Diary of to Amos A. Lawrence: May 5 , 1859

Meeting at my Court Street office of the committee appointed to be the faculty of the Agassiz Museum: President Walker, Dr. Jacob Bigelow, Dr. O. W. Holmes, and Mr. Agassiz. The latter is so progressive that it requires all the tact of Dr. Walker and Dr. Bigelow to keep him in check.

SOURCE: William Lawrence, Life of Amos A. Lawrence: With Extracts from His Diary and Correspondence, p. 161

John L. Motley to Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, September 22, 1863

Vienna,           

September 22, 1863.

My Dear Holmes: I am perfectly aware that I do not deserve to receive any letters or anything else from you. You heap coals on my head, and all I can say is that I hope you have several chaldrons on hand for me of the same sort. Pour on. I will endure with much gratitude and without shame. Your last letter was not to me, but to two young women under my roof, and gave them infinite delight, as you may well suppose, as well as to Mary and myself. I shall, however, leave the answering of that letter to them. The youngest of the two is not the less welcome to us after her long absence from the domestic hen-coop; she has so much to say of you and yours, and of all the kindness you heaped upon her, and of all the thousand matters belonging to you all. Your last letter to me bears date June 7. It is much occupied with Wendell's wound at Fredericksburg, and I thank you for assuming so frankly that nothing could be more interesting to us than the details which you send us. I trust sincerely that he has now fully recovered. Colonel Holmes has most nobly won his spurs and his advancement. I am always fond of citing and daguerreotyping him as a specimen of the mob of mercenaries and outcasts of which the Union army is composed. You may be sure I do him full justice, and even if I allow it to be supposed that there are within our ranks five hundred as good as he, it is an inference which can do the idiots no harm who suppose the slave-holding rebels to be all Sidneys and Bayards.

When you wrote me last, you said on general matters this: “In a few days we shall get the news of the success or failure of the attacks on Port Hudson and Vicksburg. If both are successful, many will say that the whole matter is about settled.” You may suppose that when I got the great news I shook hands warmly with you in the spirit across the Atlantic. Day by day for so long we had been hoping to hear the fall of Vicksburg. At last, when that little concentrated telegram came announcing Vicksburg and Gettysburg on the same day and in two lines, I found myself alone. Mary and Lily had gone to the baths of Schwalbach to pick up the stray chicken with whom you are acquainted. There was nobody in the house to join in my huzzas but my youngest infant. And my conduct very much resembled that of the excellent Philip II. when he heard of the fall of Antwerp, for I went to Susie's door, screeching through the keyhole, “Vicksburg is ours!”' just as that other pere de famille, more potent, but I trust not more respectable than I, conveyed the news to his Infanta (vide for the incident an American work on the Netherlands, I., p. 329, and the authorities there cited). It is contemptible on my part to speak thus frivolously of events which stand out in such golden letters as long as America has a history. But I wanted to illustrate the yearning for sympathy which I felt. You who were among people grim and self-contained usually, who I trust were falling on each other's necks in the public streets and shouting with tears in their eyes and triumph in their hearts, can picture my isolation. I have never faltered in my faith, and in the darkest hours, when misfortunes seemed thronging most thickly upon us, I have never felt the want of anything to lean against; but I own I did feel like shaking hands with a few hundred people when I heard of our Fourth of July, 1863, work, and should like to have heard and joined in an American cheer or two. Well, there is no need of my descanting longer on this magnificent theme. Some things in this world may be better left unsaid. You and I at least know how we both feel about Gettysburg, Vicksburg, Port Hudson, and I shall at least not try to add to the eloquence of these three words, which are destined to so eternal an echo. I wonder whether you or I half a dozen years ago were sufficiently up in geography to find all the three places on the map.

And now let me thank you a thousand times for your oration. It would have been better for me to write on the first impulse, perhaps, when I had first read it, but on the whole I think not. I felt no doubt that I should like it better and better after each reading, and so after devouring it in the very mistily printed journal which you sent, and next day in the clearer type of the respectable daily, I waited till the neat pamphlet which I knew was coming should arrive. Well, I have read it carefully several times, and I am perfectly satisfied. This I consider very high praise, because I had intense expectations both from the hour and the man. If I had had the good luck to be among the hearers — for I know how admirably you speak, and the gift you have of holding your audience in hand by the grace and fervor of your elocution as apart from the substance of your speech — I know how enthusiastic I should have been. There would have been no louder applause than mine at all the many telling and touching points. The whole strain of the address is one in which I entirely sympathize, and I think it an honor to Boston that such noble and eloquent sentiments should have resounded in ears into which so much venom has from time to time been instilled, and met with appreciation and applause.

Unless I were to write you a letter as long itself as an oration, I could not say half what I would like to say, and this is exactly one of the unsatisfactory attributes of letter-writing. It is no substitute for the loose, disjointed talk. I should like nothing better than to discuss your address with you all day long, for, like all effusions of genius, it is as rich in what it suggests as in what it conveys. What I liked as well as anything was the hopeful, helpful way in which you at starting lift your audience with you into the regions of faith, and rebuke the “languid thinkers” for their forlorn belief, and the large general views which after that ascent you take of the whole mighty controversy, than which none in human history is more important to mankind. Then I especially admire the whole passage referring to the Saracenic conflict in Christian civilization. Will you allow me to say that I have often and often before reading your oration fallen into the same view of moralizing, and that when the news of the battle of Gettysburg reached me I instantly began to hope it might prove more decisively our battle of Tours than I fear, magnificent victory as it was, it has proved? Your paragraphs about the Moors are brilliant and dashing sketches.

I must confess, however, that you seem to me far too complimentary about the slaveholders. Perhaps it may be my ignorance, but I have always been skeptical as to what you call “the social elegances and personal graces of their best circles.” Is it not a popular delusion to extend the external charms of a few individuals, or possibly a very small number of families, over a whole class? I ask in ignorance merely. It has been my lot to see a good deal of European aristocracies, and, without abating a jot of my reverence for and belief in the American people, I have never hesitated to say that a conservatory of tropical fruit and flowers is a very brilliant, fragrant, and luxurious concern. Whether it be worth while to turn a few million freehold farms into one such conservatory is a question of political arithmetic which I hope will always be answered in one way on our side of the water. Non equidem invideo, miror magis. Another passage which especially delighted me was your showing up of neutrals. Again you will pardon me if I have often thought of Dante's cattivo coro in this connection. You will not object to this sympathetic coincidence, I hope. But I must pause, because, as I said before, I could go on talking of the oration for an hour. You can have no doubt whatever that it is triumphantly successful and worthy to take its place among your collected works. Do you wish higher praise? How is it, I often ask, that people, although they may differ from you in opinion on such grave matters as you have thus publicly discussed, can be otherwise than respectful to your sentiments?

I have not much to say of matters here to interest you. We have had an intensely hot, historically hot, and very long and very dry summer. I never knew before what a drought meant. In Hungary the suffering is great, and the people are killing the sheep to feed the pigs with the mutton. Here about Vienna the trees have been almost stripped of foliage ever since the end of August. There is no glory in the grass nor verdure in anything. In fact, we have nothing green here but the Archduke Maximilian, who firmly believes that he is going forth to Mexico to establish an American empire, and that it is his divine mission to destroy the dragon of democracy and reestablish the true Church, the Right Divine, and all sorts of games. Poor young man!

