Life and Bloody Career of the Executed Criminal, James Copeland, the Great Southern Land Pirate
9781465557308
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
There is, perhaps, nothing within the sphere of human operations which more affect the present and future generations, either for good or evil, than a faithful narration of history and biography. But the effects, either for better or worse, depend pretty much on the comments and conclusions of the historian and biographer themselves. He may have an unprejudiced mind, he may chronicle the events of a nation faithfully and correctly, and he may be capable of delineating the mighty strokes and nicer shades of individual character with all the force and brilliancy which extraordinary genius can command; but if his deductions or inferences be unsound or erroneous, the effects will extend to all parts of society, both the present and the future. For instance, and as an illustration, the poet said of Lord Bacon: “The greatest, the wisest, and the meanest of mankind.” This is a forcible declaration, and one that belongs to the true philosophy which others must adopt before they can be the real benefactors of mankind. Had the poet gone further, and particularized the conduct of this great man, in what consisted his exalted virtues, and wherein he has contributed so much to the benefit of after ages—giving him credit for all this, and stamping it with true glory, admiration and immortality—holding up the same as worthy of imitation for aspiring youth; and then followed by a painful portrayal of his enormous vices which have had their share in producing so much corruption and misery on society at large—making manifest, according to the declaration of another poet, that “an honest man is the noblest work of God;” and that it is far better to be honest, though humble, than to have a combination of character of all which is great and all which is mean; let it be repeated, had the poet drawn his lines in some such manner, far happier might have been the result. Again, war is the scourge of humanity. Of all woes, there are none which can be compared to the horrors of protracted warfare. Neither tongue nor pen can adequately depict the miseries which flow in the train of consequences. The rust, disease, exposure and pestilence of camp life; the crowded hospitals of accumulated wretchedness; the sweat and smoke—the blood and groans of the red battle-field; these form but a very small part of the dire afflictions which flow from hostile collisions of this nature—to say nothing of the burdens entailed on posterity by waste of treasure—leaving an interminable debt to oppress generations yet unborn! Here the fashionable historian has a fine field to work in. In dazzling colors he gilds and paints in profusion. He largely expatiates on the stratagems, the manœuvering, and the master strokes of policy displayed by the commanding General. In matchless grandeur he draws his lines, made conspicuous by gleaming swords and bristling bayonets. He plants his thundering batteries on every eminence within the scope of vision. Now open the scenes of death and carnage. Red flashes, black smoke and leaden hail extend from every spot of falling conflict. Hand to hand, foot to foot, breast to breast. First one and then another of distinguished officers dropping, “covered all over with immortal glory.” Grounds taken and retaken. One wing giving away, another pressing victoriously onward over heaps of the slain. Here stubbornly contested, then riding on the fiery wings of battle overpowering all opposition—producing rout, defeat and dreadful slaughter on every road of retreat. Such animating descriptions animate other armies and other Generals. Not only is the impetuous enthusiasm of the common soldier excited, but also the ardor and emulation of the General himself. The young, the old—all seem to desire more opportunities to occur for the exercise of prowess, as well as for further demonstrations of martial glory. But it is quite possible to conceive how the historian could have produced quite a contrary effect.
