Complete Prose Works
vehemently with the President. A member of Congress who was pressing
Col. Dubois's claims, was in waiting. The President had told the Bishop
that he would make a decision that evening, and that he thought it
unnecessary to be press'd any more on the subject. That night he call'd
in the M.C. above alluded to, and said to him: "Tell Uncle Jesse that
I want to give him this appointment, and yet I cannot. I will do almost
anything else in the world for him I am able. I have thought the matter
all over, and under the circumstances think the Methodists too good and
too great a body to be slighted. They have stood by the government, and
help'd us their very best. I have had no better friends; and as the case
stands, I have decided to appoint Mr. Harlan."
NOTE TO A FRIEND
[_Written on the fly-leaf of a copy of_ Specimen Days, _sent to Peter
Doyle, at Washington, June, 1883_]
Pete, do you remember--(of course you do--I do well)--those great long
jovial walks we had at times for years, (1866-'72) out of Washington
city--often moonlight nights--'way to "Good Hope";--or, Sundays, up and
down the Potomac shores, one side or the other, sometimes ten miles at
a stretch? Or when you work'd on the horse-cars, and I waited for you,
coming home late together--or resting and chatting at the Market, corner
7th street and the Avenue, and eating those nice musk or watermelons?
Or during my tedious sickness and first paralysis ('73) how you used to
come to my solitary garret-room and make up my bed, and enliven me,
and chat for an hour or so--or perhaps go out and get the medicines Dr.
Drinkard had order'd for me--before you went on duty?... Give my love
to dear Mrs. and Mr. Nash, and tell them I have not forgotten them, and
never will.
W.W.
WRITTEN IMPROMPTU IN AN ALBUM
_Germantown, Phila., Dec. 26, '83_. In memory of these merry Christmas
days and nights--to my friends Mr. and Mrs. Williams, Churchie, May,
Gurney, and little Aubrey.... A heavy snow-storm blocking up everything,
and keeping us in. But souls, hearts, thoughts, unloos'd. And so--one
and all, little and big--hav'n't we had a good time?
W.W.
THE PLACE GRATITUDE FILLS IN A FINE CHARACTER
_From the Philadelphia Press, Nov. 27, 1884, (Thanksgiving number)_
_Scene_.--A large family supper party, a night or two ago, with voices
and laughter of the young, mellow faces of the old, and a by-and-by
pause in the general joviality. "Now, Mr. Whitman," spoke up one of the
girls, "what have you to say about Thanksgiving? Won't you give us a
sermon in advance, to sober us down?" The sage nodded smilingly, look'd
a moment at the blaze of the great wood fire, ran his forefinger right
and left through the heavy white mustache that might have otherwise
impeded his voice, and began: "Thanksgiving goes probably far deeper
than you folks suppose. I am not sure but it is the source of the
highest poetry--as in parts of the Bible. Ruskin, indeed, makes the
central source of all great art to be praise (gratitude) to the Almighty
for life, and the universe with its objects and play of action.
"We Americans devote an official day to it every year; yet I sometimes
fear the real article is almost dead or dying in our self-sufficient,
independent Republic. Gratitude, anyhow, has never been made half enough
of by the moralists; it is indispensable to a complete character, man's
or woman's--the disposition to be appreciative, thankful. That is the
main matter, the element, inclination--what geologists call the _trend_.
Of my own life and writings I estimate the giving thanks part, with what
it infers, as essentially the best item. I should say the quality of
gratitude rounds the whole emotional nature; I should say love and faith
would quite lack vitality without it. There are people--shall I call
them even religious people, as things go?--who have no such trend to
their disposition."
LAST OF THE WAR CASES
_Memorandized at the time, Washington, 1865-'66_
[Of reminiscences of the secession war, after the rest is said, I have
thought it remains to give a few special words--in some respects at the
time the typical words of all, and most definite-of the samples of the
kill'd and wounded in action, and of soldiers who linger'd afterward,
from these wounds, or were laid up by obstinate disease or prostration.
The general statistics have been printed already, but can bear to be
briefly stated again. There were over 3,000,000 men (for all periods of
enlistment, large and small) furnish'd to the Union army during the war,
New York State furnishing over 500,000, which was the greatest number
of any one State. The losses by disease, wounds, kill'd in action,
accidents, &c., were altogether about 600,000, or approximating to that
number. Over 4,000,000 cases were treated in the main and adjudicatory
army hospitals. The number sounds strange, but it is true. More than
two-thirds of the deaths were from prostration or disease. To-day
there lie buried over 300,000 soldiers in the various National army
Cemeteries, more than half of them (and that is really the most
significant and eloquent bequest of the war) mark'd "unknown." In full
mortuary statistics of the war, the greatest deficiency arises from
our not having the rolls, even as far as they were kept, of most of the
Southern military prisons--a gap which probably both adds to, and helps
conceal, the indescribable horrors of those places; it is, however,
(restricting one vivid point only) certain that over 30,000 Union
soldiers died, largely of actual starvation, in them. And now, leaving
all figures and their "sum totals," I feel sure a few genuine memoranda
of such things--some cases jotted down '64, '65, and '66--made at the
time and on the spot, with all the associations of those scenes and
places brought back, will not only go directest to the right spot, but
give a clearer and more actual sight of that period, than anything else.
