November 13, 1864
We had a
Lieutenant-Colonel C––– , a Britisher, up for a visit; he is commander of the
forces in that tropical climate of New Brunswick. In aspect Colonel C––– was not
striking; he had done injustice to what good looks he had by a singularly
shapeless suit of city clothing, which I judge must have been purchased ready
made from a village tailor in New Brunswick. He had a sort of soft cloth hat,
an overcoat of a grey-rhubarb tint and trousers which once might have had a
pure color, but seemed to have become doubtful by hanging in the sun outside a
shop. I don't think the gallant Lieutenant-Colonel was much interested in
matters military. Perhaps he had read out, perhaps he had no natural taste that
way, or perhaps he felt cold and uncomfortable. At any rate he looked bored,
and his only military remark did not indicate deep reflection. “This,” said I, “is
what we call a corduroy road.” “Oh! ah! Indeed; yes, well, it's very well now,
you know, but what will you do when it comes wet weather?” I
was too much overcome at this putting the cart before the horse, to inform him
that the corduroy was built for no other purpose than for wet weather.
After this I confined myself to considerations of the state of health of the
Hon. Mr. Yorke (he who came back with us from Liverpool). He is under the
command of the Colonel, it would appear, and afforded an innocent topic of
conversation. Since then two other English officers have been entrusted to the
fatherly care of Rosencrantz, and diligently shown round. When they got near
the end, they said: “Now we are much pleased to find you are a foreigner,
because we can frankly ask you, what you consider the general feeling towards
the English in this country.” To which Rosie (who don't like to miss a chance)
replied: “Vell, I can tell you that, so far as I have observed, some Americans
do just care nothing about you, and many others do say, that, when this war is
over, they will immediately kick you very soon out from Canada!” When the
horrified Bulls asked: “Aw, aw, aw; but why, why?” Rosie replied
in the following highly explanatory style: “Be-cause they say you have made for
the Rebs very many bullets.”
General Gibbon
dined with us and was largely impressed by our having oysters on the shell,
which he pitched into with the fervor of a Baltimorean long separated from his
favorites. Gibbon is by birth a Pennsylvanian, but lived, since boyhood, in
North Carolina. When the Rebellion broke out, two of his brothers went into the
Rebel service, but he remained loyal. One of his sisters was in the South but
could not escape, and it was only the other day that they allowed her to come
on board the flag-of-truce boat and come down the river to our lines, where her
brother met her and took her North. He had sent word to his younger brother to
meet him on the same occasion, but the young gentleman sent word, “It would not
be agreeable”; which shows they are pretty bitter, some of them. Gibbon has an
Inspector named Summerhayes, who is of the 20th Massachusetts, and who has got
so used to being shot at, that he seems not to be able to do without it, and so
gallops along the picket line to rouse the foe to pop at him. Which reminds me
of what Grant said (either by accident or on purpose). He had come out, with a
great crowd of civilians, to ride round the lines. Someone proposed to go out
and visit the pickets. “No,” said Grant, innocently, “no; if I take a crowd of
civilians, the enemy may fire and some of the soldiers might get hurt!”
SOURCE: George R. Agassiz, Editor, Meade’s
Headquarters, 1863-1865: Letters of Colonel Theodore Lyman from the Wilderness
to Appomattox, p. 267-9
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