FEINBERG/WHITMAN LITERARY FILE BOOK FILE -- Memoranda During the War Printed Pages

Box 23 Folder 3

Includes A. Ms. corrections & notations.[*29*]

1871 Memoranda of the War: correction. A.MS. (1p. 15 X 13½ cm.)

Written in ink on a page (bottom part missing) torn from Memoranda
of the War, several changes in the margin, 5 in the paragraph at
the top of p. 4, 1 in the second paragraph.

[*(compare
with later edn)*]1282

1864 ? Description of Chancellorsville: Memoranda: corrections. A.

MS. (1p. 21 1/2 x 13 1/2 cm.)

Written in ink, with come corrections in pencil, on a piece of paper
cut from a larger piece, to which has been attached parts of pages 
13, 14 and 15 from Memoranda During the War, 24 words:

Out of the thousands there was 

For instance let me give there was one 
episode, out of thousands, in May '63, at Chancellorsville [ten
lines of text] The contest [in place of 'It']

[Corrections: delete 'and quite a general engagement'
15 lines down delete 'quick'
next line delete 'and the immense roar--the musketry so
general'
13 lines down delete 'from 500 to 600 poor fellows'
delete rest of page from 'and still the woods on fire']

(These changes were apparently never made?)
231

1875-76 Memoranda During the War: marginalia. A.MS. (2p. 9 x

11 3/4, 10 x 13 1/2 cm.)

Written in ink, pencil, and red ink in the margins of the bottom 
half a p. 3 of Memoranda During the War, several deletions and
changes:

19 lines from bottom: 'many' deleted; next sentence changed from
'Each line, each scrawl, each memorandum, has its history. Some
pang...' to read 'Each of the lines memorandum has its history --
some pang...' Two sentences later 'They summon up' and 'and vacant'
are deleted; and after 'as I write' WW has inserted '-- the
whole four years from 1861 to '65--'; and 6 lines down he changes
'...Tennessee. (Not Northern...' to '...Tennessee -- (not Northern...'.
In the bottom margin WW asks: 'Would not all this come
[page torn] her for a long note at end of the War mean?'

Written in pencil in the margin of the bottom half of p.
66, opposite 'Future History of the United States growing out

[over][*232*]

of the War', 9 words:

This is in the N A Review piece

Also included are pp. 41-48 of Memorandum during the War, without
marks; bottom half of p. 45 with cancellation stroke; p. 47 with
cancellation stroke; p. 48 with cancellation stroke; top half of 
p. 50 with cancellation stroke; p. 67 and p. 68 also with cancellation
strokes; the opposite sides of all these pages, pp.
46, 48, 47, 49, 68, and 67 (in this order) have no marks.6

Lower part of first page (p. 3) of "Memoranda 
During the War" with Walt Whitman autograph
additions and notation.Even these days, at the lapse of [many] years, I
can never turn their tiny leaves, or even take one in my
hand, without the actual army sights and hot emotions of the
time rushing like a river in full tide through me.  Each [ [*of the lines.*] ] [line,
each scrawl, each] memorandum[,] has its history—[.] some pang
of anguish—some tragedy, profounder than ever poet wrote.
Out of them arise active and breathing forms[. They summon 
up,]—even in this silent [and vacant] rooms as I write [*—the whole form 
years from 1861 
to '65-*] not
only the sinewy regiments and brigades, marching or in
camp, but the countless phantoms of those who fell and were
hastily buried by wholesale in the battle-pits, or whose dust
and bones have been since removed to the National Cemeteries
of the land, especially through Virginia and Tennessee
—(not Northern soldiers only—many indeed and the Carolinian, 
Georgian, Alabamian, Louisianian, Virginian—many
a Southern face and form, pale, emaciated, with that strange
tie of confidence and love between us, welded by sickness,
pain of wounds, and little daily, nightly offices of nursing and
friendly words and visits, comes up amid the rest, and does

[*Would not all this come 
in for a long note at 
end of the war mem?*][?plexion of dark brown, and the tinge of wie?]
saturating all.

More and more, in my recollections of that period, and 
through its varied, multitudinous oceans and murky whirls,
appear the central resolution and sternness of the bulk of
the average American People, animated in Soul by a definite
purpose, though sweeping and fluid as some great
storm - the Common People, emblemised in thousands of
specimens of first-class Heroism, steadily accumulating, (no
regiment, no company, hardly a file of men, North or South,
the last three years, without such first-class specimens.)

I know not how it may have been, or may be, to others -
to me the main interest of the War, I found, (and still, on
recollection, find,) in those specimens, and in the ambulance,
the Hospital, and even the dead on the field. To me, the
points illustrating the latent Personal Character and eligibilities 
of These States, in the two or three millions of American
young and middle-aged men, North and South, embodied
in the armies - and especially the one-third or one-fourth ofFuture History of the United States, growing out of the War--(My Speculations.)
Our Nation's ending Century, thus far--even with the great struggle of 1861-'65--
I do not so much call the History of the United States. Rather, our
preparation, or preface. As the chief and permanent result of those four
years, and the signal triumph of Nationalism at the end of them, we now
commence that History of the United States, which, grandly developing, exfoliating,
stretching through the future, is yet to be enacted, and is only to be
really written hundreds of years hence.
And of the events of that Future--as well as the Present and the Past, or
war or peace--have they been, and will they continue to be, (does any one
suppose?) a series of accidents, depending on either good luck or bad luck, as
may chance turn out? Rather, is there not, behind all, some vast average,
sufficiently definite, uniform and unswervable Purpose, in the development
of America, (may I not say divine purpose? only all is divine purpose,)
which pursues its own will, are merely crude unconscious of itself--of which the puerilities
often called history, are merely crude and temporary emanations, rather
than influences or causes? and of which the justification is only to be look'd
for in the formulations of centuries to come? (Let us now be deceiv'd by
flatulent fleeting notorieties, political, official, literary and other. In any profound,
philosophical consideration or our politics, literture, &c., the best-known
names of the day and hitherto--the parties, and their oftenest-named
leaders--the great newspapers and magazines--the authors and artists, and
editors--even the Presidents, Congresses, Governors, &c.--are only so many
passing spears of patches of grass on which the cow feeds.)
Is there not such a thing as the Philosophy of American History and Politics?
And if so--what is it?.......Wise men say there are two sets of wills to
Nations and to persons--one set that acts and works from explainable motives--
from teaching, intelligence, judgement, circumstance, caprice, emulation,
greed, &c.--and then another set, perhaps deep, hidden, unsuspected, yet
often more potent than the first, refusing to be argued with, rising as it were
out of the abysses, resistlessly urging on speakers, doers, communities, Nations,
unwitting to themselves--the poet to his fieriest words--the Race to pursue its
[*This is in the N.A.Review piece*]of view.) is there not some side from which the Secession cause itself has its
justification? Was there ever a great popular movement, or revolt, or revolution,
or attempt at revolution, without some solid basis interwoven with it, and
supporting it? at least something that could be said in behalf of it?......We are
apt to continue our view to the few more glaring and more atrocious Southern
features--the arrogance of most of the leading men and politicians--the fearful
crime of Slavery itself--But the time will come--perhaps has come--to begin
to take a Philosophical view of the whole affair.
Already, as I write this concluding Not to my Memoranda, (Summer, 1875,)
a new, maturing generation has swept in, obliterating with oceanic currents
the worst reminiscenses of the War; and the passage of [??me] has heal'd over
at least its deepest scars. Already, the events of 1861-65, and the seasons that
immediately preceded, as well as those that closely follow'd them, have lost
their direct personal impression, and the living heat and excitement of their
own time, and are being marshall'd for casting, or getting ready to be cast,
into the cold and bloodless electrotype plates of History. Or, if we admit that
the savage temper and wide differences of opinion, and feelings of wrongs, and
mutual recriminations, that led to the War, and flamed in its mortal conflagration,
may not have yet entirely burnt themselves out, the embers of them are
dying embers, and a few more winters and summers, a few more rains and
snow, will surely quench their fires, and leave them only as far off memory.
Already the War of Attempted Secession has become a thing of the past.
And now I have myself, in my thought, deliberately come to unite the whole
conflict, both sides, the South and North, really into One, and to view it as a
struggle going on within One Identity. Like any of Nature's great convulsions,
wars going on within--not from separated sets of laws and influences,
but the same--really, efforts, conflicts, most violent ones, for deeper
harmony, freer, and larger scope, completer homogeneousness and power.
What is any Nation, after all--and what is a human being--but a struggle
between conflicting, paradoxical, opposing elements--and they themselves and
their most violent contests, important parts of that One Identity, and of its
development?Murder of President Lincoln. - The day, April 14, 1865,
seems to have been a pleasant one throughout the whole
land - the moral atmosphere pleasant too - the long storm,
so dark, so fratricidal, full of blood and doubt and gloom, 
over and ended at last by the sun-rise of such an absolute
National victory, and utter breaking-down of Secessionism -
we almost doubted our own senses! Lee had capitulated 
beneath the apple-tree of Appomattox. The other armies,
the flanges of the revolt, swiftly follow'd.......And could 
it really be, then? Out of all the affairs of this world of
woe and passion, of failure and disorder and dismay, was
there really come the confirm'd, unerring sign of plan, like
a shaft of pure light - of rightful rule - of God?.......So the
day, as I say, was propitious. Early herbage, early flowers,
were out. (I remember where I was stopping at the time,
the season being advanced, there were many lilacs in full
bloom. By one of those caprices that enter and give tinge
to events without being at all a part of them, I find myself 
always reminded of the great tragedy of that day by the
sight and odor of these blossoms. It never fails.)

