Cantonment Hicks, February 9, 1862, near Frederick.
If I could take the wings of this brisk, sunny morning, I
would certainly fold them on our front-door steps in Brookline. Nor would I
then proceed to hide my head under the wings, but, having flapped them
cheerfully, I would thereupon crow!
But, as the wings and a furlough are both wanting, I must
content myself with a web-footed, amphibious existence in the mud of Maryland.
There is a secession song which enjoys a surreptitious
parlor popularity here. It is called, “Maryland, — my Maryland!” and rehearses,
among other things, that “the despot's heel is on thy breast!” If that be so,
all I have got to say is, that, just now, the heel has the worst of it. Yet
there is a just satisfaction in this morning's inspection of men, tents, and
kitchens, — to see how, by discipline, method, and fidelity, there is a
successful contest maintained with all the elements. The neatness and order of
our camp, in spite of mud, is a “volunteer miracle.”
You will be glad to know that the regiment is now in fine
health. We already begin to count the days till spring. Of course, it is unsafe
to predict the climate. I remember very well, however, that last February was
quite dry, and that early in March dust, and not mud, was the enemy I found in
Washington. It may well be, therefore, that there is a good time coming.
Indeed, has it not, in one sense, already come? Can you
blind yourself to the omens and the tendencies? What shall we say of those
statesmen of a budding empire, a new State, which is to give the law to the
commerce and industry of the world through a single monopoly? What shall we say
of the statesmen (Cobb, Toombs, etc.) who counsel their happy and chivalrous
people to a general bonfire of house, home, and product? There's a new industry
for a new State. King Cotton is a rare potentate. He proposes to be, himself,
his own circulating medium, among other eccentricities.
Then, too, what admirable inferiority of fortification they
succeed in erecting! Will our fleet of gunboats have as easy victories over all
their river defences? and, if so, how far are we from Memphis? and where is
Porter going with his “Mortar Fleet.” Among the ablest of our naval commanders,
he is not bent on a fool's errand. When Jeff Davis sleeps o’ nights, does he
dream of power?
But I've given you too many questions. In the midst of all
this jubilant interrogatory, when will our time come? Just as soon as the mud
dries, without a doubt.
Our life jogs on here without variety. For the most part, we
spend our time in reading military books and talking military talk.
I am just now a good deal disturbed by the prospect of
disbanding the bands. A greater mistake could not be made. The man with so
little music in his soul as to vote for it is fit for — a Secessionist. Marshal
Saxe, in introducing the cadenced step in the French infantry, says, “Music
exerts a great and secret power over us. It disposes ‘nos organes aux exercises
du corps, les soulagent dans ces exercises. On danse toute une nuit au son des
instruments mais personne ne resterait à
danser pendant un quart d’heure, seulement, sans musique.’” I have seen many a
practical verification of this in the gathering freshness and quickness with
which jaded men went on their march when the music called and cheered them.
Besides, we want the Star Spangled Banner, and its melody,
as allies against the Rebel seductions.
SOURCE: Elizabeth Amelia Dwight, Editor, Life and
Letters of Wilder Dwight: Lieut.-Col. Second Mass. Inf. Vols., p. 194-6
