I approach with infinite reluctance one of the most difficult themes for biography to be embraced in these volumes. There hung around Stephen Perkins a peculiar atmosphere, not merely suggestive of admiration, not merely of affection, but of some indescribable commingling of the two, more subtile [sic] than either, which renders his most intimate friends unwilling to attempt his portraiture, and thus leaves the task for me. And I, his cousin and his teacher [the author is Thomas Wentworth Higginson], can hardly overcome this same shrinking, or force myself to break that silence which his proud and fastidious nature would doubtless have preferred. For he made no claims, ran no race, won no prize, achieved no eminence but in dying; and perhaps, from peculiarity of temperament, would have achieved none had he lived. Yet his friends were all among the most gifted young men of his day, and it is now observable that not one of these companions seems able to talk of him without a tinge of romance. So peculiar and subtile the impression of superiority which he made, I observe that it can be better measured by a certain lowering and trembling of the voice in those who attempt to describe him, than by any account they can give. One of them said, the other day: "I could write nothing about Stephen Perkins, because the simplest things I could say of him would seem like such an absurd exaggeration. Suppose I should say that my few years' intercourse with him had done more for me than any other influence of my life,--who would believe it? Yet it would be the most commonplace truth."
He was born in Boston, Massachusetts, September 18, 1835. His father was Stephen Higginson Perkins, a well-known Boston merchant, and a man of varied cultures, whose life has been devoted in great measure to the study, and latterly to the practice, of art. Stephen's mother was Sarah (Sullivan) Perkins, daughter of the Hon. Richard Sullivan of Boston, and one of a family of sisters well remembered in that city for their charms of person and of mind. When Stephen was 7 years old, I [this entry was written by Thomas W. Higginson] took charge of him and his 2 brothers, as their private tutor, residing in the family in Brookline for nearly 2 years. He was then a sweet, modest, lovable boy, with a healthy and active mind, but without indications of the philosophic, introspective mood which he afterwards developed. And though his physical activity was great and constant, he was then short of stature, and only his large bones and very powerful muscles gave promise of that superb physique which he finally attained. Beloved as he was by all who came in contact with him, and becoming constantly a finer and finer type of noble and intelligent boyhood, yet I do not think that any one ever predicted of him the precise combination of traits and tendencies which his manhood showed.
He passed from my instruction to that of Dr. Charles Kraitsir, a learned Hungarian, whose theories of language were then attracting some attention; and he was afterwards successively the pupil of Messrs. T. G. Bradford and William P. Atkinson. He entered college with the Class of 1855, but was compelled to leave it by a weakness of the eyes, and afterwards joined the Class of 1856. During most of his college career he was obliged by the same infirmity to study with the aid of a reader, his chief dependence in this way being Francis Channing Barlow, since Major-General of Volunteers. This drawback made the attainment of college rank impossible, but his remarkable abilities were fully recognized by his classmates and teachers. In his social relations, however, he had developed that peculiar reserve and imperturbability of manner which were his later characteristics; and everybody admitted it to be a good hit, when, in the distribution of mock parts for an imaginary exhibition, that assigned to Perkins was "a Dissertation on Icebergs."
After his graduation he travelled in Europe, returning in 1857; spent a year in the Law School at Cambridge; but afterwards left that department of the University for the Scientific School, where he obtained a degree in mathematics in 1861,
At thsi period the first trait which impressed a stranger on meeting him was his distinguished physical aspect. Those present at the College Regatta at Springfield, in 1855, will remember the admiration excited by the picked crew of the Harvard four-oar, the "Y.Y.," composed of John and Langdon Erving, Alexander Agassiz, and Stephen Perkins. Three of these young men, including Stephen, were over 6 feet in height, and all were in the finest condition, according to the standard of training in those early days. Discouraged at the very first stroke pulled, by the breaking of the "stretcher" of the stroke-oar, they yet rowed a stern-race with perseverence so admirable, that they lacked but 4 or 4 seconds of victory, being then beaten only by the 6-oar of their own University. To this result, as I am since told by one of the crew, the peculiar imperturbability of Perkins's temperament greatly contributed. He had an aversion to "spurts," and believed in a certain total of effort, to which it made no sort of difference whether his opponents were in sight or out of sight. This coolness of habit characterized his whole physical nature. He was not light, agile, or adroit; but to whatever undertaking he addressed his rather indolent strength, that work was done.
And his beauty of face was as characteristic as that of his figure. The highest point attained, 20 years since, by American miniature-painting in the judgment of many connoisseurs in this country and in Europe, was a likeness of Stephen Perkins taken by Staigg about 1843. None who have ever seen it can forget the charm of those dark-blue eyes, that fresh complexion, and that open smile--traits of boyish beauty which he always retained.