Ever sincerely yours,

J. L. M.

SOURCE: George William Curtis, editor, The Correspondence of John Lothrop Motley in Two Volumes, Library Edition, Volume 2, p. 342-8

John L. Motley Mary Benjamin Motley, July 24, 1863

Vienna,

July 24, 1863.

Dearest Mary: I wrote yesterday and said that I would write again to-day, thinking you would like to listen to the words of wisdom after I had had time to digest a little of the magnificent news we have just received. But, after all, I haven't much to say. For the details are entirely wanting. The papers only reach to 8th from Boston and 7th from New York; the later is of course by telegraph. We must wait a week to know exactly what has happened, and how large the success is. But isn't it one of the most striking and picturesque things imaginable that Lee's great invading army, after being thoroughly thrashed on the 2d and 3d July, should have moved off in rapid retreat on the 4th July, and that, on the same famous anniversary, Vicksburg, the great fortress and stronghold of the Mississippi, should have surrendered to the United States troops?

Suppose that Lee at the present moment has got 70,000 men at Hagerstown, where we know that he has fortified himself, — and that is the very utmost that one can even imagine him to have, — why, Meade by this time must have at least 150,000, after deducting all his losses in the battles. And the militia are streaming in by thousands a day. Government can send him (and I believe has sent him) every soldier they can dispose of from Washington, Baltimore, Fort Monroe, and the Peninsula. Our resources of food and ammunition are boundless, and I don't see how Meade can help cutting off the enemy's supplies. I pore over the map, and I don't see how Lee can help being in a trap. I will say no more, especially as about the time when you read this you will be getting the telegram to the 15th, which may prove that I have made an ass of myself. I send Sumner's letter, written apparently before hearing of any of these great victories. I also send Holmes's oration, which I haven't yet had time to read. No doubt it is magnificent, and I prefer to read it at leisure. I have another copy in the daily. He sent me this one. I also send a paper or two, which please preserve, as I file them. I went to the D'Ayllons' yesterday and brought home Susie. Love to Mrs. Cleveland and Lillie and my chickens.

Ever lovingly yours,

J. L. M.

SOURCE: George William Curtis, editor, The Correspondence of John Lothrop Motley in Two Volumes, Library Edition, Volume 2, p. 339-41

Thomas Wentworth Higginson

Perhaps you expect a full account of last Saturday's “Atlantic” dinner; but really it was hardly worth it, except for Holmes, who was really very agreeable and even delightful, far more so than James Lowell, the other principal interlocutor, who was bright and witty as always, but dogmatic and impatient of contradiction more than he used to be, though he always had that tendency; whereas Holmes was very genial and sweet and allowed Lowell to be almost rude to him. The other guests were Edmund Quincy, Dr. J. W. Palmer (author of your favorite Miss Wimple), Charles W. Storey (a lazy, witty lawyer), Charles Norton, Underwood, John Wyman, formerly of Worcester, and myself. . . . Most of the serious talk turned on theology (which Underwood said they often fell upon), Holmes taking the radical side and Lowell rather the conservative. Holmes said some things that were as eloquent as anything in the “Autocrat” about the absurdity of studying doctrines in books and supposing that we got much from that source, when each person is the net result of a myriad influences from all nature and society which mould him from his birth and before it.

SOURCE: Mary Potter Thacher Higginson, Editor, Letters and Journals of Thomas Wentworth Higginson, 1846-1906, p. 112

Thomas Wentworth Higginson to Harriet Prescott

Dr. Holmes — whom you evidently did not fancy, though you describe his talk so well — is really superior, at every point I can think of, to Lowell, whom you liked so much; I should except personal appearances, for Lowell's brow and eyes are Apollo-like, while all Holmes's face is small in outline and expression, though mobile and vivacious. . . .

Maria Lowell was a living poem. She was his inspiration and his moral tonic beside, and he has been living on her memory ever since, in both respects. . . .

The chief editor [Lowell of the “Atlantic”] reads every article without knowing the author's name, so as to be perfectly impartial.

SOURCE: Mary Potter Thacher Higginson, Editor, Letters and Journals of Thomas Wentworth Higginson, 1846-1906, p. 110-1

Thomas Wentworth Higginson to Louisa Storrow Higginson, July 10, 1859

July 10, 1859

Dearest Mother:

Emerson says, “To-day is a king in disguise”; and it is sometimes odd to think that these men and women of the "Atlantic Monthly," mere mortals to me, will one day be regarded as demi-gods, perhaps, and that it would seem as strange to another generation for me to have sat at the same table with Longfellow or Emerson, as it now seems that men should have sat at table with Wordsworth or with Milton. So I may as well tell you all about my inducting little Harriet Prescott into that high company.

She met me at twelve in Boston at Ticknor's and we spent a few hours seeing pictures and the aquarial gardens; the most prominent of the pictures being a sort of luncheon before our dinner; viz., Holmes and Longfellow in half length and very admirable, by Buchanan Read (I don't think any previous king in disguise ever had his portrait so well painted as this one, at any rate); also, by the same, a delicious painting of three Longfellow children — girls with their mother's eyes and Mary Greenleaf's coloring, at least three different modifications of it. . . .

In the course of these divertisements we stopped at Phillips's and Sampson's, where we encountered dear, dark, slender, simple, sensitive Whittier, trying to decide whether to "drink delight of battle with his peers" at the dinner-table, or slide shyly back to Amesbury in the next train. To introduce him to Harriet was like bringing a girl and a gazelle acquainted; each visibly wished to run away from the other; to Whittier a woman is a woman, and he was as bashful before the small authoress as if she were the greatest. Cheery John Wyman was persuading him to stay to dinner, and on my introducing him to my companion turned the battery of his good-nature upon her, pronouncing her story the most popular which had appeared in the magazine — “Oh, sir,” she whispered to me afterwards, “he spoke to me about my story — do you suppose anybody else will? I hope not.”

Duly at three we appeared at the Revere House. You are to understand that this was a special festival — prior to Mrs. Stowe's trip to Europe — and the admission of ladies was a new thing. Harriet was whirled away into some unknown dressing-room, and I found in another parlor Holmes, Lowell, Longfellow, Whipple, Edmund Quincy, Professor Stowe, Stillman the artist, Whittier (after all), Woodman, John Wyman, and Underwood. When dinner was confidentially announced, I saw a desire among the founders of the feast to do the thing handsomely toward the fair guests, and found, to my great amusement, that Mrs. Stowe and Harriet Prescott were the only ones! Nothing would have tempted my little damsel into such a position, I knew; but now she was in for it; to be handed in to dinner by the Autocrat himself, while Lowell took Mrs. Stowe I Miss Terry was at Saratoga and Mrs. Julia Howe suddenly detained; so these were alone. But how to get them downstairs — send up a servant or go ourselves? — that is, were they in a bedroom or a parlor; an obsequious attendant suddenly suggested the latter, so Lowell and I went up. In a small but superb room the authoress of “Uncle Tom” stood smoothing her ample plumage, while the junior lady hovered timidly behind. . . . Mrs. Stowe was quietly dressed in a Quakerish silk, but with a peculiar sort of artificial grape-leaf garland round her head which I could not examine more minutely; she looked very well, but I thought Harriet looked better; she had smoothed down her brown .curls, the only pretty thing about her, except a ladylike little figure, robed in the plainest imaginable black silk. . . .