But I must not dwell on accessories. the deed hastens.
The popular afternoon paper of Washington, the little
Evening Star, had spatter'd all over its third page, divided
among the advertisements in a sensational manner in a hundred 
different places, The President and his Lady will be at 
the Theatre this evening.......(Lincoln was fond of the theatre.
I have myself seen him there several times. I remember
thinking how funny it was that He, in some respects, the
leading actor in the greatest and stormiest drama known to 
real history's stage, through centuries, should sit there and
be so completely interested and absorb'd in those human
jack-straws, moving about with their silly little gestures,
foreign spirit, and flatulent text.)[?] 
danger, and calling for first-class personal qualities, those
qualities would be found generally forthcoming, and from
men not now credited with them.)

March 27, 1865 - A Yankee Antique. - Sergeant Calvin F.
Harlow, Co. C, Twenty-Ninth Massachusetts, Third Brigade,
First 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, Harlow, 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 Co., Mass.).......Harlow was
only 22 years of age - was a tall, slim, dark-hair'd, blue-eyed
young man - had come out originally with the Twenty-Ninth
Mass., 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 of 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 orNOTES. 67

loftiest ideal......Indeed the paradox of a Nation's life and career, with all its
wondrous contradictions, can probably only be explain'd from these two wills, 
sometimes conflicting, each operating in its sphere, combining in races or in
persons, and producing strangest results.

Let us hope there is, (Indeed, can there be any doubt there is?) this great,
unconscious and abysmic second will also, running through the average Nationality
and career of America. Let us hope that amid all the dangers and 
defections of the present, and through all the processes of the conscious will,
it alone is the permanent and sovereign force, destined to carry on the New 
World to fulfil its destinies in the future - to resolutely pursue those destinies,
age upon age - to build far, far beyond its past vision, present thought - to
form and fashion, and for the general type, Men and Women more noble, more
athletic than the world has yet seen - to gradually, firmly blend, from all The
States, with all varieties, a friendly, happy, free, religious Nationality - a Nationality 
not only the richest, most inventive, most productive and materialistic 
the world has yet known - but compacted indissolubly, and out of whose ample
and solid bulk, and giving purpose and finish to it, Conscience, Morals, and 
all the Spiritual attributes, shall surely rise, like spires above some group of
edifices, firm-footed on the earth, yet scaling space and heaven.

No more considering the United States as an incident, or series of incidents, 
however vast, coming accidentally along the path of Time, and shaped by
casual emergencies as they happen to arise, and the mere result of modern
improvements, vulgar and lucky, ahead of other nations and times, I would
finally plant, as seeds, these thoughts or speculations in the growth of our Republic - that it is the deliberate culmination and result of all the Past - that
here too, as in all departments of the Universe, regular laws, (slow and sure
in acting, slow and sure in ripening,) have controll'd and govern'd, and will
yet control and govern - and that those laws can no more be baffled or steer'd
clear of, or vitiated, by chance, or any fortune or opposition, than the laws of
winter and summer, or darkness and light.

The old theory of a given country or a[?], or people, as something isolated
and standing by itself - something which only fulfils its luck, eventful or uneventful - 
or perhaps some meteor, brilliantly flashing on the background or
foreground of Time - is indeed no longer advanced among competent minds,
as a theory for History - has been supplanted by theories far wider and higher.
.......The development of a Nation - of the American Republic, for instance,
with all its episodes of peace and war -- the events of the past, and the facts of
the present - aye, the entire political and intellectual processes of our common
race -- if beheld from a point of view sufficiently comprehensive, would doubtless
exhibit the same regularity of order and exactness, and the same plan of 
cause and effect, as the crops in the ground, or the rising and setting of the 
stars.

Great as they are, therefore, and greater far to be, the United States too are
but a series of steps in the eternal process of creative thought. And here is to
my mind their final justification, and certain perpetuity. There is in that
sublime process, in the laws of the Universe - and, above all, in the moral law
-- someting that would make unsatisfactory, and even vain and contemptible,
all the triumphs of war, the gains of peace, and the proudest worldly grandeur
of all the Nations that have ever existed, or that, (ours included,) now exist,
except that we constantly see, thought all their worldly career, however
struggling and blind and lame, attempts, by all ages, all peoples, according to
their development, to reach, to press, to progress on, and farther on, to more
and more advanced ideals.

The glory of the Republic of The United States, in my opinion, is to be, that,
emerging in the light of the Modern and the splendor of Science, and solidly
based on the past, it is to cheerfully range itself, and its politics are henceforth
to come, under those universal laws, and embody them, and carry them out to 
serve them.. ....And as only that individual becomes truly great who understands 
well that, (while complete in himself in a certain sense,) he is but a
part of the divine, eternal scheme, and whose special life and laws are adjusted 
to move in harmonious relations with the general laws of Nature, and
especially with the moral law, the deepest and highest of all, and the last
vitality of Man or State -- so those Nations, and so the United States, may only 
become the greatest and the most continuous, by understanding well their 
harmonious relations with entire Humanity and History, and all their laws and 
progress, and sublimed with the creative thought of Deity, through all time,
past, present and future. Thus will they expand to the amplitude of their 
destiny, and become splendid illustrations and culminating parts of the Kosmos, 
and of Civilization.

