Camp Near Seneca, November 29, 1861,
Friday Evening.
’T is a misty, moisty morning, and cloudy is the weather, — a
hunting morning, with no game, however. Mr. Motley and Frank and Mr. Robeson
will tempt Providence and trust the rebel highway soon on their way to
Washington. I must send you a line by them. As I hoped, and wrote, Wednesday
afternoon brought the Colonel and his party. I was sorry that our bright, clear
weather lowered just before their arrival; and cheerlessness overspread the
camp at nightfall, when they arrived. It was pleasant to see them. Their visit
has been an agreeable one to us, though probably not full of exciting pleasure
to them. I have got both your letters, — the one brought by Mr. Motley and the
one sent by you on Saturday. Your Thanksgiving was as I had fancied it, and I
am glad to get your bright and faithful picture of it. You will have received,
ere this, my account of the steady improvement of the regiment. You will know,
too, that I am now in perfect health myself, and I beg that you will put aside
all anxiety on my account. As for coming home, it is now out of the question. I
cannot pretend to have felt anything of “that stern joy which warriors feel in
foemen worthy of their steel,” — but I have a calm content in the presence of
hardship and discomfort, and in resistance to those influences which assail the
efficiency of “the best regiment in the service.” Again, I feel a satisfaction
in knowing that I am, and have always been,” reported, according to military
phrase, “for duty” on the morning regimental report! Just at the moment when
the duty ceases to be pleasant, I do not wish to have that report changed. I am
aware that these are selfish reasons, and I know also that it is quite likely
things will go well enough without me. But here I am, and here I stay, for the
present. Colonel Andrews will go on Monday, I hope. Besides, our Examining
Board has been waiting for me to be relieved from command of the regiment to
commence its sittings, and so I could not get leave to go. Voilà des difficultes. Mr. Motley can assure you
of my perfect health. Indeed, I do not think it would improve it to run home.
It would certainly change my settled feeling into an unsettled one, and
so, again, the consequence follows. I think that, to go to a Thanksgiving party
at Mrs. ——'s, and have a chat with Mrs. ——, or to dine with and his wife, or to
see another pretty Miss ——, or to bid C—— good by as he starts out, a gay
cavalier, to escort his cousin to the dance, or to sit in the parlor of an
evening at home, would be fragrant flowers of delight; but then, how soon they
would fade, and what a withered nosegay should I bring back to camp with me!
But I also feel that it would be a galling irritant to go
home. The Colonel says you are not awake to the war in Boston. Tameness,
irresolution, pity for “political prisoners,”
— that is, traitors and felons, — talk of restoration by concession, pratings
of a speedy advance on the Potomac, unmilitary plans for military movements,
etc., etc. I have got anything but a pleasant picture of the tone of things at
home. Upon my word, I think it would have a bad effect upon the equanimity
which I cultivate and desire, to go about much at home. When events, whose
progress and logic are unanswerable and persistent, have unravelled the tangled
web of your mystification, and taught the good Boston people all about war, then,
perhaps, it will be safe for one intent on its prosecution and longing for its
results to breathe the enervating airs of your placid paradise. Till then, my
voice is still for war. Everything here seems to be going pretty well. Camp
life has no changes and few incidents to amuse you.
SOURCE: Elizabeth Amelia Dwight, Editor, Life and
Letters of Wilder Dwight: Lieut.-Col. Second Mass. Inf. Vols., p. 159-61
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