas, Confederate Nation, 221. 42. Faust says these works “served almost as catechisms in civics for the far-­ flung southern public.” Faust, Creation of Confederate Nationalism, 19. Songs in praise of Confederate officers are discussed in Heaps and Heaps, Singing Sixties, chapter 6. 43. Letter to sister, April 4, 1863, Henry W. Mason Papers, mchs. 44. Letter to Fannie, June 19, 1863, Douglas J. and Rufus W. Cater Papers, loc. 45. Letter to wife, March 7, 1863, Emor Young Letters, fhs. 46. Letter to Tom, November 8, 1863, Bullitt Family Papers, fhs. 47. Carder, George F. Root, 107–­9. Carder notes that Henry Washburn’s lyric “The Vacant Chair,” set to music by Root, was likewise motivated by personal experience (124–­25.) 48. Weekly Patriot and Union, March 5, 1863. 49. Bernath, Confederate Minds, 246. 9. Summer 1863

1. Clark, “Suppression and Control of Maryland.” 2. Daily National Republican, January 20, 1863. 3. Letter to sister, March 15, 1863, Daniel M. Thomas Papers, Ms. 1970.2, mdhs. 4. Entries of December 5, 1863, July 4, 1864, Rebecca D. Davis Diary, Ms. 2111, mdhs. 5. Letter to parents, May 3, 1863, letter to mother, August 12, 1862, James Jenkins Gillette Papers, loc. 6. Hildebrand and Schaaf, Musical Maryland, 84–­88. 7. Entry of May 13, 1863, Beauchamp, “Research Notes and Maryland Miscellany,” 77. 8. Anderson, “The Civil War Courtship of Richard Mortimer Williams and Rose Anderson of Rockville,” 124–­25. 9. Letters to Elizabeth Travers Lewis, June 3, 1862, and January 27, 1863, Holladay Family Papers, Section 108, vhs. 10. Entry of April 3, 1863, Jones, A Rebel War Clerk’s Diary, 1:286. See also Brock, Richmond during the War, 256–­57. 11. Rubin, A Shattered Nation, 64–­68. 12. Entry of June 19, 1863, Edmondston, Crabtree, and Patton, Journal of a Secesh Lady, 412. 13. July 4, 1863, Glenn, Marks, and Schatz, Between North and South, 95. 14. “The Heroism of Missouri,” Richmond Examiner, August 25, 1863. 15. White, A Diary of the War, 157. 16. Letter to Molly, March 31, 1863, James Edwin Love Papers, mhm. 17. Glatthaar, General Lee’s Army, 268–­69.

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18. Letter of June 23, 1863, Henry C. Albright, Civil War Collection, ghs. 19. Entries of July 13–­14, 1863, Walter H. Jackson Papers, um. 20. Haydon and Sears, For Country, Cause & Leader, 316. 21. Letter to father, June 26, 1863, Leroy Summerfield Edwards Correspondence, vhs. 22. William C. Nelson to Maria C. Nelson, July 19, 1863, William Cowper Nelson Collection, usm. 23. Green, “A People at War,” 255–­56. 24. Yael Sternhell wrote, “Men on the move were the emblems of the new order: they turned the Southern nation from a political abstraction into a tangible reality and created a living symbol around which the Southern citizenry could unite.” Sternhell, Routes of War, 17. 25. Lovelace, Shrivers, 43. 26. Lovelace, Shrivers, 50. 27. Letter to Lizzie, June 29, 1863, William H. Shriver Papers, loc. 28. Letter to Wirt, July 9, 1863, in Macsherry, Pastime, 160. 29. Entries of June 22 and 24, 1863, in Macsherry, Pastime, 254, 256. 30. Hudgins, “With the 38th Georgia Regiment,” 162. 31. Clemens, “The ‘Diary’ of John H. Stone,” 131. 32. Letter to Mary, July 11, 1863, Belcher Letters, usm. 33. Entries of July 11 and 15, 1863, Howard, Recollections of a Maryland Confederate Soldier, 215, 217. 34. New York Herald, July 18, 1863; Philadelphia Inquirer, July 17, 1863. 35. “Mr. F. G. Chapman’s Despatches,” New York Herald, July 14, 1863. 36. Entry of July 7, 1863, Diary and Reminiscences of James W. Albright of Greensboro nc, ghm. 37. Confederate Veteran 21, no. 9 (September 1913): 433. 38. Clark, Under the Stars and Bars, 94–­96; Douglas and Green, I Rode with Stonewall, 193–­94. 39. Confederate Veteran 36 (July 1928): 255. 40. “The songs Jeb Stuart sang were a symbolic representation of all other aspects of his emotional life; they represented to him his comrades in arms, his country, his beloved state of Virginia, and his family.” Moseley, “‘Those Songs Which So Much Remind Me of You,’” 398. 41. Letter to wife, July 24, 1863, Charles H. Merrick Papers, 1861–­66, 1885–­ 1901, wrhs. 42. Diary entry of July 25, 1863, quoted in Mitchell, Maryland Voices, 188. 43. Gallagher, Confederate War, 145. 44. Quigley, Shifting Grounds, 198–­213; Rubin, A Shattered Nation, 50–­52. 45. Faust, This Republic of Suffering, xii. Mark S. Schantz delves into antebellum attitudes toward death and their impact on the war in his Awaiting the Heavenly Country, 168–­72. 46. Finson, Voices That Are Gone, 83–­121. 47. Faust, This Republic of Suffering, 262. As Shaw argues, “Sentiment conspires with art to condition public responses to war.” Shaw, Suffering and Sentiment, 5. 48. Stout, Upon the Altar of the Nation, xxi; Bonner, Colors and Blood, 67–­94; Lawson, Patriot Fires, 29–­31.

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49. Quigley, Shifting Grounds, 9. Later he added: “Nationalism offered an appealing way to imbue the death of friends and family with sacred meaning” (203). 50. Searle-­White, Psychology of Nationalism, 92. 51. Entry of October 10, 1863, Rebecca D. Davis Diary, Ms. 2111, mdhs. 52. Richmond Examiner, September 9, 1864; Brock, Richmond during the War, 270; Mary W. Early, “Richmond in War Times,” New York Times, September 24, 1882, 6. Louisa Minor noted an invitation to a “real dancing party . . . and not a ‘starvation.’” Entry of January 10–­16, 1864, Diary of Louisa H. A. Minor, uv. 53. Warren, Under Siege! 216–­17. 54. Mohr, Cormany Diaries, 329–­30. 55. Harris, Lincoln and the Border States, 268–­307. 56. Fields, Slavery and Freedom, 1–­39. 57. Ernst, Too Afraid to Cry, 9–­18. 58. Letter to parents and brothers, January 16, 1864, John E. Rastall Papers, series 1, folder 4, umd. 59. Beauchamp, A Private War, 73–­74. 60. Fields, Slavery and Freedom, 23; see also 23–­39, 100–­130. 61. Searle-­White, Psychology of Nationalism, 94. 62. Carder, George F. Root, 113, 121. 63. Allen, Ware, and Garrison, Slave Songs of the United States. 64. It has been argued that Dan Emmett’s “Dixie’s Land” was actually written by African Americans. Sacks and Sacks, Way Up North in Dixie. White anxiety over the black roots of “American” music is considered in Nunn, Sounding the Color Line, 16–­44. 65. Moseley, “‘When Will Dis Cruel War Be Ober?’” 3–­4. 66. Entry of July 31, 1864, Davis Diary, Ms. 2111, mdhs. 67. Entry of July 4, 1864, Davis Diary, Ms. 2111, mdhs. 68. Entry for October 22, 1863, Samuel A. Harrison Journal, Ms. 432.1, mdhs. 69. Philadelphia Inquirer, September 25, 1862. 70. Daily Dispatch, February 20, 1862. 71. Matthews, “Maryland!” Lyceum Observer 1, no. 2 (June 5, 1863). 72. Farmer’s Cabinet, July 7, 1864. 73. North Dakota Legislative Assembly, House Journal of the Fourth Session of the Legislative Assembly of the Dakota Territory, 33. 74. Liberator, July 15, 1864. 75. “Celebration of Freedom in Maryland,” Liberator, December 9, 1864. Hamilton’s poem can be found in the Pacific Appeal, June 21, 1862. 76. Vermont Watchman and State Journal, February 3, 1865. 77. Schaar, “The Case for Covenanted Patriotism,” 244. 78. O’Leary, To Die For, 14, 26; McCurry, Confederate Reckoning, 11–­37. The role of immigrant concert music in the dance of American identity is addressed in Thompson, “Journeys of an Immigrant Violinist.” 79. Binnington, Confederate Visions, 4. 80. McCurry, Confederate Reckoning, 310–­57. 81. DeLeon, Belles, Beaux, and Brains of the 60’s, 415. 82. Saffle, “‘Across a Great Divide.’” 83. Grant, North over South, 156–­57.

