JOHN S. SCHULTZE, Ass't-Adj't-Gen'l.
The column continued its retrograde movement and about sunset turned
down a road that crosses the Conedoguinet at a place called Orr's
Bridge, not far from a mile distant from the spot where we had lain all
day; and on the hither bank of the river stacked arms for the night. It
was a pretty place for a bivouac. The river, a hundred yards or more in
breadth, here makes a sweep forming an arc of water, one-third of a
mile long, which flows placidly. The opposite shore, forming the inner
curve of the arc, is tame, being covered for the most part with a
straggling growth of timber; but on this side the river is flanked by a
ridge along the top of which runs the Harrisburg and Carlisle pike. In
the near distance, now lengthened by the deepening twilight, this ridge
melts off into rolling hills, embrowned with ripe standing grain; while
where the Twenty-Third made their bivouac it rises rough and
precipitous, and is thickly wooded. All along the water's edge lies a
narrow belt of lawn, thirty to forty feet wide, beautifully green and
level, on which the brigade was halted. About midway of the arc of
water, the stream is spanned by a bridge. As the darkness crept on, the
picture presented from our bivouac was in the highest degree charming,
and might be supposed to realize some sylvan poet's dream.
"No bird-song floated down the hill,
The tangled bank below was still.
No rustle from the birchen stem,
No ripple from the waters hem.
The dusk of twilight round us grew,
We felt the falling of the dew."
The lawn on which we sat down was in such harmony with the smooth water
on one side, and in such contrast with the unsightly rocks on the other
that one might be led to wonder whether some dreamer of old did not
plant the spot for his evening walk and musing; nor was it strange that
Fancy should bear us on her wings far back to the Golden Age of Story,
and that we should dream of wood nymphs and water sprites, and the
clime of Arcady.
Looking up stream the centre of the picture was occupied by the bridge,
one hundred and fifty yards distant, with woods at either end. In the
left foreground lay massed by foreshortening the long lines of stacked
arms, with crowds of figures, some moving but most of them at rest. In
the distance, under the bridge, this line bent gracefully around to the
right of the picture. Half a hundred fires were blazing along the edge
of the water, growing brighter every minute as the darkness thickened.
Directly over the bridge hung the planet Venus, now moving in that part
of her orbit where she shines with the greatest splendor. There were no
clouds, the wind had fallen, and the air was delightfully cool. Supper
being over we had sat down in companies upon the grassy bank to smoke
and enjoy the incomparable scene. Every present influence tended to
make us forget the enemy, and to call to mind only associations of the
beautiful. Under such inspirations it was impossible to resist the
impulse to sing. It was a thing of unsophisticated nature. Music came
to our lips as if it were an instinct, as if it were the very condition
of our being, just as if we had been birds. It will be difficult for
any one not of that company to realize with what tender, touching
pathos the simplest home melodies melted over those waters, though the
words and airs might be trite and even trivial.