Down we went: Dr. Holmes met us in the entry; each bowed lower than the other, and we all marched in together. Underwood had wished to place Edmund Quincy by Harriet, at his request, she being on Dr. Holmes's right — the Autocrat's right, think of the ordeal for a humble maiden at her first dinner party! but I told him the only chance for her to breathe was to place me there, which he did. On Dr. Holmes's left was Whittier, next, Professor Stowe, opposite me, while Mrs. S. was on Lowell's right at the other end.

By this lady's special stipulation the dinner was teetotal, which compulsory virtue caused some wry faces among the gentlemen, not used to such abstinence at “Atlantic” dinners; it was amusing to see how they nipped at the water and among the ban mots privately circulated thereupon, the best was Longfellow's proposition that Miss Prescott should send down into her Cellar for some wine, since Mrs. Stowe would not allow any abovestairs! This joke was broached early and carefully prevented from reaching the ears of either of its subjects, but I thought it capital, for you remember her racy description of wine, of which she knows about as much as she does of French novels, which I find most people suppose her to have lived upon — she having once perused “Consuelo”!

Little Dr. Holmes came down upon her instantly with her laurels. “I suppose you meet your story wherever you go,” said he, “like Madam d'Arblay" (and indeed the whole thing reminded me of her first introductions into literary society). . . . I seized the first opportunity to ask whether she and Mrs. Stowe had any conversation upstairs. “Yes,” said she meekly; “Mrs. Stowe asked me what time it was and I told her I didn't know.” There's intellectual intercourse for a young beginner! . . .

When the wife of Andrew Jackson Davis, the seer, was once asked if her husband, who was then staying at Fitzhenry Homer's, was not embarrassed by being in society superior to that in which he was trained, she replied indignantly that her husband, who was constantly in the society of the highest angels, was not likely to be overcome by Mrs. Fitzhenry Homer. And when I reflected on the entertainments which were described in “In a Cellar,” I felt no fear of Harriet's committing any solecism in manners at an “Atlantic” dinner, which she certainly did not, though a little frightened, occasionally, I could see, at the obsequiousness of the waiters and the absurd multiplicity of courses. . . .

I don't care so very much for " Atlantic " dinners — Professor Felton says they are more brilliant than London ones, but I think that Mary and I get up quite as good ones in Worcester — but Dr. Holmes is always effervescent and funny, and John Wyman is the best story-teller the world ever saw, and indeed everybody contributed something. The best thing Holmes said was in discoursing on his favorite theory of races and families. “Some families,” he said, “are constitutionally incapable of doing anything wrong; they try it as boys, but they relapse into virtue; as individuals, they attempt to do wrong, but the race is too strong for them and they end in pulpits. Look at the Wares, for instance; I don't believe that the Wares fell in Adam!”

SOURCE: Mary Potter Thacher Higginson, Editor, Letters and Journals of Thomas Wentworth Higginson, 1846-1906, p. 106-10

Diary of 2nd Lieutenant Luman Harris Tenney: January 6, 1864

About quarters most of the day. Read in “Autocrat of the Breakfast Table.” Cold. Evening Dan and I went to Regt. Good time. Lost sugar. Back late. Little “taffy” and to bed.

SOURCE: Frances Andrews Tenney, War Diary Of Luman Harris Tenney, p. 104

Colonel Rutherford B. Hayes to Lucy Webb Hayes, December 14, 1862

Camp Maskell, December 14, 1862.

Dearest:— Very glad to have a good letter from you again. Very glad indeed the bag is found — glad you read the article of Dr. Holmes in the Atlantic Monthly. It is, indeed, a defense pat for your case. I knew you would like it. You must keep it. When we are old folks it will freshly remind us of a very interesting part of our war experience.

If the enchanted bag contains my spurs, and if they are both alike (which I doubt), you may send them to me when a good chance offers. The pair I now use are those worn by Lorin Andrews and given me by McCook. I don't want to lose them.

The fine weather of the past week has been very favorable for our business and we are getting on rapidly. The river is so low that a cold snap would freeze it up, and leave us “out in the cold” in a very serious way — that is, without the means of getting grub. This would compel us to leave our little log city and drive us back towards Ohio. . . .

One of our new second lieutenants — McKinley — a handsome bright, gallant boy, got back last night. He went to Ohio to recruit with the other orderly sergeants of the regiment. He tells good stories of their travels. The Thirtieth and Twelfth sergeants stopped at second-class hotels, but the Twenty-third boys “splurged.” They stopped at the American and swung by the big figure. Very proper. They are the generals of the next war.

I rode over to the Eighty-ninth. Promising boys over there. I like the cousins much. Ike Nelson is a master spirit. The others will come out all right.

Yes, darling, these partings don't grow any easier for us, but you don't regret that, I am sure. It will be all the pleasanter when it is all over. How is your health? Is all right with you? Your sake, not mine. Thanks for the Harper and Atlantic, mailed me by Stephenson. Love to all.

Conners whom we saw at Frederick is not dead. He returned safely last night. All the wounded are gathering in except the discharged. Sergeant Tyler whom we saw with his arm off at Frederick is in a bad way — others doing well. . . .

Affectionately yours, ever,

R.

P. S. — Three months ago the battle of South Mountain. We celebrated it by climbing the mountain on the other side of the river to the castle-like-looking rocks which overlook the Falls of the Kanawha. Captains Hood, Zimmerman, Canby, Lovejoy and Lieutenant Bacon were of the party. Hood and I beat the crowd to the top. Hood, the worst wounded, up first. When I saw him shot through that day I little thought I would ever see him climbing mountains again.

Mrs. Hayes.

SOURCE: Charles Richard Williams, editor, Diary and Letters of Rutherford Birchard Hayes, Volume 2, p. 374-5

Diary of Colonel Rutherford B. Hayes: December 12, 1862

Camp Maskell, near Gauley. — Ninth to twelfth bright, warm days; cold nights; snow scarcely melted at all on the north side of the hills. The river is low and freezes in the pools clear across. A single very severe night would close navigation on the Kanawha. Nothing will save us from this calamity but a mild winter or a freshet in the river. With this low water a cold winter will bother us exceedingly. Well, well, our camp is growing; a few nails have come to us; no sawed lumber yet.

Yesterday (11th) received a good letter from Lucy. She has read Wendell Holmes’ “Search After the Captain” in [the] December number of [the] Atlantic and thinks I must not laugh at her any more about her efforts to find me — I being at Middletown and she at Washington searching the hospitals for me.

Today got news of the capture of a brigade of our troops in Tennessee by four thousand of John Morgan's men! Either a surprise or a disgraceful thing of some sort! Also the crossing of the river at Fredericksburg after heavy cannonading.

SOURCE: Charles Richard Williams, editor, Diary and Letters of Rutherford Birchard Hayes, Volume 2, p. 373-4

Colonel Rutherford B. Hayes to Sardis Birchard, December 5, 1862

Camp Maskell, Near Gauley Bridge, December 5,1862.