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n o t e s t o pag e s 204–215

84. Letter to family, February 22, 1863, Edward Winkler Papers, fhs. 85. Ostendorf, Sounds American, 2; Garrett, Struggling to Define a Nation, 121–­64. 10. Fall 1863

1. Harriet Pettit Floyd, “Civil War Memories,” 3, hsfc. 2. Frederick Examiner, September 9, 1863. 3. Harris, Lincoln and the Border States, 42–­79. 4. Letters to Sewell, September 9 and 21, 1863, Thomas S. Ball Papers, Ms. 1190, mdhs. 5. Entry of October 17, 1863, Rebecca D. Davis Diary, Ms. 2111, mdhs. 6. Letter to mother, December 14, 1863, David Baily Letters and Diary, Civil War Times Illustrated Collection, series 2, box 29, usamhi. 7. Philadelphia Inquirer, September 13, 1862. 8. Letter of September 31, 1863, William H. Daneker Papers, Ms. 1252, mdhs. 9. Unpublished history of the Seventh Maryland Infantry, 91–­92, Joseph W. Kirkley Papers, loc. 10. Newcomer, Cole’s Cavalry, 76–­80. 11. Letter to wife, July 7, 1863, Robert Goodloe Harper Carroll Papers, Ms. 1683, mdhs. 12. Washington Reporter, August 19, 1863. 13. Letter to Molly, November 9, 1862, James Edwin Love Papers, mhm. 14. Letter to sister, October 15, 1861, George W. Landrum Letters, wrhs. 15. Dawson, A Confederate Girl’s Diary, 319. In Confederate Reckoning, Stephanie McCurry showed how the disenfranchisement of lower-­class white women (along with slaves) produced a dangerous instability within the Confederacy; even the deification of upper-­class belles conflicted with Confederate ideology, although it remained a key component of the Southern self-­identity. 16. Bonner, Colors and Blood, 83–­87. 17. Letter of May 1, 1863, Trimble Papers, Ms. 1449, mdhs. 18. See the letters from Lewis P. Holloway to Mrs. McKenzie, and letter to sister, March 30, 1862, Daniel M. Thomas Papers, Ms. 1970.2, mdhs. 19. Bailey, Music and the Southern Belle, 10–­24; Rumbley, “Ornamental Music and Southern Belles”; Meyer-­Frazier, Bound Music, Unbound Women. 20. Entry of May 12, 1862, Elizabeth Atwood Diary, mhm. 21. Bailey, Music and the Southern Belle, 179. Bailey also suggested that fear of imprisonment kept the Carys from using their names on the publication. 22. Bailey, Music and the Southern Belle, 90–­136. 23. Moore, Rebellion Record, 2:107; Philadelphia Inquirer, September 9, 1862; Daily Picayune, June 19, 1862. 24. Daily National Republican, January 20, 1863. 25. “The Ladies of Morgantown,” New York Herald, May 9, 1863. 26. Augusta Chronicle, April 25, 1862; Macon Daily Telegraph, June 25, 1862. 27. Pickett, Literary Hearthstones of Dixie, 289–­90. 28. “An English Clergyman on the South,” 173. 29. Linderman, Embattled Courage, 87–­93, 143. 30. Lt. Col. Gregory Barrett, letter to Hugh Lenox Bond, October 17, 1864, Bond-­McCulloch Family Papers, Ms. 1159, mdhs.

n o t e s t o pag e s 216–226

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31. Letter to husband, September 1862, Elizabeth Phoebe Key Howard Papers, Ms. 1839, mdhs. 32. Evening Star, July 17, 1863. 33. Hartford Daily Courant, September 30, 1864. 34. Boston Evening Transcript, October 8, 1861. 35. “My Maryland,” Philadelphia Inquirer, September 18, 1862. 36. Memoir, 616, John William Ford Hatton Papers, loc. 37. Whites, Civil War as a Crisis in Gender, 41–­63. 38. Entry of July 6, 1863, Diary of Dr. Robert Joseph Bell, Mosby Monroe Parsons Papers, mhm. 39. Letter to sister, February 4, 1863, Marcus O. Frost Papers, mhm. 40. The internationally celebrated Florence Nightingale published a brief statement on the medicinal use of music, “Effect of Music on the Sick.” 41. Wittenmyer, Under the Guns, 217–­23. 42. Goldsborough, Maryland Line in the Confederate Army, 31–­32. 43. Quoted in Styple, Writing and Fighting the Civil War, 139. 44. “Performance does not exist in order to present musical works, but rather, musical works exist in order to give performers something to perform.” Small, Musicking, 8. 45. Pember, A Southern Woman’s Story, 64–­65. 46. Pember, A Southern Woman’s Story, 65–­66. 47. Pember, A Southern Woman’s Story, 67–­68. 48. Letter of August 7, [1863], Ruffner, “A Maryland Refugee in Virginia.” 49. Macon Daily Telegraph, June 22, 1863. 50. Letter to mother, December 19, 1863, David Baily Letters and Diary, Civil War Times Illustrated Collection, series 2, box 29, usamhi. 51. New York Herald, November 16, 1863. 52. Jones, A Rebel War Clerk’s Diary, 1:290–­91; Talmage, Night Scenes of City Life, 82; “Rev. Dr. Ingersoll’s Address in London”; “A Touching Incident,” 261. 53. Entry of September 27, 1863, Thomas Francis Galwey Diaries, loc. 54. “Mr. F. G. Chapman’s Despatches,” New York Herald, July 14, 1863; “The Ladies of Morgantown,” New York Herald, May 9, 1863. 55. Small, Musicking, 10. 56. Turino, Music as Social Life, 23–­65. 57. New York Herald, July 29, 1863. 58. Letter to cousin Helen, July 30, 1862 [1863], Arthur William Utter Letter, fhs. 59. Finson, Voices That Are Gone, 83–­121. 60. Some areas saw more public entertainments than others, but conditions made it extremely difficult for musical concerts, theater, and other public arts. Mullenix, “Performing Confederate Nationalism”; Harwell, “Brief Candle.” 61. Letter to May Preston, August 23, 1863, William P. Preston Collection, Ms. 2422, mdhs. 62. “Southern Songs,” Magnolia Weekly 2, no. 6 (November 7, 1863): 4. 63. Shadle, Orchestrating the Nation, 138–­41; McWhirter, Battle Hymns, 154. 64. “National Ballads,” Magnolia Weekly 2, no. 1 (October 3, 1863): 4. 65. “Letter from New Orleans,” Boston Herald, December 5, 1863.

