The idea struck me forcibly one morning before breakfast as I stepped out into the bright sunshine, to behold a captain drilling his company for the day. As each musket was presented for inspection, turned quickly from one side to the other, and tossed lightly back into its owner's waiting hands, I rushed back to tent and exclaimed: "General, can you give any reason why we ladies shouldn't do with our pots, pans and gridirons, each day, what your captain is doing yonder with the muskets of his men; and with a 'guard-house' to back us up in case of default or impertinence." "Why—don't you ladies inspect your pots, pans and gridirons?" inquired General Butler. "When our cooks are out, never for our lives else," I replied. "Poor slaves!" was his feeling reply.
"Poor slaves!" I echoed, as I returned to my lovely "drill" and grew more righteously mad each minute. As I stood there, my dears, I for one resolved never again to be the pusillanimous wretch to say, "If you please, Martha," or "will you please, Bridget, bring me this or that." No—instead, I boldly propose: "Orderly! bring me that baby!" and when Bridget comes in, with a well-feigned sorrow for the decease of that stereotyped "friend" who is always waiting to be "waked," and begs leave of absence, let us answer, à la militaire, "Yes—you can go for awhile; but your 'friend' is not dead, neither are you going to a wake. I want you to understand that I am not deceived." And when, after repeated instructions, the roast-beef is still overdone, with executive forefinger let us touch the bell, and in the lowest but firmest of tones remark, "Orderly! put the cook in the guard-house."
But stay—women can never manage women that way. They are too cat-ty. Let us have men-cooks, my dears, and science as well as civility with our sauce. Yea—men-cooks, who will not "answer back;" men-cooks who will not need to be an hour at the glass "prinking" before they can look a tomato in the face; men-cooks, who, having once done a thing "your way," can ever after reproduce it, and not, with feminine caprice, or heedlessness, each time lessen the sugar and double the salt, and vice-versa; men-cooks, whose "beaux" are not always occupying the extra kitchen chair; men-cooks, who understand the economy of space, and do not need a whole closet for every tumbler, or a bureau-drawer for each towel.
Oh! I have not been "to camp" for nothing. There are no carpets there to spot with grease. There are no pictures whose golden frames are wiped with a wet dish-cloth. There are no velvet chairs, or ottomans, upon which they can lay red-hot pokers or entry-mats. There is no pet china they can electrify the parlor with smashing, to the tune of hundreds of dollars. But instead, there are little tents dotted about, furnished with brave men; and for pictures, long lines of army wagons trailing their slow length along; and yonder, against the burnished sunset sky, gallop the cavalry, with glittering arms; and there are "squads" of secesh coming into the lines, with most astounding hats and trowsers and no shoes, who hold up the wrong hand when they take the oath of allegiance, and make their "mark" in the registry book instead of writing their names, and some of whose "profession," when questioned, is—"to shoemake;" and there are grotesque-looking contrabands; and rat-ty looking, useful mules; and in the evening there are fire-fly lamps gleaming from the little tents; and of a cool evening lovely, blazing camp-fires, round which you can sit and talk with intelligent men till the small hours, about other things than "bonnets;" and there's reveille, and—good heavens! why did I come back to New York, with its "peace-men" and its tame monkeys.
While waiting at City Point for the "flag-of-truce boat," we sauntered up from the wharf. There was an encampment not far from the river, and the first thing that attracted my notice was a sutler's establishment—in other words, a little shed with a counter, two men behind it, and a little bit of everything displayed inside. "Now," said I, "I will just bother that man asking him for something which I am sure he has not for sale." "Do it," answered my companion; "I will wager something he will have it." With triumph in my step, I inquired—"Have you ladies' fans?" "Yes ma'am," was the reply; "here is one, made in prison by a Union soldier." In my eagerness to secure it, for it was a marvel of ingenuity, apart from the interest attached to it, I forgot to collapse at my defeat—doubly defeated, too, alas! "as it was not for sale." But there were books, and tobacco, and combs, and suspenders, and pocket looking-glasses, and everything, except "crying babies." A little farther on was a soda-fountain, then a watch-maker, then an ice-cream shanty. Still I was not surprised; for I lost my capability for a new sensation while staying in General Butler's encampment. Strolling off, one lovely morning, in the woods, for wild-flowers, I was overtaken by a shower of rain. Spying a little shed at a distance under the trees, I made for it with all speed; and found it full of bottles and a young man. The latter politely rose and offered me the only stool in the establishment, and when I and my hoop-skirt had entered, I regret to say that there was no room left, save for the bottles above alluded to; and their safety consisted in my remaining quite stationary. "What is this place?" asked I, staring about me. With a pitying smile the youth drew from a corner some fine photographic views of "Dutch Gap," the site of General Butler's canal; and then proposed my sitting for my picture. Had he produced a French dress-maker from the trunk of one of the trees, I should not have been more astonished. When the fickle Virginia sun again shone out, and I had said the pretties, in the way of thanks, I resumed my walk; and though on my way home I stopped to witness the fascinating operation of felling trees, and to admire the vigorous strokes of the woodman's axe, and listen to its far-off echoes through the woods, I still kept on saying to myself—Well, I never! a photographic establishment in these woods!