Dear Uncle: — I am enjoying myself here, looking after the new town we are building. We are putting up about a hundred log cabins, generally sixteen by twenty feet square. We are furnished with no nails, very little sawed lumber, and no tools. Somewhat over one-half the work is done, but cutting timber, splitting shakes and puncheons, and putting them together is the great business. We are on a piece of muddy bottom-land on a beautiful bend of the Kanawha, with high mountains pressing close up to us on all sides. We are on the side of the river where no enemy can come without first running over three or four other regiments, so that we have very little guard duty to do. The men are strong, healthy, and happy. I yesterday climbed the mountain just east of us, making a. journey of four miles before dinner. I walked six miles in the afternoon. The ten miles was done easily. You may judge of my health by this. Today it snows and blows. Tomorrow it will probably thaw. We shall have some trouble with the mud, but I think with proper ditching, and the use of sand, we can conquer the trouble.

Read in December Atlantic Monthly, “Hunt for the Captain,” by Holmes. It is good.

Sincerely,

R. B. Hayes.

S. BlRCHARD.

SOURCE: Charles Richard Williams, editor, Diary and Letters of Rutherford Birchard Hayes, Volume 2, p. 370-1

Diary of Sergeant Major Luman Harris Tenney: March 8, 1863

Spent the day in camp. Thede came over and we made a little sugar candy. Read some in “Currents and Countercurrents,” by O. W. Holmes. Wanted to read Motley, but Charlie had sent the book back home. Thede and I wished we could be at home two or three hours. A dark and cloudy day.

SOURCE: Frances Andrews Tenney, War Diary Of Luman Harris Tenney, p. 59

John L. Motley to Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr., November 2, 1862

Vienna, November 2, 1862.

My Dear Holmes: More and more does it become difficult for me to write to you. I am greedier than ever for your letters, but the necessary vapidity of anything I can send to you in return becomes more apparent to me every day. It seems to me that by the time one of my notes makes its way to you in Boston it must have faded into a blank bit of paper. Where there is absolutely nothing in one's surroundings that can interest a friend, the most eloquent thing would seem to be to hold one's tongue. At least, however, I can thank you most warmly for your last letter. You know full well how interested I am in everything you can write, whether of speculation or of narration. Especially am I anxious to hear all that you have to say of Wendell's career. Of course his name among the wounded in the battle of Antietam instantly caught our eyes, and though we felt alarmed and uncomfortable, yet fortunately it was stated in the first intelligence we received that the wound, although in the neck, was not a dangerous one. I could not write to you, however, until I felt assured that he was doing well. I suppose Wendell has gone back to his regiment before this, and God knows whether there has not already been another general engagement in the neighborhood of the Potomac. What a long life of adventure and experience that boy has had in the fifteen months which have elapsed since I saw him, with his Pylades, seated at the Autocrat's breakfast-table in Charles Street!

Mary told me of his meeting with Hallowell, wounded, being brought from the field at the same time with himself, and of both being put together in the same house. We are fortunate in having a very faithful little chronicler in Mary, and she tells us of many interesting and touching incidents that otherwise might never reach us. She has also given us the details of the noble Wilder Dwight's death. It is unnecessary to say how deeply we were moved. I had the pleasure of knowing him well, and I always appreciated his energy, his manliness, and his intelligent, cheerful heroism. I look back upon him now as a kind of heroic type of what a young New-Englander ought to be and was. After all, what was your Chevy Chase to stir blood with like a trumpet? What noble principle, what deathless interest, was there at stake? Nothing but a bloody fight between a set of noble gamekeepers on one side, and of noble poachers on the other! And because they fought well and hacked each other to pieces like devils, they have been heroes for centuries.

Of course you know of Cairnes's book, and of John Mill's article in the “Westminster Review” for October, and of the sustained pluck and intelligence of the two Liberal journals in England, the “Daily News” and the “Star.” As for John Bright, I hope one day to see a statue raised to him in Washington. We must accept our position frankly. We are mudsills beloved of the Radicals. The negro-breeders are aristocrats, and, like Mrs. Jarley, the pride of the nobility and gentry.

Tell me, when you write, something of our State politics. It cannot be that these factionists can do any harm. But it is most mortifying to me that Boston of all the towns in the world should be the last stronghold of the pro-slavery party. I was interested in the conversation which you report:  “How many sons have you sent to the war? How much have you contributed? How much of your life have you put into it?” I hope there are not many who hold themselves quite aloof. For my own part, I am very distant in body, but in spirit I am never absent from the country. I never knew before what love of country meant. I have not been able to do much for the cause. I have no sons to give to the country. In money I have contributed my mite. I hope you will forgive me for mentioning this circumstance. I do so simply that you may know that I have not neglected a sacred duty. In these days in our country of almost fabulous generosity, I am well aware that what I am able to give is the veriest trifle; but as it is possible you might hear that I have done nothing, I take leave to mention this, knowing that you will not misunderstand me. I am not able to do as much as I ought. Your letters are intensely interesting. It isn't my fault if mine are stupid. Mary and Lily join me in sincerest regards to you and yours.

Ever your old friend,

J. L. M.

SOURCE: George William Curtis, editor, The Correspondence of John Lothrop Motley in Two Volumes, Library Edition, Volume 2, p. 291-3

John L. Motley to Mary Lothrop Motley, September 21, 1862

Vienna, September 21, 1862.

Dearest Little Mary: Your last letters, 1st and 2d September, reached us with promptness, and gave us the same mingled pain and pleasure that your letters always do. You are a dear darling to write to us so faithfully and conscientiously, and we look forward to our weekly budget from “our own correspondent” with great eagerness. You say in your last that Mrs. Lothrop's third son is going to the war. I cannot sufficiently admire their spirit and patriotism and her courage. I had such a nice, interesting, well-written letter from Julius at Newbern. I wish you would ask Mrs. Lothrop when she writes to thank him for it, and to say that I have not yet answered it simply because I have nothing agreeable or interesting to say from this part of the world. One of these days, when affairs are looking less gloomy, I shall take pleasure in sending an answer to his letter. Meanwhile I am delighted to hear of his promotion to a lieutenancy, and wish him every success.

The most amazing part of the whole matter is that people should now go about talking to each other of the “Constitution and the enforcement of the laws” exactly as if we were at peace. We are not in peace. We are in war. And the law of war is perfectly simple. It is to use all and every means necessary for overcoming the resistance of your enemy. Had government issued a proclamation of universal freedom to all men, in the exercise of its unequivocal and unquestioned rights as a belligerent, at about the time when the “Young Napoleon” was burrowing in the Chickahominy swamps, it would have done more toward overcoming the resistance of the enemy by cutting off the great source of their supplies than the whole of that ignominious campaign in the Peninsula, which has brought us, in spite of the unparalleled heroism, endurance, patience, and unflinching courage of our soldiers, back to exactly the same point (to make the best of it) from which we started a year ago. Tell Dr. Holmes that I received his letter of the 4th September yesterday, and that it gave me inexpressible comfort.

I shall write him next week. I agree with every word he says, and it gives me great pleasure to hear him say that the antislavery feeling is on the increase in Boston. Of one thing I feel perfectly certain, although everything else seems obscure as midnight. If Jeff Davis gets half the country, he will get the whole. If we keep half, we shall keep the whole. I mean by “we” the antislavery party of the country.