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11. 1864

1. Rable, Confederate Republic, 277–­98. 2. or, series 4, 3:365–­68. 3. Wilmer, Jarrett, and Vernon, History and Roster of Maryland Volunteers, 272–­73. 4. Rhea, Battle of the Wilderness, 257–­59. 5. Harrison, A Maryland Bride in the Deep South, 265. 6. Seymour Walton Journals, 1862–­66, nl. 7. Letter of George Washington Kimball, August 11, 1864, quoted in Mitchell, Maryland Voices, 200. 8. Sun, April 19, 1864. 9. Maryland Confederates in Charles Country formed a critical pipeline for information and goods into Virginia. Steers, “Maryland, My Maryland,” 47–­48. 10. Letter to wife, June 8, 1864, Barroll Family Letters, Ms. 108, mdhs. 11. Lynch, Civil War Diary, 163. 12. Entry of July 18, 1864, Edmondston, Crabtree, and Patton, Journal of a Secesh Lady, 594. 13. Letter to Caroline, January 30, 1864, Belcher Letters, usm. 14. Richmond Examiner, January 4, 1864. 15. Richmond Examiner, January 18, 1864; Richmond Examiner, January 21, 1864; Evening Star, February 2, 1864. 16. Richmond Examiner, April 4, 1864. James Ryder had an acquaintance who “begged” him to “swear before a Justice of the Peace” that he was from Baltimore and hence exempt from military service. Letter to Katherine Hammond, February 21, 1864, James Ryder Randall Papers, #1526, unc. 17. Letter of Robert Kirkwood, May 2, 1864, quoted in Mitchell, Maryland Voices, 198. 18. Evening Star, September 15, 1864. 19. Farmer’s Cabinet, December 16, 1864. 20. Daily Constitutionalist, June 10, 1864. 21. Fahs, Imagined Civil War, 148–­49. 22. Entry of June 30, 1864, in Haley and Silliker, Rebel Yell & the Yankee Hurrah, 177. 23. Richmond Whig, July 14, 1864. 24. James, “A Baltimore Volunteer of 1864.” 25. Miller, “Civil War Memoirs of the First Maryland Cavalry, c.s.a.,” 159. 26. Entry for July 8, 1864, Harrison Journal, Ms. 432.1, mdhs. 27. Letter to Sarah Stevens, July 12, 1864, Letters from E. May Stevens, 1864, mdhs. 28. Entry of July 16, 1864, Rebecca D. Davis Diary, Ms. 2111, mdhs. 29. North American and United States Gazette, July 14, 1864. 30. Baltimore Sun, July 16, 1864. 31. Ruffner, Maryland’s Blue & Gray, 128–­29. 32. Charleston Mercury, August 4, 1864. 33. Entry of July 25, 1864, Diary and Reminiscences of James W. Albright, ghm. 34. Gill, Reminiscences, 112–­13. 35. “All Hail Maryland,” 29. 36. Daily Evening Transcript, November 5, 1864.

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37. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, 316. 38. Memoir, 675–­76, John William Ford Hatton Papers, loc. 39. Richmond Examiner, January 13, 1864; Robertson, Stonewall Brigade, 216–­17. 40. McElroy, Andersonville, 374. 41. Lt. Col. Gregory Barrett to Hugh Lenox Bond, October 20, 1864, Bond-­ McCulloch Family Papers, Ms. 1159, mdhs. 42. Entry of March 21, 1864, Eppes, Through Some Eventful Years, 236. 43. Daily Constitutionalist, December 8, 1864. 44. Bill, Pen-­Pictures of the War, 82–­85. 45. Letter to wife, May 18, 1864, Robert Goodloe Harper Carroll Papers, Ms. 1683, mdhs. 46. Oldenquist, “Loyalties,” 41. This shift in loyalty could be defined as a shift from a “value-­based” to a “egocentric” form of patriotism where the focus is less on the virtues of the country and more an emphasis on it being “my” country, or, in this case, “my” company, regiment, army, etc. Primoratz, Patriotism, 10–­11. As James McPherson showed, however, personal motivation and loyalty to your comrades did not remove loyalty to the larger cause. McPherson, For Cause and Comrades. 47. Schultz, “The Production and Consumption of Confederate Songsters,” 162. 48. Clark, Under the Stars and Bars, 94–­96. A similar version can be found in the Nashville Daily Union, July 14, 1863. 49. Smith, Smith, and Childs, Mason Smith Family Letters, 86. 50. McWhirter, Battle Hymns, 60. 51. Coleman Hutchison stresses how the minstrel song “Dixie’s Land” was converted into the patriotic anthem “Dixie” when it was arranged for brass band and performed at President Davis’s inauguration. Hutchison, Apples and Ashes, 157–­59; Nathan, Dan Emmett and the Rise of Early Minstrelsy, 247. A similar process occurred with “Yankee Doodle.” Gibbons, “‘Yankee Doodle’ and Nationalism,” 246–­74. 52. McKim, A Soldier’s Recollections, 53; Howard, Recollections of a Maryland Confederate Soldier, 65; Richmond Examiner, July 9, 1862, and June 30, 1863. 53. Thompson, Thirteenth Regiment of New Hampshire Volunteer Infantry, 369; Miller, Drum Taps in Dixie, 130. 54. Frith, Performing Rites, 211. 55. Daily Constitutionalist, June 10, 1864. 56. McWhirter, Battle Hymns, 165–­76. 57. Letter to wife, April 30, 1865, Henry Holcomb Papers, wrhs. 58. Prowell, History of the Eighty-­Seventh Regiment, Pennsylvania Volunteers, 175; Schaff, Sunset of the Confederacy, 125. 59. Entry of April 11, 1864, Charles Perkins Diary, Civil War Times Illustrated Collection, box 19, usamhi. 60. Quoted in Wiley, Life of Johnny Reb, 318. 61. Daily Constitutionalist, September 24, 1864. 62. “Song Writing,” Southern Punch (March 19, 1864), 7. 12. 1865

1. Entry of January 1, 1865, Almeda Harris Seeley Diary, Ms. 3033, mdhs.

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n o t e s t o pag e s 256–267

