Following the American Civil War Sesquicentennial with day by day writings of the time, currently 1863.

August 2011

 

Quincy, Sunday, August 25, 1861

In my letter I begged you to go to work and try to make the two countries understand each other, for to my eye our foreign relations look very formidable. Why, when England and France are collecting fleets in our southern waters, do we all of a sudden hear rumors of a joint Mexican protectorate? It would be a blessing to mankind, but how will it complicate our relations? This cotton question is beginning to pinch and soon, if ever, if you have any desire to be useful to your country, backed by any energy, you can be useful where you are.

In my letter I asked you to touch England through her pocket. For some time past I have been turning over in my mind an elaborate article on this cotton supply question, but necessarily to be of any good to any one it must be directed more to English eyes than to ours. I touched on it in my last letter, and now I should like to hand it over to you, to see if you can do anything with it. I would write it for the Edinburgh or some really influential review or magazine, but to have effect it should appear in November, when the cotton-shoe will begin to pinch dreadfully, and I would force it into print by laying the plan of it before Mr. Motley or the Governor, or any other person likely to have influence on editors. That done throw your soul into your work and write as if you meant what you said. You always affect in writing too much calmness and quaint philosophy. That will come to you in time, but you do it now at the price of that fresh enthusiasm which is the charm of young writers. If you write now, write as if you were pleading a cause and too much interested to be affected. Throw your soul into your work and say what you feel. If you don’t check it, your mannerism will ruin your style in less than five years.

 

However now for the subject. The books you ought to review, or rather hang your subject on, are Mann’s Manual of Cotton, a book of about one hundred pages; the third annual report of the Manchester Cotton Supply Association and the numbers for May and June of the Cotton Supply Reporter of Manchester, and any new book dealing of the troubles in this country. If you accept the subject I have many curious facts collected, which I will send you at once. Start at once with the paradox that, instead of desiring to break this blockade, England should pray it might last for two years and if necessary assist in enforcing it, as if enforced its inevitable result must be, after one or at most two years of high prices, to forever break down the price of cotton to a reasonable profit over the cost of its cheapest possible production. This opens the whole question of supply. Two things are necessary to the production of cotton — an abundance of labor and a cotton soil. Look into the question of soil first. A semi-tropical heat, with a distribution of rain, are the only essentials. India has not the last and will not do; but Central and South America, all Africa (which is not desert), Australia and the Fiji Islands are better than our cotton states and need only organized labor. This with all the necessary material of ships, channels of trade, custom and experience, our planters have to such a degree that while they would furnish a fair supply of cotton on moderate terms, they could kill competition. Now is England’s chance to free herself from what has been her terror for years. In India, in Egypt in Abyssinia and in South Africa, there is an unlimited amount of cotton land of the finest quality and labor is abundant, costing almost nothing, but unorganized. Two years’ competition will organize it and once organized it can sell the South. In Australia, the South Sea islands and Central America, there is no labor and here the cooley question rises. Properly regulated the trade would be a blessing, for the Chinese amalgamates and California is in point as well as Dana’s reflections on Cuba. The books I have mentioned will give you all the information necessary on these points. This would bring cotton down to the cost, with a profit, of its production in cheap labor countries, say three pence a pound. But it would also lead to immense indirect advantages. As a missionary scheme Africa would be opened up and Livingstone’s discoveries made of use; slavery in America would be killed and the slave-trade closed for ever, as the African would be more useful at home than abroad. You will find in the first few pages of a new book called Social Statics more curious facts and reflections on England’s efforts at the suppression of the slavetrade, and this leads to the amount yearly expended in its suppression in this way, and which the consequent withdrawal of the fleet would save that government, and the amount England could thus afford to pay to promote the enterprise. Finally it would open the untold tropical fertility of Africa to the commerce of the world and these advantages cannot be estimated. Thus cotton would be produced on both sides of the equator all the year round in unlimited quantities, and England would have by two years’ suffering cut the meshes which she could never have broken.

On the other hand England breaks the blockade, or the South is victorious, England may then as well hug her chains, for she must wear them. The Southern confederacy will be aggressive and more slaves and more cotton will be the cry. In spite of England the slave-trade will flourish and their system will spread over Mexico and Central America. Then with the advantages of their organization, slave labor will win the day and England may look for competition in vain. The cotton monopoly will stifle her in the end. They will pretend in Parliament that the recognition of the Confederate States will not extend the area of slavery and all that humbug. Expose this, for it will be a victory of slavery. Recognition will mean war and the prostration at the feet of slavery of free society in America. England can do this if she chooses, but let her not deceive herself and let the results of her action be patent.