While wandering round at the landing at City Point, waiting to take passage for Annapolis, I saw at a distance some tents, exquisitely trimmed with green boughs. "How very pretty!" I exclaimed; "I must go up there and have a peep." "But it won't do to go nearer," suggested my companion. "I must," said I; "I never saw anything half so pretty. I must see them nearer." Gradually approaching, I saw that the floor of the tent was ingeniously carpeted with small pine boughs. In the middle of it was a round table covered with green in the same manner; while in either corner stood a small rustic sofa, cushioned with green leaves. No upholsterer could have improved the effect "How very pretty!" I again exclaimed, growing bolder as I saw it temporarily unoccupied. As I said this, two officers made their appearance from a tent near, and said—"Walk in, madam, and look at it; it is not often that we see ladies at our encampment." So we accepted the invitation, and then and there I penitently and publicly dropped a theory I had hugged for years—viz., that a man, left to himself, and deprived of the society of woman, would gradually deteriorate to that degree, that he would not even comb his hair, or wash his face, much less desire ornamentation in his home surroundings. And now here was a bower, fit for the prettiest maiden in all the land, made without any hope that a woman's eye might ever approve it; made, too, though its owner might be ordered to pack up his one shirt and march to battle the very next day; made for the sheer love of seeing something home-like, and beautiful. I bade its gallant proprietors good-bye, and went my ways, a humbler and a wiser woman.
While absent on this excursion I had several times the pleasure of observing the fine soldierly appearance of our colored troops. When I saw them form into line to salute the General as he passed, it gave me a thrill of delight; because I knew that it was not a mere show performance, on their part, toward one who has been so warmly, and bravely, their friend and protector.
The farther a New Englander goes South, the gladder he is to return. Blessed is it to pass the line, where doors will shut; where windows will open; where blinds will fasten; where chairs will maintain their usual uprightness; where wash-bowls are cleansed; where one towel for half a dozen persons is not considered an extravagance, and where the glass-panes in the windows are not so elaborately mended with putty that a street view is impossible. In short, blessed is the Yankee "faculty," as opposed to all this hanging-by-the-eyelids thriftlessness. In Virginia the grass is too lazy to grow. Now and then a half-dozen spears poke above-ground, and having done that, seem to consider their mission accomplished; then comes a bare spot of sand, until you come to the next five enterprising spears. However, the North before long will teach Virginia grass what is expected of grass. The James River appeared very lovely with its soft shadows that beautiful afternoon I stood upon its banks; and incongruous enough seemed the murderous-looking black Monitor resting upon its placid bosom; and the screeching shells flying overhead, with the soft hues of the rainbow against the blue sky. I said to myself—"Now, Fanny, you too would have loved this beautiful country, had you been born here instead of at the North; but, having ever been to the North and seen what Southern eyes must see there, whether they admit it or not, could you again have been contented and happy with your Southern birthright and its accompanying curse? That is the question. I think not." Everywhere now, in that region one is struck with the absence of all the peaceful signs of domestic life. True, there are beautiful trees and vines, and the same sweet wild-flowers in the odorous woods skirting the roadside, that are to be found in New England. There are houses, but the fences have been torn away; and from the skeleton window-pane no fair faces look out. No chickens run about in the yards; no little children swing upon gates; no young maidens stand in the deserted gardens; but, instead, there are soldiers and sentinels; and the negro huts belonging to these houses are empty, and on the walls of the family mansions are rude charcoal drawings of ships, and well-remembered faces, and Northern homesteads; and there are verses of poetry, and names, and dates, and arithmetical calculations; and upon floor and stairway and threshold the omnipresent evidences of that male-comforter and solace—Tobacco! As you ride miles along, under the soft blue sky and through rows of majestic old trees, missing the sight of human faces, suddenly, upon one of the tree trunks, you are startled with this inscription, "Embalming the dead here," or "Coffins here," or you see in the distance the creeping ambulance, or in a sudden turn of the road an "abatis," or some fortification. One realizes in such scenes the meaning of the word "war." Strange enough it seems, to come back from all that, to city theatres and their mock woes.