Daily union and American. [volume] (Nashville, Tenn.) 1865-1866, 1866-03-18

The following article from the pen Of Elk
Governor Allen, late Of Louisiana, and now
editor of the Mexican Timer Is clipped
from that paper of the 9th Of January:
The civil war in America is ended, and
the "banner Of the bars that waved over
jackson and CLEANED upon the track Of Stu
arts reckless riders has been put away as
men hide the trinkets of a dear, dead love.
Although the blood of Virginia's best and
bravest is not yet dry in the valleys, nor has
the grass grown over the premature graves
Of the manly Confederaies who fell before
Petersburg, yet Mr.. f. e Pollard, pretty
writer and talented editor, in long
newspaper article, denounees e1.-President
Davis, Generals Lee, Johnston, and Beau
regard, and says the Southern people
disgraced themselves forever when they
refused 10 fight to determination that
they lack courage and endurance states
aanship and intelligence He criticizes
campaigns, ridicules strategical movements,
sneers at retreats, and laughs at every heroic
effort of the brave men who have left to his
tory an immortal name
Who is Mr.. z. A. Pollard? He is Vir-
ginian, the editor Of the Richmond E1aus-
liner, and the author Of the Southern His
tory of the War; We have grief for the
first, bushes for the second, and contempt
for the last
During all those years of carnage and Of
blood, this Richmond Ena'nineT was an in
satiate fiend Of opposition and hatred: Step
by step ii broke down the brave, fond heart
Of Sidney johnson again and again il LAGER
ated and gored the sensitive soul OF Beaure-
gard; week after week it denounced the
heroic efforts of Joseph Z. Johnston; and
now, when Jefferson Davis is chained amid
the waves of his rock-ribbed prison, it tries
te stab his reputation and his honor.
It is not often that men like Pollard and
Jordan can gloat over the agony of such a
spirit and the degradation Of such name.
II is not often that such bosom as Lees is
laid bare for the thrust of every rufian's
spear, or the dagger Of every towards hand.
IL is not often that a desolated nation
writhes under the blows Of lis children and
the cruelties Of its own offspring. IL is not
49,. ere sOrio Iullifshes hundi
hyenas 10 exhume the bodies of her sainted
dead and howl in horrid delight over the
revolving feast
Pollard wanted determination, but he
was in New York city, hob-nobbing with
Greeley, and telling the pleasant story in
his pleasant way Of the four years war.
He wanted fifty thousand men to fight
million TO the death, but he rever fell in
beside them and profered TO share a COM
mon fate. Like Jobs war horse, he snufed
the battle from afar Shoddy is cheap, and
humbug is cheap, and Henry Ward Beechers
patent sermons are cheap; and sincerity,
faith, honor, chiyalry, manhood how pure
and unpopular.
Pollard's mother State lies PROSTATE in
the dust, her heart-stones desolate and her
idol shattered. All over the land he can
see her bereaved daughters weeping for the
young, fresh faces that looked back to them
from the heat and yellow dust of the con-
fict Just before the horses Sset trod them
down. He can almost hear the breezes from
the Wilderness singing their melancholy
dirges over Smart and Ashby, and Pelham,
and Hill, and Jackson, dear to God. He
has no love, nor veneratlon, nor tenderness,
nor pity for any of these; but tearing open
the graves of the immortalized dead, he
blends them with the living in one sacrilegi-
GUS anathema of coutemptous hatred.
Drape the picture of q nation in its agony,
and cover its laurels with the mourning
cypress. Furl the conquered banner with a
farewell look, and shrine its memory in our
heart of hearts but to the brutal hardi-
hood of those who curse and yillify a ruined
race, give vengeance, scorn, and a never
dying contempt.
History tells how Coriolanus halted his
victorious legions beyond the yellow Tiber,
but that Nero fddled godly tune while
Rome was burning. Amid the graves of
his kindred, the anguish and despair of
brave men in their crushing overthrow !;
amid the blue skies and green fields of his
nativity, Z. A. Pollard dips his pen in the
gall OF New England hate and writes the
record of his own everlasting imfamy and
DISGRACE