Excerpt from Leaves: From a Trooper"s Diary
Yesterday I took a stroll to the site of my first camp. It is not far from Girard College, and I found that the walls of the extending city had encroached somewhat upon the place. But there was the field, without doubt, looking as green and fresh as on that summer day, eight years ago, when first I entered it. The old house still stands under the ancient elms; the birds - could they be the same? - still flit and chirp among the leaves. The surroundings are quiet. No one lives in the house, apparently. There is nothing to tell the chance observer that this green slope was once bald and slippery with the wear of martial feet; that here a thousand men lived for two mouths in preparation for war.
Sitting awhile upon the fence, and musing, I had a new sense of the pleasures of memory. It required but little effort of the imagination to restore to this weedy field the well-worn paths, the rows of snowy tents, the throngs of bran-new soldiery. Nor were the stirring scenes outside of camp less vividly recalled.
Bull Run! where really for the first time in our war,
"Red Battle stamp"d his foot, and nations felt the shock."
It is the most singular field in history; from which the real victors fled, leaving the vanquished in wondering possession!
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