2. Whitman, Memoranda during the War, 53. 3. Miles Nelson Cary to Henry P. Goddard, January 30, 1909, Cary Family Papers, 1865–­1914, vhs. 4. Nathanial Gorgas to father, March 5, 1865; Gorgas to mother, March 19, 1865, Ashley, Avery, Gorgas, and Seward Family Papers, wrhs. 5. Thompson, Thirteenth Regiment of New Hampshire Volunteer Infantry, 525, 529. 6. Bircher, A Drummer-­Boy’s Diary, 161. 7. Quoted in Richter, Three Cheers, 114. 8. Gregory Barrett to Hugh Lenox Bond, April 10, 1865, Bond-­McCulloch Family Papers, Ms. 1159, mdhs. 9. Entry for April 11, 1865, Samuel A. Harrison Journal, Ms. 432.1, mdhs. 10. Letters to sister, May 28, 1865, Daniel M. Thomas Papers, Ms. 1970.2, mdhs. 11. Letter to brother, November 26, 1865, Mrs. A. C. Proctor Letters, loc. 12. Letter to wife, May 22, 1865, Henry Holcomb Papers, wrhs. 13. Entry of June 3, 1865, Henry Holcomb Papers, wrhs. 14. Sprague, History of the 13th Infantry Regiment of Connecticut Volunteers, 249–­50. 15. Albany Evening Journal, June 3, 1865. 16. New York Semi-­Weekly Express, June 20, 1865. 17. “A Rebel Girl on Union,” Marin Journal [San Rafael ca], May 20, 1865. 18. Commercial Advertiser, March 6, 1866. 19. Pall Mall Gazette, November 5, 1865. 20. North American and United States Gazette, February 7, 1865. 21. Frank Leslie’s Weekly, April 21, 1866. 22. Memoir, 757, John William Ford Hatton Papers, loc. 23. Tuan, Space and Place, 85–­100. David Blight expands on the power of postwar artworks to create new, or to contribute to preexisting, narratives of the war. Blight, Beyond the Battlefield, 153–­69. 24. Frith, Performing Rites, 211; for nostalgia in musical nationalism, see Martin, “The Sound of England,” 68–­83. 25. Browne, “Union War Songs and Confederate Officers,” 478. 26. Thomas, Confederate Nation, 143–­44. 27. Smith, Ethnic Origins of Nations, 1987, 28. 28. World, April 29, 1865. Epilogue

1. Chicago Republican, May 22, 1868. 2. Richmond Enquirer, July 16, 1868. 3. Branham and Hartnett, Sweet Freedom’s Song, 163–­96; Stauffer and Soskis, Battle Hymn of the Republic, 106–­39; McWhirter, Battle Hymns, 164–­82. 4. Crew, Suffragist Sheet Music, 269, 371. 5. Charles Howard to J. Howard McHenry, July 3, 1868, McHenry Papers, Ms. 544, mdhs. 6. William Plummer to brother and sister, October 18, 1868, Plummer Family Letters, fhs. 7. Missouri Democrat, September 30, 1868.

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8. Phillips, Civil War in the Border South, 115. 9. Portland Daily Press, November 8, 1871; Evening Star, February 4, 1867. 10. Bennett, Maryland, My Maryland. 11. Entry of April 15, 1868, Howe and Fields, Memories of a Hostess, 180–­81. 12. Letter of May 23, [1884], James Ryder Randall Papers, Ms. 1397, mdhs. 13. Sun, June 8, 1867. 14. Confederate Veteran 3, no. 12 (1895): 376. 15. United Daughters of the Confederacy, Minutes of the Fourteenth Annual Convention, 34. 16. “Appropriate Music,” Dubuque Daily Times, July 17, 1872. 17. McWhirter, Battle Hymns, 186–­211. 18. Watrous, “Blue with Gray to Mingle at Reunion,” 158. 19. Morton, “Two Great Reunions,” 333–­35. 20. McWhirter, Battle Hymns, 165–­76. 21. Sun, June 23, 1883. 22. Fred Davis to Charles Lafevre, March 14, April 27, May 13, 1891, Charles E. LaFevre Papers, Ms. 1943, mdhs. 23. Hopkins, From Bull Run to Appomattox, 28. 24. Stevens, Reminiscences, 76. 25. Pinkerton, Spy of the Rebellion, 97. 26. Schrader, “Emotional Baggage and Two National Anthems,” 17–­18. 27. Shelemay, “Music, Memory, History.” 28. Blight, Race and Reunion; Neff, Honoring the Civil War Dead. 29. Saunders, Medford, 9; Goodier, No Votes for Women, 165–­66. 30. “Christmas-­Tide,” Boston Evening Journal, December 24, 1872. 31. “Kelly & Leon at the Grand,” Indianapolis Sentinel, April 4, 1876; New York Herald, November 26, 1876; Sun, June 10, 1889. 32. “A Song,” Delta Gamma Anchora 1, no. 3 (January 1885): 41. 33. Everett, “Barbara Frietchie and My Maryland,” 2–­8. 34. Carpenter, Through the Philippines and Hawaii, 51–­52. 35. “Maryland, My Maryland,” New York Times, September 27, 1895. 36. “The Great Exposition: Maryland and Delaware Day,” Godey’s Lady’s Book, December 1876, 570. 37. It took a few years to pass the legislation to approve Randall’s words as the state anthem. Graham, “‘She Spurns the Northern Scum,’” 45–­48. 38. “Tense Civil War Situation Inspired Maryland’s Song,” Evening Capital, January 4, 1962; Rosalind Helderman, “House Hears a Song,” Washington Post, March 11, 2009; Soodalter, “She Spurns the Northern Scum!”; Timothy B. Wheeler, “Maryland, My Maryland? Panel Urges Changes in State Song,” Baltimore Sun, December 17, 2015; Pamela Wood, “Lawmakers Again Consider Changing ‘Maryland, My Maryland,’” Baltimore Sun, February 24, 2016. 39. Letters to “Katie,” James Ryder Randall Papers, #1526, unc. 40. “The Author of ‘Maryland, My Maryland.’” 41. “The Author of ‘Maryland, My Maryland,’” 159; letter to Mr. Stedman, March 27, 1874, James Ryder Randall Letters, 1874–­1904, du. 42. Letter to Doctor [S. C. Chew], July 13, 1894, James Ryder Randall Papers, Ms. 1397, mdhs.

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n o t e s t o pag e s 287–297

43. Letter to Doctor [Edwin D. Newton], June 30, 1907, Carlton-­Newton-­ Mell Family Papers, Ms. 59, ug. 44. “Mr. Randall Dead,” Baltimore Sun, January 15, 1908; extensive coverage can be found in Augusta Chronicle, January 15 and 17, 1908; see also Johnson, “James Ryder Randall and ‘Maryland, My Maryland.’” 45. Jane Margaret Cary to “Mr. Riccards,” May 14, 1865, and Miles Nelson Cary to Henry P. Goddard, January 30, 1909, Cary Family Papers, 1865–­ 1914, vhs. 46. Augusta Chronicle, April 26, 1874. 47. Faust, Creation of Confederate Nationalism, 6. 48. Harwell, Confederate Music, 7.

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Index

Page numbers in italic indicate illustrations abolition, 5–­6, 165, 168; and music, 153, 206–­16 ad hominum attacks, 152–­57 aesthetics, xxiv–­xxv, 19, 74, 85–­86, 116, 152–­53, 238–­39, 273–­74, 280–­81, 302 African Americans, 168–­69, 209, 318n1; and patriotism, 213–­16; as performers, 211–­12; and slavery, 206–­16. See U. S. Colored Troops Alexander, Edward Porter, 77 “All Quiet Along the Potomac Tonight,” 91, 241 American Revolution, 85, 95, 111, 134 Anderson, Benedict, 13–­14 Andersonville Prison, 177, 257–­58 Andrews, Matthew Page, 57, 63 “Annie Laurie,” 89, 197 “Annie of the Vale,” 213, 252 anthems, 11–­19, 74, 262; Confederate, 14–­17, 144–­45, 239, 266; guidelines for, 18, 44; “Maryland, My Maryland” as, 124–­31; musical characteristics of, 51–­ 53, 55–­56; national, 11–­20, 59–­60, 239, 262–­63, 281–­84; and performance, 10–­ 11, 128–­30; Union, 16–­18; unofficial, 15, 46, 305n40 Antietam (battle), 133–­41, 160; memory of, 291–­92; and music, 133–­35, 140–­43 antisemitism, 215 Archer, James J., 117 Bailey, Candace, 224 Bailey, Cornelia, 218, 233 Baltimore, 1–­4, 81, 158, 209, 218, 245, 291; and African Americans, 211, 218;

