66. LXVI.
IN WHICH THE WRITER OF THESE MEMOIRS IS TAKEN
TO TASK.
After writing the preceding chapter, my dear reader, I rose,
walked to the window, and, looking out upon the tranquil Rappahannock,
so vividly in contrast with the hurrying scenes I had
been describing, muttered: “It appears to me that my memoirs
are becoming a pure and simple history of the war in Virginia.”
Now, worthy reader, however noble and dignified the Muse
of History may appear in her stately robes, I have always had
a preference for the gay little Muse of Comedy, with her
caprices, witcheries, and “wanton wiles.” She is not half so
solemn and imposing as her grave sister, but she is more interesting.
If anybody laughs or cries, she finds it out, and tells you
all about it—nay, she cries herself with the disconsolate ones,
and laughs with the mirthful. There is not a smile or a tear
that she will not share—she is the Muse, not of History, but
simply of Comedy, you see.
She had been tugging at my skirts all this time, while I have
been relating the events of the Valley campaign, and whispering
in my ear, “I am growing tired of all these great generals
and bloody battles. I wish to hear about some other personages
whom you have introduced to me. There is Captain Mordaunt,
that mysterious personage; and May Beverley, and Violet Grafton,
and others. Where is Stuart, the peerless cavalier, Sweeny,
the banjo-player, Hagan, the giant corporal, and all the rest?
What's become of Fenwick, the serpent, and his cheerful companion,
Mrs. Parkins? Has Captain Baskerville been wounded
in any action, and what of Will Surry, of the United States
Army? Are all these personages to be sacrificed upon the
remorseless altars of
History—are we to have nothing but battles,
battles, battles?”
Pardon, gentle muse, for the infliction. True, battles become
weariness. Carnage bores at last; death becomes the normal
condition of things, and ceases to interest. But it was the
great figure of Ashby that enthralled me. Watching the flash
of his bright sabre in the charge, or talking with him by the
camp-fire after the hard-fought day, I forgot all else, and could
see, in all the world, that noble figure only. Hereafter, I shall
leave to the historian the detailed narration of great battles.
When they cross my path they shall not detain me long, gentle
muse!
