Huntsville, Wednesday, March 30. A fine day, warm, the vegetable kingdom springing fast. Turned my sick horse out to die this morning. Obtained a pass of Lieutenant Jenawein to go to the city. Called at shoemaker’s shop, fixed my boots, and took a ramble through the town to the cemetery, and spent half an hour in meditation among the sacred dead. There lay, side by side, the rich and the poor. Here are coward, patriot and traitor. Truly all earthly passes away and leaves but faint traces behind. Visited an artist’s gallery where I saw the most beautiful works of art I ever saw, representing the human form so lifelike that it needed but the speech to appear with life. The room was filled with different scenes, and the cold white marble statuary by them looked cold and expressionless. Returned to camp weary, but well pleased with my morning’s work. Dinner was over, but they left a rarity of potatoes, etc.
At dress parade we were looked upon by four Northern ladies, one of whom was Mother Bickerdyke, having ridden up from town in an ambulance. The ranks, which before they came under the soft glances of women, were irregular, steps broken, heads drooping, all carelessness, now closed up and all moved with true military precision. A natural impulse to please took hold of them, I guess. After parade they were conducted through camp examining our quarters, with a pleasant smile and a kind word for all, spreading sunshine as they went and filling the heart with fond recollections and pleasing hopes. All were Northern women upon missions of love, one I understood a Wisconsin one, a young lady of twenty-five, the others elderly.