after the riot, 39–­42; assassination attempt in, 26; loyalty of, 73, 108, 114, 130, 180–­81, 250; martial law in, 41, 83–­84, 123; and music, 79, 87–­88, 112, 190–­91, 224; publishing in, 67, 69–­70; rioting in, 4, 28–­33; after surrender, 271–­72; and Union troops, 72–­73, 161, 217–­18; and violence, 3–­5, 72–­73, 161. See also Old Capitol Prison Barrett, Gregory, 226, 258, 271 Bartlett, Napier, 159 “Battle Cry of Freedom,” 162, 233, 249, 277, 289 “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” 16, 46, 57–­58, 210, 286 “Battle of Baltimore,” 46 Beauregard, P. G. T., 75–­78, 123–­24, 128 “Beauregard’s March,” 121, 130 Beers, Ethel Lynn, 91 Bernath, Michael, 46, 182 Big Bethel (battle), 43 Blackmar, Armand E., 15, 64, 68–­69, 95, 105, 128 Blair, Montgomery, 27 Blunt, Ellen Key, 82 Bohlman, Philip, 15 Bond, Priscilla, 244–­45 Bonner, Robert, 80–­82, 168–­69 “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” 74, 82–­83, 106, 163, 164, 232, 240; as anthem, 15, 239, 270; and censorship, 95–­96, 181; contrafactum of, 61, 62, 172; in Europe, 277–­78; as flag, 245, 284; in hospital, 229; instrumental version of, 113, 234, 236, 264; in prison, 173, 212; as regionalism, 106; as trope, 233, 287; and

“The Bonnie Blue Flag” (continued) veterans, 282, 289; and women, 250, 276–­77, 283–­84 Booth, George, 124, 142 Borcke, Heros von, 134 border states, xx, 7, 23–­24, 73–­74, 83–­84, 245, 273; rioting in, 306n28 Boston Herald, 147–­48, 239–­40 Boyd, Belle, 173–­76, 175 Boykin, Laura Nisbet, 119–­21 Bradford, August, 161 Branham, Robert James, 12, 74 brass bands, 30, 79–­80, 82, 97, 128, 169, 273; African American, 211–­12; at Antietam, 133–­35, 140–­43; bipartisan, 234; civilian, 1–­2, 213; at Gettysburg, 198; and “Home, Sweet Home,” 172, 200, 232, 234; mockery of, 113, 137, 233; and patriotism, 10–­11, 83, 93–­94, 262–­64; playing “Maryland, My Maryland,” 84, 128, 133–­35, 137, 139, 142, 233; soldier vs. civilian, 236–­37, 273–­74 broadsides, 52, 62, 66–­67, 107, 248, 260, 265 Brown, George W., 28–­29, 41 Brown, John, 3 Browne, Richard Wentworth, 281–­82 Brown Veil Club, 38–­39, 39 Buck, Lucy, 129–­30 Bullitt, William, 9 Butler, Benjamin, 41–­42 Campbell, John C., 25 “Camp Song of the Maryland Line,” 88 “Carry Me Back to Old Virginia,” 142, 143 Cary, Constance (Mrs. Burton Harrison), 54, 75, 76, 299; and Confederate battle flag, 84; at hospital, 229; and Washington Artillery, 84–­85 Cary, Hetty (Mrs. Newell Martin), 35; beauty of, 40, 76–­77, 299; and Confederate battle flag, 84; and creation of song, 38–­40, 66; at hospital, 229; marriage of, 268; returns to Baltimore, 132; smuggling by, 40, 74 Cary, Jennie, 34, 299, 307n38; and Confederate battle flag, 84; and creation of song, 38–­40, 66; at hospital, 229; premier of song by, 75; returns to Baltimore, 132; smuggling by, 40

Cary, Wilson Miles, 132, 268, 307n38 Cater, Rufus, 9–­10, 186 Cecil County md, 267 censorship, 41–­43, 95–­96, 130–­31, 181, 246 Centreville va, 77–­78, 84 Chambersburg pa, 195, 252–­53 Charleston Mercury, 59, 78, 91–­92, 123–­ 24, 253 Chimborazo Hospital, 23–­32, 228, 256–­57 chivalry, 46, 119, 152, 155, 192–­93, 218, 226, 246, 249 Christmas carols, 53, 63, 291–­92 civilian music, 1–­2, 114–­17, 119–­22, 220–­ 21, 224–­26, 232–­33; arrested for, 217; bipartisan, 191, 196–­97, 270; as defiance, 162–­63, 233; fired upon, 233; vs. soldier music, 233–­39; after surrender, 274–­84. See also concerts; gender; patriotic music; parlor music civil religion, 166, 204, 215 “Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean,” 2, 62 commercialism, 15, 45–­46, 47–­48, 74, 82, 89, 106–­7, 237 Committee for a New National Hymn, 16–­18 community: home, 100–­101, 172, 267, 321n40; military, 107–­113; and music, 13–­14, 128–­29; national, 126–­27; nested, 99, 305n5; patriotism, 261–­63; and regionalism, 98–­100; of soldiers, 264, 289–­90. See also imagined community concerts, 237–­39, 293–­94 conscription, 98, 190, 242, 249; and Marylanders, 163, 247 contrafactum, 57–­63 Crist, Robert, 9 Cumberland md, 65, 86 Daily Richmond Enquirer, 78, 139–­40, 192 Daughters of the Confederacy, 156 Davis, Rebecca, 189, 202, 211, 218, 252 Davis, W. Wilkins, 7 De Forest, John W., 101 DeJarnette, Coleman, 247 Deming, Henry C., 227 Democratic Party, 3–­5, 285, 289 DeNora, Tia, xxv Dickens, Charles, 287–­88

352 i n d e x

Ditson, Oliver, 150–­51 Dix, John Adams, 42–­43; “Dix’s Manifesto,” 43 “Dixie” (“Dixie’s Land”), 15, 19, 24, 74, 79, 164; as anthem, 239, 326n51; arrest for singing, 43; authorship, 322n64; bipartisan, 19, 106; censorship, 95–­ 96, 181; as contrafactum, 61; critique of, 137; and gender, 226; instrumental, 22, 137, 232, 234, 236, 263, 264; and nostalgia, 279–­80; parodies, 61–­62; as place, xv, 106, 108, 179, 195–­96, 205; in prison, 173, 176; soldier vs. civilian, 237; uncouth lyrics, of 45, 154, 226; and the Union, 106; versions of, 62, 104; and veterans, 282, 289; and women, 123, 206, 221–­22, 226, 229, 233 “Dixie Doodle,” 61 Douglas, Henry Kyd, 133 “Down-­trodden Maryland,” 87–­88 Dwight’s Journal of Music, 55–­56 Eastern Shore md, 6, 25, 26, 159–­60, 211–­212, 245–­46, 271–­72 Edmonds, Amanda, 19 Edmondston, Catherine, 116–­17, 192, 246 election: of 1860, 5, 19–­20; of 1864, 255; of 1868, 285; of 1872, 289 Ellerbrock, Charles W. A., 15, 67 emancipation, 73, 165, 212–­13, 255 Emmett, Daniel Decatur, 19 Eppes, Susan Bradford, 259 ethnicity, 215–­16. See also African Americans; German Americans; Irish Americans Evans, Augusta Jane, 50, 225–­26 Everett, William, 122–­23 Fahs, Alice, 250 Fairfax Court House va, 75–­77, 229 families, divided, 22–­23, 28, 218, 267–­68 “Farewell to the Star-­Spangled Banner,” 82, 284 Faust, Drew Gilpin, 203 femininity, 119–­20, 222–­26, 230, 276–­ 77; and “Maryland, My Maryland,” 48, 115, 250; and patriotism, 220–­28; and suffering, 267. See also gender; parlor music

