Leech, op. cit.
This, it occurred to me, this was the undisciplined human community that, fired by its dull collective wit, now drove the armed nation towards it knew-not-what sort of epic martial cataclysm: a massive flailing organism with all the rectitude and foresight of an untrained puppy.
In the private letters of Albert Sloane, by permission of the Sloane family.
The war was less than a year old. We did not yet know what it was.
In “A Thrilling Youth: A Civil War Adolescence,” by E. G. Frame.
When at last the key was found, and the merry guests poured in, Mrs. Lincoln had reason for pride in the magnificence of the repast.
Leech, op. cit.
The room was forty feet long by thirty feet wide, and so bright with color it seemed to be full before anyone entered.
In “The Lincolns: Portrait of a Marriage,” by Daniel Mark Epstein.
Costly wines and liquors flowed freely, and the immense Japanese punch bowl was filled with ten gallons of champagne punch.
Leech, op. cit.
Mrs. Lincoln had engaged the esteemed caterer C. Heerdt of New York. The cost was rumored to be over ten thousand dollars. Nor had any detail been overlooked; the chandeliers were garlanded with flowers, the serving tables decorated with rose petals scattered over cut rectangles of mirror.
Brunt, op. cit.
A piggish and excessive display, in a time of war.
Sloane, op. cit.
Elsa was speechless and only kept squeezing my hand. In such a way, one felt, the ancients must have entertained. What generosity! How kind our dear hosts!
In “Our Capital in Time of War,” by Petersen Wickett.
In the dining room was a long table with a gigantic looking-glass upon it bearing massive confections of sugar. Most recognizable were Fort Sumter, a warship, a temple of liberty, a Chinese pagoda, a Swiss cottage…
Kunhardt and Kunhardt, op. cit.
…sweetened replicas of a temple surrounded by the Goddess of Liberty, Chinese pagodas, cornucopias, fountains with sprays of spun sugar and encircled by stars…
In “Mr. Lincoln’s Washington,” by Stanley Kimmel.
Hives, swarming with lifelike bees, were filled with charlotte russe. War was gently hinted at by a helmet, with waving plumes of spun sugar. The good American frigate “Union,” with forty guns and all sails set, was supported by cherubs draped in the Stars and Stripes…
Leech, op. cit.
Fort Pickens also loomed up in sugar on a side table, surrounded by something more edible than barbette guns, in the shape of a deliciously prepared “chicken fixin’s”…
Kimmel, op. cit.
The flowing sugar gown of Lady Liberty descended like drapery upon a Chinese pagoda, inside of which, in a pond of candy floss, swam miniature fish of chocolate. Nearby, lusty angels of cake waved away bees hung aloft on the thinnest strings of glaze.
Wickett, op. cit.
At first delicate and perfect, over the course of the night this candy metropolis suffered various ravages, members of the party taking away entire quarters of the city in fists, into pockets, to share with loved ones at home. Later in the evening, the glass table being jostled by the crush, certain of the candied edifices were seen to give way.
Garrett, op. cit.
They dined on tender pheasant, fat partridge, venison steaks, and Virginia hams; they battened upon canvasback ducks and fresh turkeys, and thousands of tidewater oysters shucked an hour since and iced, slurped raw, scalloped in butter and crackermeal, or stewed in milk.
Epstein, op. cit.
These, and other tasty morsels, were spread about in such profusion that the joint attack of the thousand or more guests failed to deplete the array.
Kimmel, op. cit.
Yet there was no joy in the evening for the mechanically smiling hostess and her husband. They kept climbing the stairs to see how Willie was, and he was not doing well at all.
Kunhardt and Kunhardt, op. cit.
IV.
The rich notes of the Marine Band in the apartments below came to the sick-room in soft, subdued murmurs, like the wild, faint sobbing of far-off spirits.
Keckley, op. cit.
Willie lay in the “Prince of Wales” bedroom with its dark purple wall hangings and golden tassels.
Epstein, op. cit.
The cheeks of his handsome round face were inflamed with fever. His feet moved restlessly beneath the maroon coverlet.
In “History Close at Hand,” edited by Renard Kent, account of Mrs. Kate O’Brien.
The terror and consternation of the Presidential couple may be imagined by anyone who has ever loved a child, and suffered that dread intimation common to all parents, that Fate may not hold that life in as high a regard, and may dispose of it at will.
In “Selected Civil War Letters of Edwine Willow,” edited by Constance Mays.
With Fear clutching at their hearts, they went downstairs once more to hear the singers of the evening, the Hutchison family, give a frighteningly real rendition of the song “Ship on Fire,” which required simulation of a violent thunderstorm at sea, the frightened screams of the trapped passengers, a mother pressing her babe to her bosom of snow, “a tramp, a rout, an uproar of voices—‘Fire! Fire!’ ”
The cheeks of the sailors grew pale
at the sight—and their eyes glistened with the gleam
of the light—and the smoke in thick wreaths mounted
higher and higher—Oh God it is fearful to perish by fire!
Kunhardt and Kunhardt, op. cit.
