Kind reader, were you ever in Warrenton, famed for its beauty and for its hospitality in "ante-bellum" times! and are you susceptible to the bewitching glances "des beaux yeux"? Then you will appreciate what I am going to try to describe to you, though I well know I can but faintly portray the scene. Recall, if you can, the beautiful scenery of this lovely section of our State, especially as it appears in the budding month of May. Remember we had just then united with and were made "good comrades" by the "Black Horse" on their "native heath"—for the time their guests—and remember, also, that although at times naturally our thoughts would recur in some sadness to home, and wives, and the "girls we left behind us," yet we were generally (and then specially so) as gay and happy as a "big sunflower"—a cavalryman's normal condition.
With our comrades' escort and amid shouts of welcome, we marched into the village and drew up in line fronting the "Warren Green hotel." There such a sight, and such a greeting! We can never forget it. The broad and roomy piazzas; the corridors—every window filled—matrons and lords—wives and sweethearts—a battery of merry, sparkling (some tearful) eyes. Many lads were wounded in this their first engagement—pierced to the heart. Of course their own boys, then about to leave them (when to return, if ever, in the womb of the future), their own loved, gallant boys were the centre of attraction; but there were kind glances, bright smiles from lovely faces, gentle words from quivering lips, for the stranger boys, many of them seemingly too young to be so far away from their mothers, but all looking so happy and so handsome in their then bright and untarnished uniforms, gracefully managing and "showing off" their restless steeds, while shooting "back-glances" into laughing eyes. Well, no matter now, we basked in that sunshine then, and its lingering rays still warm our hearts.
But the bugle sounds—we move on, shouting back our "goodbye," and breathing in our hearts with the dispassioned lover, "Parting is such sweet sorrow; we could say good night till it be morrow." "Tempora mutantur et nos cum illis." We rapidly changed from that bright and careless scene to enter upon a new life of stern duties and responsibilities—the soldier life. That night, amid darkness, rain and mud, we make our gloomy encampment in the then dreary and unknown but now historic village of Manassas. There was no fun, no merriment that night. The only remnant of the "We will be gay and happy still," so lustily shouted on the