First Bull Run (battle), 71–­72 Firth, Pond & Company, 210 flags, 12, 79–­90, 81; ceremonies, 80–­81, 168–­69; Confederate, 11, 77–­78; and music, 81–­85; regimental, 100; suppression of, 42–­43; as symbol, 80–­81 Floyd, Harriet Pettit, 217 Fourth of July, 1–­2, 85, 212–­13, 263–­64, 286 Frank Leslie’s Weekly, 114–­15, 169, 318 Frederick md, 3, 8, 86–­87, 137–­38, 145, 159, 212, 217, 230 Frederick Examiner, 86–­87, 143, 147, 217; sacking of, 137 Fritchie, Barbara, 137–­38 Gallagher, Gary, 203 gender, 48, 75–­77, 81, 115, 119–­20, 123, 220–­28, 249–­50, 276–­77; and feminized war, 250; and performance, 174–­76, 222–­24. See also femininity; masculinity Germans, 53, 60, 179, 293 Gettysburg (battle), 193–­98 Gillette, James, 160–­61, 189 Glenn, William W., 6–­7, 114, 192 “God Save the South,” 15–­16, 17, 60–­61, 130, 186, 266 Gorgas, Nathanial, 269 Gottschalk, Louis Moreau, 190, 238 Grant, Susan Mary, 12 Hagerstown md, 7, 123, 195–­96, 197–­98, 199–­200, 252–­53 “Hail Columbia,” 2, 18, 21, 79, 238; versions of, 62 “Hail to the Chief,” 22, 245 Hall, Isaac, 158 Harper’s Weekly, 91, 148–­49, 230, 255 Harrison, Burton, 39, 54, 294 Harrison, Samuel A., 25–­26, 73, 79, 211–­ 12, 251, 271 Hartnett, Stephen J., 12, 74 Harwell, Richard, 19, 89, 302 Hatton, John, 89–­90, 140–­41, 228, 256, 278–­80 Haydon, Charles, 10, 85, 101, 194 “The Hemlock Tree,” 53 “Here’s Your Mule,” 62, 200, 262 Heuring, Frederick, 83 Hewitt, John Hill, 91, 204, 241

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Hicks, Thomas Holiday, 5, 26–­27, 28 Higginson, Thomas Wentworth, 168 highbrow art, 45–­46; 122–­24. See also social class Higley, Albert, 10, 72–­73 Hildebrand, David, 46 historical iconography, 85, 94–­95, 311n40 Hobsbawm, Eric, 74, 80 Holcomb, Henry, 273–­74 Holmes, Oliver Wendell, 51, 178 Holyoke, Maria, 24 “Home, Sweet Home,” 59, 121, 171–­72, 176, 232, 234 Hooker, Horace, 30–­31 Hope, James Barron, 145 Hopkins, Luther, 291 hospitals, 142, 145, 179–­80, 228–­32, 256, 267 Hotchkiss, Jedediah, 133–­34 Howard, Charles, 40, 286 Howard, Ernest, 29–­30 Howard, McHenry, 128, 199–­200, 263 Howard, Phoebe Key, 226 Howland, Joseph, 30 Hutchinson, Coleman, 45 hymns, 16, 18, 229, 230, 245; national, 144–­45 imaginary proximity, 179–­80 imagined community, 13–­14, 129, 238–­ 39, 281, 287 immigrants, 31, 60, 89, 105, 179, 193, 208, 214; and anti-­immigrants, 3–­4, 60. See also German Americans; Irish Americans instrumental music (vs. vocal), 233–­39, 262–­64, 293–­95. See also brass bands; soldier music intertextuality, 118–­19, 144, 147 invented tradition, 49, 74 Irish Americans, 4, 60, 178, 193, 278 “The Irish Jaunting Car,” 61 Jackson, Thomas J. “Stonewall,” 85, 146, 183–­84, 185 “Jim along Josey,” 153 “John Brown’s Body,” 16, 44, 57–­58, 212, 277. See also “Battle Hymn of the Republic” Johnson, Bradley, 31, 137, 147, 252

Johnson, Finley, 150–­51, 261 Jones, John B., 191–­92, 234 journalism, 23–­24, 42, 43, 236; and Antietam, 136, 143–­45; and Marylanders, 136, 162–­63, 246–­49; music as, 47, 312n1; and patriotism, 221; and publicity 45, 65, 91–­92, 115–­16, 146, 314n21 “Just Before the Battle, Mother,” 275–­76 “The Karamanian Exile,” 50–­51 Kealhofer, Mary Louisa, 195–­96 Kelen, Christopher, 13, 47 “Kentucky War Song,” 104–­5 Key, Francis Scott, 39–­40, 46, 64, 147, 286 Kimberly, Edwin O., 157 “Kingdom Coming,” 209–­10 Kirkley, Joseph W., 158, 159–­60, 219 Kleinig, John, 74 La Hache, Thedore von, 293 “Lauriger Horatius,” 53–­56, 122, 282 LeGrand, Julia, 178–­80 Libby Prison, 172–­73 Lincoln, Abraham, 152–­53, 260, 265; and “Maryland, My Maryland,” 48, 208, 292; and music, 22, 26, 153 London Morning Herald, 153 the Lost Cause, 280–­84, 295–­96 Louisiana, 33–­34, 105, 232–­33. See also New Orleans; Washington Artillery loyalty: divided, 7–­9, 23–­28, 271–­72; nested, 99–­101; to state, 100–­105 Mahony, Dennis, 174–­75 Mangan, James Clarence, 50 “Ma Normandie,” 38, 67, 308n25 “Marching through Georgia,” 289 “La Marseillaise,” 15, 59, 79, 105, 154, 174, 282 martial law, 41–­42, 83–­84, 123 martial music, 30, 40, 159, 197–­98 Maryland: and commerce, 3, 5–­7, 189–­ 90, 207–­8; elections, 3–­5, 24–­25, 255; fighting in, 72, 133–­41, 158–­61, 250–­ 53; legislature, 5–­6, 26–­27, 161, 245–­ 46, 287, 296; and loyalty, 23–­28, 72–­73, 136–­37, 157–­59, 193–­94, 217–­18, 245–­ 46, 271–­72; and patriotism, 157–­66; and politics, 3–­5, 4; secession conven-