Finally the importance of this struggle cannot be overestimated. On the inviolability of the blockade and the consequent cotton pressure throughout the world hangs the destruction of American slavery, the eternal suppression of the slave-trade, the emancipation of England from a thraldom under which her great industrial interest has groaned for fifty years, and finally the civilization and awakening from Barbarism of the great continent of Africa. Even America, deprived of her monopoly, would reap advantage from the result, and this I tried to show in my article in the Atlantic of last April. Are not these results worth the agony of two years of half labor in Lancashire? Are they not worth fighting for? Can England hesitate as to which side her interest favors — as to what course she will adopt?

Here is a general sketch of my idea. I think it would be of service in England and if written as a man should write who is writing for his country at such a time as this, it would surely command attention. Any assistance I can give you I gladly will; but I earnestly beg you, even if this subject does not please you, to make yourself useful in your present position in some way of this kind. You can’t tell how much effect here a sympathetic word from England has now, and you can be of the greatest use if you only will. . . .

SUNDAY 25

Went to church this morning with Julia & Brownson. The day has been delightful, quite a show of soldiers up 14th St., Infantry, Cavalry & Artillery of the Regular Army with a fine Band and Drum Corps. A long train of Army wagons also passed the house. Mr B & wife [Mrs Taft] went to church in the afternoon. Walked down to Lafayette Square and was awhile at Willards with Brownson, not much of a crowd there tonight. Saw Col Clark and Col Chambers, Hon Ira Harris there. Came home 1/2 past nine.

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The three diary manuscript volumes, Washington during the Civil War: The Diary of Horatio Nelson Taft, 1861-1865, are available online at The Library of  Congress.

August 25th.—I visited the Navy Department, which is a small red-brick building two storeys high, very plain and even humble. The subordinate departments are conducted in rooms below stairs. The executive are lodged in the rooms which line both sides of the corridor above. The walls of the passage are lined with paintings in oil and water colours, engravings and paintings in the worst style of art. To the latter considerable interest attaches, as they are authentic likenesses of naval officers who gained celebrity in the wars with Great Britain—men like Perry, McDonough, Decatur, and Hull, who, as the Americans boast, was “the first man who compelled a British frigate of greater force than his own to strike her colours in fair fight.” Paul Jones was not to be seen, but a drawing is proudly pointed to of the attack of the American fleet on Algiers as a proof of hatred to piracy, and of the prominent part taken by the young States in putting an end to it in Europe. In one room are several swords, surrendered by English officers in the single frigate engagements, and the duplicates of medals, in gold and silver, voted by Congress to the victors. In Lieutenant Wise’s room, there are models of the projectiles, and a series of shot and shell used in the navy, or deposited by inventors. Among other relics was the flag of Captain Ward’s boat just brought in which was completely riddled by the bullet marks received in the ambuscade in which that officer was killed, with nearly all of his boat’s crew, as they incautiously approached the shore of the Potomac, to take off a small craft placed there to decoy them by the Confederates. My business was to pave the way for a passage on board a steamer, in case of any naval expedition starting before the army was ready to move, but all difficulties were at once removed by the promptitude and courtesy of Mr. Fox, the Assistant-Secretary, who promised to give me an order for a passage whenever I required it. The extreme civility and readiness to oblige of all American officials, high and low, from the gate-keepers and door porters up to the heads of departments, cannot be too highly praised, and it is ungenerous to accept the explanation offered by an English officer to whom I remarked the circumstance that it is due to the fact that each man is liable to be turned out at the end of four years, and therefore makes all the friends he can.

In the afternoon I rode out with Captain Johnson, through some charming woodland scenery on the outskirts of Washington, by a brawling stream, in a shady little ravine, that put me in mind of the Dargle. Our ride led us into the camps, formed on the west of Georgetown, to cover the city from the attacks of an enemy advancing along the left bank of the Potomac, and in support of several strong forts and earthworks placed on the heights. One regiment consists altogether of Frenchmen—another is of Germans—in a third I saw an officer with a Crimean and Indian medal on his breast, and several privates with similar decorations. Some of the regiments were on parade, and crowds of civilians from Washington were enjoying the novel scene, and partaking of the hospitality of their friends. One old lady, whom I have always seen about the camps, and who is a sort of ancient heroine of Saragossa, had an opportunity of being useful. The 15th Massachusetts, a fine-looking body of men, had broken up camp, and were marching off to the sound of their own voices chanting “Old John Brown,” when one of the enormous trains of baggage waggons attached to them was carried off by the frightened mules, which probably had belonged to Virginian farmers, and one of the soldiers, in trying to stop it, was dashed to the ground and severely injured. The old lady was by his side in a moment, and out came her flask of strong waters, bandages, and medical comforts and apparatus. “It’s well I’m here’ for this poor Union soldier; I’m sure I always have something to do in these camps.” On my return late, there was a letter on my table requesting me to visit General McClellan, but it was then too far advanced to avail myself of the invitation, which was only delivered after I left my lodgings.

