As a description of
the appearance of the country in which we were settled, I here introduce a
letter written at this date to a friend:
CAMP ADVANCE, Sept. 23, 1861.
A
short time since I undertook, from a single feature in the marred and distorted
face of this country, to give you some idea of the effects of the war on
Virginia, and of how dearly she is paying for her privilege of being shamefully
servile to South Carolina. It may not be uninteresting for you, now, to know,
to know something of its general appearance as it is, and as it was; and yet
when I tell you that my attempt to describe one scene fell far short of the
reality, you may imagine something of the difficulty of undertaking, in a
single letter, to convey any adequate idea of the whole. When Gov. Pickens said
last spring to the Carolinians: "You may plant your seeds in peace, for
Virginia will have to bear the brunt of the war," he cast a shadow of the
events which were coming on the head of this superannuated "mother of
States and of statesmen."
Chain
Bridge is about seven miles from the Capitol in Washington, and crosses the
Potomac at the head of all navigation; even skiffs and canoes cannot pass for
any distance above it, though a small steam tug runs up to the bridge, towing
scows loaded, principally, with stone for the city. The river runs through a
gorge in a mountainous region, and from here to Georgetown, a suburb of
Washington, is unapproachable on the Virginia side. There are very few places
where even a single footman can, with safety, get down the precipitous banks to
the water. The river then is a perfect barrier to any advance by the enemy from
this side, except at Georgetown, Chain Bridge, and Long Bridge, at the lower
end of Washington City. On the Columbia side is a narrow plateau of land, along
which runs the Ohio and Chesapeake Canal, and a public road. These occupy the
entire plateau till you come near Georgetown, where the country opens out,
making room for fine rolling farms of exceeding fertility, with here and there
a stately mansion overlooking road, city, canal and river, making some of the
most beautiful residences I ever beheld. On Meridian Hill, a little north of
the road from Washington to Georgetown, stands the old Porter Mansion, from
which one of the most aristocratic families in America were wont to overlook
the social, political, and physical movements of our National Capital; from
which, too, they habitually dispensed those hospitalities which made it the
resort, not only of the citizens of Columbia and Maryland, but also of the F.
F. V.'s, for whom it had especial attractions. All around it speaks in
unmistakable language of the social and pecuniary condition of those who
occupied the grounds. Even the evidences of death there speak of the wealth of
the family. The tombstone which marks the place of repose of one of its
members, and on which is summed up the short historical record of her who
sleeps within, tells of former affluence and comfort.
A
little further on we pass the Kalorama House—the name of the owner or the
former occupant I have not learned, but it is one of the most magnificent
places that imagination can picture. You enter the large gate, guarded by a beautiful
white cottage for the janitor, and by a circuitous route through a dense grove
of deciduous and evergreen forest, you rise, rise, rise, by easy and gradual
ascent, the great swell of ground on which stands the beautiful mansion, shut
out from the view of the visitor till he is almost on the threshold, but
overlooking even its whole growth of forest, and the whole country for miles
around.
You
next pass Georgetown. The plateau begins to narrow, and the dimensions of the
houses grow correspondingly less, but they are distributed at shorter intervals
till you reach the bridge.
This
is what it was. What is it? In passing the Porter mansion, the stately
building, with its large piazza shaded by the badly damaged evergreens, and
covered more closely by the intermingling branches of every variety of climbing
rose, of the clamatis and the honeysuckle, invite you to enter, but the seedy
hat and thread-bare coat appearance of the old mansion, give notice that the
day of its prosperity is passing away. You would cool yourself in the shade of
its clumps of evergreens, but at every tree stands tied a war horse, ready
caparisoned for the "long roll" to call him into action at any
moment, and, lest you be trampled, you withdraw, and seek shelter in the arbor
or summer house. Here, too, "grim-visaged war presents his wrinkled
front," and under those beautiful vines where fashion once held her levees,
the commissary and the soldiers now parley over the distribution of pork and
beef and beans. In the sadness, inspired by scenes like these, you naturally
withdraw, to a small enclosure of white palings, over the top of which is seen
rising a square marble column. As you approach, large letters tell you that
ELIZABETH PORTER lies there, and the same engraving also tells you that she is
deaf to the surrounding turmoil, and has ceased to know of the passions which
caused it. That marble rises from a broad pedestal, on one side of which are
two soldiers with a pack of cards, and the little pile of money which they
received a few days ago, is rapidly changing hands. On the opposite side are
two others busily engaged in writing, perhaps of the glories and laurels they
are to win in this war; but I venture the opinion, never once to express an
idea of the misery and despair of the widows and orphans at whose expense their
glories are to be won! On the third side of the pedestal stand a tin canteen,
two tin cups, and a black bottle! The fourth awaits a tenant. Again, for quiet,
you approach the mansion. As you step on the threshold, half lost, no doubt, in
musing over what you have witnessed, instead of the hospitable hand extended
with a cordial "Walk in, sir," you are startled by the presented
bayonet, and the stern command to "halt; who are you and your
busines?" A good account of yourself will admit you to spacious rooms with
black and broken walls, soiled floors, window sills, sash and moulding, all
disfigured or destroyed by the busy knife of the universal Yankee. This room is
occupied by the staff of some regiment or brigade. The next is a store room for
corn, oats, hay, and various kinds of forage. The house has been left
unoccupied by its owners, and is now taken possession of by any regiment or
detachment which happens to be stationed near.