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tion, 26–­27; soundscape, 159, 193–­95, 197–­98; and surrender, 271–­72; suspicion of, 107–­13, 158–­59, 217–­19, 246–­ 49, 256–­57 Maryland Brigade (usa), 109, 110, 219, 244 Marylanders: 107–­13; 224–­50; in hospitals, 230–­32; in prison, 177; and surrender, 271–­72; suspicion of, 107–­13, 161–­62, 191–­93, 217–­19, 230–­32, 246–­49 Maryland Line, 84, 88, 111–­12, 257 “Maryland, My Maryland,” 52, 58, 248, 279, 290; and abolition, 212–­14; as anthem, 124–­31, 262, 281–­84, 289; and Antietam, 133–­41; arrested for singing, 217; in Canada, 288; changes to, 63–­70; as Christmas carol, 291–­92; and civilians, 274–­78, 283–­84; as Confederate emblem, 287–­98; Confederate parodies, 69, 149–­50, 163, 200–­201, 215, 262; Confederate versions, 150, 258–­59; criticism of, 55–­57, 59, 130–­ 31, 151–­52, 275; in Europe, 277–­78; and flags, 84–­85; and gender, 220–­28, 276–­77, 283–­84; historical iconography, 85; and hospitals, 229–­32; instrumental versions, 128, 262–­64, 264, 286, 293–­95; international use, 294–­ 95; and Irish Americans, 278; jazz, 294; and Lincoln, 260, 265; lyric, 36–­ 38, 44–­51; music to, 51–­57; mythologization of, 74–­79, 176, 291; origin of, 33–­39; as place, 143–­44; postwar versions, 277–­78, 285, 295–­96; praise of, 59; premier, 75; and prisoners, 172–­77, 257–­58; publication history, 63–­70; as recruiting tool, 110, 111, 126, 139; rejection of, 142–­45; and slavery, 208–­9, 255–­56; as state song, 295; and surrender, 274–­78; as trope, 114–­19, 198, 212–­ 13, 249, 281, 287; Union lyrics, 150–­51, 210, 213, 248, 256, 260, 261, 265; Union parodies of, 64, 66–­67, 70, 86–­87, 107, 146–­49; Union performances of, 264–­66; and veterans, 282, 288–­89; as woman, 48, 115 Maryland regiments (csa): Baltimore Artillery, 142, 169, 253; Chesapeake Artillery, 126; First Artillery, 89–­90,

140–­41, 228, 256; First Cavalry, 251; First Eastern Shore Maryland Volunteers, 25; First Infantry, 71, 75, 77–­ 78, 111, 113, 124, 141, 161; Fourth Light Artillery, 271; Ninth Infantry, 219; Second Infantry, 25, 111–­12, 198 Maryland regiments (usa): Eighth Infantry, 219; Fifth Infantry, 141–­42; First Cavalry, 125, 188, 219; First Infantry, 109, 218; Fourth Infantry, 219, 226, 258, 271; Maryland Light Artillery, 141–­42; Ninth Infantry, 218; Second Infantry, 125, 141–­42; Seventh Infantry, 159–­60, 219, 244; Sixth Infantry, 142; Tenth Infantry, 218; Third Infantry, 160–­61, 189, 244; Thirtieth United States Colored Troops, 253 Maryland soldiers, 107–­13, 125, 218–­ 19, 243–­44; at Antietam, 139, 140–­42; and conscription, 247–­49; fighting between, 112–­13; at Gettysburg, 199–­ 200; in hospitals, 230–­32; suspicion of, 107–­13, 161–­62, 192, 217–­19, 230–­32, 247–­49; in Virginia, 161–­62, 188–­89, 192, 230–­32, 256–­57 masculinity, 9, 48, 226–­28, 276–­77. See also gender Matthews, Brander, 19, 44, 65 McCardell, John, 11 McCarthy, Harry, 61, 82, 88–­89, 162 McClure, J. A., 68 McGuire, Judith Brockenbrough, 25, 256 McKim, Randolph Harrison, 112 McPherson, James, 101 McWhirter, Christian, 14, 262–­63, 264 metaphor, 118–­19; and Dixie, 177, 205; Maryland as, 145–­46, 205, 302; social class as, 122–­23; theatrical, 114–­15 metonymy, 115–­19, 164, 179, 227 “Michigan, My Michigan,” 107 Miles, George Henry, 15 Miller & Beacham, 58, 60–­61, 67–­70 Mills, John Harrison, 56–­57, 143 minstrelsy, 19, 42, 60, 153–­55, 209, 210 “Missouri: Bright Land of the West,” 88–­89 Mitchell, Charles W., xviii Moffett, William, 169–­70

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Monocacy (battle), 250–­53 Montgomery County md, 177, 189, 202, 211, 218 Monument Street Girls. See Brown Veil Club Moore, Frank, 50, 67, 224 Mosely, Caroline, 210 Musical World and Musical Review, 18 musicking, 236–­37 “My Country, ’Tis of Thee,” 168, 286 “My Old Kentucky Home,” 172, 196–­97 mythologization, 44, 74–­79, 176, 184, 283, 311n40 nation (vs. state), 181–­87, 214–­15, 243, 319nn31–­32 nationalism, 44, 178–­79, 181–­84, 282–­ 83; banal, 314n4; cultural, 25, 138–­39, 304–­5n39; elitist, 122, 216; and ethnicity, 215; and music, 21, 262–­63; vs. patriotism, 100–­101, 182, 185–­86, 214–­15, 243, 319nn31–­32; and personalization, 47; popular, 80–­81; a process, 300; symbols of, 11–­12, 49, 80, 282, 287–­98, 311n29, 321n24 Neustadt, Robert, 14, 51–­52 neutrality, 25–­26, 27, 249; hostility toward, 107–­8 New Orleans, 15, 224–­25, 239–­40, 288 New Orleans Crescent, 49–­50 New Orleans Daily Delta, 85, 123 newspapers. See journalism New Year Celebration, 21–­22, 168–­72, 267 New York City, 21, 213, 250 New York Herald, 21, 137, 144, 200, 224–­ 25, 233, 235 New York Illustrated News, 153–­54, 155 Nicholson, Joseph Hopper, 39 Nicholson, Rebecca Lloyd, 39 Norfolk va, 96, 233 nostalgia, 126, 278–­84; and homesickness, 75–­76, 169, 198–­99 “O Christmas Tree,” 53, 56, 293 Old Capitol Prison, 173–­76 O’Leary, Cecilia Elizabeth, 214 “O Tannenbaum,” 51–­55, 62–­63, 69, 259, 293–­94, 308–­9n27 “The Palmetto State Song,” 104

parlor music, 69, 89–­90, 121–­24, 127, 222–­24 parodies, 87, 146–­52, 200–­201 patriotic art, xix–­xx patriotic music, xvii–­xviii; as anthem, 12–­13, 281–­84; bipartisan reception, 264–­66, 270, 289–­90; as concert music, 238–­39, 293–­94; and flags, 81–­85; and memory, xv–­xvi, 291–­92; and place, xvii; in prison, 173; and social class, 119–­24; after surrender, 272–­84; as symbol, 13, 49, 79–­80, 281–­82, 287–­98. See also anthem patriotic symbols, 11–­12, 13, 49, 78, 79–­ 90, 95–­98, 182, 261–­62, 281–­83 patriotism: “bargain,” 9–­11; and civilians, 62, 177–­81, 217–­18, 220–­21; and class, 122, 159; and death, 203–­5; and death, 203–­5; “egotistical,” 326n46; and gender, 9, 48, 174–­76, 220–­28, 276–­77; and history, 48–­49, 85, 311n40; and Jefferson Davis, 242–­43; in Maryland, 158, 202; military, 181–­87, 320n39; and morality, 101–­2, 166; vs. nationalism, 181–­87, 214–­15, 243, 319n31–­32; and nostalgia, 279–­84; as performance, 10–­11, 12–­14, 80–­81, 93, 128–­30, 180, 304n28; personalizing, 47, 152–­57; and place, 92–­98; poetic, 158–­59, 281, 281, 283; and place, xvii–­xviii, 47–­48, 91–­ 98; pragmatic, 158–­59; and religion, 79; remote, 177–­81; of sacrifice, 202–­6; and slavery, 212–­16; soldier vs. civilian, 232–­39, 261–­62, 273–­74; after surrender, 272–­74, 278–­84; symbolic, 79–­90, 281; and women, 220–­21, 230 Patterson, Mary, 27 Pegram, John, 268 Pember, Phoebe Yates, 230–­32 performativity, 10–­14, 80–­81, 128–­30, 174–­76, 269–­70; and gender, 222–­24 Philadelphia Inquirer, 117–­18, 136, 139, 143, 144, 163, 200, 232 Philadelphia Press, 50–­51, 146, 151, 162–­63 “The Picket Guard,” 91 Pinkerton, Allan, 26, 292 plug uglies, 4 Poates, Sarah Fitch, 120–­21