Kosciusko Farm,

August 25th, 1861.

My dear Mother:

I am seated writing my usual Sunday letter, happy to state that my spirits are good and health excellent, as Uncle Charles will confirm. I was out drilling my men yesterday, when my attention was attracted by somebody nodding to me in a familiar style — a second glance told that it was Uncle Charley, and no other. I was much pleased at his kindness in looking me up, as well as to see him again. You will find he is looking well, and will learn from him that he entertains Republican sentiments of so decided a stripe that I, who was formerly a sort of an abolitionist, am obliged to confess myself a conservative in comparison. I received from Thomas a very pretty present, through the Express office, a few days ago. It consisted of a case containing knife, fork, spoon and cup — things which I shall find highly useful when on the march. When in Virginia before, provided with no such conveniences, fingers were obliged to adapt themselves to the performance of all the varied functions of “table services.” You ask for my address! I never can give you any fixed address, as no Regiment knows where it will be twenty-four hours in advance, but anything directed to the 79th Regiment, N. Y. S. M., Washington, will be forwarded without difficulty. I was in earnest in wishing that I was connected with some New England Regiment, but not in earnest as regards any intention of deserting my present post because of any difficulty attending it. As long as my friends stick by the 79th, I shall not surely be less faithful than are they. The wish to change arose from a desire to take part in the approaching battle to be conducted by McClellan, in which, it seemed probable, the 79th would be too much crippled to take any prominent part. Our Regiment is, however, now rapidly recovering from the effects of the battle and the intrigues of the old rum-selling officers now happily resigned. I have some responsibility resting upon me, as I am detailed to take sole charge of one of the Companies. I have the duties of Captain, 1st Lieutenant, and 2d Lieutenant, all combined, at present to perform, so I have little right to think of abandoning my post. In confidence I may add that possibly five or six of us may be transferred to a new Regiment by the Secretary of War. The Regiment would be under his patronage, and be called the “Cameron Highlanders.” In this new Regiment I most likely would be assigned the post of Captain. However neither say or think anything about this, as it is by no means determined yet. The letter from Fräulein Mathilde contained the kind wishes of the family, and an invitation to be present at her wedding which is to take place on the 1st of September. I find I have grown rusty in the German language, so that I had no little difficulty in deciphering the young lady’s epistle.

Have I written you that we are now encamped on Kosciusko’s farm? It is a pleasant spot, but damp. I hear we are to be marched off somewhere to-morrow. Report names Georgetown as our probable destination.

Uncle Charles is still in town I hear, but I cannot leave camp to visit him.

I will take the photograph question into consideration when we get paid off. Tell Lilly she must accept thanks and love for her kind letter, but I do not mean to answer it until after some success occurs.

Thank Mary for her kind intentions regarding writing me. Love to the little ones. Ask Will if he wants to be a soldier. Turly shall be made a Congressman, and get appointed Chairman of the Military Committee.

Love to all.

Believe me,

Very Affec’y.,

William T. Lusk.

Beverly, August 25. Sunday.—A cold night. Clear but foggy this A. M. No orders to march yet. Good! Provisions and provender, i. e. rations and forage, scarce and poor. Captain Clark, a spirited German (Prussian) officer of the “Greys,” dined us yesterday at Widow What’s-her-name’s hotel, Got letters here from Lute, Uncle, and Mother, with a Testament from Mother. Shall read it “in course”—through I mean; begin now.

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BEVERLY, VIRGINIA, August 25, 1861, Sunday A. M.

DEAREST:—Supposing I might have to go on towards Cheat Mountain this morning, I wrote you a very short note last night I now write so soon again to show you how much I love you and how much my thoughts are on the dear ones at home.

