American literature -- Periodicals; Literature -- Periodicals
I believe that few men who fell in our civil conflict bore with them
out of the world possibilities of fame and usefulness so bright or
so important as Colonel Ephraim Elmer Ellsworth, who was killed at
Alexandria, Virginia, on May 24, 1861--the first conspicuous victim of
the war. The world can never compute, can hardly even guess, what was
lost in his untimely end. He was killed by the first gun he ever heard
fired in strife; and his friends, who believe him to have had in him
the making of a great soldier, have nothing to support their opinion
but the impression made upon them by his manly character, his winning
and vigorous personality, and the extraordinary ardor and zest with
which his powerful mind turned towards military affairs in the midst
of circumstances of almost incredible difficulty and privation. He was
one of the dearest of the friends of my youth. I cannot hope to
enable the readers of this paper to see him as I saw him. No words can
express the vivid brilliancy of his look and his speech, the swift and
graceful energy of his bearing. He was not a scholar, yet his words
were like martial music; in stature he was less than the medium size,
yet his strength was extraordinary; he seemed made of tempered steel.
His entire aspect breathed high ambition and daring. His jet-black
curls, his open candid brow, his dark eyes, at once fiery and tender,
his eagle profile, his mouth just shaded by the youthful growth that
hid none of its powerful and delicate lines--the whole face, which
seemed made for nothing less than the command of men, whether as
general or as orator, comes before me as I write, with a look of
indignant appeal to the future for the chance of fame which inexorable
fate denied him. The appeal, of course, is in vain. Only a few men,
now growing old, knew what he was and what he might have been if life
had been spared him for a year or two. I will merely try to show in
these few pages, mainly from his own words, how great a heart was
broken by the slugs of the assassin at the Marshall House.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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