Before I give the last cases I begin with verbatim extracts from letters
home to my mother in Brooklyn, the second year of the war.--W.W.]
_Washington, Oct. 13, 1863_.--There has been a new lot of wounded and
sick arriving for the last three days. The first and second days, long
strings of ambulances with the sick. Yesterday the worst, many with bad
and bloody wounds, inevitably long neglected. I thought I was cooler and
more used to it, but the sight of some cases brought tears into my eyes.
I had the luck yesterday, however, to do lots of good. Had provided many
nourishing articles for the men for another quarter, but, fortunately,
had my stores where I could use them at once for these new-comers, as
they arrived, faint, hungry, fagg'd out from their journey, with soil'd
clothes, and all bloody. I distributed these articles, gave partly to
the nurses I knew, or to those in charge. As many as possible I fed
myself. Then I found a lot of oyster soup handy, and bought it all at
once.
It is the most pitiful sight, this, when the men are first brought in,
from some camp hospital broke up, or a part of the army moving. These
who arrived yesterday are cavalry men. Our troops had fought like
devils, but got the worst of it. They were Kilpatrick's cavalry; were
in the rear, part of Meade's retreat, and the reb cavalry, knowing the
ground and taking a favorable opportunity, dash'd in between, cut them
off, and shell'd them terribly. But Kilpatrick turn'd and brought them
out mostly. It was last Sunday. (One of the most terrible sights and
tasks is of such receptions.)
_Oct. 27, 1863_.--If any of the soldiers I know (or their parents
or folks) should call upon you--as they are often anxious to have my
address in Brooklyn--you just use them as you know how, and if you
happen to have pot-luck, and feel to ask them to take a bite, don't be
afraid to do so. I have a friend, Thomas Neat, 2d N.Y. Cavalry, wounded
in leg, now home in Jamaica, on furlough; he will probably call. Then
possibly a Mr. Haskell, or some of his folks, from western New York: he
had a son died here, and I was with the boy a good deal. The old man and
his wife have written me and ask'd me my Brooklyn address; he said he
had children in New York, and was occasionally down there. (When I come
home I will show you some of the letters I get from mothers, sisters,
fathers, &c. They will make you cry.)
How the time passes away! To think it is over a year since I left
home suddenly--and have mostly been down in front since. The year has
vanish'd swiftly, and oh, what scenes I have witness'd during that time!
And the war is not settled yet; and one does not see anything certain,
or even promising, of a settlement. But I do not lose the solid feeling,
in myself, that the Union triumph is assured, whether it be sooner or
whether it be later, or whatever roundabout way we may be led there;
and I find I don't change that conviction from any reverses we meet, nor
delays, nor blunders. One realizes here in Washington the great labors,
even the negative ones, of Lincoln; that it is a big thing to have just
kept the United States from being thrown down and having its throat cut.
I have not waver'd or had any doubt of the issue, since Gettysburg.
_8th September, '63_.--Here, now, is a specimen army hospital case:
Lorenzo Strong, Co. A, 9th United States Cavalry, shot by a shell last
Sunday; right leg amputated on the field. Sent up here Monday night,
14th. Seem'd to be doing pretty well till Wednesday noon, 16th, when he
took a turn for the worse, and a strangely rapid and fatal termination
ensued. Though I had much to do, I staid and saw all. It was a
death-picture characteristic of these soldiers' hospitals--the perfect
specimen of physique, one of the most magnificent I ever saw--the
convulsive spasms and working of muscles, mouth, and throat. There are
two good women nurses, one on each side. The doctor comes in and gives
him a little chloroform. One of the nurses constantly fans him, for
it is fearfully hot. He asks to be rais'd up, and they put him in a
half-sitting posture. He call'd for "Mark" repeatedly, half-deliriously,
all day. Life ebbs, runs now with the speed of a mill race; his splendid
neck, as it lays all open, works still, slightly; his eyes turn back.
A religious person coming in offers a prayer, in subdued tones, bent at
the foot of the bed; and in the space of the aisle, a crowd, including
two or three doctors, several students, and many soldiers, has silently
gather'd. It is very still and warm, as the struggle goes on, and
dwindles, a little more, and a little more--and then welcome oblivion,
painlessness, death. A pause, the crowd drops away, a white bandage is
bound around and under the jaw, the propping pillows are removed, the
limpsy head falls down, the arms are softly placed by the side,
all composed, all still,--and the broad white sheet is thrown over
everything.
_April 10, 1864_.--Unusual agitation all around concentrated here.
Exciting times in Congress. The Copperheads are getting furious, and
want to recognize the Southern Confederacy. "This is a pretty time to
talk of recognizing such--," said a Pennsylvania officer in hospital to
me to-day, "after what has transpired the last three years." After first
Fredericksburg I felt discouraged myself, and doubted whether our rulers
could carry on the war. But that has pass'd away. The war _must_ be
carried on. I would willingly go in the ranks myself if I thought it
would profit more than as at present, and I don't know sometimes but I
shall, as it is. Then there is certainly a strange, deep, fervid feeling
form'd or arous'd in the land, hard to describe or name; it is not a
majority feeling, but it will make itself felt. M., you don't know what
a nature a fellow gets, not only after being a soldier a while, but