Complete Prose Works
and away out to the spacious sidewalks. I was there, as I took a
notion to go--was in the rush inside with the crowd--surged along the
passage-ways, the blue and other rooms, and through the great east room.
Crowds of country people, some very funny. Fine music from the Marine
band, off in a side place. I saw Mr. Lincoln, drest all in black, with
white kid gloves and a claw-hammer coat, receiving, as in duty bound,
shaking hands, looking very disconsolate, and as if he would give
anything to be somewhere else.
ATTITUDE OF FOREIGN GOVERNMENTS DURING THE WAR
Looking over my scraps, I find I wrote the following during 1864. The
happening to our America, abroad as well as at home, these years, is
indeed most strange. The democratic republic has paid her today the
terrible and resplendent compliment of the united wish of all the
nations of the world that her union should be broken, her future
cut off, and that she should be compell'd to descend to the level
of kingdoms and empires ordinarily great. There is certainly not one
government in Europe but is now watching the war in this country, with
the ardent prayer that the United States may be effectually split,
crippled, and dismember'd by it. There is not one but would help toward
that dismemberment, if it dared. I say such is the ardent wish to-day of
England and of France, as governments, and of all the nations of Europe,
as governments. I think indeed it is to-day the real, heartfelt wish
of all the nations of the world, with the single exception of
Mexico--Mexico, the only one to whom we have ever really done wrong,
and now the only one who prays for us and for our triumph, with genuine
prayer. Is it not indeed strange? America, made up of all, cheerfully
from the beginning opening her arms to all, the result and justifier of
all, of Britain, Germany, France and Spain--all here--the accepter, the
friend, hope, last resource and general house of all--she who has
harm'd none, but been bounteous to so many, to millions, the mother of
strangers and exiles, all nations--should now, I say, be paid this dread
compliment of general governmental fear and hatred. Are we indignant?
alarm'd? Do we feel jeopardized? No; help'd, braced, concentrated,
rather. We are all too prone to wander from ourselves, to affect Europe,
and watch her frowns and smiles. We need this hot lesson of general
hatred, and henceforth must never forget it. Never again will we trust
the moral sense nor abstract friendliness of a single _government_ of
the old world.
THE WEATHER--DOES IT SYMPATHIZE WITH THESE TIMES?
Whether the rains, the heat and cold, and what underlies them all,
are affected with what affects man in masses, and follow his play of
passionate action, strain'd stronger than usual, and on a larger scale
than usual--whether this, or no, it is certain that there is now, and
has been for twenty months or more, on this American continent north,
many a remarkable, many an unprecedented expression of the subtile world
of air above us and around us. There, since this war, and the wide and
deep national agitation, strange analogies, different combinations, a
different sunlight, or absence of it; different products even out of the
ground. After every great battle, a great storm. Even civic events the
same. On Saturday last, a forenoon like whirling demons, dark, with
slanting rain, full of rage; and then the afternoon, so calm, so bathed
with flooding splendor from heaven's most excellent sun, with atmosphere
of sweetness; so clear, it show'd the stars, long long before they were
due. As the President came out on the capitol portico, a curious little
white cloud, the only one in that part of the sky, appear'd like a
hovering bird, right over him.
Indeed, the heavens, the elements, all the meteorological influences,
have run riot for weeks past. Such caprices, abruptest alternation of
frowns and beauty, I never knew. It is a common remark that (as last
summer was different in its spells of intense heat from any preceding
it,) the winter just completed has been without parallel. It has
remain'd so down to the hour I am writing. Much of the daytime of the
past month was sulky, with leaden heaviness, fog, interstices of bitter
cold, and some insane storms. But there have been samples of another
description. Nor earth nor sky ever knew spectacles of superber beauty
than some of the nights lately here. The western star, Venus, in the
earlier hours of evening, has never been so large, so clear; it seems
as if it told something, as if it held rapport indulgent with humanity,
with us Americans. Five or six nights since, it hung close by the moon,
then a little past its first quarter. The star was wonderful, the moon
like a young mother. The sky, dark blue, the transparent night, the
planets, the moderate west wind, the elastic temperature, the miracle of
that great star, and the young and swelling moon swimming in the west,
suffused the soul. Then I heard, slow and clear, the deliberate notes of
a bugle come up out of the silence, sounding so good through the night's
mystery, no hurry, but firm and faithful, floating along, rising,
falling leisurely, with here and there a long-drawn note; the bugle,
well play'd, sounding tattoo, in one of the army hospitals near here,
where the wounded (some of them personally so dear to me,) are lying
in their cots, and many a sick boy come down to the war from Illinois,
Michigan, Wisconsin, Iowa, and the rest.
INAUGURATION BALL
_March 6_.--I have been up to look at the dance and supper-rooms,
for the inauguration ball at the Patent office; and I could not help
thinking, what a different scene they presented to my view a while
since, fill'd with a crowded mass of the worst wounded of the war,
brought in from second Bull Run, Antietam, and Fredericksburgh.
