THE REMINISCENCES OF CARL SCHURZ
ining how the victors, on the heels of our routed forces, would sweep down upon Washington without finding any effective resistance. I knew that our enemies in Europe were already enjoying this spectacle in anticipation. I cursed the hour when I had accepted the honors of my diplomatic post. I envied the men at home who, although staggering under this unexpected blow, had at least an opportunity for exerting all their energies in serving the country to some purpose on the spot. Had I been there, I could have helped them to rouse up the people from their dejection, and have shared the fate of those who went forward to bear the brunt of the struggle in the field. But here I was, unable to do anything but tell the Minister of Foreign Affairs that this mishap, although temporarily awkward, would only have the effect of making the government and the loyal people of the Union put forth their whole irresistible strength—which the Minister might believe or not. I could induce some friendly journalists to address newspaper articles to the same effect to an unsympathetic public. And then, having done this, I could do nothing but pace up and down in my room like a wild animal in a cage.
One afternoon soon after the arrival of the Bull Run tidings, I took an aimless walk outside of the “Quinta” grounds, and passed by a circus tent within which a performance was going on. Suddenly I heard the band strike, up the tune of “Yankee Doodle.” I rushed in and saw one of the “artists” on a wildly running horse waving an American flag. I applauded with a passionate vigor that may have astonished the natives. I shouted for a “da capo,” and my shout was taken up by a sufficient number to bring on a repetition of the feat. I could have embraced the “artist” and kissed his rouged cheeks. Whether the tune or the flag meant anything to the audience, I do not know. To me it was like an inspiration of
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