I never enjoyed any business or mode of life as much as I do this. I really feel badly when I think of several of my intimate friends who are compelled to stay at home. These marches and campaigns in the hills of western Virginia will always be among the pleasantest things I can remember. I know we are in frequent perils, that we may never return and all that, but the feeling that I am where I ought to be is a full compensation for all that is sinister, leaving me free to enjoy as if on a pleasure tour.

I am constantly reminded of our trip and happiness a year ago. I met a few days ago in the Fifth Regiment the young Moore we saw at Quebec, who went with me to see the animals at Montreal one Sunday. Do you remember the rattlesnakes?

Young Bradford goes to Cincinnati today.—We have our troubles in the Twenty-third of course, but it is happiness compared with the Guthries—fine fellows and many fine officers, but, etc., etc.

We saw nothing prettier [last year] than the view from my tent this morning. McCook’s men are half a mile to the right, McMullen’s Battery on the next hill in front of us. The Virginia Second a half mile in front, and the Guthries to the left. We on higher ground see them all; then mountains, meadow, and stream. Nothing wanting but you and the boys.

I want to say to you it will be impossible often, as we get further in the hills, to write, and when I do write it will be only a few lines. Don’t think I am getting weaned from you and home. It is merely the condition of things compels me. I saw young Culbertson, looking strong and healthy, Channing Richards, the Andersons, etc., etc., all ditto. Young Culbertson is now in a scouting party that is after guerrillas who murdered some of their men in an ambulance.

I have got a new boy—a yellow lad in Guthrie Gray uniform, aged about sixteen, named Theodore Wilson.

Sunday evening.—Just got orders to go to Huttonsville. Look on my map of Virginia and you will see it geography style, but the beautiful scenery you will not see there. We are to be for the present under General Reynolds, a good officer, and then General Benham or General Rosecrans. All good. The colonel takes our one-half and the German half of McCook and the battery of McMullen. The soldiers are singing so merrily tonight. It is a lovely sweet starlit evening. I rode over to Colonel Sandershoff (I think that is the name of McCook’s soldierly and gentlemanly lieutenant-colonel) to tell him about the march, and from his elevated camp I could see all the camps, “sparkling and bright.” I thought of the night you walked with me about Camp Chase.

Good-night. Our most advanced outpost is connected by telegraph, so that in Cincinnati you will know what happens at an early date; earlier far than any letter of mine can reach you. Kisses to all the boys. Love to Grandma and affection enough for you, dearest.

Affectionately,

R. B. HAYES.

P.S.—It would do mother good to know that I read three chapters in the Testament she sent me. Send a quarter’s worth of postage stamps in your next.

MRS. HAYES.

Sanitary Commission, Washington, D. C.
Treasury Building, Aug. 17th, 1861.

Miss Woolsey: In absence of Mr. Olmsted I answer your note in regard to supplies for the 25th N. Y. We will give immediate attention to this Regiment, and will gladly furnish them any supplies we have on hand for their comfort. There are now no beds or cases to fill with straw in the store-room of the Commission (but very few have ever been sent in). Mr. Olmsted, however, has sent for two hundred to be forwarded from New York as soon as possible, and when these arrive a supply shall be furnished to the 25th.

It has been the endeavor of the Secretary to send notice of the existence and objects of the Commission to the surgeon of each regiment: it may not have reached some, but the visits of the inspectors, now in progress, will ensure this notice to all.

Mr. Olmsted wishes to make the Regimental Hospital comfortable, but not to induce the regimental surgeons to retain patients who ought to be sent to the General Hospital.

I am glad to be able to add, that there is a reasonable prospect that a new General Hospital will be immediately established in or near Alexandria for the sick of the regiments in that vicinity.

Pardon haste,

With sincere regards,

Your obedient servant,

F. N. KNAPP, for

Fred’k Law Olmsted.

AUGUST 25TH.—I believe the Secretary will resign; but “immediate” still lies on his table.

News of a battle near Springfield, Mo. McCulloch and Price defeat the Federals, killing and wounding thousands. Gen. Lyon killed.

August 25th.—Mr. Barnwell says democracies lead to untruthfulness. To be always electioneering is to be always false; so both we and the Yankees are unreliable as regards our own exploits. “How about empires? Were there ever more stupendous lies than the Emperor Napoleon’s?” Mr. Barnwell went on: “People dare not tell the truth in a canvass; they must conciliate their constituents. Now everybody in a democracy always wants an office; at least, everybody in Richmond just now seems to want one.” Never heeding interruptions, he went on: “As a nation, the English are the most truthful in the world.” “And so are our country gentlemen: they own their constituents—at least, in some of the parishes, where there are few whites; only immense estates peopled by negroes.” Thackeray speaks of the lies that were told on both sides in the British wars with France; England kept quite alongside of her rival in that fine art. England lied then as fluently as Russell lies about us now.