As to arming the slaves and drilling them as soldiers, I do not care so much about that, except as a means of preventing servile insurrections. Black men, as well as white men, are susceptible of military discipline, and soldiers in the army of whatever color must be shot for massacre and murder. The very reason which always prevented me from being an abolitionist before the war, in spite of my antislavery sentiments and opinions, now forces me to be an emancipationist. I did not wish to see the government destroyed, which was the avowed purpose of the abolitionists. When this became the avowed purpose of the slaveholders, when they made war upon us, the whole case was turned upside down. The antislavery men became the Unionists, the slaveholders the destructionists. This is so plain that no mathematical axiom is plainer. There is no way of contending now with the enemy at our gates but by emancipation.

Poor Fletcher Webster! I saw him on the Common at the head of his regiment; he looked like a man and has died like one. I am beginning to think that they who are dying for their country are happier than those of us who are left. Another old schoolfellow of mine was killed too, Phil Kearny (General Kearny)—the bravest of the brave. Good-by, darling. My love to grandmama and grandpapa and all the family.

Your affectionate

Papa.

SOURCE: George William Curtis, editor, The Correspondence of John Lothrop Motley in Two Volumes, Library Edition, Volume 2, p. 284-6

John L. Motley to Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr., August 31, 1862

Vienna, August 31, 1862.

My Dear Holmes: Bare, bare, bare of news, events, objects of the slightest interest to you or any one else, what need have I to apologize for silence? Naked, but not ashamed, I involve myself in my virtue, while you, if, like kind fortune, you will still wag your swift pen at me, — si celerem quatis pennam, — will find me ever grateful, or even trying to be resigned if you do not. I have not written for about four months. Even to my little Mary I am obliged now to write themes instead of letters. By this mail I send her one “on the advantages of silence.” If you should happen to meet her, ask her to show it to you that you may see to what a depth of imbecility your old friend has descended. I have yours of the 27th of April and the 20th of June. I am deeply grateful for them. I have just been reading them both over, and you will be glad to know that now, after the lapse of fifty years, which is about the distance from the first date at the rate we are living at, there is no false coloring, no judgment turned inside out, no blundering prophecy, no elation or no despondency which subsequent events have come to rebuke.

Writing as you do to me out of the kindness of your heart and the fullness of your head, you willingly run the risk of making blunders for the sake of giving me, in your vivid and intense way, a rapid image of the passing moment. I strain my eyes across the Atlantic through the stereoscope you so kindly provide me, and for an instant or two I am with you. I think very often of your Wendell. He typifies so well to me the metamorphosis of young America from what it was in our days. Consule Planco. There, within less than a twelvemonth after leaving college, the young poet, philosopher, artist, has become a man, robustus acri militia puer, has gone through such scenes as Ball's Bluff, Fair Oaks, and the seven days before Richmond, and, even while I write, is still engaged, perchance, in other portentous events, and it is scarcely a year since you and I went together to the State House to talk with the governor about his commission. These things would hardly be so startling if it was the mere case of a young man entering the army and joining a marching regiment. But when a whole community suddenly transmutes itself into an army, and the “stay-at-home rangers” are remembered on the fingers and pointed at with the same, what a change must be made in the national character!

Pfui liber den Buben

Hinter den Ofen,

Hinter den Sttthlen,

Hinter den Sophen,

as the chivalrous Koerner sang.

I had a very well-written letter the other day from a young cousin of mine, Julius Lothrop by name, now serving as sergeant in the Massachusetts Twenty-fourth. I need not say how I grieved to hear that Lowell had lost another nephew, and a near relative to your wife, too. You mentioned him in your very last letter as having gained health and strength by his campaigning. There is something most touching in the fact that those two youths, Putnam and Lowell, both scions of our most honored families, and both distinguished among their equals for talent, character, accomplishment, and virtue, for all that makes youth venerable, should have been among the earliest victims of this infernal conspiracy of slaveholders. I know not if such a thought is likely to comfort the mourners, but it is nevertheless most certain that when such seed is sown the harvest to be reaped by the country will be almost priceless. Of this I entertain no doubt whatever. God knows I was never an optimist, but in the great result of this tremendous struggle I can foresee nothing but good. The courage and the determination of both sides being equal, the victory must be to the largest army and navy and the longest purse.

What has so long held back the imprisoned power of the North during all these dreary years of the slave domination of our Republic was, after all, a moral principle. It was pushed to excess till it became a vice, but it was still the feeling of patriotism and an exaggerated idea of public faith. There is even a lingering band or two to be broken yet before the great spirit of the North is completely disenthralled. But I hope I am not mistaken in thinking that they have become weaker than packthread.

SOURCE: George William Curtis, editor, The Correspondence of John Lothrop Motley in Two Volumes, Library Edition, Volume 2, p. 276-9

Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr. to John L. Motley, August 29, 1862

Boston, 21 Charles Street,

August 29, 1862.

My Dear Motley: I don't know how I can employ the evening of my birthday better than by sitting down and beginning a letter to you. I have heard of your receiving my last, and that you meant to reply to it soon. But this was not in the bond, and whether you write or not, I must let you hear from me from time to time. I know what you must endure with a non-conductor of a thousand leagues between you and this great battery, which is sending its thrill through us every night and morning. I know that every different handwriting on an envelop, if it comes from a friend, has its special interest, for it will give an impression in some way differing from that of all others. My own thoughts have been turned aside for a while from those lesser occurrences of the day which would occupy them at other times by a domestic sorrow, which, though coming in the course of nature, and at a period when it must have been very soon inevitable, has yet left sadness in mine and other households. My mother died on the 19th of this month, at the age of ninety-three, keeping her lively sensibilities and sweet intelligence to the last. My brother John had long cared for her in the most tender way, and it almost broke his heart to part with her. She was a daughter to him, she said, and he had fondly thought that love and care could keep her frail life to the filling up of a century or beyond it. It was a pity to look on him in his first grief; but time, the great consoler, is busy with his anodyne, and he is coming back to himself. My mother remembered the Revolution well, and she was scared by the story of the redcoats coming along and killing everybody as they went, she having been carried from Boston to Newburyport. Why should I tell you this? Our hearts lie between two forces — the near ones of home and family, and those that belong to the rest of the universe. A little magnet holds its armature against the dragging of our own planet and all the spheres.

I had hoped that my mother might have lived through this second national convulsion. It was ordered otherwise, and with the present prospects I can hardly lament that she was spared the period of trial that remains. How long that is to be no one can predict with confidence. There is a class of men one meets with who seem to consider it due to their antecedents to make the worst of everything. I suppose —— —— may be one of these. I met him a day or two since, and lost ten minutes in talk with him on the sidewalk — lost them, because I do not wish to talk with any man who looks at this matter empirically as an unlucky accident, which a little prudence might have avoided, and not a theoretical necessity. However, he said to me that the wisest man he knew — somebody whose name I did not know — said to him long ago that this war would outlast him, an old man, and his companion also, very probably. You meet another man, and he begins cursing the government as the most tyrannical one that ever existed. “That is not the question,” I answer. “How much money have you given for this war? How many of your boys have gone to it? How much of your own body and soul have you given to it?” I think Mr. —— —— is the most forlorn of all the Jeremiahs I meet with. Faith, faith is the only thing that keeps a man up in times like these; and those persons who, by temperament or underfeeding of the soul, are in a state of spiritual anemia, are the persons I like least to meet, and try hardest not to talk with.

