Slotkin’s latest book about the Civil War, The Long Road to Antietam, traces how both Northern and Southern strategies changed in the summer of 1862, when both sides committed to an all-out total war and Lincoln squared off against Gen. George McClellan, an ardent Democrat who held fantasies of both a dictatorship and a military coup against the Union.

Foreign diplomats enjoyed the sight of our moralistic young nation undergoing linguistic gymnastics in order to claim that right always supported its national interest. But larger issues were at stake, and they are the subject of a new book, John Witt’s Lincoln’s Code. It’s worth revisiting these legal conundrums not only because they’re interesting, but also because they take us back to the origins of a codified law of war, and raise still-pertinent questions about the usefulness of having such laws. The law of war has played a central role in debates about American policies toward al-Qaida under Presidents Bush and Obama, with critics frequently arguing that the U.S. government has violated the law of war or improperly cited it as support for its policies. Witt’s historical account helps explain why both administrations felt it necessary to deviate from a strict interpretation of international law.

Fifty years ago this spring, the great literary critic Edmund Wilson published one of the most important and confounding books ever written on the American Civil War. Patriotic Gore: Studies in the Literature of the American Civil War both offended and inspired its many reviewers and readers in 1962. Before or after 1962, no one ever wrote a book quite like Patriotic Gore and it deserves a rereading in our own wartime…

In every nation Wilson had come to see the same impulse: “the irresistible instinct of power to expand itself, of well-organized human aggregations to absorb or impose themselves on other groups.” The same “sub-rational reason” lay at the root of both the conquest “of the South by the North in the Civil War, of Germany by the allies.” With this degree of cynicism, one wonders how Wilson managed to find brilliance, humor, and even the sublime in so many Civil War writers.

As Wilson finished Patriotic Gore he was very discouraged by the Cold War, by nuclear testing, and U.S.-Soviet saber-rattling. In the summer of 1961 he unloaded on Alfred Kazin: “the U.S.A. is getting me down … I don’t see how you still manage to believe in American ideals and all that.” Wilson seems never to have gotten over his experience of 1918-19 in those French hospitals.

The alienation Wilson felt from what he called the “United States of Hiroshima” produced a belligerent, blasphemous screed against his country’s sense of history, and especially its foreign policy. Some of his historical judgments and moral equivalences can still seem disturbing today. But it is not merely a perverse diatribe full of prickly opinions; at times it is a weirdly brilliant exposition of “anti-war morality.”

In this sesquicentennial David Blight revisits “one of the most important and confounding books ever written about the Civil War.”

This long form review offers some thoughtful nuggets. For instance:

“Wilson argued that the three great leaders of the modern “impulse to unification”— Lincoln, Bismarck, and Lenin—all became heroic but detested “dictators” for their respective causes. Each was “confident that he was acting out the purpose of a force infinitely greater than himself,” Wilson intoned. Bismarck believed in “God,” Lenin in “History,” and Lincoln in some kind of democratic combination of the two. All three, though, according to Wilson, were mere agents of the “power drive” that moved nations and history over and over into mass violence and conquest.”

“And this protection,” Lincoln declared “they shall have at once.”

This conversation seems like the stuff of legends. But I’ll probably try to keep the legend alive.
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Ulysses S. Grant’s surprising embrace of Jews during his presidency takes on new significance. Through his appointments and policies, Grant rejected calls for a “Christian nation,” and embraced Jews as insiders in America, part of “We the People.” During his administration, Jews achieved heightened status on the national scene. Judaism won recognition (at least from him) as a faith co-equal to Protestantism and Catholicism (”the [P]rotestant, the Catholic, and the Jew appointed days for universal prayer in my behalf,”

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In recent years, however, a thoroughgoing re-evaluation of Ulysses S. Grant has taken place. “Though much of the public and even some historians haven’t yet heard the news,” historian Sean Wilentz observed in the New York Times, “the vindication of Ulysses S. Grant is well under way. I expect that before too long Grant will be returned to the standing he deserves—not only as the military savior of the Union but as one of the great presidents of his era, and possibly one of the greatest in all American history.” A fresh look at Grant’s relationship with the Jewish community reinforces this view.

On Fresh Air, historian Adam Goodheart explains how national leaders and ordinary citizens responded to the chaos and uncertainty in the days and months before and after the struggle at Fort Sumter, an almost-bloodless two-day battle that became the start of the Civil War almost by mistake.

I really appreciate Goodheart’s analyses. For instance, he draws a parallel between slave owners who refused to give up their slaves to moderns who refuse to give up fossil fuels (abolitionists as modern day bike riders). He also unpacks the Sumter issue incisively. Really good interview performance too.

The photos are rich, the facial hair is awesome,  and the commentary, provided by David Plotz, is thoughtful and good humored.

Here’s an FYI: “Facial hair was associated with a few things: It was associated with a new idea of manliness. It was associated with new ideas about religion, a new passion for Old Testament religion and a sense that you were stepping back into the righteous days of the Hebrew prophets. It was associated also with militarism, because it really became popular in Anglo-American culture after the Crimean War. And finally, and I think most interestingly, it was identified with radical nationalist politics in Europe. Beards really took off in places like France, Italy, and Austria, that were undergoing liberal revolutions. I think it bespeaks a sense that both the Union and Confederate soldiers felt that they were nationalist revolutionaries.”