Tired
of this desolation in the midst of a crowd, you pass through long rows of white
tents, across the little valley which separates you from the hill of Kalorama.
Your stop here will be short, for after having climbed the long ascent and
reached the house, you find the windows all raised, and anxious lookers-out at
every opening. From the first is presented to your view a face of singular
appearance, thickly studded with large, roundish, ash-colored postules,
slightly sunken in the center. The next presents one of different aspect—a
bloody redness, covered here and there with scaly excrescences, ready to be
rubbed off, and show the same blood redness underneath. In the next, you find
another change—the redness paling, the scales dropping, and revealing deep,
dotted pits, and you at once discover that the beautiful house of Kalorama is
converted into a pest house for soldiers. Shrinking away from this, you pass
through a corner of Georgetown, and then enter the narrow valley between the
high bluffs and the Potomac. Onward you travel towards the bridge, never out of
the sight of houses, the fences unbroken, the crops but little molested, the
country in the peace and quietness of death almost; for the houses, farms,
crops, are all deserted, in consequence of the war which is raging on the
opposite side of that unapproachable river; and you travel from our National
Capital through seven miles of fine country, inviting, by its location and
surroundings, civilization and refinement in the highest tone, without passing
a house—save in Georgetown—in which the traveler would find it safe to pass a
night—indeed I can recall but one which is inhabited by whites. On all these
farms scarcely a living thing is to be seen, except the few miserably-ragged
and woebegone—looking negroes, or some more miserable—looking white dispensers
of bad whisky, who seem to have taken possession of them because they had been
abandoned by their proper occupants. The lowing of herds is no longer heard
here; the bleating of flocks has ceased, and even Chanticleer has yielded his
right of morning call to the bugle's reveille. "If such things are done in
the green tree, what may we expect in the dry?" Cross the bridge into
Virginia, and you will see.
Gloomy
as is the prospect just passed, it saddens immeasurably from the moment you
cross the Virginia line. In addition to the abandonment and desolation of the
other side, destruction here stares you in the face. Save in the soldier and
his appendants, no sign of life in animal larger than the cricket or katy-did,
greets you as you pass. Herds, flocks, swine, and even fowls, both wild and
domestic, have abandoned this country, in which scenes of civil life are no
longer known. Houses are torn down, fences no longer impede the progress of the
cavalier, and where, two months ago, were flourishing growths of grain and
grass, the surface is now bare and trodden as the highway. Even the fine
growths of timber do not escape, but are literally mowed down before the march
of the armies, lest they impede the messengers of death from man to man. And
this is in the nineteenth century of Christianity—and these the results of the
unchristian passions of fathers, sons and brothers, striving against the lives
and happiness of each other. Alas! Poor Virginia! Your revenues are cut off,
your industry paralysed, your soil desecrated, your families in exile, your
prestige gone forever.
But
as so many others are writing of exciting scenes, I fear you will grow
impatient for my description of the last battles for my account of
anthropophagi—of men who have their heads beneath their shoulders—but I have no
tact for describing unfought battles, or for proclaiming imperishable glories
won to-day, never to be heard of after to-morrow. When we have a fight worth
describing, I shall tell you of it. In the meantime I am "taking
notes," and "faith I'll print 'em." If the rebels will not give
us a fight to make a letter of, I will, at my first leisure, for fear my men
forget their Hardee and Scott, have a graphic dress parade, in which our
different regiments shall contribute at least a battalion, to pass review
before you. Then let him who loses laugh, for he who wins is sure to. Till then
good night.