For myself, I do not profess to have any political wisdom. I read, I listen, I judge to the best of my ability. The best talk I have heard from any of our home politicians was that of Banks, more than a year and a half ago. In a conversation I had with him, he foreshadowed more clearly the plans and prospects and estimated more truly the resources of the South than any one else with whom I had met. But prophets in America and Europe have been at a very heavy discount of late. Count Gasparin seems to me to have the broadest and keenest understanding of the aims and ends of this armed controversy. If we could be sure of no intermeddling, I should have no anxiety except for individuals and for temporary interests. If we have grown unmanly and degenerate in the north wind, I am willing that the sirocco should sweep us off from the soil. If the course of nature must be reversed for us, and the Southern Goths must march to the “beggarly land of ice” to overrun and recolonize us, I have nothing to object. But I have a most solid and robust faith in the sterling manhood of the North, in its endurance, its capacity for a military training, its plasticity for every need, in education, in political equality, in respect for man as man in peaceful development, which is our law, in distinction from aggressive colonization; in human qualities as against bestial and diabolical ones; in the Lord as against the devil. If I never see peace and freedom in this land, I shall have faith that my children will see it. If they do not live long enough to see it, I believe their children will. The revelations we have had from the Old World have shed a new light for us on feudal barbarism. We know now where we are not to look for sympathy. But oh, it would have done your heart good to see the processions of day before yesterday and to-day, the air all aflame with flags, the streets shaking with the tramp of long-stretched lines, and only one feeling showing itself, the passion of the first great uprising, only the full flower of which that was the opening bud.

There is a defense of blubber about the arctic creatures through which the harpoon must be driven before the vital parts are touched. Perhaps the Northern sensibility is protected by some such incasing shield. The harpoon is, I think, at last through the blubber. In the meanwhile I feel no doubt in my own mind that the spirit of hostility to slavery as the cause of this war is speedily and certainly increasing. They were talking in the cars to-day of Fremont's speech at the Tremont Temple last evening. His allusions to slavery — you know what they must have been — were received with an applause which they would never have gained a little while ago. Nay, I think a miscellaneous Boston audience would be more like to cheer any denunciation of slavery now than almost any other sentiment.

SOURCE: George William Curtis, editor, The Correspondence of John Lothrop Motley in Two Volumes, Library Edition, Volume 2, p. 267-71

Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr. to John L. Motley, September 3, 1862

Wednesday evening, September 3.

I have waited long enough. We get the most confused and unsatisfactory, yet agitating, rumors. Pope seems to be falling back on the capital after having got the worst of it in a battle on the 30th. Since that there has been little fighting so far as we know, but this noon we get a story that Stonewall Jackson is marching by Leesburg on Baltimore, and yesterday we learned that Cincinnati is in imminent danger of a rebel invasion. How well I remember the confidence that you expressed in General Scott — a confidence which we all shared! The old general had to give up, and then it was nothing but McClellan. But do not think that the pluck or determination of the North has begun to yield. There never was such a universal enthusiasm for the defense of the Union and the trampling out of rebellion as at this perilous hour. I am willing to believe that many of the rumors we hear are mere fabrications. I won't say to you, be of good courage, because men of ideas are not put down by the accidents of a day or a year.

Yours always,

O. W. H.

SOURCE: George William Curtis, editor, The Correspondence of John Lothrop Motley in Two Volumes, Library Edition, Volume 2, p. 271

Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr. to John L. Motley, April 27, 1862

Boston, April 27, 1862.

My Dear Motley: I saw Lowell day before yesterday, and asked him if he had written as you requested and as I begged him to do. He told me he had, and I congratulated you on having a new correspondent to bring you into intelligent relations with American matters, as seen through a keen pair of Boston eyes, and a new channel through which your intense sympathies can be reached. I trust that between us you can be kept pretty well supplied with that particular kind of knowledge which all exiles want, and which the newspapers do not give—knowledge of things, persons, affairs public and private, localized, individualized, idiosyncratized, from those whose ways of looking at matters you know well, and from all whose statements and guesses you know just what to discount to make their “personal equation” square with your own. The general conviction now, as shown in the talk one hears, in the tone of the papers, in the sales of government stocks, is that of fast-growing confidence in the speedy discomfiture of the rebels at all points. This very morning we have two rebel stories that New Orleans has surrendered, its forts having been taken after some thirty hours' attack. At the same time comes the story that the rebels are falling back from Corinth.

Both seem altogether probable, but whether true or not the feeling is very general now that we are going straight to our aims, not, perhaps, without serious checks from time to time, but irresistibly and rapidly. The great interior communications of the rebels are being broken up. General Mitchell has broken the vertebral column of the Memphis and Charlestown Railroad, and while McClellan, with 130,000 men or more, is creeping up to Yorktown with his mounds and batteries, we see McDowell and Banks and Burnside drawing in gradually and sweeping the rebels in one vast battue before them. On the Mississippi, again, and its tributaries, our successes have made us confident. We do not now ask whether, but when. That truly magnificent capture of “No. 10” has given us all a feeling that we are moving to our ends as fate moves, and that nothing will stop us. I think the cutting of that canal through the swamps and forests ranks with the miracles of this war, with the Monitor achievement, and with the Burnside exploit, which last was so heroically carried out in the face of storms such as broke up the Spanish Armada. As for the canal, no doubt we see things in exaggerated proportions on this side, but to me the feat is like that of Cyrus, when he drew off the waters of the Euphrates and marched his army through the bed of the river. So of the Monitor — “Minotaur,” old Mr. Quincy said to me, “it should have been” — its appearance in front of the great megalosaurus or dinotherium, which came out in its scaly armor that no one could pierce, breathing fire and smoke from its nostrils; is it not the age of fables and of heroes and demigods over again?

And all this makes me think of our “boys,” as we used to call our men, who are doing the real work of the time — your nephews, my son, and our many friends. We have not heard so much of the cavalry, to which I believe Lawrence is attached. But Burnside! how you must have followed him in the midst of storm, of shipwreck, of trial by thirst, if not by famine, of stormy landings on naked beaches, through Roanoke, through Newbern, until at last we find him knocking at the back door that leads to Norfolk, and read this very day that the city is trembling all over in fear of an attack from him, while Fort Macon is making ready at the other end of his field of labor to follow Pulaski. I have heard of Lewis Stackpole; at one time they said his knee troubled him, that he was not able to march as he would like; but you must know more about this than I do. Of course my eyes are on the field before Yorktown. The last note from my boy was on a three-cornered scrap of paper, and began, “In the woods, near the enemy.” It was cheery and manly.

Wendell came home in good health, but for his wound, which was well in a few weeks; but the life he led here was a very hard one, — late hours, excitement all the time, — and I really thought that he would be better in camp than fretting at his absence from it and living in a round of incessant over-stimulating society. I think he finds camp life agrees with him particularly well. Did you happen to know anything of Captain Bartlett, of the Twentieth? I suppose not. He was made a captain when a junior in our college; a remarkable military taste, talent, and air. He lost his leg the other day, when setting pickets before Yorktown. His chief regret was not being able to follow the fortunes of the army any longer. I meant to have told you that my boy was made a captain the other day. He does not care to take the place, being first lieutenant under his most intimate friend Hallowell. The two want to go into battle together, like Nisus and Euryalus. How our little unit out of the six or seven hundred thousand grows in dimensions as we talk or write about it!