But the peculiar charm of this stately mein lay, after all, in something undefinable, a certain type of temperament, a sensation of traquil strength, of indefinite resources, of reserved power. What he accomplished seemed far less than the victories he seemed to waive and scorn. There seemed a sort of Greek languor about him; not the best temperament for usefulness perhaps, nor even for happiness, but undoubtedly the most potent for personal fascination, though he would not have deigned to use it consciously for any such end. He seemed to attempt nothing; in fact it was the drawback in his life thate he did not greatly care to attempt anything; and yet his mere preferences seemed to carry more weight than the vigorous efforts of other men. Each of his associates had some anecdote to tell, showing how Stephen had at some time "conquered without crossing of bayonets," effecting by a single quite word or look what others had toiled and stormed in vain to accomplish. Quite democratic in his theories and sympathies,--though he never got credit for this with strangers,--and utterly despising every affectation of personal or social advantage, yet he had at his command all the haughtiness of a Venetian nobleman, and could at a moment's notice put barriers insurmountable and immeasurable between himself and any offender.
The sort of temperament which Charles Reade endeavors to describe in his Lord Ipsden in "Christie Johnston"--but without freeing it from a certain air of affectation--was natural and almost controlling in Stephen Perkins. Holding in his hands youth, beauty, culture, social advantages, he seemed yet to grasp them all lightly, as if for the next breeze to bear away. He dallied with his great powers, not in mere indolence, still less in conceit; but as if some hidden problem were first to be solved before these trivial faculties could become worth exercising. Meantime it was the very consciousness of the unstated problem which seemed to give him his influence. This delaying quality was the very thing that charmed. It suggested vast spaces of time and hidden resources of ability. It was not alone that thought in him lay behind action, but something else seemed to lie behind thought; as in a machine-shop the flume is behind the wheel, and the silent reservoir beyond the flume. His control of those about him was not a thing won by effort, but a thing possessed in virtue of mere head-of-water.
Thus it was noticeable that his intimates seldom praised him for this or that special gift, except perhaps that of conversation, but always labored to carry their explanations back this ultimate force, expressed or implied. And it is equally remarkable that their enthusiasm bore no reference to any expected success in any special direction. Usually the admiration and the predictions of young people go together; where they see gifts, they expect miracles. In this case they seemed to recognize a rarer quality that that which wins success, and they were content to allow him a whole eternity to grow in, demanding nothing meanwhile. They did not pretend to understand or explain or justify him; they only knew that there was but one Stephen Perkins. It was a dangerous form of admiration; a weaker person would have been spoiled by it. He only received it all with that same imperturbable equanimity with which he took everything. When his friends were pleased, they called this stoical mood philosophy; when they were provoked, they called it conceit,--and revoked the phrase in self-contrition the next day. For they knew very well that under all this motionless surface there was a nature absolutely noble, that would gladly give up all the superficial joys of life, could it but live itself out clearly and find its true career at last. And older men and women, whose society he always rather sought, found him modest, gentle, and truthful, though they might miss something of that fresh enthusiasm which seems the proper birthright of youth.
It is almost needless to say, after what has been said of his temperament, that he had a choice taste in books, and knew his Emerson from beginning to end. He liked, too, to hear Theodore Parker preach, but would not acknowledge to any positive thrill of the blood from that powerful electric battery; and if moved thereby to any special act of courage or self-sacrifice, would habe been sure to keep it out of sight. Habitually defending all who were attacked or criticised, he also habitually understated all emotions; and, when the war came, treated it as he treated the rest of life, with only a sort of guarded and critical interest. He held it at arm's length for philosophic consideration. Of course life was nothing; but after all, might not the whole game, about which the nation was excited, prove as valueless as the particular pawn which was all he could contribute if he took part? Even when he had actually enlisted, he was very willing to let it be supposed that it was only from ennui, or because he was tired of being asked whether he were not going. One of his intimates told me that he only once ventured to put the question to Stephen point-blank, why he went into the army, and then he only replied, with his accustomed shrewd, mediatative smile, that "it was an ancient and honorable profession." But one of his female relatives has since said that at the outbreak of the war, on her remarking to him, rather heedlessly, that the war was not likely to come home to their two lives, for instance, in any immediate way,--he answered, with an unwonted seriousness that was almost sterness, "I do not know that it will make any difference in your life, but it is likely to make a very great difference to mine." In a few days he had enlisted.