Are not these -- or something like these -- the simple, perennial Truths now
presented to the Future of the United States, out of all its Past, of war and68 NOTES.
peace? Has not the time come for working them in the tissue of the coming
History and Politics of The States? And, (as gold and silver are cast into
small coin,) are not, for their elucidation, entirely new classes of men, uncommitted
to the past, fusing The Whole Country, adjusted to its conditions, present
and to come, imperatively required, Seaboard and Interior, North and
South? and must not such classes begin to arise, and emblematic of our
New Politics and our real Nationality?
Now, and henceforth, and out of the conditions, the results of the War, of
all the experiences of the past--demanding to be rigidly construed with reference
to the whole Union, not for a week or year, but immense cycles of time,
come crowding and gathering in presence of America, like veil'd giants, original,
native, larger questions, possibilities, problems, than ever before. To-day,
I say, the evolution of the United States, (South, and Atlantic Seaboard,
and especially of the Mississippi Valley, and the Pacific slope,) coincident
with these thoughts and problems, and their own vitality and amplitude, and
winding steadily along through the unseen vistas of the future, affords the
greatest moral and political work in all the so-far progress of Humanity. And
fortunately, to-day, after the experiments and warnings of a hundred years,
we can pause and consider and provide for these problems, under more propitious
circumstances, and new and native lights, and precious even if costly
experiences--with more political and material advantages to illumine and
solve them--than were ever hitherto possess'd by a Nation.
Yes: The summing-up of the tremendous moral and military perturbations
of 1861-'65, and their results--and indeed of the entire hundred years of the
past of out National experiment, from its inchoate movement down to the
present day, (1775-1876)--is, that they all now launch The United States fairly
forth, consistently with the entirety of Civilization and Humanity, and in
main sort the representative of them, leading the van, leading the fleet of the
Modern and Democratic, on the seas and voyages of the Future.
And the real History of the United States--starting from that great convulsive
struggle for Unity, triumphantly concluded, and the South victorious,
after all--is only to be written at the remove of hundreds, perhaps a thousand,
years hence.DURING THE WAR. 41
in numbers, every day, as they were brought up by the boat.
The Government does what it can for them, and sends them
North and West.
Feb. 27, '65.--Some three or four hundred more escapees
from the Confederate army came up on the boat to-day. As
the day has been very pleasant indeed, (after a long spell of
bad weather,) I have been wandering around a good deal,
without any other object than to be out-doors and enjoy
it; have met these escaped men in all directions. Their
apparel is the same ragged, long-worn motley as before described.
I talk'd with a number of the men. Some are
quite bright and stylish, for all their poor clothes--walking
with an air, wearing their old head-covering on one side,
quite saucily. (I find the old, unquestionable proofs, as all
along, the past four years, of the unscrupulous tyranny exercised
by the Secession government in conscripting the common
people by absolute force everywhere, and paying no
attention whatever to the men's time being up--keeping
them in military service just the same.).......One gigantic
young fellow, a Georgian, at least six feet three inches high,
broad-sized in proportion, attired in the dirtiest, drab, well-smear'd
rags, tied with strings, his trousers at the knees all
strips and streamers, was complacently standing eating
some bread and meat. He appear'd contented enough.
Then a few minutes after I saw him slowly walking along. It
was plain he did not take anything to heart.
Feb. 28.--As I pass'd the military headquarters of the city,
not far from the President's house, I stopt to talk with some
of the crowd of escapees who were lounging there. In appearance
they were the same as previously mention'd. Two 
of them, one about 17, and the other perhaps 25 or 6, I talk'd
with some time. They were from North Carolina, born and
rais'd there, and had folks there. The elder had been in the
rebel service four years. He was first conscripted for two
years. He was then kept arbitrarily in the ranks. This is
the case with a large proportion of the Secession army.
There is no shame in leaving such service--was nothing
downcast in these young men's manners. The younger had
been soldiering about a year. He was conscripted. There
were six brothers (all boys of the family) in the army,
part of them as conscripts, part as volunteers. Three had
been kill'd. One had escaped about four months ago, and
now this one had got away. He was a pleasant and well-talking
lad, with the peculiar North Carolina idiom, (not at
all disagreeable to my ears.) He and the elder one were of
the same company, and escaped together--and wish'd to remain
together. They thought of getting transportation
away to Missouri, and working there; but were not sure it
was judicious. I advised them rather to go to some of the
directly northern States, and get farm work for the present
642 MEMORANDA
The younger had made six dollars on the boat, with some
tobacco he brought; he had three and a half left. The elder
had nothing. I gave him a trifle.......Soon after, I met John
Wormley, 9th Alabama--is a West Tennessee rais'd boy,
parents both dead--had the look of one for a long time on
short allowance--said very little--chew'd tobacco at a fearful
rate, spitting in proportion--large clear dark-brown eyes,
very fine--didn't know much what to make of me--told me at last
he wanted much to get some clean underclothes, and a pair
of decent pants. Didn't care about coat or hat fixings.
Wanted a chance to wash himself well, and put on underclothes.
I had the very great pleasure of helping him to
accomplish all those wholesome designs.
March 1st.--Plenty more butternut or clay-color'd escapees
every day. About 160 came in to-day, a large portion South
Carolinians. They generally take the oath of allegiance, and
are sent north, west, or extreme south-west if they wish.
Several of them told me that the desertions in their
army, of men going home, leave or no leave, are far more
numerous than their desertions to our side. I saw a very
forlorn looking squad of about a hundred, late this afternoon,
on their way to the Baltimore depot.
To-night I have been wandering awhile in the Capitol,
which is all lit up. The illuminated Rotunda looks fine. I
like to stand aside and look a long, long while, up at the
dome; it comforts me somehow. The House and Senate
were both in session till very late. I look'd in upon them,
but only a few moment; they were hard at work on tax
and appropriation bills. I wander'd through the long and
rich corridors and apartments under the Senate; an old habit
of mine, former winter, and now more satisfaction than
ever. Not many persons down there, occasionally a flitting
figure in the distance.
The Inauguration, March 4.--The President very quietly
rode down to the Capitol in his own carriage, by himself, on
a sharp trot, about noon, either because he wish'd to be on
hand to sign bills, &c., or to get rid of marching in line with
the absurd procession, the muslin Temple of Liberty, and
pasteboard Monitor. I saw him on his return, at three
o'clock, after the performance was over. He was in his
plain two-horse barouche, and look'd very much worn and
tired; the lines, indeed, of vast responsibilities, intricate
questions, and demands of life and death, cut deeper than
ever upon his dark brown face; yet all the old goodness,
tenderness, sadness, and canny shrewdness, underneath the
furrows. (I never see that man without feeling that he is
one to become personally attach'd to, for his combination of
purest, heartiest tenderness, and native Western even rudest
forms of manliness.) By his side his little boy, of ten
years. There were no soldiers, only a lot of  civilians on

