Now it came my turn to visit Washington—and the very next boat that left the landing bore me over the quiet waters of the James river. In due time I reached the Capital, and spent three days in visiting the hospitals in Washington, Georgetown and Alexandria, and various other places of interest.
I was commissioned with numerous orders and had any amount of messages to deliver for officers and others; as many of our men were in the different hospitals in those cities, and I was expected to find them and deliver letters, packages, etc.
The military display made in Washington is certainly astonishing, especially to those who are accustomed to see major generals go round in slouched hats and fatigue coats, without even a star to designate their rank. But cocked and plumed hats, scarlet lined riding cloaks, swords and sashes, high boots and Spanish spurs, immense epaulets, glittering stars, and gaily caparisoned horses, are to be seen by the hundred around Willard’s hotel and other places of resort.
I noticed that some in particular wore painfully tight uniforms and very small caps, kept on by some new law of gravitation, as one portion rested on the bump of self esteem and the other on the bridge of the nose. “Miss Periwinkle” says of this class of military heroes: “They look like stuffed fowls, and ride as if the safety of the nation depended upon their speed alone.”
Chaplain A. H. Quint manfully defends the multiplicity of epaulets in Washington, and very appropriately remarks: “Willard’s is the news depot. Consider how easily a hundred, interested to read the bulletin there, could assemble. First, the general-in-chief is in Washington, and has a staff necessarily. Secondly, the quartermaster general, the adjutant general, the military governor, the paymaster-general, and the surgeon-general, have each a staff. Thirdly, what military force there is in the city has officers. Fourthly, there is a multitude of surgeons easily mistaken for army officers, as they wear uniforms. Add to these the convalescent officers just able to move about, and you have hundreds necessarily in Washington. And of course the display of epaulets is great.”
Notwithstanding the “troublous times,” there are generally gay times at the Capital. Levees and public receptions are frequent, except during the reign of terror, when some bold dash of rebel cavalry is made upon the devoted city, and then there is a genuine panic for a short time.
In Washington I think there is as much of the aristocratic spirit as you will find in the United States. People there are respected and graded according to their uniform; everything is regulated according to caste, and it is as David Crocket says about dining: common people dine at twelve, common clerks in departments at one, head clerks at two, representatives at three, heads of departments at four, senators at five, ambassadors at six, and the President—well, he doesn’t dine till the next day.
In one of my rambles I visited the Senate chamber. It was unoccupied, except by a few specimens of young America, who were playing leapfrog over the seats and desks. I leisurely surveyed every item of interest—sat in Sumner’s chair, and recalled the scene enacted there a few years previous, and in imagination thrashed Brooks until he was a fit subject for a hospital—then giving him a farewell coup de pied, I betook me to the picture galleries.
After admiring Pocahontas sufficiently, and gazing at expiring heroes, who all “appeared to be quitting their earthly tabernacles in convulsions,” ruffled shirts, and a tremendous shower of bomb-shell, until my head ached; I then turned for relief to the noble form of “The Father of his Country,” which looked out from the canvas in all the princely majesty which characterized that great and good man. I stood wrapped in profound reverence, when a friend drew my attention to two paintings which I had not noticed before. They represented the surrender of Lord Cornwallis and General Burgoyne. I felt a warm current of blood rush to my face, as I contemplated the humiliating scene—the spirit of Johnny Bull triumphed over my Yankee predilections—and I left the building with feelings of humiliation and disgust.
Next in order, I visited the “Soldier’s Free Library,” in Fifth street, under the superintendence of John A. Fowle, Esq. He has accumulated over two thousand five hundred volumes of well selected historical, biographical and religious works. The soldiers in the different hospitals have the free use of the library, which is open daily. The room is nicely furnished, and the pictures hanging on the walls give it a cheerful, home-look, and the soldiers come there by the score. It is an excellent arrangement. Thanks to the benevolent hearts and hands that have provided such a luxury for the soldier.