College Green Barracks

June 3 1865.

 

Dear M^cAlice,

                        I see I have dated this incorrectly, but inasmuch as I dislike to scratch out I shall let it stand and make the correction here. In sincerity then I declare that this letter is written upon the 1^st of June: at about three I commence with full intention of keeping on until I finish, on the one hand and on the other, of stopping the mill when the grist is out. You err I think in stating that my idea of duty and obligation and credit would put a stop to the breath of honest praise all over the world: to be sure, it would if generally adopted squeeze the [?] of flattery with a death dealing grip; no more heroes would be made of those who pay their debts, the name of the returner of umbrellas would not be published for the benefit of some modern Diogenes seeking an honest man. But honestly earned praise might still clap his wings and crow from the top rail, for there are plenty of men and have been in ages past, who have done more by far than duty required. I could make quite a list of such but a few will serve as samples, Regulus for his country’s good returned to cruel imprisonment and a horrible death, when he might have saved himself without the least accusation of failing in duty. Duty never required a man to chain himself to a rock or to smite himself with a scourge / or to “fast whole Lents” and yet scores of hermits have done such things and more to mortify the flesh. In our own country and age there are several men who are doing more than strict duty requires; Cornelius Vanderbilt heads the roll with a contribution of half a million towards defraying the National Debt. Are you satisfied? You descend to a nearer application when you speak of me You must bear in mind that I did not enlist until the war had been running on more than a year and only came out at all from the three fold influence of bounty fear of the draft and shame at being at home. You accuse me of seeing but little of the good of human nature, of being prone to looking only at the faults and frailties of men; I beg leave to plead “not guilty”, tho remarks which led you to that remark are the result of close scrutiny of men and manners: that the fruit of this scrutiny is as it is, is no fault of mine. You seem to have my taste as to weather. October is certainly the best part of the year—June days are a trifle too warm. Did you ever read Lowell’s eulogium upon June weather in his Vision of Sir Launfal? If not I advise you to do so. Did you ever notice how the sounds of the names of the months seem to characterize the months themselves. No one is so dull that he would think it possible that May or June could be the names of cold months, or that flowers could blossom in December. It is now morning—July 2^nd A year ago last night I marched with the battery all night long. The night was warm and close; we had had no rain for weeks and the dust rose at each step / the horses made like smoke. Every few minutes the whole column would come to a standstill and start again just as we tired cannoneers would get stretched out in the dust. It was actually stifling and no water all along the route. The horses got exhausted and would lean against each other for mutual support as they went. Numbers of them fell in the road and a new one—i.e. a spare horse that was afflicted with glanders, farcy, or something worse—was put in each of their places A ball would be sent through the head of the played out beast and then we went on again trotting to catch up with the rest of the battery, for if anything happens to a team no other carriages stop. Then we cannoneers would have to run to keep up and if one opened his mouth to breathe he would feel the dust on his tongue. The coating of dust on our eyeballs could even be felt and