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poetry, borrowng from, 50–­51 popular music, 91–­92, 180, 210–­11, 302; and identity, xxv–­xxvi, 152–­57. See also aesthetics populism, 45–­46, 80–­82, 87–­89, 115–­16, 128–­29 pows, 95, 171–­77, 272 Pratt Street Riot, xix, 28–­33, 291; aftermath, 40–­43 “Proclamation to the People of Maryland,” 138 propaganda, 43, 49, 125–­26, 179, 214, 238, 302 publishing, 95–­96, 106–­7, 122, 237, 315n31 Rable, George, 98, 181–­82 Randall, James Ryder, 32, 50, 156–­57, 296–­99, 298; ad hominem attacks on, 152–­57; and Mangan, 50–­51; and writing of “My Maryland,” 33, 156 Read, Opie, 11 regionalism, 25, 27, 47, 92–­98, 186; bias, 269; East vs. West, 98–­99, 102–­3; military; 98–­107; and music, 89, 98–­107, 187; and nationalism, 301; and patriotism, 25; urban, 31 religion: and “Maryland, My Maryland,” 78–­79; and rhetoric, 204–­5 Republican Party, 22, 285, 287 Revolutionary War. See American Revolution rhetoric, 44–­49; of art, 31–­32; of Jefferson Davis, 242–­43; nationalistic, 100–­101; and race, 122; and religion, 204–­5; of sacrifice, 200–­206; of suffering, 179, 206, 250, 302; of vengeance, 31, 46; of victimization, 46–­47; of war, 42–­43. See tropes Richmond Examiner, 144, 237, 247, 263 Richmond va, 115, 162, 191–­92, 205, 212, 228, 230–­32, 246–­49, 263, 268; and music, 275–­76 Richmond Whig, 133 Rockville md, 191 Root, George F., 22–­23, 187, 209–­10 Ruben, Sarah, 85, 185 Scharf, Jonathan Thomas, 28, 113, 141 Scott, Sir Walter, 44–­45

Searle-­White, Joshua, 208 secession convention, 26–­27 Second Bull Run (battle), 125 Seeley, Almeda Harris, 267 sensationalism, 43, 301 sentimentality, 12, 91, 173, 185, 225, 228, 237–­38, 310n55, 321n47 Shippen, Rebecca Lloyd, 307n38 Shriver family, 196–­97 Silber, Irwin, xxiv Sixth Massachusetts Infantry, 29–­30, 258 slavery, 206–­16; and patriotism, 212–­16; ignored, 47, 139–­40, 210; in Maryland, 5, 207–­8 Small, Christopher, 13, 236–­37 Smith, Anthony, 11, 49, 283 social class, 45–­46, 91, 122–­23, 232n15; and music, 119–­24, 190, 215. See also parlor music soldier music, 89–­90; bipartisan, 264–­ 66, 270; vs. civilian music, 233–­39, 273–­84 “Somebody’s Darling,” 313n30 soundscape, 159 the South (Baltimore newspaper), 33, 65 “The Southern Cross,” 61, 82 Southern Illustrated News, 14–­15, 136, 144–­ 45, 180, 241 “The Southern Marseillaise,” 15, 105, 266, 282 space: lived, 101; musical, 301–­2; mythic, 126–­27, 281; performance, 237–­38; poetic, 283 spectacle, 10–­11, 80, 133–­34 Spencer, Edward, 83–­84 Sprague, Homer, 274–­75 “The Star-­Spangled Banner,” 2, 10, 14, 26, 39–­40, 135, 164, 270; as anthem, 18; as contrafactum, 39–­40, 59, 61; as defiance, 113, 137, 225; instrumental, 263, 295; and “Maryland, My Maryland,” 46; revisions of, 82; as symbol, 79 Star-­Spangled Banner (flag), 33, 82, 95, 130, 284 state songs, 88–­89, 104–­7 state vs. nation, 181–­87, 214–­15, 243, 319nn31–­32 Sternhell, Yaell, 126–­27

i n d e x 357

Sterret, Alansa Rounds, 19 Steuart, George H., 75 Stevens, John, 135, 158–­59, 291 Stoddard, William O., xv “The Stonewall Quickstep,” 43 Stout, Harry, 166 Stuart, J. E. B., 141, 196, 200, 235, 321n40 Stump, Henry, 29 the Sun (Baltimore), 1–­2, 117, 163 surrender, 271–­72; and “Maryland, My Maryland,” 274–­84 symbolic patriotism, 79–­90, 281–­83, 287–­98

United Daughters of the Confederacy, 288–­89, 299 U.S. Colored Troops, 110, 168–­69, 169, 207, 211, 253 “The Vacant Chair,” 275–­76 victimization, 46–­47, 204–­6, 208–­9 Viroli, Maurizio, 14

tableau, 115 Talbot County md, 26, 121, 161, 251 taste. See aesthetics Taylor, Walter H., 135, 136–­37, 142–­43 Thomas, Daniel, 3–­5, 26–­27, 31–­32, 42, 145, 189, 272 Thomas, Emory, 72, 98, 171, 182, 282–­ 83, 318n6 Thompson, S. Millet, 263, 269 Timrod, Henry, xxvi, 45, 156 Trimble, Isaac, 40, 222, 307n43 tropes, 45–­49, 198, 203–­4, 262, 281, 287, 307–­8n3; songs as, 114–­19, 212–­ 13, 249, 269 Twain, Mark, 44–­45

Washington Artillery, 75, 84–­85 Washington County md, 60, 139, 159 Washington dc, xv–­xvi, 2–­3, 162, 173–­ 76, 267 Washington Evening Star, 143, 181, 227, 249, 287 “We Are Coming, Father Abraham,” 245 Werlein & Halsey, 69, 95 West Virginia, 169–­70, 188, 218, 224 “When This Cruel War Is Over,” 197, 238 Whitman, Walt, 267–­68 “Who’ll Save the Left?,” 187 Wiebe, Robert, 12, 101 Wiggins, “Blind Tom,” 238 Wild, Frederick, 142 Williamson, James J., 173–­74 Willig, George, 69–­70 Willis, Richard Storrs, 54 Winner, Septimus, 151 Work, Henry C., 209–­10 Wright, Louisa Wigfall, 132

Unionists (Maryland), 25–­26, 73, 86, 137–­39, 188–­89, 249. See Samuel Harrison Union Mills md, 196–­97

“Yankee Doodle,” 2, 18, 21, 22, 164; as contractum, 46, 56, 61–­62; instrumental version, 233–­34, 236, 238, 263; Southern version, 141

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