I wish I could give you an idea of the momentary phase of the public mind as I see its manifestations here, which are probably not unlike those elsewhere. I will tell you one thing which strikes me. People talk less about what is going on, and more quietly. There is, as I said, a feeling that the curtain is like to drop pretty soon on the first act of the drama, that the military part of the play will be mainly over in a few months. Not extermination, nor pacification, perhaps, but extinction of the hopes of the rebels as to anything they can do with great armies in the field, and the consequent essential break-up of the rebellion. But après? That, of course, is exercising those who have done croaking about the war. I dined at last week, with the Friday Club, and sat next –––. He was as lugubrious on what was to come after the war as he was a year ago with respect to its immediate danger. Then he could hardly bear to think that so accomplished an officer as General Lee was to be opposed to our Northern leaders. Yet who troubles himself very particularly about General Lee nowadays? He thinks there are to be such hatreds between North and South as have not been since the times of the Greek Republic. I suppose seventy years must be at the bottom of all this despondency. Not that everybody does not see terrible difficulties; but let us fight this quarrel fairly out, not patch it up, and it will go hard but we will find some way of living together in a continent that has so much room as this. Of the precise mode no man knoweth. . . .

Yours always,

O. W. H.

SOURCE: George William Curtis, editor, The Correspondence of John Lothrop Motley in Two Volumes, Library Edition, Volume 2, p. 252-6

Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr. to John L. Motley, March 8, 1862

Boston, March 8, 1862.

My Dear Motley: I have been debating with myself whether to wait for further news from Nashville, the Burnside expedition, Savannah, or somewhere, before writing you, and came to the conclusion that I will begin this February 24, and keep my letter along a few days, adding whatever may turn up, with a reflection thereupon. Your last letter, as I told you, was of great interest in itself, and for the extracts it contained from the letters of your correspondents. I lent it to your father and your brother Edward, and a few days ago to William Amory, at his particular request. Calling on old Mr. Quincy two days ago, we talked of you. He desired me most expressly and repeatedly to send his regards and respects. I think I am pretty near the words, but they were very cordial and distinguishing ones, certainly. He takes the greatest interest in your prosperity and fame, and you know that the greatest of men have not many nonagenarian admirers. It is nine weeks, I think, since Mr. Quincy fell and fractured the neck of the thigh-bone, and he has been on his back ever since. But he is cheerful, ready to live or die; considers his later years as an appendix to the opus of his life, that he has had more than he bargained for when he accepted life.

As you might suppose it would be at ninety, though he greatly rejoices at our extraordinary successes of late, he does not think we are “out of the woods,” as he has it, yet. A defeat, he thinks, would take down our spirits as rapidly as they were raised. “But I am an old man,” he says, “and, to be sure, an old man cannot help seeing the uncertainties and difficulties which the excitable public overlooks in its exaltation.”

Never was such ecstasy, such delirium of excitement, as last Monday, a week ago to-day, when we got the news from Fort Donelson. Why, — to give you an instance from my own experience, — when I, a grave college professor, went into my lecture-room, the class, which had first got the news a little before, began clapping and clapping louder and louder, then cheering, until I had to give in myself, and flourishing my wand in the air, joined with the boys in their rousing hurrahs, after which I went on with my lecture as usual. The almost universal feeling is that the rebellion is knocked on the head; that it may kick hard, even rise and stagger a few paces, but that its os frontis is beaten in.

The last new thing is the President's message, looking to gradual compensated emancipation. I don't know how it will be received here, but the effect will be good abroad. John Stuart Mill's article in “Fraser” has delighted people here more than anything for a good while. I suppose his readers to be the best class of Englishmen.

Yours always,

O. W. H.

SOURCE: George William Curtis, editor, The Correspondence of John Lothrop Motley in Two Volumes, Library Edition, Volume 2, p. 246-8

Edward Everett Hale to Charles Hale, April 1, 1861

I want to congratulate you specially on the dignity, spirit, decorum, and wisdom of the paper since the war began. I think it really deserves all praise.

In the way of war poetry, print again Holmes's verses of the President's Fast. We had them the day after. The burthen

“God bless them when our Northern pine

Shall meet their Southern palm.”

runs in my head all the time. Indeed the whole thing fills me with unutterable sadness. But if we come out of it a nation it is worth something.

SOURCE: Edward Everett Hale Jr., The Life and Letters of Edward Everett Hale, Volume 1, p. 326-7

John L. Motley to Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr., February 16, 1862

Legation of the United States of America, Vienna,

February 26, 1862.

My Dear Holmes: You are the most generous and delightful of correspondents and friends. I have two long and most interesting letters of yours to acknowledge, the first of 7th January, the second of 3d February. They are exactly the kind of letters which I most value. I want running commentaries on men and events produced on such a mind as yours by the rapidly developing history of our country at its most momentous crisis. I take great pleasure in reading your prophecies, and intend to be just as free in hazarding my own, for, as you so well say, our mortal life is but a string of guesses at the future, and no one but an idiot would be discouraged at finding himself sometimes far out in his calculations. If I find you signally right in any of your predictions, be sure that I will congratulate and applaud. If you make mistakes, you shall never hear of them again, and I promise to forget them. Let me ask the same indulgence from you in return. This is what makes letter-writing a comfort and journalism dangerous. For this reason, especially as I am now in an official position, I have the greatest horror lest any of my crudities should get into print. I have also to acknowledge the receipt of a few lines to Wendell. They gave me very great pleasure. I am delighted to hear of his entire recovery, and I suppose you do not object, so much as he does, to his being detained for a time from camp by recruiting service. I shall watch his career with deep interest. Just now we are intensely anxious about the Burnside expedition, of which, as you know, my nephew Lewis Stackpole is one. He is almost like my son. I feel very proud of his fine intellectual and manly qualities, and although it is a sore trial to his mother to part with him, yet I am sure that she would in future days have regretted his enrolment in the “stay-at-home rangers.”

That put me in mind to acknowledge the receipt of “Songs in Many Keys.” It lies on our drawing-room table, and is constantly in our hands. I cannot tell you how much pleasure I derived from it. Many of the newer pieces I already know by heart, and admire them as much as you know I have always done their predecessors. The “Ballad” is in a new vein for you, and is, I think, most successful. If I might venture to mention the separate poems by name which most please me, I should certainly begin with “Iris, her Book,” “Under the Violets,” “The Voiceless,” which are full of tenderness and music. Then the clarion ring of the verses for the centennial celebration of Burns has an immense charm for me, and so the trumpet tones of “The Voice of the Loyal North”; but I should go on a long time if I tried to express my honest and hearty admiration for the volume as fully as it deserves. I thank you most sincerely for it, and I assure you that you increase in fullness and power and artistic finish without losing any of your youthful freshness of imagination. I am glad that the emperor had the sense to appreciate your “Vive la France.” I agree with him that it is plein d'inspiration and exceedingly happy. I admire it the more because for the moment it communicated to me the illusion under the spell of which you wrote it. For of course France hates us as much as England does, and Louis Napoleon is capable of playing us a trick at any moment.

