Vienna, November 14, 1861.
My Dear Holmes:
Your letter of October 8 awaited me here. I need not tell you with what delight
I read it, and with what gratitude I found you so faithful to the promises
which we exchanged on board the Europa. Your poem,1 read at
the Napoleon dinner, I had already read several times in various papers, and
admired it very much, but I thank you for having the kindness to inclose it. As
soon as I read your letter I sat down to reply, but I had scarcely written two lines
when I received the first telegram of the Ball's Bluff affair. I instantly
remembered what you had told me — that Wendell “was on the right of the advance
on the Upper Potomac, the post of honor and danger,” and it was of course
impossible for me to write to you till I had learned more, and you may easily
conceive our intense anxiety. The bare, brutal telegram announcing a disaster
arrives always four days before any details can possibly be brought. Well,
after the four days came my London paper; but, as ill luck would have it, my
American ones had not begun to arrive. At last, day before yesterday, I got a
New York “Evening Post,” which contained Frank Palfrey's telegram. Then our
hearts were saddened enough by reading: “Willie Putnam, killed; Lee, Revere,
and George Perry, captured”; but they were relieved of an immense anxiety by
the words, “O. W. Holmes, Jr., slightly wounded.”
Poor Mrs. Putnam! I wish you would tell Lowell (for to the
mother or father I do not dare to write) to express the deep sympathy which I
feel for their bereavement, that there were many tears shed in our little
household in this distant place for the fate of his gallant, gentle-hearted,
brave-spirited nephew. I did not know him much — not at all as grown man; but
the name of Willie Putnam was a familiar sound to us six years ago on the banks
of the Arno, for we had the pleasure of passing a winter in Florence at the
same time with the Putnams, and I knew that that studious youth promised to be
all which his name and his blood and the influences under which he was growing
up entitled him to become. We often talked of American politics, — I mean his
father and mother and ourselves, — and I believe that we thoroughly sympathized
in our views and hopes. Alas! they could not then foresee that that fair-haired
boy was after so short a time destined to lay down his young life on the
Potomac, in one of the opening struggles for freedom and law with the accursed
institution of slavery. Well, it is a beautiful death — the most beautiful that
man can die. Young as he was, he had gained name and fame, and his image can
never be associated in the memory of the hearts which mourn for him except with
ideas of honor, duty, and purity of manhood.
After we had read the New York newspaper, the next day came
a batch of Boston dailies and a letter from my dear little Mary. I seized it
with avidity and began to read it aloud, and before I had finished the first
page it dropped from my hand, and we all three burst into floods of tears. Mary
wrote that Harry Higginson, of the Second, had visited the camp of the
Twentieth, and that Wendell Holmes was shot through the lungs and not likely to
recover. It seemed too cruel, just as we had been informed that he was but
slightly wounded. After the paroxysm was over, I picked up the letter and read
a rather important concluding phrase of Mary's statement, viz., “But this, thank
God, has proved to be a mistake.” I think if you could have been clairvoyant,
and looked in upon our dark little sitting-room of the Archduke Charles Hotel,
fourth story, at that moment, you could have had proof enough, if you needed
any fresh ones, of the strong hold that you and yours have on all our
affections. There are very many youths in that army of freedom whose career we
watch with intense interest; but Wendell Holmes is ever in our thoughts side by
side with those of our own name and blood. I renounce all attempt to paint my
anxiety about our affairs. I do not regret that Wendell is with the army. It is
a noble and healthy symptom that brilliant, intellectual, poetical spirits like
his spring to arms when a noble cause like ours inspires them. The race of
Philip Sydneys is not yet extinct, and I honestly believe that as much genuine
chivalry exists in our free States at this moment as there is or ever was in
any part of the world, from the crusaders down. I did not say a word when I was
at home to Lewis Stackpole about his plans, but I was very glad when he wrote
to me that he had accepted a captaincy in Stevenson's regiment. I suppose by
this time they are in the field.
There, you see how truly I spoke when I said that I could
write nothing to you worth hearing, while I, on the contrary, should be ever
hungering and thirsting to hear from you. Our thoughts are always in America,
but I am obliged to rely upon you for letters. Sam Hooper promised to write (I
am delighted to see, by the way, that he has been nominated, as I hoped would
be the case, for Congress), and William Amory promised; but you are the only
one thus far who has kept promises. I depend on your generosity to send me very
often a short note. No matter how short, it will be a living, fresh impression
from the mint of your mind — a bit of pure gold worth all the copper
counterfeits which circulate here in Europe. Nobody on this side the Atlantic
has the faintest conception of our affairs. Let me hear from time to time, as
often as you can, how you are impressed by the current events, and give me
details of such things as immediately interest you. Tell me all about Wendell.
How does your wife stand her trials? Give my love to her and beg her to keep up
a brave heart. Hœc
olim meminisse juvabit. And how will those youths who stay at home “account
themselves accursed they were not there,” when the great work has been done, as
done it will be! Of that I am as sure as that there is a God in heaven.
What can I say to you of cisatlantic things? I am almost
ashamed to be away from home. You know that I decided to remain, and had sent
for my family to come to America, when my present appointment altered my plans.
I do what good I can. I think I made some impression on Lord John Russell, with
whom I spent two days soon after my arrival in England; and I talked very
frankly, and as strongly as I could, to Lord Palmerston; and I had long
conversations and correspondences with other leading men in England. I also had
an hour's talk with Thouvenel2 in Paris, and hammered the Northern
view into him as soundly as I could. For this year there will be no foreign
interference with us, and I do not anticipate it at any time, unless we bring
it on ourselves by bad management, which I do not expect. Our fate is in our
own hands, and Europe is looking on to see which side is the strongest. When it
has made the discovery, it will back it as also the best and the most moral.
Yesterday I had my audience with the emperor. He received me with much
cordiality, and seemed interested in a long account which I gave him of our
affairs. You may suppose I inculcated the Northern view. We spoke in his
vernacular, and he asked me afterward if I was a German. I mention this not
from vanity, but because he asked it with earnestness and as if it had a
political significance. Of course I undeceived him. His appearance interested
me, and his manner is very pleasing. Good-by; all our loves to all.
Ever your sincere
friend,
J. L. M.
Remember me most kindly to the club, one and all. I have
room for their names in my heart, but not in this page.
_______________
1 “Vive la France.” A sentiment offered at the
dinner to H. I. H. Prince Napoleon at the Revere House, September 25, 1861.
2 Minister of Foreign Affairs.
SOURCE: George William Curtis, editor, The
Correspondence of John Lothrop Motley in Two Volumes, Library Edition,
Volume 2, p. 211-6
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