Headquarters 53d Regiment P. V.,
Camp Near Morrisville, Va.,
Wednesday, Aug. 20th, 1863.
Messrs. Editors:–We have been told, and we have credited the information as the heading of our letter shows, that somewhere
in juxtaposition to our camp there is a place, or rather, a burg, or in rural phrase, a village, or plainly speaking a town, rejoicing
and being glad in the name of Morrisville. Now some of the villages in this Old Dominion “Cuffe” Pot, are a little like the
chivalry of the South–very ideal, and, like the Irishman’s flea when you have your finger on them are not there. In fact they
have regularly organized towns down here, that, like their Corn-federacy, exist only in the fairy land of imagination. Therefore
being well aware of the smallness of things in this country, we provided ourselves with a kind friend’s opera glass, and started
out for the wise purpose of clearly elucidating to our infinite private satisfaction the fact of Morrisville being a bona fide and
genuine village.
One mile of go-aheadativeness brought us to a cross roads. Now be it known that in this land of “Old Virginia shore,”
a cross roads though they cross ever so little, is of itself a great institution; and residents for six miles around, all live, so they
say, at “Smith’s,” or “Jones,” or “Fust Family” Cross Roads. Some one told us that at or about the cross roads, was situate in
all its unsophisticated rural grandeur, Morrisville. Taking a fine position on elevated ground, we adjusted our glasses and began
the search. We noticed that quite a number of larger and smaller stones covered the ground, these all appeared to be well
preserved and in good condition; and further investigations developed the fact that they were the only things in good condition.
We noticed the places where fences once stood in all the glory of “thus far thou shalt go but no further,” but the fence having
no de-fence was compelled to feed the hungry flame of the bivouac fires. Soldiers often commit offences; that is they often go
off with the fences.
Finally our eyesight was rewarded by the discovery of a house–none of your new buildings; it was evidently one of
the first houses in Virginia. The appearance of a bare-legged “cullerd chile” confirmed this opinion. Near this solitary building
stands three magnificently straight chimneys. We made an extensive reconnoissance with our glass but failed to find any
houses minus smoking attachments to which said chimneys could by any manner of means belong. So we came to one of the
following conclusions–(which one we will not say.) Either Jeff, in the amplitude of his power, had taken the houses to iron clad
rebel gunboats; or, Morrisville at one period of antiquity, was the seat of a college for the graduation of chimney sweepers, and
these houseless chimneys were used by the students for practicing. Having thus, by personal observation convinced ourselves
of the doubtful existence of the village, we proceeded to camp, with a profound admiration of the enterprise of Virginia. I have
thought of writing to the President to put Morrisville on the “Retired List” with old Rome, Carthage and other played out
villages, but considering the condition of the State in which it is gloriously situated, perhaps the “Invalid Corps” would be
more appropriate.
An amusing scene always occurs at Corps Headquarters on the arrival of express boxes. The Provost Marshal
examines the contents and if any contraband articles are discovered, such articles are at once confiscated. Yesterday a wagon
load of express boxes were brought from Bealton Station and unloaded at Corps Headquarters. Capt. Mintzer the Provost
Marshal and Lieut. Ludwig, of the Provost Guard proceeded to open the boxes. Most of the things were eatables,
underclothing, quite a number of smokeables, as well as a quantity of contraband drinkables. It was amusing to notice how the
senders, or to speak expressly, shippers of the whiskey endeavored to hide the spirits. A number of quart and half gallon tin
cans were labelled “fresh peaches,” “apple butter,” “celebrated horse imbrocation,” “horse radish,” (to be mixed we presume
with the Imbrocation,) “Radway’s Ready Relief,” and other equally delusive titles. A small hole was punched through the tin,
and with the experience of Professor Blitz, “peaches,” “apple butter,” and other nice things all changed to whiskey or gin; and,
lo! they were confiscated. A quart stone bottle was labelled “Harrison’s Black Ink,” one glass bottle was said to contain “cough
medicine,” and had the physician’s prescription on “take one tablespoon full, &c.” A suspiciously heavy box marked “smoking
tobacco” was opened and it was smoking tobacco, but in feeling through it, the hand was soon withdrawn, bringing along with
it a bottle that looked very much like schnapps or some other easy to take medicine.
Here’s a tin can said to contain “horse radish.” It is opened and true enough it is horse radish. Now if the inspector is green in
the business he would pass the can as all right. But turn the can around, punch a hole in the bottom of it, apply the nose, and
what is undoubtedly horse radish at one end, will smell abominably like gin at the other. The can has a partition about the centre
of it that fully explains the matter. In some of the boxes were complete suits of cotizens clothes–these were sent on by parties to
facilitate desertion. After the contraband articles were taken out, the boxes were nailed shut again and forwarded to the regiments
to which they belonged. The liquors confiscated were turned over to the Medical Department.
It is somewhat amusing to notice how enamored some of the officers are of the rebel ladies living at the farm homes
and other houses round about the camp. Nor is it confined to the young officers, but a few of the old superannuated shoulder
straps are very regular in their devotions at the shrine of southern beauty. We really don’t believe that these favored ladies ever
had so much marked attention paid to them at any former period of their blissful lives. Even “mamas” of an uncertain age have
polite attentions paid them that must be highly flattering to their rebel venerableness. Surgeons must gallop every day, more or
less, to the well known house where “sweet eighteen” resides because, forsooth, somebody might require medical advice.
Chaplains have a better reason for doping the same thing, for spiritual advice is never out of place. Gay and dashing Aids must
visit the ladies–well, because they have nothing else to do.
“Oh! woman, woman thou shouldst have few sins of thine own
To answer for, thou art the author of such a book of follies
In a man, that it would need the tears of all the angels
To wipe the record out.”
All quiet along the lines.
[Yours, &c. L. J. F.]
[Montgomery Ledger, September 1, 1863]