I am obliged to reason like a cosmopolite. The English have a right to hate America if they instinctively feel that the existence of a great, powerful, prosperous, democratic republic is a standing menace to the tenure of their own privileges. I think the instinct false, however, to a certain extent. Physical, historical, and geographical conditions make our democratic commonwealth a possibility, while they are nearly all wanting in England. I do not think the power or glory or prosperity of the English monarchy any menace to our institutions. I think it an unlucky and unreasoning perverseness which has led the English aristocracy to fear our advance in national importance. I do not mean that, on the whole, the government has behaved ill to us. Especially international dealings with us have been courteous and conciliatory. I like personally English ways, English character, Englishmen and Englishwomen. It is a great empire in arts and arms, and their hospitalities are very pleasant. Nevertheless, I love my own country never so much as at this moment. Never did I feel so strong a faith in her destiny as now. Of John Bright we have already spoken, and of the daily and noble battle waged for us by the “Daily News” (which I hope you read); and now how must we all rejoice at the magnificent essay in “Fraser's Magazine” by the acknowledged chief of English thinkers, John Stuart Mill!

It is awful to reflect that the crisis of our fate is so rapidly approaching. The ides of March will be upon us before this letter reaches you. We have got to squash the rebellion soon, or be squashed forever as a nation — aut fer, aut feri. I do not pretend to judge military plans or the capacity of generals; but, as you suggest, perhaps I can take a more just view of the whole picture of this eventful struggle at this great distance than do those absolutely acting and suffering in the scene. Nor can I resist the desire to prophesy any more than you do, knowing that I may prove utterly mistaken. I say, then, our great danger comes from foreign interference. What will prevent that? Our utterly defeating the Confederates in some great and conclusive battle, or our possession of the cotton ports and opening them to European trade, or a most unequivocal policy of slave-emancipation. Any one of these three conditions would stave off recognition by foreign powers until we had ourselves abandoned the attempt to reduce the South to obedience.

The last measure is to my mind the most important. The South has, by going to war with the United States government, thrust into our hands against our will the invincible weapon which constitutional reasons have hitherto forbidden us to employ. At the same time, it has given us the power to remedy a great wrong to four millions of the human race, in which we have hitherto been obliged to acquiesce. We are threatened with national annihilation, and defied to use the only means of national preservation. The question is distinctly proposed to us, Shall slavery die, or the great Republic? It is most astounding to me that there can be two opinions in the free States as to the answer. If we do fall, we deserve our fate. At the beginning of the contest, constitutional scruples might be respectable. But now we are fighting to subjugate the South, that is, slavery. We are fighting for the Union. Who wishes to destroy the Union? The slaveholders. Nobody else. Are we to spend $1,200,000,000 and raise 600,000 soldiers in order to protect slavery?

It really does seem to me too simple for argument. I am anxiously waiting for the coming Columbus who will set this egg of ours on end by smashing in the slavery end. We shall be rolling about in every direction until that is done. I do not know that it is to be done by proclamation—rather, perhaps, by facts. Well, I console myself by thinking that the people, the American people at least, is about as wise collectively as less numerous collections of individuals, and that the people has really decreed emancipation and is only puzzling how to carry it into effect. After all, it seems to be a law of Providence that progress should be by a spiral movement, so that when we seem most tortuous we may perhaps be going ahead. I am firm in the faith that slavery is now wriggling itself to death. With slavery in its primitive vigor I should think the restored Union neither possible nor desirable. Do not understand me as not taking fully into account all the strategical considerations against premature governmental utterances on this great subject.

But are there any trustworthy friends of the Union among the slaveholders? Should we lose many Kentuckians and Virginians who are now with us if we boldly confiscated the slaves of all rebels? And a confiscation of property which has legs and so confiscates itself at command is not only a legal, but would prove a very practical, measure in time of war. In brief, the time is fast approaching, I think, when “Thorough” should be written on all our banners. Slavery will never accept a subordinate position. The great Republic and slavery cannot both survive. We have been defied to mortal combat, and yet we hesitate to strike. These are my poor thoughts on this great subject. Perhaps you will think them crude.

I was much struck with what you quote from Mr. Conway, that if emancipation was proclaimed on the Upper Mississippi it would be known to the negroes of Louisiana in advance of the telegraph. And if once the blacks had leave to run, how many whites would have to stay at home to guard their dissolving property?

You have had enough of my maunderings. But before I conclude them, may I ask you to give all our kindest regards to Lowell, and to express our admiration for the “Yankee Idyl”? I am afraid of using too extravagant language if I say all I think about it. Was there ever anything more stinging, more concentrated, more vigorous, more just? He has condensed into those few pages the essence of a hundred diplomatic papers and historical disquisitions and Fourth of July orations. I have very pleasant relations with all the “J. B.'s”¹ here. They are all friendly and well disposed to the North. I speak of the embassy, which, with the ambassador and ambassadress, numbers eight or ten souls, some of them very intellectual ones.

Shall I say anything of Austria? What can I say that would interest you? That is the reason why I hate to write. All my thoughts are in America. Do you care to know about the Archduke Ferdinand Maximilian (if L. N.² has his way)? He is next brother to the emperor; but although I have had the honor of private audience of many archdukes here, this one is a resident of Triest. He is about thirty; has an adventurous disposition, some imagination, a turn for poetry; has voyaged a good deal about the world in the Austrian ship of war, for in one respect he much resembles that unfortunate but anonymous ancestor of his, the King of Bohemia, with the seven castles, who, according to Corporal Trim, had such a passion for navigation and sea affairs, “with never a seaport in all his dominions.” But now the present King of Bohemia has got the sway of Triest, and Ferdinand Maximilian has been resident there, and is Lord High Admiral and chief of the Marine Department. He has been much in Spain and also in South America. I have read some travels — “Reise Skizzen” — of his, printed, not published. They are not without talent, and he ever and anon relieves his prose jog-trot by breaking into a canter of poetry. He adores bullfights, rather regrets the Inquisition, and considers the Duke of Alva everything noble and chivalrous and the most abused of men. It would do your heart good to hear his invocations to that deeply injured shade, his denunciations of the ignorant and vulgar Protestants who have defamed him. “Du armer Alva! weil du dem Willen deines Herren unerschütterlich treu warst, weil die fest bestimmten Grundsätze der Regierung,” etc., etc., etc. You can imagine the rest. (N. B. Let me observe that the D. R. was not published until long after the “Reise Skizzen” were written.)

Dear me, I wish I could get back to the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries! If once we had the “rebels licked, Jeff Davis hanged, and all,” I might shunt myself back to my old rails. But alas! the events of the nineteenth century are too engrossing. If Lowell cares to read this letter, will you allow me to make it over to him jointly, as Captain Cuttle says? I wished to write to him, but I am afraid only you would tolerate my writing so much when I have nothing to say. If he would ever send me a line I should be infinitely obliged, and would quickly respond. We read “The Washers of the Shroud” with fervent admiration. Always remember me most sincerely to the club, one and all. It touches me nearly when you assure me that I am not forgotten by them. To-morrow is Saturday, and last of the month.³ We are going to dine with our Spanish colleague.⁴ But the first bumper of the don's champagne I shall drain to the health of the Parker House friends. Mary and Lily join me in kindest regards to you and all yours; and I am, as always,

Sincerely your friend,

J. L. M.

_______________

¹ Cf. “Jonathan to John,” in “The Biglow Papers.”

² Louis Napoleon.

³ The club dinner took place on that day.

⁴ M. de la Torre Ayllon.

SOURCE: George William Curtis, editor, The Correspondence of John Lothrop Motley in Two Volumes, Library Edition, Volume 2, p. 239-46