Went to see Agnes De Leon, my Columbia school friend. She is fresh from Egypt, and I wished to hear of the Nile, the crocodiles, the mummies, the Sphinx, and the Pyramids. But her head ran upon Washington life, such as we knew it, and her soul was here. No theme was possible but a discussion of the latest war news.

Mr. Clayton, Assistant Secretary of State, says we spend two millions a week. Where is all that money to come from? They don’t want us to plant cotton, but to make provisions. Now, cotton always means money, or did when there was an outlet for it and anybody to buy it. Where is money to come from now?

Mr. Barnwell’s new joke, I dare say, is a Joe Miller, but Mr. Barnwell laughed in telling it till he cried. A man was fined for contempt of court and then, his case coming on, the Judge talked such arrant nonsense and was so warped in his mind against the poor man, that the “fined one” walked up and handed the august Judge a five-dollar bill. “Why? What is that for?” said the Judge. “Oh, I feel such a contempt of this court coming on again!”

I came up tired to death; took down my hair; had it hanging over me in a Crazy Jane fashion; and sat still, hands over my head (half undressed, but too lazy and sleepy to move). I was sitting in a rocking-chair by an open window taking my ease and the cool night air, when suddenly the door opened and Captain walked in.

He was in the middle of the room before he saw his mistake; he stared and was transfixed, as the novels say. I dare say I looked an ancient Gorgon. Then, with a more frantic glare, he turned and fled without a word. I got up and bolted the door after him, and then looked in the glass and laughed myself into hysterics. I shall never forget to lock the door again. But it does not matter in this case. I looked totally unlike the person bearing my name, who, covered with lace cap, etc., frequents the drawing-room. I doubt if he would know me again.

August 25.—This evening, Mr. William S. Johnston, a nephew of the rebel general of that name, and grandson of Mrs. Henry Gilpin, of Philadelphia, was arrested in that city as he was about leaving for the South. Mr. Johnston made no resistance whatever, and was taken to the Central station, accompanied by some friends, among whom was Townsend Ward, of Philadelphia. A strict examination of his effects was made by the District Attorney. In his trunk was found a large number of papers addressed to prominent Southern citizens, and a map of the seat of war in Virginia. His commission, however, was not discovered. After his examination, Mr. Johnston bade farewell to his friends, and was conveyed to Moyamensing prison in charge of the officers.—N. Y. Commercial, August 26.

—All the large craft, schooners, and sloops, and small rowboats and skiffs on the Potomac River, were seized by the Government authorities.—N. Y. Herald, August 27.

—A Union man named Moore was killed, and another named Neill mortally wounded, this afternoon, by a gang of five secessionists, at Shotwell Toll-gate, Ky., seven miles from Covington. Both men were stabbed in the back. A party of Unionists gave pursuit to the murderers, who fled toward the Tennessee line.— N. Y. Times, August 27.

—”Wm. Halsey, hailing from Ithaca, N. Y., was waited upon by a party of citizens at his hotel, in Scranton, Pa., and requested to leave town in three hours, or accept the alternative of riding out on a rail. He had given provocation beyond endurance, by endeavoring to induce parties to take the New York Day Book, and by uttering the rankest treason. He left precipitately.—N. Y. Times, August 27.

—William B. Taylor, the Postmaster of New York, received orders from “Washington that no more copies of the Journal of Commerce, the News, the Freeman’s Journal, or the Brooklyn Eagle, should be sent through the mails.—N. Y. Times, August 26.

—Egbert L. Viele, late Captain of the Engineer corps of the Seventh regiment, received his commission as Brigadier-General in the regular army. General Viele is a graduate of West Point, and served through the Mexican war, but of late years has been engaged in civil life as an engineer.—N. Y. Commercial, Aug. 26.

Saturday, 24th—I reached home this morning at daylight, having left Davenport late yesterday afternoon, riding out with a farmer to “the forks” of the Hickory Grove and the Allen’s Grove roads, and from there walked the twenty-one miles home, after night, all alone.

This is a fine day. I went over to Mr. Sparks’ and accompanied him to the grove out southwest of Tipton, to a camp meeting which is being conducted by the Christian church. We got there in time for the meeting.