DURING THE WAR. 43
horseback, with huge yellow scarfs over their shoulders,
riding around the carriage. (At the Inauguration four years
ago, he rode down and back again, surrounded by a dense
mass of arm'd cavalrymen eight deep, with drawn sabres;
and there were sharp-shooters station'd at every corner on
the route.)
I ought to make mention of the closing Levee of Saturday
night last. Never before was such a compact jam in front
of the White House--all the grounds fill'd, 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, (upholdter'd like a stage parlor). Crowds
of country people, some very funny. Fine music from the
Marine Band, odd 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.
The Weather--Does it Sympathise with these Times?--
Whether the rains, the heat and cold, and what undelies
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
remarkabale, many an unprecedented expression of the subtitle
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 of the Capitol portico, a curious little
white cloud, the only one on 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 day-time
of the past month was sulky, with leaden heaviness,
fog, interstices of bitter cold, and some indsane storms. But
there have been samples of another description. Nor eath,44 MEMORANDA
nor sky ever knew spectacles of superber beauty than some
of the nights have lately been 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 unsurpassable 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 do 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.
March 6--Inauguration Ball.--I have this moment been up
to look at the gorgeous array'd dance and supper-rooms, for
the Inauguration Ball, at the Patent Office, (which begins
in a few hours;) and I could not help thinking of those rooms,
where the music will sound and the dancer's feet presently
tread--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 violins' sweetness, the polka and the walts; but 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 stranger, 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 Capital.--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 and unearthly
effect. The poor little sleepy, stumbling pages, the smell
of the Hall, the members with heads leaning on their desks
asleep, 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 space over
the galleries--all made a mark'd combination.

DURING THE WAR. 45
In the midst of this, with the suddenness of a thunderbolt,
burst one of the most angry and crashing storms of rain and
winder 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 rood, 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 recorver'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 and selfish routine of their duties should ever be
broken in upon by some great emergency involving real
danger, and a calling for first-class personal qualities, those
qualities would be found generally forthcoming, and from
men not now credited with them.)
March 27, 1865--A Yankee Antique.--Sergeant Calvin F,
Harlowe, Co. C, Twenty-Ninth Massachusetts, Third Brigade,
First Division, Ninth Corps--a mark'd sample of heroism
and death, (come may say bravado, but I say heroism, of
grandest, oldest order)--in the late attack but 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 thei
tents. Harlowe, with others, found himself in the hands of
the Secesh--the 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 be 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 Co., 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 Twenty-Ninth
Mass., 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 Fredericksburg,
Vicksburgh, Jackson, Wilderness, and the campaigns
following--was as good a soldier as ever wore the blue, and
every old officer of 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 or46 MEMORANDA
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 indeed
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,
diarrhœa, 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 7 to 10 per cent. of those
under treatment.
Murder of President Lincoln.--The day, April 14, 1865,
seems to have been a pleasant one throughout the whole
land--the moral atmosphere pleasant too--the long storm,
so dark, so fratricidal, full of blood and doubt and gloom,
over and ended at last by the sun-rise of such an absolute
National victory, and utter breaking-down of Secessionism--
we almost doubted our own senses! Lee had capitulated
beneath the apple-tree of Appomattax. The other armie,
the flanges of the revolt, swiftly follow'd.......And could
it really be, then? Out of all the affairs of this world of
woe and passion, of failure and disorder and dismay, was
there really come the confirm'd unerring sign of plan, like
a shaft of pure light--of rightful rule--of God?.......So the
day, as I say, was propitious. Early herbage, early flowers,
were out. (I remember where I was stopping at the time,
the season being advanced, there were many lilacs in full
bloom. By one of those caprices that enter and give tinge
to events without being at all a part of them, I find myself
always reminded of the great tragedy of that day by the
sight and odor of these blossoms. It never fails.)
But I must not dwell on accessories. The deed hastens.
The popular afternoon paper of Washington, the little
Evening Star, had spatter'd all over its third page, divided
among the advertisements in a sensational manner in a hundred
different places, The President and his Lady will be at
the Theatre this evening.......(Lincoln was fond of the theatre.
I have myself seen him there are several time. I remember
thinking how funny it was that He, in some respects, the
leading actor in the greatest and stormiest drama known
to real history's stage, through centuries, should sit there and
be so completely interested and absorb'd in those human
jack-straws, moving about with their silly little gestures,
foreign spirit, and flatulent text.)