The “Battle Hymn” became the leading anthem of the Union cause and would emerge as one of the most enduring works of art of the Civil War years. Meanwhile, the tale of the poem’s composition—one of the great creation stories in American letters—became nearly as famous as the poem itself; it became, in a sense, an inextricable part of the poem. The millennial meanings attached to the hymn, with its portrayal of Union forces—God’s “terrible swift sword”—as apocalyptic agents, and the account of the hymn’s origins fed off each other. Together, they encouraged a sense of providential national identity deeply seductive to American audiences—then and now.

We knew, of course, about Frederick Douglass and Harriet Tubman. But our general sense of the war was that a horrible tragedy somehow had the magical effect of getting us free. Its legacy belonged not to us, but to those who reveled in the costume and technology of a time when we were property.

Our alienation was neither achieved in independence, nor stumbled upon by accident, but produced by American design. The belief that the Civil War wasn’t for us was the result of the country’s long search for a narrative that could reconcile white people with each other, one that avoided what professional historians now know to be true: that one group of Americans attempted to raise a country wholly premised on property in Negroes, and that another group of Americans, including many Negroes, stopped them. In the popular mind, that demonstrable truth has been evaded in favor of a more comforting story of tragedy, failed compromise, and individual gallantry. For that more ennobling narrative, as for so much of American history, the fact of black people is a problem.

Ta Nehisi Coates tries to answer this vexing question

Frederick Douglass called it “a sacred effort,” and Lincoln himself thought that his Second Inaugural, which offered a theodicy of the Civil War, was better than the Gettysburg Address.

Historian Garry Wills does a magnificent job of unpacking Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address

Abraham Lincoln, from the Ode Recited at the Harvard Commemoration. James Russell Lowell (1865)
Paul Revere’s Ride, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Voluntaries, Ralph Waldo Emerson

Shortly before the 1860 presidential election The Atlantic’s editor, James Russell Lowell, came out in support of Abraham Lincoln (9 pages), whom he commended as a “statesman” and a powerful voice against the spread of slavery. He predicted, accurately, that the election would prove to be “a turning-point in our history.”

“Civil War Stories” is a collaboration between Slate and “The Memory Palace,” DiMeo’s long-running podcast that unearths forgotten historical gems. The series will appear monthly during the sesquicentennial commemoration of the Civil War.

Some really cool radio shorts. Fascinating!

In the second episode of our monthly audio series “Civil War Stories,” radio producer Nate DiMeo tells the story of Richmond resident Elizabeth Van Lew, better known as Crazy Bet. Her odd behavior (freeing her family’s slaves, visiting Yankee POWs in prison) made tongues wag in the Confederate capital. But Richmond society couldn’t begin to guess what was really going on:

Among Lundberg’s criticism of Burns’ Civil War series is that, “For all its appeal, however, The Civil War is a deeply misleading and reductive film that often loses historical reality in the mists of Burns’ sentimental vision and the romance of Foote’s anecdotes. Watching the film, you might easily forget that one side was not fighting for, but against the very things that Burns claims the war so gloriously achieved. Confederates, you might need reminding after seeing it, were fighting not for the unification of the nation, but for its dissolution. Moreover, they were fighting for their independence from the United States in the name of slavery and the racial hierarchy that underlay it. Perhaps most disingenuously, the film’s cursory treatment of Reconstruction obscures the fact that the Civil War did not exactly end in April of 1865 with a few handshakes and a mutual appreciation for a war well fought. Instead, the war’s most important outcome—emancipation—produced a terrible and violent reckoning with the legacy of slavery that continued well into the 20^th century.”
 

In his marvelous new book, 1861: The Civil War Awakening, Adam Goodheart tries to capture what it felt like to live through secession and the opening months of the Civil War, at a time when it wasn’t clear, or destined, that the war would become the bloodiest and most important event in American history. A historian at Washington College and one of the lead authors of the New York Times’ Disunion blog, Goodheart writes especially vividly about photography, so last week I invited him to tour “The Last Full Measure,” a new Library of Congress exhibition of portrait photographs of Civil War soldiers.

See the slideshow

What is it about Abraham Lincoln that makes him as fascinating a figure today as he was in his lifetime? It is an interesting question to contemplate at a time when our nation is at war and our country deeply divided. What does it take to lead in such circumstances? How does a president respond to public opinion when individual opinions are so bitterly at odds? How does a leader successfully combine political skill and moral purpose?
As a defender of national unity, a leader in war, and the emancipator of slaves, Abraham Lincoln lays ample claim to being the greatest of our presidents. But the story of his rise to greatness is as complex as it is compelling. Oxford University historian Richard Carwardine examines Lincoln both in his dramatic political journey and in his nation-shaping White House years.

In this short piece, Bruce Levine, of the University of Illinois, discusses how the Confederacy’s illogical debate over  the use of Black soldiers.