In passing to the sequel of the story, it would be easy for a stranger to conjecture that this proved one of the cases where the war gave the needed fulness and completion to a life otherwise incomplete. But I do not think it was so with Stephen Perkins. With his rare powers, and his sensitive, haughty nature, the course of development was not to be so easily rounded. On the 8th of July, 1861, he was commissioned 2d Lieutenant in the 2d Massachusetts (Infantry); was promoted 1st Lieutenant in the same month of the following year, and was killed within a month after his promotion. The intermediate period was the most tedious service, in the Army of the Potomac. Danger and exertion would have seemed to him worthy the sacrifice they brought; but he chafed under a forlorn and monotonous routine, and amid a seemingly aimless waste of resources. Life, which had appeared of little value at home, seemed utterly valueless there, and the secret langour of the blood increased rather than diminished. His letters showed much of his accustomed philosophy, but no enthusiasm and little enjoyment. None of them are now accessible to quote from, and I speak of them from memory alone. He complied with forms which he detested, fulfilled a routine which he undervalued, and saw a seemingly useless campaign draw its slow length along. It will always remain uncertain what influence active service might have had in concentrating his powers of action and developing the latent enthusiasm of his nature. But it is certain that inactive serice, under generals in whom his shrewd sagacity put no faith, and with noble companions whose lives he saw wasted, gave neither joy nor tonic to his nature.
The disastrous battle of Cedar Mountain, the first important engagement of the 2d Massachusetts, took place on the 9th of Augustm 1862. The regiment was under fire but half an hour, yet of 22 officers who went it only 8 came out unhurt; 5 were killed, 5 wounded, 3 others wounded and captured, and 1 captured while attending a wounded comrade. Of the 5 killed, 3 stand recorded in these volumes,--besides Savage, who died of his wounds. Of those 5 killed, moreover, 3 went into battle almost too ill to stand, of whom Stephen Perkins was one. "All our officers behaved nobly," wrote Robert Shaw after this battle, in a letter which will be found elsewhere in full. "Those who ought to have stayed away did n't. It was splendid to see those sick fellows walk straight up into the shower of bullets as if it were so much rain; men who, until this year, had lived lives of perfect ease and luxury. O, it is hard to believe that we shall never see them again, after havinbg been constantly together for more than a year."
In a contest so hot, individual casualties pass unnoticed at the time, and often the precise facts can never be established. Robert Shaw says: "The men were ordered to lie down until the enemy came nearer. Almost all the officers kept on their feet, though." This readily explains the fearful loss among those thus prominent. It is stated by Col. H.S. Russell, then Captain in the 2d, that when the regiment had been in position about 20 minutes, Stephen Perkins received a wound in his right hand, but refused to go to the rear, saying that a handkerchief was all he wanted, and this was given him. Ten minutes afterwards, Russell noticed him again, and in a few minutes more, when the regiment was withdrawn, he was not it his place. The body was found a little way to the rear, pierced with 3 bullets.
His remains were identified on the next day by General Gordon and Captain Shaw, and were, after due preparation, sent to Washington, and thence to Oakhill Cemetery, Georgetown. There took place on the 25th of September that simple and touching funeral ceremony, the narrative of whose pathetic loneliness has touched many hearts; while it was yet more consonant with the nature of Stephen Perkins than would have been any priestly or military splendor. The service were performed by Rev. John C. Smith of the Fourth Presbyterian Church in Washington, who thus describes them:
"Reader, if you visit the metropolis and desire to see the grave marked by the marble placed there by the father's love, go to the monument of the Russian Ambassador, M. de Bodisco, and a few yards eastwardly you will see the spot where lie the remains of the gallant young Lieutenant of the Second Massachusetts."
Thus closed the brief earthly life of one whose slow and large development would alone seem enough to guarantee immortality in a universe where nothing runs to waste. To Stephen Perkins, with his haughty humility, the accidents of place and fame were nothing, and the most unnoticed funeral and briefest record would have appeared most fitting. And he who, with no steady hand, has woven this slight tribute to the noble promise that he loved, may now gladly let the garland drop, and leave the rest to silence.
"There were but four of us,--the father, Dr. Francis H. Brown, Surgeon of Judiciary Square Hospital, and a young ministerial friend, Mr. D.R. Frazier, from the Union Theological Seminary, New York. As we were about to leave the Superintendent's house, I beckoned to 3 wounded convalescents near by, and said to them, 'Boys, I have come here to bury a young officer; we have no guard, fall in and act for us.' They obyeyed promptly, giving the usual military sign. We went to the vault and received the body; then moved in the followind order, namely, Superintendent and convalescent in front, myself and the young minister; the body carried by hand; the father leaning on the arm of Dr. Brown (also a Boston man)....
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