Lincoln in the Bardo(3)

In “The Union Citadel: Memories and Impressions,” by Jo Brunt.



Before them all, at eleven o’clock, Mrs. Lincoln led the promenade around the East Room on the President’s arm.

Leech, op. cit.

As we surged forward, a man unknown to me demonstrated a new dance, the “Merry-Jim.” At the urging of those gathered around, he demonstrated it again, to applause.

Garrett, op. cit.

There was great hilarity when it was discovered that a servant had locked the door of the state dining-room, and misplaced the key. “I am in favor of a forward movement!” cried one. “An advance to the front is only retarded by the imbecility of commanders,” said another, parroting a recent speech in Congress.

Leech, op. cit.

This, it occurred to me, this was the undisciplined human community that, fired by its dull collective wit, now drove the armed nation towards it knew-not-what sort of epic martial cataclysm: a massive flailing organism with all the rectitude and foresight of an untrained puppy.

In the private letters of Albert Sloane, by permission of the Sloane family.

The war was less than a year old. We did not yet know what it was.

In “A Thrilling Youth: A Civil War Adolescence,” by E. G. Frame.

When at last the key was found, and the merry guests poured in, Mrs. Lincoln had reason for pride in the magnificence of the repast.

Leech, op. cit.



The room was forty feet long by thirty feet wide, and so bright with color it seemed to be full before anyone entered.

In “The Lincolns: Portrait of a Marriage,” by Daniel Mark Epstein.

Costly wines and liquors flowed freely, and the immense Japanese punch bowl was filled with ten gallons of champagne punch.

Leech, op. cit.

Mrs. Lincoln had engaged the esteemed caterer C. Heerdt of New York. The cost was rumored to be over ten thousand dollars. Nor had any detail been overlooked; the chandeliers were garlanded with flowers, the serving tables decorated with rose petals scattered over cut rectangles of mirror.

Brunt, op. cit.

A piggish and excessive display, in a time of war.

Sloane, op. cit.

Elsa was speechless and only kept squeezing my hand. In such a way, one felt, the ancients must have entertained. What generosity! How kind our dear hosts!

In “Our Capital in Time of War,” by Petersen Wickett.

In the dining room was a long table with a gigantic looking-glass upon it bearing massive confections of sugar. Most recognizable were Fort Sumter, a warship, a temple of liberty, a Chinese pagoda, a Swiss cottage…

Kunhardt and Kunhardt, op. cit.



…sweetened replicas of a temple surrounded by the Goddess of Liberty, Chinese pagodas, cornucopias, fountains with sprays of spun sugar and encircled by stars…

In “Mr. Lincoln’s Washington,” by Stanley Kimmel.

Hives, swarming with lifelike bees, were filled with charlotte russe. War was gently hinted at by a helmet, with waving plumes of spun sugar. The good American frigate “Union,” with forty guns and all sails set, was supported by cherubs draped in the Stars and Stripes…

Leech, op. cit.

Fort Pickens also loomed up in sugar on a side table, surrounded by something more edible than barbette guns, in the shape of a deliciously prepared “chicken fixin’s”…

Kimmel, op. cit.

The flowing sugar gown of Lady Liberty descended like drapery upon a Chinese pagoda, inside of which, in a pond of candy floss, swam miniature fish of chocolate. Nearby, lusty angels of cake waved away bees hung aloft on the thinnest strings of glaze.

Wickett, op. cit.

At first delicate and perfect, over the course of the night this candy metropolis suffered various ravages, members of the party taking away entire quarters of the city in fists, into pockets, to share with loved ones at home. Later in the evening, the glass table being jostled by the crush, certain of the candied edifices were seen to give way.

Garrett, op. cit.

They dined on tender pheasant, fat partridge, venison steaks, and Virginia hams; they battened upon canvasback ducks and fresh turkeys, and thousands of tidewater oysters shucked an hour since and iced, slurped raw, scalloped in butter and crackermeal, or stewed in milk.



Epstein, op. cit.

These, and other tasty morsels, were spread about in such profusion that the joint attack of the thousand or more guests failed to deplete the array.

Kimmel, op. cit.

Yet there was no joy in the evening for the mechanically smiling hostess and her husband. They kept climbing the stairs to see how Willie was, and he was not doing well at all.

Kunhardt and Kunhardt, op. cit.





IV.

The rich notes of the Marine Band in the apartments below came to the sick-room in soft, subdued murmurs, like the wild, faint sobbing of far-off spirits.

Keckley, op. cit.

Willie lay in the “Prince of Wales” bedroom with its dark purple wall hangings and golden tassels.

Epstein, op. cit.

The cheeks of his handsome round face were inflamed with fever. His feet moved restlessly beneath the maroon coverlet.

In “History Close at Hand,” edited by Renard Kent, account of Mrs. Kate O’Brien.

The terror and consternation of the Presidential couple may be imagined by anyone who has ever loved a child, and suffered that dread intimation common to all parents, that Fate may not hold that life in as high a regard, and may dispose of it at will.