The poor thing is dead now, and, like
dead humanity, the good it did has been interred with its bones.
It has been buried, with curses deep and bitter for its funeral
obsequies. Its officers have been loaded with infamy. Even its
wonderful results have been hidden from the sight of man, and its
history blackened with shame and hate. It is one of the curious
indices of public feeling that the North listened, at first, with
good-natured indifference to the virulent diatribes of the recently
conquered people in regard to this institution; after a time wonder
succeeded to indifference; until finally, while it was still an
active branch of the public service, wondering credulity succeeded,
and its name became synonymous with disgrace; so that now there
is hardly a corner of the land in which a man can be found brave
enough to confess that he wore the uniform and performed the duties
of an agent of the "Freedmen's Bureau." The thorough subserviency
of Northern sentiment to the domination of that masterly will
which characterized "the South" of the old regime was never better
illustrated. "Curse me this people!" said the Southern Balak--of
the Abolitionist first, of the Bureau-Officer next, and then of
the Carpet-Bagger. The Northern Balaam hemmed and paltered, and
then--_cursed the children of his loins_!
Of the freedmen, our recent allies in war, the grateful and devoted
friends, of the nation which had opened for them the gateway of the
future, not one of the whole four millions had a word to utter in
reproach of this branch of the service, in which they were particularly
interested.
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