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Manassas, Va. (Virginia, United States) (search for this): chapter 3.37
the hillside the original genius who had planned this retreat had dug a sort of cave, piled dirt on the timber roof, and made his retreat bomb-proof! He evidently designed retiring from the world to this comfortable retreat, extending his feet toward his blazing fire, and sleeping or reflecting without thought of the enemy's artillery. One and all, these winter quarters were deserted, and I thought as I looked at them of those excellent houses which our forces left near Centreville and Manassas in March, 1862. Dreary, bare, lonely, melancholy-such is the landscape around me. That bugle! It sounds to horse! Camp No-Camp goes, and bkecomes a thing of the Past! The band, the bugle, the banjo, sound no more-at least in this portion of the world. I leave with a sigh that excellent stable for my horse: I cast a last lingering look upon the good log chimney which I have mused by so often, pondering idly on the future or the past. Farewell chimney, that does not smoke
Centreville (Maryland, United States) (search for this): chapter 3.37
f timber. In the hillside the original genius who had planned this retreat had dug a sort of cave, piled dirt on the timber roof, and made his retreat bomb-proof! He evidently designed retiring from the world to this comfortable retreat, extending his feet toward his blazing fire, and sleeping or reflecting without thought of the enemy's artillery. One and all, these winter quarters were deserted, and I thought as I looked at them of those excellent houses which our forces left near Centreville and Manassas in March, 1862. Dreary, bare, lonely, melancholy-such is the landscape around me. That bugle! It sounds to horse! Camp No-Camp goes, and bkecomes a thing of the Past! The band, the bugle, the banjo, sound no more-at least in this portion of the world. I leave with a sigh that excellent stable for my horse: I cast a last lingering look upon the good log chimney which I have mused by so often, pondering idly on the future or the past. Farewell chimney, that
Africa (search for this): chapter 3.37
reville and Manassas in March, 1862. Dreary, bare, lonely, melancholy-such is the landscape around me. That bugle! It sounds to horse! Camp No-Camp goes, and bkecomes a thing of the Past! The band, the bugle, the banjo, sound no more-at least in this portion of the world. I leave with a sigh that excellent stable for my horse: I cast a last lingering look upon the good log chimney which I have mused by so often, pondering idly on the future or the past. Farewell chimney, that does not smoke; and stable, which a new log floor has just perfected! Farewell pine-trees and mud, and dreams and reveries, and recollections-at least here! Strike the tent, O African of the scriptural name! Put my traps in the wagon-strap my blanket behind the saddle-give me my sabre and pistol, and hold my stirrup! You will oblige me particularly if you will tell me where I am going, friend. There is the bugle, and the colours are unrolled. Forward! And so we depart.
President Lincoln (search for this): chapter 3.37
ker, help this Nigger, Wake up in the morning, The old gray Hoss, Come back, Stephen, Hard times and worse a-comin, Sweet Evelina, and a number of other songs. It is a good banjo. I hear it at present playing Dixie with a fervour worthy of Fhat great national anthem. It is a Yankee instrument, captured and presented to the minstrel who now wields it, by admiring friends! But-proh pudor!-it plays Southern ditties only, and refuses obstinately to celebrate the glories of the Happy land of Lincoln. I have heard the songs of our minstrel which he plays on his banjo, something like a thousand times-but they always make me laugh. They ring so gaily in the airs of evening that all sombre thoughts are banished-and, if sometimes I am tempted to exclaim, There is that old banjo rattling again! I always relent, and repent me of my disrespect toward the good old friend; and go and listen and laugh at the woes of Booker, or the colloquy with Stephen-above all, at the Old gray Hoss, noblest
Monck (search for this): chapter 3.37
On the wing. The days of Camp no-camp are numbered. The cannon begin to move — the bugle calls — the hours of idleness and outlines are a thing of the past. Whither will the winds of war now waft us? That is a hard question to reply to; for a marked peculiarity of the Southern military theory is mystery. General Monck, of the time of Charles II, was so reticent, I have heard, that when any one said, Good-morning, General, he reflected for twelve hours, and then replied, Good-evening; which caused every one to wonder at the accuracy of the response. That is an excellent example to be followed by officers; and thus-being ignorant-I carefully conceal the route we are about to take. But we go, that is certain; and it is not without a feeling of regret that I leave this old familiar spot, where so many pleasant hours have passed away with song and laughter. As I gaze around, I fall into a reverie, and murmur. Strange that I ever thought the spot dull and commonplace.