DURING THE WAR. 47
On this occasion the theatre was crowded, many ladies in
rich and gay costumes, officers in their uniforms, many
well known citizens, young folks, the usual clusters of gaslights,
the usual magnetism of so many people, cheerful,
with perfumes, music of violins and flutes--(and over all,
and saturating all, that vast vague wonder, Victory, the
Nation's Victory, the triumph of the Union, filling the air,
the thought, the sense, with exhilaration more than perfumes.)
The President came betimes, and, with his wife, witness'd
the play, from the large stage-boxes of the second tier, two
thrown into one, and profusely draped with the National
flag. The acts and scenes of the piece--one of those singularly
written compositions which have at least the merit
of giving entire relief to an audience engaged in mental action
or business excitements and care during the day, as it
makes not the slightest call on either the moral, emotional,
esthetic, or spiritual nature--a piece, ('Our American Cousin,')
in which, among other characters, so call'd, a Yankee,
certainly such as one as was never seen, or the least like it ever
seen, in North America, is introduced in England, with a
varied fol-de-rol of talk, plot, scenery, and such phantasmagoria
as goes to make up a modern popular drama--had progress'd
through perhaps a couple of its acts, when in the
midst of this comedy, or tragedy, or non-such, or whatever
it is to be call'd, and to off-set it or finish it out, as if in
Nature's and the Great Muse's mockery of those poor mimes,
comes interpolated that Scene, not really or exactly to be
described at all, (for on the many hundreds who were there
it seems to this hour to have left little but a passing blur, a
dream, a blotch)--and yet partially to be described as I now
proceed to give it.......There is a scene in the play representing
a modern parlor, in which two unprecedented English
ladies are infrom'd by the unprecedented and impossible
Yankee that he is not a man of fortune, and therefore undesirable
for marriage-catching purposes; after which, the comments
being finish'd, the dramatic trio make exit, leaving
the stage clear for a moment. There was a pause, a hush
as it were. At this period came the murder of Abraham
Lincoln. Great as that was, with all its manifold train,
circling round it, and stretching into the future for many a
century, in the politics, history, art, &c., of the New World,
in point of fact the main thing, the actual murder, transpired
with the quiet and simplicity of any commonest occurrence--
the bursting of a bud or pod in the growth of vegetation, for
instance. Through the general hum following the stage
pause, with the change of positions, &c., came the muffled
sound of a pistol shot, which not one hundredth part of the
audience heard at the time--and yet a moment's hush--
somehow, surely a vague startled thrill--and then, through48 MEMORANDA
the ornamented, draperied, starr'd and striped a space-way of
the President's box, a sudden figure, a man raises himself
with hands and feet, stands a moment on the railing, leaps
below the stage, (a distance of perhaps fourteen of fifteen
feet,) falls out of position, catching his boot-heel in the copious
drapery, (the American flag,) falls on one knee, quickly
recovers himself, rises as if nothing had happen'd, (he really
sprains his ankle, but unfelt then,)--and so figure, Booth,
the murderer, dress'd in plain black broadcloth, bare-headed,
with a full head of glossy, raven hair, and his eyes like some
mad animal's flashing with light and resolution, yet with a
certain strange calmness, holds aloft in one hand a large
knife--walks along not much back from the footlights--
turns fully towards the audience his face of statuesque beauty,
lit by those basilisk eyes, flashing with desperation, perhaps
insanity--launches out in a firm and steady voice the words,
Sic semper tyrannis--and then walks with neither slow nor
very rapid pace diagonally across to the back of the stage,
and disappears.......( Had not all this terrible scene--making
the mimic ones preposterous--had it not all been rehears'd,
in blank, by Booth, beforehand?)
A moment's hush, incredulous--a scream--the cry of Murder--
Mrs. Lincoln leaning out of the box, with ashy cheeks
and lips, with involuntary cry, pointing tot he retreating
figure, He has kill'd the President.......And still a moment's
strange, incredulous suspense--and then the deluge!--then
that mixture of horror, noise, uncertainty--(the sound,
somewhere back, of a horse's hoofs clattering with speed)--
the people burst through chairs and railings, and break them
up--that noise adds to the queerness of the scene--there is
inextricable confusion and terror--women faint--quite feeble
persons fall, and are trampled on--many cries of agony are
heard--the broad stage suddenly fills to suffocation with a
dense and motley crowd, like some horrible carnival--the
audience rush generally upon it--at least the strong men
do--the actors and actresses are all there in their play-costumes
and painted faces, with mortal fright showing through
the rouge, some trembling--some in tears--the screams and
calls, confused talk--redoubled, trebled--two or three manage
to pass up water from the stage to the President's box--
others try to clamber up--&c., &c., &c.
In the midst of all this, the soldiers of the President's
Guard, with others, suddenly drawn to the scene, burst in--
(some two hundred altogether)--they storm the house,
through all the tiers, especially the upper ones, inflamed
with fury, literally charging the audience with fix'd bayonets,
of----.......Such the wild scene, or a suggestion of it rather,
inside the play-house that night.
Outside, too, in the atmosphere of shock and craze, crowds49 MEMORANDA
the ornamented, draperied, starr'd and striped space-way of
the President's box, a sudden figure, a man raises himself
with hands and feet, stands a moment on the railing, leaps
below the stage, (a distance of perhaps fourteen or fifteeen
feet,) falls out of position, catching his boot-heel on the copious
drapery, (the American flag,) falls on one knee, quickly
recovers himself, rises as if nothing had happen'd, (he really
sprains his ankle, but unfelt then,)--and so the figure, Booth,
the murderer, dress'd in plain black broadcloth, bare-headed,
with a full head of glossy, raven hair, and his eyes like some
mad animal's flashing with light and resolution, yet with a
certain strange calmness, holds aloft in one hand a large
knife--walks along not much back from the footlights--
turns fully toward the audience his face of statuesque beauty,
lit by those basilisk eyes, flashing with desperation, perhaps
insanity--launches out in a firm and steady voice the words,
Sic semper tyrannis--and then walks with neither slow nor
very rapid pace diagonally across to the back of the stage,
and disappears.......(Had not all this terrible scene--making
the mimic ones preposterous--had it not all been rehears'd,
in blank, by Booth, beforehand?)
A moment's hush, incredulous--a scream--the cry of Murder
--Mrs. Lincoln leaning out of the box, with ashy cheeks
and lips, with involuntary cry, pointing to the retreating
figure, He has kill'd the President.......And still a moment's
strange, incredulous suspense--and then the deluge!--then
that mixture of horror, noises, uncertainty--(the sound,
somewhere back, of a horse's hoofs clattering with speed)--
the people burst through chairs and railings, and break them
up--that noise adds to the queerness of the scene--there is
inextricable confusion and terror--women faint--quite feeble
persons fall, and are trampled on--many cries of agony are
heard--the broad stage suddenly fills to suffocation with a
dense and motley crowd, like some horrible carnival--the
audience rush generally upon it--at least the strong men
do--the actors and actresses are all there in their play-costume
and painted faces, with mortal fright showing through
the rouge, some trembling--some in tears--the screams and
calls, confused talk--redoubled, trebled--two or three manage
to pass up water from the stage to the President's box--
others try to clamber up--&c., &c., &c.
In the midst of all this, the soldiers of the President's
Guard, with others, suddenly drawn to the scene, burst in--
(some two hundred altogether)--they storm the house,
through all the tiers, especially the upper ones, inflamed
with fury, literally charging the audience with fix'd bayonets,
muskets and pistols, shouting Clear out! clear out! you sons
of ----.......Such the wild scene, or a suggestion of it rather,
inside the play-house that night.
Outside, too, in the atmosphere of shock and craze, crowdsDURING THE WAR. 47

On this occasion the theatre was crowded, many ladies in
rich and gay costumes, officers in their uniforms, many
well known citizens, young folks, the usual clusters of gaslights,
the usual magnetism of so many people, cheerful,
with perfumes, music of violins and flutes-(and over all,
and saturating all, that vast vague wonder, Victory, the
Nation's Victory, the triumph of the Union, filling the air,
the thought, the sense, with exhilaration more than all perfumes.)
The President came betimes, and with his wife, witness'd
the play, from the large stage-boxes of the second tier, two
thrown into one, and profusely draped with the National
flag. The acts and scenes of the piece-one of those singularly
written compositions which have at lease the merit
of giving entire relief to an audience engaged in mental action
or business excitements and cares during the day, as it
makes not the slightest call on either the moral, emotional,
esthetic, or spiritual nature-a piece, ('Our American Cousin,')
in which among other characters, so call'd, a Yankee, certainly
such a one as was never seen, or the last like it ever
seen, in North America, is introduced in England, with a
varied fol-de-rol of talk, plot, scenery, and such phantasmagoria
as goes to make up a modern popular drama-had progress'd
through perhaps a couple of its acts, when in the
midst of this comedy, or tragedy, or non-such, or whatever
it is to be call'd, and to off-set it or finish it out, as if in
Nature's and the Great Muse's mockery of those poor mimes,
comes interpolated that Scene, not really or exactly to be
described at all, (for on the many hundreds who were there
it seems to this hour to have left little but a passing blur, a
dream, a blotch)-and yet partially to be described as I now
proceed to give it.......There is a scene in the play representing
a modern parlor, in which two unprecedented and impossible
Yankee that he is not a man of fortune, and therefore undesirable
for marriage-catching purposes; after which, the comments
being finish'd, the dramatic trio make exit, leaving
the stage clear for a moment. There was a pause, a hush
as it were. At this period came the murder of Abraham
Lincoln. Great as that was, with all its manifold train,
circling round it, and stretching into the future for many a
century, in the politics, history, art, &c., of the New World,
in point of fact the main thing, the actual murder, transpired
with the quiet and simplicity of any commonest occurrence-
the bursting of a bud or pod in the growth of vegetation, for
instance. Through the general hum following the stage
pause, with the change of positions, &c., came the muffled
sound of a pistol shot, which not one hundredth part of the
audience heard at the time-and yet a moment's hush-
somehow, surely a vague startled thrill-and then, through48 MEMORANDA