The noise and clatter were such that to be understood it was necessary to shout. Carriages continued to arrive. Windows were thrown open and groups formed around them, hoping for a gust of chill night air. An air of happy panic pervaded the room. I began to feel faint and believe I was not alone in this. Matrons were collapsed here and there in armchairs. Drunken men examined paintings rather too intensely.
Garrett, op. cit.
Wild shrieks rang out.
Sloane, op. cit.
One fellow stood in perfect happiness, orange-trousered, blue coat flung open, feasting in-place as he stood at the serving table like some magnificent Ambrussi, finally found the home of his dreams.
Wickett, op. cit.
The flower arrangements of history! Those towering bursts of colors, so lavish—soon tossed away, to dry and go drab in the dim February sun. The animal carcasses—the “meat”—warm and sprig-covered, on expensive platters, steaming and succulent: trucked away to who-knows-where, clearly offal now, honest partial corpses once again, after brief elevation to the status of delight-giving food! The thousand dresses, laid out so reverently that afternoon, flecks of dust brushed off carefully in doorways, hems gathered up for the carriage trip: where are they now? Is a single one museum-displayed? Are some few yet saved in attics? Most are dust. As are the women who wore them so proudly in that transient moment of radiance.
In “The Social Life of the Civil War: Frolic, Carnage, Extirpation” (unpublished manuscript), by Melvin Carter.
V.
Many guests especially recalled the beautiful moon that shone that evening.
In “A Season of War and Loss,” by Ann Brighney.
In several accounts of the evening, the brilliance of the moon is remarked upon.
In “Long Road to Glory,” by Edward Holt.
A common feature of these narratives is the golden moon, hanging quaintly above the scene.
In “White House Soirees: An Anthology,” by Bernadette Evon.
There was no moon that night and the sky was heavy with clouds.
Wickett, op. cit.
A fat green crescent hung above the mad scene like a stolid judge, inured to all human folly.
In “My Life,” by Dolores P. Leventrop.
The full moon that night was yellow-red, as if reflecting the light of some earthly fire.
Sloane, op. cit.
As I moved about the room I w
ould encounter that silver wedge of a moon at this window or that, like some old beggar who wished to be invited in.
Carter, op. cit.
By the time dinner was served, the moon shone high and small and blue above, still bright, albeit somewhat diminished.
In “A Time Departed” (unpublished memoir), by I. B. Brigg III.
The night continued dark and moonless; a storm was moving in.
In “Those Most Joyful Years,” by Albert Trundle.
The guests began to depart as the full yellow moon hung among morning stars.
In “The Washington Powers,” by D. V. Featherly.
The clouds were heavy, leaden, and low, of a dull roseate color. There was no moon. My husband and I paused to look up at the room in which young Lincoln suffered. I said a silent prayer for the health of the lad. We found the carriage and made for home, where our own children, thanks be to a merciful God, were resting peacefully.
In “One Mother Remembers,” by Abigail Service.
VI.
The last guests lingered almost until dawn. In the basement, servants worked all night to clean up, drinking leftover wine as they toiled. Hot, tired, and drunk, several of them began arguing, which led to a fistfight in the kitchen.
Von Drehle, op. cit.
I heard it said several times, in hushed whispers: it was wrong to engage in such merry-making when Death itself had made itself known at the door, and perhaps the more modest the public life at such a time, the more apposite.
In “Collected Wartime Letters of Barbara Smith-Hill,” edited by Thomas Schofield and Edward Moran.
The night passed slowly; morning came, and Willie was worse.
Keckley, op. cit.
VII.
Yesterday around three there came a considerable procession—perhaps twenty carriages and nowhere to put them—They stopped on the lawns of the houses and sat aslant on the cemetery land by the fence—And who should alight from the hearse but Mr. L. himself, whom I could recognize from his likeness—But sore bent down and sad in countenance, almost needing to be urged along, as if reluctant to enter that drear place—I had not yet heard the sad news & was momentarily puzzled but soon enough the situation being made clear I prayed for the boy & family—it has been much in the papers regarding his illness and it has had the unhappy outcome now—The carriages cont’d to arrive over the next hour until the street was impassable.
The large crowd disappeared inside the chapel and from my open window I could hear the proceedings within: music, a sermon, weeping. Then the gathering dispersed & the carriages moved off, several becoming stuck & requiring unsticking, the street & lawns being left a considerable mess.
Then today, again wet & cold, and, around two, a single small carriage arrived & stopped at the cemetery gate & again the President got out, this time accompanied by three gentlemen: one young & two OLD.—they were met at the gate by Mr. Weston & his young assistant & all went off to the chapel—Before long, the assistant being joined by a helper, they were seen to be managing a small coffin on to a handcart & off the sad party went, cart in the lead, the President & his companions plodding along behind—their destination appeared to be to the northwest corner of the cemetery. The hill there being steep and the rain continuing, it made a strange joining of somber melancholy & riotous awkwardness, the assistants struggling to keep the tiny coffin upon the cart—& at the same time all parties, even Mr. L., diligently mincing to maintain their footing on the rainslick grass.
