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.
In “Selected Civil War Letters of Edwine Willow,” edited by Constance Mays.
With Fear clutching at their hearts, they went downstairs once more to hear the singers of the evening, the Hutchison family, give a frighteningly real rendition of the song “Ship on Fire,” which required simulation of a violent thunderstorm at sea, the frightened screams of the trapped passengers, a mother pressing her babe to her bosom of snow, “a tramp, a rout, an uproar of voices—‘Fire! Fire!’?”
The cheeks of the sailors grew pale
at the sight—and their eyes glistened with the gleam of the light—and the smoke in thick wreaths mounted higher and higher—Oh God it is fearful to perish by fire!
Kunhardt and Kunhardt, op. cit.
The noise and clatter were such that to be understood it was necessary to shout. Carriages continued to arrive. Windows were thrown open and groups formed around them, hoping for a gust of chill night air. An air of happy panic pervaded the room. I began to feel faint and believe I was not alone in this. Matrons were collapsed here and there in armchairs. Drunken men examined paintings rather too intensely.
Garrett, op. cit.
Wild shrieks rang out.
Sloane, op. cit.
One fellow stood in perfect happiness, orange-trousered, blue coat flung open, feasting in-place as he stood at the serving table like some magnificent Ambrussi, finally found the home of his dreams.
Wickett, op. cit.
The flower arrangements of history! Those towering bursts of colors, so lavish—soon tossed away, to dry and go drab in the dim February sun. The animal carcasses—the “meat”—warm and sprig-covered, on expensive platters, steaming and succulent: trucked away to who-knows-where, clearly offal now, honest partial corpses once again, after brief elevation to the status of delight-giving food! The thousand dresses, laid out so reverently that afternoon, flecks of dust brushed off carefully in doorways, hems gathered up for the carriage trip: where are they now? Is a single one museum-displayed? Are some few yet saved in attics? Most are dust. As are the women who wore them so proudly in that transient moment of radiance.
In “The Social Life of the Civil War: Frolic, Carnage, Extirpation” (unpublished manuscript), by Melvin Carter.
V.
Many guests especially recalled the beautiful moon that shone that evening.
In “A Season of War and Loss,” by Ann Brighney.
In several accounts of the evening, the brilliance of the moon is remarked upon.
In “Long Road to Glory,” by Edward Holt.
A common feature of these narratives is the golden moon, hanging quaintly above the scene.
In “White House Soirees: An Anthology,” by Bernadette Evon.
There was no moon that night and the sky was heavy with clouds.
Wickett, op. cit.
A fat green crescent hung above the mad scene like a stolid judge, inured to all human folly.
In “My Life,” by Dolores P. Leventrop.
The full moon that night was yellow-red, as if reflecting the light of some earthly fire.
Sloane, op. cit.
As I moved about the room I would encounter that silver wedge of a moon at this window or that, like some old beggar who wished to be invited in.
Carter, op. cit.
By the time dinner was served, the moon shone high and small and blue above, still bright, albeit somewhat diminished.
In “A Time Departed” (unpublished memoir), by I. B. Brigg III.
The night continued dark and moonless; a storm was moving in.