the ornamented, draperied, starr'd and striped space-away of
the President's box, a sudden figure, a man raises himself
with hands and feet, stands a moment on the railing, leaps
below to the stage, (a distance of perhaps fourteen or fifteen
feet,) falls out of position, catching his boot-heel in the copious
drapery, (the American flag,) falls on one knee, quickly
recovers himself, raises as if nothing had happen'd, (he really
sprains his ankle, but unfelt then,)-and so the figure, Booth,
the murderer, dress'd in plain black broadcloth, bare-headed,
with a full head of glossy, raven hair, and his eyes like some
mad animal's flashing with light and resolution, yet with a
certain strange calmness, holds aloft in one hand a large
knife-walks along not much back from the footlights-
turns fully toward the audience his face of statuesque beauty,
lit by those basilisk eyes, flashing with desperation, perhaps
insanity-launches out  in a firm steady voice the words,
Sic semper tyrannis-and then walks with neither slow nor
very rapid pace diagonally across to the back of the stage,
and disappears.......(Had not all this terrible scene-making
the mimic ones preposterous-had it not all been rehears'd,
in blank, by Booth, beforehand?)
A moment's hush, incredulous-a scream-the cry of Murder-
Mrs. Lincoln leaning out of the box, with ashy cheeks
and lips, with involuntary cry, pointing to the retreating
figure, He has kill'd the President.......And still a moment's
strange, incredulous suspense-and then the deluge!-then
that mixture of horror, noise, uncertainty-(the sound,
somewhere back, of a horse's hoofs clattering with speed)-
the people burst through chairs and railings, and break them
up-that noise adds to the queerness of the scene-there is
inextricable confusion and terror-women faint-quite feeble
persons fall, and are trampled on-many cries of agony are
heard-the broad stage suddenly fills to suffocation with a
dense and motley crowd, like some horrible carnival-the
audience rush generally upon it-at least the strong men
do-the actors and actresses are all there in their play-costumes
and painted faces, iwth mortal fright showing through
the rouge, some trembling-some in tears-the screams and
calls, confused talk-redoubled, trebled-two or three manage
to pass up water from the stage to the President's box-
others try to clamber up-&c., &c., &c.
In the midst of all this, the soldiers of the President's
Guard, with others, suddenly drawn to the scene, burst in-
(some two hundred altogether)-they storm the house,
through all the tiers, especially the upper ones, inflamed
with furry, literally charging the audience with fix'd bayonets,
muskets and pistols, shouting Clear out! clear out! you sons
of-.......Such the wild scene, or a suggestion of it rather,
inside the play-house that night.
Outside, too, in the atmosphere of shock and craze, crowdsDURING THE WAR. 47

On this occasion the theatre was crowded, many ladies in
rich and gay costumes, officers in their uniforms, many
well known citizens, young folks, the usual cluster of gaslights,
the usual magnetism of so many people, cheerful,
with perfumes, music of violins and flutes-(and over all,
and saturating all, that vast vague wonder, Victory, the
Nation's Victory, the triumph of the Union, filling the air,
the thought, the sense, with exhilaration more than all perfumes.)
The President came betimes, and, with his wife, witness'd
the play, from the large stage-boxes of the second tier, two
thrown into one, and profusely draped with the National
flag. The acts and scenes of the piece-one of those singularly
written compositions which have at least the merit
of giving entire relief to an audience engaged in mental action
or business excitements and cares during the day, as it
makes not the slightest call on either the moral, emotional,
esthetic, or spiritual nature-a piece, ('Our American Cousin,')
in which, among other characters, so call'd, a Yankee, certainly
such a one as was never seen, or at least like it ever
seen, in North America, is introduced in England, with a
varied fol-de-rol of talk, plot, scenery, and such phantasmagoria
as goes to make up a modern popular drama-had progress'd
through perhaps a couple of its acts, when in the
midst of this comedy, or tragedy, or non-such, or whatever
it is to be call'd, and to off-set it or finish it out, as if in
Nature's and the Great Muse's mockery of those poor mimes,
comes interpolated that Scene, not really or exactly to be
described at all, (for on the many hundreds who were there
it seems to this hour to have left little but a passing blur, a
dream, a blotch)-and yet partially to be described as I now
proceed to give it.......There is a scene in the play representing
a modern parlor, in which two unprecedented English
ladies are inform'd by the unprecedented and impossible
Yankee that he is not a man of fortune, and therefore undesirable
for marriage-catching purposes; after which, the comments
being finish'd, the dramatic trio make exit, leaving
the stage clear for a moment. There was a pause, a hush
as it were. At this period came the murder of Abraham
Lincoln. Great as it was, with all its manifold train,
circling round it, and stretching into the future for many a
century, in the politics, history, art, &c., of the New World,
in point of fact the main thing, the actual murder, transpired
with the quiet and simplicity of any commonest occurence-
the bursting of a bud or pod in the growth of vegetation, for
instance. Through the general hum following the stage
pause, with the change of positions, &c., came the muffled
sound of a pistol shot, which not one hundredth part of the
audience heard at the time-and yet a moment's hush-
somehow, surely a vague startled thrill-and then, throughDURING THE WAR. 49

of people, fill'd with frenzy, ready to seize any outlet for it,
come near committing murder several times on innocent
individuals. One such case was especially exciting. The
infuriated crowd, through some chance, got started against
one man, either for words he utter'd, or perhaps without
any cause at al, and were proceeding at once to actually
hang him on a neighboring lamp post, when he was rescued
by a few heroic policemen, who placed him in their midst
and fought their way slowly and amid great peril toward the
Station House.......It was a fitting episode of the whole
affair. The crowd rushing and eddying to and fro-the
night, the yells, the pale faces, many frighten'd people trying
in vain to extricate themselves-the attack'd man, not
yet freed from the jaws of death, looking like a corpse-the
silent resolute half-dozen policemen, with no weapons but
their little clubs, et stern and steady through all those eddying
swarms-made indeed a fitting side-scene to the
grand tragedy of the murder.......They gain'd the Station
House with the protected man, whom they placed in security
for the night, and discharged him in the morning.
And in the midst of that night-pandemonium of senseless
hate, infuriated soldiers, the audience and the crowd-the
stage, and all its actors and actresses, its paint-pots, spangles,
and gas-lights-the life-blood from those veins, the best
and sweetest of the land, drips slowly down, and death's
ooze already begins its little bubbles on the lips.......Such,
hurriedly sketch'd, were the accompaniments of the death of
President Lincoln. So suddenly and in murder and horror unsurpass'd
he was taken from us. But his death was painless.50 MEMORANDA