To-night, beautiful women, perfumes, the violin's sweetness, the polka
and the waltz; then the amputation, the blue face, the groan, the glassy
eye of the dying, the clotted rag, the odor of wounds and blood, and
many a mother's son amid strangers, passing away untended there, (for
the crowd of the badly hurt was great, and much for nurse to do, and
much for surgeon.)
SCENE AT THE CAPITOL
I must mention a strange scene at the capitol, the hall of
Representatives, the morning of Saturday last, (March 4th.) The day just
dawn'd, but in half-darkness, everything dim, leaden, and soaking. In
that dim light, the members nervous from long drawn duty, exhausted,
some asleep, and many half asleep. The gas-light, mix'd with the
dingy day-break, produced an unearthly effect. The poor little sleepy,
stumbling pages, the smell of the hall, the members with heads leaning
on their desks, the sounds of the voices speaking, with unusual
intonations--the general moral atmosphere also of the close of this
important session--the strong hope that the war is approaching its
close--the tantalizing dread lest the hope may be a false one--the
grandeur of the hall itself, with its effect of vast shadows up toward
the panels and spaces over the galleries--all made a mark'd combination.
In the midst of this, with the suddenness of a thunderbolt, burst one of
the most angry and crashing storms of rain and hail ever heard. It
beat like a deluge on the heavy glass roof of the hall, and the wind
literally howl'd and roar'd. For a moment, (and no wonder,) the nervous
and sleeping Representatives were thrown into confusion. The slumberers
awaked with fear, some started for the doors, some look'd up with
blanch'd cheeks and lips to the roof, and the little pages began to cry;
it was a scene. But it was over almost as soon as the drowsied men were
actually awake. They recover'd themselves; the storm raged on, beating,
dashing, and with loud noises at times. But the House went ahead with
its business then, I think, as calmly and with as much deliberation as
at any time in its career. Perhaps the shock did it good. (One is not
without impression, after all, amid these members of Congress, of both
the Houses, that if the flat routine of their duties should ever be
broken in upon by some great emergency involving real danger, and
calling for first-class personal qualities, those qualities would be
found generally forthcoming, and from men not now credited with them.)
A YANKEE ANTIQUE
_March 27, 1865_.--Sergeant Calvin F. Harlowe, company C, 29th
Massachusetts, 3d brigade, 1st division, Ninth corps--a mark'd sample
of heroism and death, (some may say bravado, but I say heroism, of
grandest, oldest order)--in the late attack by the rebel troops, and
temporary capture by them, of fort Steadman, at night. The fort was
surprised at dead of night. Suddenly awaken'd from their sleep, and
rushing from their tents, Harlowe, with others, found himself in the
hands of the secesh--they demanded his surrender--he answer'd, _Never
while I live_. (Of course it was useless. The others surrender'd; the
odds were too great.) Again he was ask'd to yield, this time by a rebel
captain. Though surrounded, and quite calm, he again refused, call'd
sternly to his comrades to fight on, and himself attempted to do so.
The rebel captain then shot him--but at the same instant he shot the
captain. Both fell together mortally wounded. Harlowe died almost
instantly. The rebels were driven out in a very short time. The body
was buried next day, but soon taken up and sent home, (Plymouth county,
Mass.) Harlowe was only 22 years of age--was a tall, slim, dark-hair'd,
blue-eyed young man--had come out originally with the 29th; and that
is the way he met his death, after four years' campaign. He was in the
Seven Days fight before Richmond, in second Bull Run, Antietam, first
Fredericksburgh, Vicksburgh, Jackson, Wilderness, and the campaigns
following--was as good a soldier as ever wore the blue, and every old
officer in the regiment will bear that testimony. Though so young, and
in a common rank, he had a spirit as resolute and brave as any hero
in the books, ancient or modern--It was too great to say the words "I
surrender"--and so he died. (When I think of such things, knowing them
well, all the vast and complicated events of the war, on which history
dwells and makes its volumes, fall aside, and for the moment at any rate
I see nothing but young Calvin Harlowe's figure in the night, disdaining
to surrender.)
WOUNDS AND DISEASES
The war is over, but the hospitals are fuller than ever, from former and
current cases. A large' majority of the wounds are in the arms and legs.
But there is every kind of wound, in every part of the body. I should
say of the sick, from my observation, that the prevailing maladies
are typhoid fever and the camp fevers generally, diarrhoea, catarrhal
affections and bronchitis, rheumatism and pneumonia. These forms of
sickness lead; all the rest follow. There are twice as many sick as
there are wounded. The deaths range from seven to ten per cent, of those
under treatment.[7]
Note:
[7] In the U. S. Surgeon-General's office since, there is a formal
record and treatment of 153, 142 cases of wounds by government surgeons.
What must have been the number unofficial, indirect--to say nothing of
the Southern armies?
DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN
_April 16, '65_.--I find in my notes of the time, this passage on the
death of Abraham Lincoln: He leaves for America's history and biography,
so far, not only its most dramatic reminiscence--he leaves, in my
opinion, the greatest, best, most characteristic, artistic, moral
personality. Not but that he had faults, and show'd them in the
Presidency; but honesty, goodness, shrewdness, conscience, and (a new
virtue, unknown to other lands, and hardly yet really known here, but
the foundation and tie of all, as the future will grandly develop,)