October 16th.— Day follows day and resembles its predecessor. McClellan is still reviewing, and the North are still waiting for victories and paying money, and the orators are still wrangling over the best way of cooking the hares which they have not yet caught. I visited General McDowell to-day at his tent in Arlington, and found him in a state of divine calm with his wife and parvus Iulus. A public man in the United States is very much like a great firework—he commences with some small scintillations which attract the eye of the public, and then he blazes up and flares out in blue, purple, and orange fires, to the intense admiration of the multitude, and dying out suddenly is thought of no more, his place being taken by a fresh roman candle or Catherine wheel which is thought to be far finer than those which have just dazzled the eyes of the fickle spectators. Human nature is thus severely taxed. The Cabinet of State is like the museum of some cruel naturalist, who seizes his specimens whilst they are alive, bottles them up, forbids them to make as much as a contortion, labelling them “My last President,” “My latest Commander-in-chief,” or “My defeated General,” regarding the smallest signs of life very much as did the French petit maître who rebuked the contortions and screams of the poor wretch who was broken on the wheel, as contrary to bienséance. I am glad that Sir James Ferguson and Mr. Bourke did not leave without making a tour of inspection through the Federal camp, which they did to-day.
October 17th.—Dies non.
