Ripon, Va., Sept. 10, '64.
My Dear Henry,
— I have been meaning to write to you ever since you became Mr. again, to ask
about your health and prospects; or haven't you any of either?
I felt very sorry, old fellow, at your being finally obliged
to give up, for I know you would have liked to see it out; however, there is
work enough for a public-spirited cove everywhere. Labour for recruits and for
Linkum, and you will do more than by sabring six Confederates. How do you earn
your bread nowadays: or, if you are not earning it, how do you manage to pay
for it? I daily congratulate myself that I drink no sugar in my coffee, that
butter and eggs are unattainable, and that army beef is still only 13 cents, —
for how should I be able to live on my pay? And for a civilian, Mr. Chase's
successes must be awful to contemplate. I hope, Mr. Higginson, that you are
going to live like a plain Republican, mindful of the beauty and the duty of
simplicity. Nothing fancy now, Sir, if you please. It's disreputable to spend
money, when the Government is so hard up, and when there are so many poor
officers. I hope you have outgrown all foolish ambitions and are now content to
become a “useful citizen.” . . . Don't
grow rich; if you once begin, you will find it much more difficult to be a
useful citizen. The useful citizen is a mighty unpretending hero. But we are
not going to have any Country very long unless such heroism is developed.
There! what a stale sermon I'm preaching; but being a soldier, it does seem
to me that I should like nothing else so well as being a useful citizen. That's
modest, is it not? — well, trying to be one, I mean. I shall stay in the
service, of course, till the war is over, or till I'm disabled; but then I
look forward to a pleasanter career, one in which E. can be even a more better
half. By Jove! what I have wasted through crude and stupid theories. I wish old
Stephen were alive. I should like to poke fingers through his theories and have
him poke through mine. How I do envy (or rather admire) the young
fellows who have something to do now without theories, and do it. I believe I
have lost all my ambitions, old fellow (military ambition Abraham has
the “dead thing” on; he cures us all of that). I don't think I would turn my
hand to be a distinguished chemist or a famous mathematician. All I now
care about is to be a useful citizen with money enough to buy bread and
firewood, and to teach my children how to ride on horseback and look strangers
in the face, especially Southern strangers. I'll stop now; don't be alarmed.
Where are you going to live? — New York or further West; not
Boston, I presume, unless your father wants you very much, and then why not
move him too? What are you going to do? I am beginning to think old Cato was about
right — “graze well,” “graze, graze ill.” Grazing is a good business, though it
does take one away from the big plans. If I could stand the life, however, and
could get enough to live upon, I suppose I should yield to the temptation of
New York. . . . Don't take this letter
as a sample of my usual tone now. I measure every word now when I talk. (Did you
not caution my wife to stop my abuse of the Administration in my letters to a
certain Army officer, — Major H. of First Massachusetts Cavalry, — the said
talk being dangerous, and the said Major untrustworthy? Know, young man, that I
am a good enough friend of the Administration to be able to abuse its errors
and its oversights without stint to safe ears, but I choose my ears
carefully.) 1
I'm forty years old, — yes, forty-five,2 — and I
never talk without thinking now — “a devil of a thinking.” I wonder whether I
shall ever see you again to prove this. I fancy the hard fighting in the Valley
has hardly begun yet, though the cavalry has been very busy, and this
autumn campaign will run well into December. About December 15th I shall try
for a leave of absence, 30 days, if I can get it; and then perhaps we'll
pass an evening together.
I wish you could have got to Falls Church. I was very glad
that Mother and Father paid me a visit there, when they did, to see how
comfortable a wife can be in quarters. However, what are quarters to you now,
or you to quarters? . . .
_______________
1 Colonel Lowell only permitted himself to
criticise the Administration — always within bounds — to one or two of his
closest friends. One of these, Mr. Forbes, he believed able to influence the
Government in favour of special acts or general policies that seemed wise,
honourable, and just, and hence necessary. Lowell's temperament was very
different from Lincoln's, — he could not have waited for the slow growth of
public opinion, — and, moreover, he judged him by such imperfect information as
was accessible. He did not, like us, see him from afar, his work successfully
done and crowned with his halo.
2 This is a statement of Colonel Lowell's
momentary feeling. He was then twenty-nine years old.
SOURCE: Edward Waldo Emerson, Life and Letters of
Charles Russell Lowell, p. 340-3, 461