Johnny Booker (search for this): chapter 3.37
ody and sweetness, and a splendid ardour, which are better than the weird sound of the horns of elf-land faintly blowing! There is our banjo too-could I think of neglecting that great instrument in my list of sights and sounds? It plays O Johnny Booker, help this Nigger, Wake up in the morning, The old gray Hoss, Come back, Stephen, Hard times and worse a-comin, Sweet Evelina, and a number of other songs. It is a good banjo. I hear it at present playing Dixie with a fervour worthy of Fhatening that all sombre thoughts are banished-and, if sometimes I am tempted to exclaim, There is that old banjo rattling again! I always relent, and repent me of my disrespect toward the good old friend; and go and listen and laugh at the woes of Booker, or the colloquy with Stephen-above all, at the Old gray Hoss, noblest of melodies, and now adopted as the national air of all the dwellers in Camp No-Camp! Good-by, jolly old Yankee banjo! Rattle on gaily, and play all the old tunes! It i
Lucullus (search for this): chapter 3.37
fire is the soldier's delight. It warms his limbs and cheers his spirit, dries his wet clothes, cooks his rations, and dispels all his gloomy thoughts. The gay groups pass the jest and sing their songs, and tell their stories. Then they sleep; and sleep is so pleasant after a long tramp — the luxury of the gods! War teaches many valuable lessons never learned in peace. O Sybarite, tossing on your couch of down and grumbling at the rose leaf which destroys your slumber! O good Lucullus, searching for an appetite, though all the dainties of the earth are on your table-shoulder a musket and tramp all day without rest or food, and you will learn this truth — that the greatest of luxuries are bread and water and sleep! I have said that the woods around camp are deserted and lonely. Not long since they were filled with troops. But the troops are gone. Before the onslaught of the regiments and brigades the forest disappeared-vanished and floated off in smoke. For mil
Hoss (search for this): chapter 3.37
he weird sound of the horns of elf-land faintly blowing! There is our banjo too-could I think of neglecting that great instrument in my list of sights and sounds? It plays O Johnny Booker, help this Nigger, Wake up in the morning, The old gray Hoss, Come back, Stephen, Hard times and worse a-comin, Sweet Evelina, and a number of other songs. It is a good banjo. I hear it at present playing Dixie with a fervour worthy of Fhat great national anthem. It is a Yankee instrument, captured and pam tempted to exclaim, There is that old banjo rattling again! I always relent, and repent me of my disrespect toward the good old friend; and go and listen and laugh at the woes of Booker, or the colloquy with Stephen-above all, at the Old gray Hoss, noblest of melodies, and now adopted as the national air of all the dwellers in Camp No-Camp! Good-by, jolly old Yankee banjo! Rattle on gaily, and play all the old tunes! It is singular how new and delightful they arewhat a world of mirth
March, 1862 AD (search for this): chapter 3.37
he original genius who had planned this retreat had dug a sort of cave, piled dirt on the timber roof, and made his retreat bomb-proof! He evidently designed retiring from the world to this comfortable retreat, extending his feet toward his blazing fire, and sleeping or reflecting without thought of the enemy's artillery. One and all, these winter quarters were deserted, and I thought as I looked at them of those excellent houses which our forces left near Centreville and Manassas in March, 1862. Dreary, bare, lonely, melancholy-such is the landscape around me. That bugle! It sounds to horse! Camp No-Camp goes, and bkecomes a thing of the Past! The band, the bugle, the banjo, sound no more-at least in this portion of the world. I leave with a sigh that excellent stable for my horse: I cast a last lingering look upon the good log chimney which I have mused by so often, pondering idly on the future or the past. Farewell chimney, that does not smoke; and stable,