Executive Mansion,
Aug. 21, 1861.
DEAR MRS. Eames:
If the events of the last few days were to be taken as an
earnest of the future, I would invest my surplus shekels in a cheap tombstone,
write “Miserrimus” on it, and betake myself to Prussic acid glacé I have been like Poe's
Raven's “unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster followed fast and followed
faster, till he thought all life a bore.” It is not a particularly hilarious
chronicle, but here it is.
Finding it hideously dull at Long Branch (the gay and
festive Jenkins of the Herald is paid by the line for making the world believe
that the place is not ghastly and funereal, the crowd a sort of queer
half-baked New Jersey confectionery, with a tendency to stammer when spoken to
and to flatten its nose against our windows while we ate), I determined to go
up to New York and accept a most kind invitation from Col. Hamilton to come to
him Saturday. Arriving there I found there was no telegraph to Irvington or
Dobb's Ferry. I could not apprize him of my coming or arrange for him to meet
me. I blasphemed at this a little, and went quietly down town and was busy for
an hour or two. Coming back I found Mr. Hamilton's card at the Hotel. He had
been and gone.
My rage transcended grief. I was so mad at myself that I was
uncivil to everyone else. Mr. Dennison came in with brilliant plans for the
next day. I mildly but firmly requested him to mobilize himself for an instant
trip to the Court of His Most Sulphurous Majesty. I concluded to take a royal
revenge on myself by ordering myself back to Washington.
I came and found the air like a damp oven. They are painting
the White House, and the painters from their horrid hair (I mean their brushes)
shake pestilence and things. The people in the streets are stupid or scared. It
is a bad neighborhood.
I can do nothing but wish it were “not me but another man.”
Let me tell you a fact which proves me insane or Washington
preternaturally dull. Yesterday I went to dinner at Willard's late, and after
taking my seat I saw a solitary diner at a distance. I took up my soup and
walked. I sat down and ate dinner with
BING.
I was so dull he was almost endurable.
I have not seen Mr. Eames since I returned. I have not felt
like proper company for a gentleman and a Christian. I have felt as outlawed as
a hasheesh eater.
There is another offshoot of English nobility coming over in
a day or two, a son of the Earl
of Mayo, Hon. Robert Bourke. I hope Willis will find it out,
and by way of showing him a delicate attention, take him to the observational
settee whence, on clear afternoons is to be seen, windows favoring, the
Presidential ensarking and bifurcate dischrysalisizing. In view of his late
letter, I would mildly inquire "What next?" Please make your brother
and sister remember me, and give my love to F .
SOURCES: Clara B. Hay, Letters of John Hay and
Extracts from Diary, Volume 1, p. 35-8; Michael Burlingtame, Editor, At
Lincoln’s Side: John Hay’s Civil War Correspondence and Selected Writings,
p.11-2.