only by constant winking could one keep his sight. At one place where a culvert ran under the road there was no bridge except the timbers where one had been, but the chasm was only two feet wide and the teams jumped it. At one place we passed the 9^th Corps, all in park and sleeping as sound as you please. At one place we had to go through a piece of woods that were all on fire. The trees were tall pines and frequently the resinous bark would be all on fire from top to bottom. It was only by constant attention that we could keep the burning fragments away from the powder chests. At one place a great pine lay across the road burning—there was no way but to stop right in the midst of the scorching heat until we could cut the log away with / our dull axes; the ammunition all the while in imminent danger. There was one tall old gum tree that was all afire within. There was an opening into the cavity at the bottom which supplied a draft and the sparks and flame whirled out at the top in a column ten feet high. The light of the fire upon the under surface of the pine branches and leaves had a singular effect—it seemed as if the clouds of the sky were right down upon us. Emerging we travelled a half mile and halted for perhaps fifteen minutes. I lay down on the ground and slept like a log. A drove of four hundred cattle went over me some so near that on waking their I found their foot tracks within six inches of my head they never startled me. When the herd had passed and were turned into a pen a little in advance we started again. Every man—all had been fast asleep wherever they had chanced to drop—was on his feet at once, for no matter how soundly a man may be dreaming, the words “Attention Battery” bring him up at once and every man as he rises repeats it—Attention Battery. On a later occasion to wit the 30^th of July I was so tired from a night march that though all the noise of the battle of the Mine was going on within a quarter of a mile—and though a fifteen inch mortar was discharged every five minutes within four rods I never knew a thing until the word “attention.” Well, morning began to dawn at last and we could see a little ahead of us every man was as dusty as a miller. We were at the head of the column and everything before us was fresh with dew and the birds were singing and fluttering about as if full of / enjoyment; and we forlorn and wretched. I saw men drop from fatigue, but they would rise stronger like Antaeans and keep on. Sergt. Dolph Parker rode for miles fast asleep in his saddle with moustache and beard as gray as a grandfather’s; many men slept as they walked numbers of them I saw walk right into a fence or tred right against I mean. At last we came in sight of Cold Harbor, an old gray house a story and a half high with numerous additions and gable ends with strange old mounding of wood and with a porch covered with creeping vines. Best of all in our eyes was a huge well sweep for drawing from a well which was dug under tall old trees. We went thither to draw but to our wrath and furious ire we found a guard over the well which was to be reserved for the use of some paltry brigadier and his staff. Nor were we permitted to lie down on the grass under the trees—the “General” wanted all the room himself. We were angry enough but it did not so much matter as just then we got orders to move forward a quarter of a mile. Being there we lay down on the sand in the sun and slept two or three hours. Then we moved into the rear of a series of lunettes for batteries waiting for Captain Hexamer of the 1 N Jersey battery to draw out. they had been two days there engaging a rebel battery and when finally they drew out they lost five men with a single shot. We then went in under a furious fire and in fifteen minutes drove the reb battery away /