Releas'd Union Prisoners from South.-The releas'd prisoners
of War are now coming up from the Southern prisons.
I have seen a number of them. The sight is worse
than any sight of battle-fields or any collections of wounded,
even the bloodiest. There was, (as a sample,) one large
boat load, of several hundreds, brought about the 25th, to
Annapolis; and out of the whole number only three individuals
were able to walk from the boat. The rest were
carried ashore and laid down in one place or another. Can 
those be men-those little livid-brown, ash-streak'd, monkey-looking
dwarfs?-are they really not mummied, dwindled
corpses? They lay there, most of them, quite still, but
with a horrible look in their eyes and skinny lips, often with
not enough flesh on the lips to cover their teeth. Probably
no more appaling sight was ever seen on this earth. (There
are deeds, crimes, that may be forgiven; but this is not
among them. It steeps its perpetrators in blackest, escapeless,
endless damnation. Over 50,000 have been compell'd
to die the death of starvation-reader, did you ever try to
realize what starvation actually is?-in those prisons-and in
a land of plenty!)
An indescribable meanness, tyranny, aggravating course
of insults, almost incredible-was evidently the rule of
treatment through all the Southern military prisons. The
dead there are not to be pitied as much as some of the living
that come from there-if they can be call'd living-many of
them are mentally imbecile, and will never recuperate.
Death of a Pennsylvania Soldier-Frank H. Irwin, Co. E,
93rd Pennsylvania-Died May 1, '65-My letter to his mother.-NOTES. 67

loftiest ideal.......Indeed the paradox of a Nation's life and career, with all its
wonderous contradictions, can probably only be explain'd from these two wills,
sometimes conflicting, each operating in its sphere, combing in races or in
persons, and producing strangest results.
Let us hope there is, (Indeed, can there be any doubt there is?) this great,
unconscious and abysmic second will also, running through the average Nationality
and career of America. Let us hope that amid all the dangers and
defections of the present, and through all the processes of the conscious will,
it alone is the permanent and sovereign force, destined to carry on the New
World to fulfil its destinies in the future-to resolutely pursue those destinies,
age upon age-to build far, far beyond its past vision, present thought-to
form and fashion, and for the general type, Men and Women more noble, more
athletic than the world has yet seen-to gradually, firmly blend, from all The
States, with all varieties, a friendly, happy, free, religious Nationality-a Nationality
not only the richest, most inventive, most productive and materialistic
the world has yet known-but compacted indissolubly, and out of whose ample
and solid bulk, and giving purpose and finish to it, Conscience, orals, and
all the Spiritual attributes, shall surely rise, like spires above some group of
edifices, firm-footed on the earth, yet scaling space ad heaven.
No more considering the United States as an incident, or series of incidents,
however vast, coming accidentally along the path of Time, and shaped by
casual emergencies as they happen to arise, and the mere result of modern
improvements, vulgar and lucky, ahead of other nations and times, I would
finally plant, as seeds, these thoughts or speculations in the growth of our Republic-
that it is the deliberate culmination and result of all the Past-that
here too, as in all departments of the Universe, regular laws, (slow and sure
in acting, slow and sue in ripening,) have controll'd and govern'd, and will
yet control and govern-and that those laws can no more be baffled or steer'd
clear of, or vitiated, by chance, or any fortune or opposition, than the laws of
winter and summer, or darkness and light.
The old theory of a given country or age, or people, as something isolated
and standing by itself-something which only fulfils its luck, eventful or uneventful-
or perhaps some meteor, brilliantly finding on the background or
foreground of Time-is indeed no longer advanced among competent minds,
as a theory for History-has been supplanted by theories far wider and higher.
.....The development of a Nation-of the American Republic, for instance,
with all its episodes of peace and war--the events of the past, and the facts of
the present-aye, and the entire political and intellectual processes of our common
race--if beheld from a point of view sufficiently comprehensive, would doubtless
exhibit the same regularity of order and exactness, and the same plan of
cause and effect, as the crops in the ground, or the rising and setting of the
stars.
Great as they are, therefore, and greater far to be, the United States too are
but a series of steps in the eternal process of creative thought. And here is to
my mind their final justification, and certain perpetuity. There is in that
sublime process, in the laws of the Universe-and, above all, in the moral law
--something that would make unsatisfactory, and even vain and contemptible,
all the triumphs of war, the gains of peace, and the proudest worldly grandeur
of all the Nations that have ever existed, or that, (ours included,) now exist,
except that we constantly see, through all their worldly career, however
struggling and blind and lame, attempts, by all ages, all peoples, according to
their development, to reach, to press, to progress on, and farther on, to more
and more advanced ideals.
The glory of the Republic of The United States, in my opinion, is to be, that,
emerging in the light of the Modern and the splendor of Science, and solidly
based on the past, it is to cheerfully range itself, ad its politics are henceforth
to come, under those universal laws, and embody them, and carry them out to
serve them......And as only that individual becomes truly great who understands
well that, (while complete in himself in a certain sense,) her is but a
part of the divine, eternal scheme, and whose special life and laws are adjusted
to move in harmonious relations with the general laws of Nature and
especially with the moral law, the deepest and highest of all, and the last
vitality of Man or State-so those Nations, and so the United States, may only
become the greatest and the most continuous, by understanding well their
harmonious relations with entire Humanity and History, and all their laws and
progress, and sublimed with the creative thought of Deity, through all time,
past, present and future. Thus will they expand to the amplitude of their
destiny, and become splendid illustrations and culminating parts of the Kosmos,
and of Civilization.
Are not these--or something like these--the simple, perennial Truths now
presented to the Future of the United States, out of all its Past, of war and68                  NOTES.

peace?  Has not the time come for working them in the tissue of the coming 
History and Politics of The States?  And, (as gold and silver are cast into 
small coin,) are not, for their elucidation, entirely new classes of men, uncommitted 
to the past, fusing The Whole Country, adjusted to its conditions, present 
and to come, imperatively required, Seaboard and Interior, North and 
South? and mus not such classes begin to arise, and be emblematic of our 
New Politics and our real nationality?

   Now, and henceforth, and out of the conditions, the results of the War, of 
all the experiences of the past—demanding to be rigidly construed with reference 
to the whole Union, not for a week or year, but immense cycles of time, 
come crowding and gathering in presence of America, like veil'd giants, original, 
native, larger questions, possibilities, problems, than ever before.  To-day, 
I say, the evolution of The United States, (South, and Atlantic Seaboard, 
and especially of the Mississippi Valley, and the Pacific slope,) coincident 
with these thoughts and problems, and their own vitality and amplitude, and 
winding steadily along through the unseen vistas of the future, affords the 
greatest moral and political work in all the so-far progress of Humanity.  And 
fortunately, to-day, after the experiments and warnings of a hundred years, 
we can pause and consider and provide for these problems, under more propitious 
circumstances, and new and native lights, and precious even if costly 
experiences—with more political and material advantages to illumine and 
solve them—than were ever hitherto possess'd by a Nation.

   Yes:  The summing-up of the tremendous moral and military perturbations 
of 1861-'65, and their results—and indeed of the entire hundred years of the 
past of our National experiment, from its inchoate movement down to the 
present day, (1775-1876)—is, that they all now launch The United States fairly 
forth, consistently with the entirety of Civilization and Humanity, and in 
main sort the representative of them, leading the van, leading the fleet of the 
Modern and Democratic, on the seas and voyages of the Future.

