Feb. 21. — Suspense, — suspense for ever. Every day we expect news of a movement; but it does not come. They are signalling now; they are signalling night and day from one of the half-ruined towers of the capitol, by flag and fire. The old tower is perfectly garrulous with the ships and the stations down the river. Scarcely an hour of the day goes by but I hear volleys of musketry, the cries of platoons of men as they charge, “the noise of the captains and the shouting;” for drill goes vigorously forward. The streets of the town are full of armed men.
The other day, I saw Nims’s Battery at drill. The cannons and caissons are all out. I pass in front of the muzzles as they are drawn up, — hard things to face. There, as usual, is the bugler, covered in front with broad bars of red, like St. Lawrence escaped from his broiling before his martyrdom was completed,—he is there; but to-day Capt. Nims does his own bugling. “Toot, toot,” a chain of notes, and away they all go on a gallop; “toot, toot,” now they halt and unlimber; “toot, toot,” off again, by the right flank, swords waving, harness jingling, horses kicking with excitement, — all done- to a little chain of clear bugle-notes. Prompt they are, as if those notes were linked on in some way to that great rattling battery; and strong enough to swing the whole affair right or left, horses, guns, and all; then jerk each man off his seat, as they come to a halt, and bring him up standing. Rather ungracious business, Capt. Nims, blowing your own trumpet; but you do it very well.
I write on the cluttered-up table, — the two blinds nailed together. Where once, for all I know, some sweet Southern belle sent glances through the slats, now the quinine mixture of Private Grimes (accidentally upset) strains through on to the floor.
In hospital-life I see the good and bad side of human nature. There are shirks, — but I believe I know one or two, — foul-mouthed often indeed, and altogether too rough, one would think, ever to be fledged out with angels’ plumage. They will go home from here (if they live) to a bed on the straw in a barn-loft, or to a cot in a shanty in the woods, where they are getting out timber for some saw-mill; but, in view of their substantial goodness, I know not why, some night, these surroundings should not “like a lily bloom,” as well as the chamber of Abou Ben Adhem, and an angel write them down, as ” those who love their fellow-men,” near the head of God’s list, thoroughly unsanctified though they seem, as judged by all conventional standards.