 

And here let me remark in passing that up to the time of my capture we never opened upon a battery without silencing it. But what’s the use of telling these war stories—The papers have been full of such for years. I think we shall find enough to read if I come home this summer. There are histories and biographies and works of fiction enough in the library without coming down to Adam Bede and the Mill on the Floss. It is but fair to own that I have never read either of these books but I claim to know pretty well what they are without. They were are written in a popular style with a popular plot and of popular materials: as a consequence the whole thing is popular i.e. interesting, amusing, but far from teaching anything. Commonplace in style—commonplace in thought and either commonplace or farfetched in imagery. There are few authors who write in a style at once classic and popular. Populus is satisfied with a time passer and is by no means solicitous about a time improver. You and I on the contrary want the latter and if it also possesses somewhat of the nature of the former so much the better though it be a grace not bargained for. Very few books are written that live—all probably that are worthy of existence continue and if we can teach ourselves to know the chaff from the grain we are so much the better off. Consider how few of the books written a hundred years ago are still quoted then apply the ration to the present issue and see how few are likely to be worth remembering. Modern works of fiction pour out from the press like salt from “The Mill in the Sea,” some are good / some worthless. Tom Brown at Rugby and T. B. at Oxford are both improving books—Scouring the White Horse by the same author will be of interest only to the antiquary a few years from now. Of the spasmodic style is the “Days of Bruce” by Grace Aguilar—a sentimental affecting overwrought imitation of the historical novel of which style Scott is the only successful writer. The best of that style that I know anything about is “The Heir of Redclyffe” which is affecting and in a slight degree sntimental but not overwrought. Charles Kingsleys Amyas Leigh is a most excellent book for young persons I hope to read it to you sometime—Two Years Ago by the same man is very like Amyas but a little higher strained in every part so that the general effect is not so good. It is like Leutz’s picture over the west staircase of the Capitol “Westward the Course of Empire Takes Its Way” which, I think would be much finer if toned down a little. Dickens told all he knew in David Copperfield ever since he has been amplifying little details of that really good work—supplying a few new incidents and inventing a few other ridiculous names. Copperfield and Pickwick and the Curiosity Shop were as much as Charles ought to have done without refurnishing. With Thackeray it is different; he is ever fresh and new and does not rely upon grotesque names He is moreover twenty times as good an expresser of human nature as Dickens. I began with liking Dickens and disliking Thackeray. I have turned round completely on that. Vanity Fair shows the play of human nature more truthfully than any other novel I know of. You quote a few expressions relative to J Ingelow. They are just the / words for the occasion. They express exactly the nature of her poetry. She describes nature as it is, in clear language, fresh phrased naturally and without an effort or strain and with but little imagination. Dont be angry because I say little imagination for she has that which is full as good and by far rarer—the power of seeing and of telling. No person can tell what he sees in nature so as to give the reader an exact understanding of it but she comes as near as anyone nearer indeed. If I could tell in such language as should produce on anybody’s mind the same effect that the original had on mine, some of the commonest of things, I should be a great writer. For instance after a thunderstorm in summer when the sun comes out and shines on Mr Everetts nut trees wet and sparkling, on the woods behind Mr French’s and upon every other tree and shrub and blade of grass. Or again when, after a storm, the thunder clouds having passed over to the eastern half reflect back the rosy light given them by the sun below our horizon. Or again in an icy time in winter to look out at my window at midnight, and see the setting moon glinting at me its level beams wherever there is a foot of ice between me and her. If I could tell these things as they appear to me I should become a writer of books. Longfellow’s mentions of natural objects are more philosophical and touched deeper as in his Midnight Mass of the Dying Year. Tennyson is more fanciful as in his Tithonus which contains a most beautiful description of dawn. But still I prefer Jean’s account of nature / to theirs. That is not their strong point and it is hers. One can almost see the “Reedy Lindis” flowing and hear “my son’s wife Elisabeth” calling the cattle home from the marshes. Christopher North is far ahead even of her in strength of delineation but his is in prose form. There is an extremely pretty little poem in the June Atlantic called Going to Sleep. I want you to admire it for I think it the nicest thing I have read for a long time. For a wonder it is written by a lady and you know that women are seldom very good authors. Mrs Browning and Miss Ingelow are exceptions, so is Charlotte Bronte, so are not Mrs. Hemans and Gail Hamilton. The latter’s “Prose Hemiads” is a very good example of how much a person may write without saying much. The time has been when the Atlantic would have considered itself disgraced by such a thing. I would have liked very much to see the grand Review, but as for being in it—no I thank you. A Review is the most tiresome thing to a soldier that he has to undergo there is so much waiting for something, nobody knows what, and so much “old womanish” attention to little things. They have a right to keep me till the expiration of my term of service even if every man in the Army were discharged except me. I like every other man enlisted on my own account. I did not enlist to stay till certain other men were mustered out: but to stay till I was released. I hope to be discharged before next September but it is very uncertain. /

 

It seems to me it would be a very good plan for you to write the French exercises. I learned what little I know of the language in just that way. I would like to see Mr. Chamberlain’s sermon, but I don’t believe he is capable of writing anything very fine. His Farm House doesn’t show any great power. After Dinner. It is very warm today: although we keep both window and door open and use nearly a pailful of water on the floor as a libation every day. It is beginning to be somewhat dusty too. The neighborhood of the Bay doesn’t keep the place as cool as one would expect. When I commenced J Doane said to me “How much wilt thou write; how long wilt thou continue” “My cousin is a pretty good little girl I will write peradventure ten or twelve pages.” “then if thou cans’t not fill so large a space?” “Why then I will work till the grist is out”. The last grain has now run through so I will let down the gates, shut up the mill and go home.

 

                                    I am your perspiring cousin,

                                                                                    W^m E Endicott, who requests you to write soon

                                                E

 

P.S. It will take the rest of the afternoon to punctuate this

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