   And the real History of the United States—starting from that great convulsive 
struggle for Unity, triumphantly concluded, and the South victorious, 
after all—is only to be written at the remove of hundreds, perhaps a thousand, 
years hence.4                                  MEMORANDA

not mar, but rounds and gives a finish to the meditation,) 
[Vivid as life, they] recalling and identifying the long Hospital 
Wards, with their myriad-varied scenes of day or night—the 
graphic incidents of field or camp—the night before the battle, 
with many solemn yet cool preparations—the changeful 
exaltations and depressions of those four years, North and 
South—[the convulsive memories, (let but a word, a broken 
sentence, serve to recall them)] (the clues already quite vanish'd, 
like some old dream, and yet the list significant enough 
to soldiers)-the scrawl'd, worn slips of paper that came up 
by bushels (I remembered [?], strong, 
dirty old bag full of them, 
a curious collection.) from the Southern prisons, Salisbury or Andersonville, 
by the hands of exchanged prisoners—the clank of 
crutches on the pavements or floors of Washington, or up 
and down the stairs of the Paymasters' offices—the Grand 
Review of homebound veterans at the close of the War, 
cheerily marching day after day by the President's house, 
one brigade succeeding another until it seem'd as if they 
would never end—the strange squads of Southern deserters, 
(escapees', I call'd them[;])—that little genre group, unreck'd 
amid the mighty whirl, I remember passing in a hospital 
corner, of a dying Irish boy, a Catholic priest, and an 
improvised altar—Four years compressing centuries of native 
passion, first-class pictures, tempests of life and death—an 
inexhaustible mine for the Histories, Drama, Romance and 
even Philosophy of centuries to come—indeed the Verteber 
of Poetry and Art, (of personal character too,) for all future 
America, (far more grand, in my opinion, to the hands 
capable of it, than Homer's siege of Troy, or the French 
wars to Shakspere;)—and looking over all, in my remembrance, 
the tall form of President Lincoln, with his face of 
deep-cut lines, with the large, kind, canny eyes, the complexion 
of dark brown, and the tinge of wierd melancholy 
saturating all. 
   More and more, in my recollections of that period, and 
through its varied, multitudinous oceans and murky whirls, 
appear the central resolution and sternness of [Democracy,] the bulk of 
the average American People, animated in Soul by a definite 
purpose, though sweeping and fluid as some great 
storm—the Common People, the Democracy emblemised in thousands of 
specimens of first-class Heroism, steadily accumulating, (no 
regiment, no company, hardly a file of men, North or South, 
the last three years, without such first-class specimens.)
   I know no


[Out of Thousands there
was] For instance there was 
on episode out of thousands 
in May '63, at Chancellorville.
The fighting had 
been very hot during the day, and after an intermission the 
latter part, was resumed at night, and kept up with furious 
energy till 3 o'clock in the morning. That afternoon (Saturday) 
an attack sudden and strong by Stonewall Jackson had 
gain'd a great advantage to the Southern army, and broken 
our lines, entering us like a wedge, and leaving things in that 
position at dark.  But Hooker at 11 at night made a desperate 
push, drove the Secesh forces back, restored his original 
lines, and resumed his plans.  [Th?] 

[of.  It] The contest was largely in the woods, [and quite a general engagement].  
The night was very pleasant, at times the moon 
shining out full and clear, all Nature so calm in itself, the 
early summer grass so rich, and foliage of the trees—yet 
there the battle raging, and many good fellows lying helpless, 
with new accessions to them, and every minute amid 
the rattle of muskets and crash of cannon, (for there was an 
artillery contest too,) the red life-blood oozing out from 
heads or trunks of limbs upon that green and dew-cool grass.  
The woods take fire, and many of the wounded, unable to 
move, (especially some of the divisions in the Sixth Corps,) 
are consumed—quite large spaces are swept over, burning 
the dead also—some of the men have their hair and beards 
singed—some, splatches of burns on their faces and hands— 
others holes burnt in their clothing........The flashes of fire 
from the cannon, the [quick] flaring flames and smoke, 
[and the immense roar—the musketry so general,] the light 
nearly bright enough for each side to see one another—the 
crashing, tramping of men—the yelling—close quarters—we 
hear the Secesh yells—our men cheer loudly back, especially 
if Hooker is in sight—hand to hand conflicts, each side 
stands up to it, brave, determin'd as demons, they often 
charge upon us—a thousand deeds are done worth to write 
newer greater poems on—[and still the woods on fire—still 
many are not only scorch'd—too many, unable to move, are 
burn'd to death........Then the camp of the wounded—O 
heavens, what scene is this?—Is this indeed humanity—these 
butchers' shambles?  There are several of them.  There 
they lie, in the largest, in an open space in the woods, 
[from 500 to 600 poor fellows]—the groans and screams—the 
odor of blood, mixed with the fresh scent of the night, the 
grass, the trees—that Slaughter-house!—O well is it their 
mothers, their sisters cannot see them—cannot conceive, and 
never conceiv'd, these things........One man is shot by a 
shell, both in the arm and leg—both are amputated—there 
lie the rejected members.  Some have their legs blown off— 
some bullets through the breast—some indescribably horrid 
wounds in the face or head, all mutilated, sickening, 
torn, gouged out—some in the abdomen—some mere boys— 
here is one his face colorless as chalk, lying perfectly still, 
a bullet has perforated the abdomen—life is ebbing fast, 
there is no help for him.  In the camp of the wounded are 
many rebels badly hurt—they take [?alar] turns with 
[th?] ]A few groans that cannot be suppress'd,
and occasionally a scream of pain as they lift a man
into the ambulance........To day, as I write, hundreds more
are expected, and to-morrow and the next day more, and so
on for many days. Quite often they arrive at the rate of
1000 a day.
May 12-A Night Battle, over a week since.-We already
talk to Histories of the War, (presently to accumulate)-yes
-technical histories of some things, statistics, official reports,
and so on-but shall we ever get histories of the real
things?.......There was part of the late battle at Chancellorsville,
(second Fredricksburgh,) a little over a week ago,
Saturday, Saturday night and Sunday, under Gen. Joe
Hooker, I would like to give just a glimpse of-(a moment's
look in a terrible storm at sea-of which a few suggestions
are enough, and full details impossible.) The fighting and
been very hot during the day, and after an intermission the
latter part, was resumed at night, and kept up with furious
energy till 3 o'clock in the morning. That afternoon (Saturday)
an attack sudden and strong by Stonewall Jackson had

MEMORANDS, &C.

During the Union War I commenced at the close of 1862,
and continued steadily through '63, '64 and '65, to visit the
sick and wounded of the Army, both on the field and in the
Hospitals in and around Washington city. From the first I
kept little note-books for impromptu jottings in pencil to refresh
my memory of names and circumstances, and what was
specially wanted, &c. In these I brief'd cases, persons,
sights, occurrences in camp, by the bedside, and not seldom
by the corpses of the dead. Of the present Volume most of
its pages are verbatim renderings from such pencillings on
the spot. Some were scratch'd down from narratives I heard
and itemized while watching, or waiting, or tending somebody
amid those scenes. I have perhaps forty such little
note-books left, forming a special history of those years, for
myself alone, full of associations never to be possibly said
or sung. I wish I could convey to the reader the associations
that attach to these soil'd and creas'd little livraisons,
each composed of a sheet or two of paper, folded small to
carry in the pocket, and fasten'd with a pin. I leave them
just as I threw them a during the War, blotch'd here and
there with more than one blood-stain, hurriedly written,
sometimes at the clinique, not seldom amid the excitement
of uncertainty, or defeat, or of action, or getting ready for it,
or a march. Even these days, at the lapse of many years, I
can never turn their tiny leaves, or even take one in my
hand, without the actual army sights and hot emotions of the
time rushing like a river in full tide through me. Each line,
each scrawl, each memorandum, as its history. Some pang
of anguish-some tragedy, profounder than ever poet wrote.
Out of them arise active and breathing forms. They summon
up, even in the silent and vacant room as I write, not
only the sinewy regiments and brigades, marching or in
camp, but the countless phantoms of those who fell and were