Anyway it appears the poor Lincoln child is to be left there across the road, contrary to reports in the newspapers, which ventured that he would be returning to Illinois forthwith. They have been loaned a place in the crypt belonging to Judge Carroll, & only imagine the pain of that, Andrew, to drop one’s precious son into that cold stone like some broken bird & be on your way.
Quiet tonight, & even the Creek seems to murmur along more quietly than usual, dear Brother. The moon came out just now & lit the stones in the cemetery—for an instant it appeared the grounds had been overrun with angels of various shapes and sizes: fat angels, dog-sized angels, angels upon horseback, etc.
I have grown comfortable having these Dead for company, and find them agreeable companions, over there in their Soil & cold stone Houses.
In “Wartime Washington: The Civil War Letters of Isabelle Perkins,” compiled and edited by Nash Perkins III, entry of February 25, 1862.
VIII.
So the President left his boy in a loaned tomb and went back to his work for the country.
In “Lincoln: A Story for Boys,” by Maxwell Flagg.
Nothing could have been more peaceful or more beautiful than the situation of this tomb and it was completely undiscoverable to the casual cemetery visitor, being the very last tomb on the left at the extreme far reaches of the grounds, at the top of an almost perpendicular hillside that descended to Rock Creek below. The rapid water made a pleasant rushing sound and the forest trees stood up bare and strong against the sky.
Kunhardt and Kunhardt, op. cit.
IX.
Early in my youth I found I had a certain predilection which, to me, felt quite natural and even wonderful, but to others—my father, mother, brothers, friends, teachers, clergy, grandparents—my predilection did not seem natural or wonderful at all, but perverse and shameful, and hence I suffered: must I deny my predilection, and marry, and doom myself to a certain, shall we say, dearth of fulfillment? I wished to be happy (as I believe all wish to be happy), and so undertook an innocent—well, a rather innocent—friendship with a fellow in my school. But we soon saw that there was no hope for us, and so (to race past a few details, and stops-and-starts, and fresh beginnings, and heartfelt resolutions, and betrayals of those resolutions, there, in one corner of the, ah, carriage house, and so on), one afternoon, a day or so after a particularly frank talk, in which Gilbert stated his intention to henceforth “live correctly,” I took a butcher knife to my room and, after writing a note to my parents (I am sorry, was the gist), and another to him (I have loved, and therefore depart fulfilled), I slit my wrists rather savagely over a porcelain tub.
Feeling nauseous at the quantity of blood and its sudden percussive redness against the whiteness of the tub, I settled myself woozily down on the floor, at which time I—well, it is a little embarrassing, but let me just say it: I changed my mind. Only then (nearly out the door, so to speak) did I realize how unspeakably beautiful all of this was, how precisely engineered for our pleasure, and saw that I was on the brink of squandering a wondrous gift, the gift of being allowed, every day, to wander this vast sensual paradise, this grand marketplace lovingly stocked with every sublime thing: swarms of insects dancing in slant-rays of August sun; a trio of black horses standing hock-deep and head-to-head in a field of snow; a waft of beef broth arriving breeze-borne from an orange-hued window on a chill autumn—
roger bevins iii
Sir. Friend.
hans vollman
Am I—am I doing it again?
roger bevins iii
You are.
Take a breath. All is well.
I believe you are somewhat alarming our new arrival.
hans vollman
Many apologies, young sir. I only meant, in my way, to welcome you.
roger bevins iii
Feeling “nauseous at the quantity of blood,” you “settled yourself woozily down on the floor” and “changed your mind.”
hans vollman
Yes.
Feeling nauseous at the quantity of blood and its sudden percussive redness against the whiteness of the tub, I settled myself woozily down on the floor. At which time I changed my mind.
Knowing that my only hope was to be found by one of the servants, I stumbled to the stairs and threw myself down. From there, I managed to crawl into the kitchen—
Which is where I remain.
I am waiting to be discovered (having come to rest on the floor, head against the stove, upended chair nearby, sliver of a
n orange peel against my cheek), so that I may be revived, and rise, and clean up the awful mess I have made (Mother will not be pleased), and go outside, into that beautiful world, a new and more courageous man, and begin to live! Will I follow my predilection? I will! With gusto! Having come so close to losing everything, I am freed now of all fear, hesitation, and timidity, and, once revived, intend to devoutly wander the earth, imbibing, smelling, sampling, loving whomever I please; touching, tasting, standing very still among the beautiful things of this world, such as, for example: a sleeping dog dream-kicking in a tree-shade triangle; a sugar pyramid upon a blackwood tabletop being rearranged grain-by-grain by an indiscernible draft; a cloud passing ship-like above a rounded green hill, atop which a line of colored shirts energetically dance in the wind, while down below in town, a purple-blue day unfolds (the muse of spring incarnate), each moist-grassed, flower-pierced yard gone positively mad with—
roger bevins iii
Friend.
Bevins.
hans vollman
“Bevins” had several sets of eyes All darting to and fro Several noses All sniffing His hands (he had multiple sets of hands, or else his hands were so quick they seemed to be many) struck this way and that, picking things up, bringing them to his face with a most inquisitive