Camp Porter, Va., Jan. 28, 1862.
Dear Cousin L.:—
I returned from the picket lines yesterday and found your pleasant letter of the 24th awaiting me. If you were in Camp Porter about 5 p. m. when that plastic individual that the boys call “Putty” arrives with the daily mail, and could see the interest with which his proceedings are watched as he distributes the spoils, your fears of burdening me with an extensive correspondence would soon vanish. I never thought so much of letters as I have since I have been here. The monotony of camp life would be almost intolerable were it not for these friendly letters. We do not expect much news, but they are like the delightful small-talk that does so much to make time pass agreeably in society. The worst feature of camp life is its influence upon the mind and character. The physical discomfort, hard fare, etc., I can endure very well, but I sometimes shrink from the moral or immoral influences that cluster round the soldier. The severe physical exercise is so fatiguing that but little disposition is felt to exercise the mind in anything that is beneficial. Everything that requires close or long-continued thought is excluded from the common soldier’s tent and he usually settles down to the conviction that all he needs is enough to keep himself posted in the news of the day and a little light reading. Thus the stronger mental faculties are unused and of course they rust. Another evil is the absence of all female society. The roughest characters are always to be found in the army, and. the restraint of home and more refined friends removed, those who are better disposed are exposed to the influence of such characters without remedy. Our associations go far to mould our characters, and as a constant dropping wears away the stone, this influence must have its effect. The cultivation of the finer feelings of the heart is neglected and they too are not developed. The pure and elevating influence of music is lost. I am passionately fond of music (although a poor singer) and I miss this as much as any one thing. The music of the field is the fife and drum or the brass band, and the songs sung in camp are not at all remarkable for beauty or purity.
With all these drawbacks there are many pleasant times in the soldier’s life. One of these is when he is the recipient of letters like yours; they speak to him in louder tones than those of the press or pulpit and bid him resist these evil influences and keep himself pure; they atone in a measure for the absence of friends and remind us that they are watching to see if we do our duty, and feel interested in our welfare. You need never fear burdening me with letters.
I fear that, if all the guide you had was my most graphic description of myself, I might pass you in Broadway ten times a day without recognition. I might say, however, that I am of the “tall and slender” order. Five feet nine is about my height, and one hundred and thirty-five pounds my weight. I am set down in the army description book as having brown hair and blue eyes, and, I might add, of very ordinary appearance.
I see you are a thorough abolitionist. I am glad of it. I thought I hated slavery as much as possible before I came here, but here, where I can see some of its workings, I am more than ever convinced of the cruelty and inhumanity of the system. It has not one redeeming feature. I was on picket duty last Sunday and some seven of us went out a mile or so beyond the lines on a little scouting party. I stopped at a little cabin near the Leesburg turnpike to get some dinner. I found an intelligent and cleanly mulatto woman in the house, surrounded by quite a number of bright little children. She promised me the best she had, and while she was preparing some hoecake and bacon, I entered into conversation with her and she was quite communicative. She was a slave, she said, so was her husband and the children. Her master was in the rebel army and she was left in charge of her mistress, who lived in a respectable house across the way. Her husband had been taken about a month ago to work on the fortifications at Leesburg. He had, at first, refused to go with his master and was most brutally beaten. She showed me the post where he was tied up and told the story with an earnestness that nothing but actual experience can give. I talked long with her and told her I hoped this war would result in giving her and all of her class their freedom. “I hope so, Massa,” said she, “but I dunno, I dunno.” I had a little Sunday-school paper that I took out with me from camp. I read some of the stories to the children and gave them the paper. How their eyes sparkled as they saw the pictures! But the reading was Greek to them. The mother said: “I would study ten years if I could read like you, Massa; a black woman taught me some letters, but Massa Blaisdell took my spellin’ book away and whipped me and he said ‘larnin’ wasn’t for niggers.”” This is “the land of the free and the home of the brave.”
We are still at Hall’s Hill, and as far as I can see likely to stay here. No movement can be made while the roads are in such a state.
