Your Letter of the 20th inst. reached me this morning. There’s a letter to you partly written in my portfolio dated July 9th. I was interrupted in writing it and have not had the time convenient to finish it since. I intend to, however, whenever I happen to feel in a Metaphysico Theologo humour. I mention it that you may consider that I have not formed any of the strange conclusions that you deprecate.

I was highly pleased and interested with your account of “the folks” and description of your uncle’s house and grounds and the surrounding scenery. There was no occasion for you to tell me where Beverly was and all that! “Aunt Mary’s” vivid descriptions are not so easily erased.

I’ll tell you how you’ll oblige me now—and you can do it well enough if you’ll try—I’ll answer. Give me a rough plan of the place—showing the grounds, relative situation of the house, garden, fields, sea, &c.–with a sketch of the mansion and as much more—barns—ground plan, etc. as you’ve a mind for.

Your uncle’s Book farming—so much as you detail—don’t astonish me. You forget I am on the “Premium Farm of the Empire State.” (You’ll find Geddes’ Report in the last Albany Cultivator and in the Quarterly Journal. By the way, Dr. Emmons, in introducing it, pays Geddes a handsome compliment.)

Father thinks—or is looking at the farm west & north sides of Sachem’s Head Harbour. I should think it might be situated a little like your Uncle’s, and if I should take it, I should want to visit your uncle’s.

It seems like an age since I saw you or have heard from you before. And I want to know how you have changed, what kind of a man you have got to be, &c. How you’ve grown, &c. I’d like to compare you with what you was when we had that daguerreotype taken. You recollect it, don’t you? There in New Haven, the last term of Senior year. You don’t forget those old-fashioned daguerreotypes. It took us a whole forenoon, if not a whole day, to get five faint smoky stiff-grouped impressions—which we called daguerreotypes.

There was not a single line of telegraph in the city then. Ah, there have been great changes in our day, old fellow. I hope some of them are for the better, and that we have not ourselves had the influence of clogs upon the advance of society, happiness to man, & Glory to God.

That good old Saint, Jeremiah Day, was “Prex” then. “Little Miss [264]

[265] [266]Prex!” don’t you recollect, we used to call one of his daughters so—a queer, bright eyed, big nosed girl—full of life and striking expression. Did you ever hear what became of her. They used to say Fred Kingsbury (That Valedictory of his was a sensible thing was not it?—he was one of our Infantile Chemistry Association you know.)—they used to say Fred (so we called him then) was in love—with her—Miss Day. What was her first name? Something like “ice?” Somehow, that’s associated with her—to me. I never believed it though, did you—except as we all loved one another. How odd it sounds now.

There was old governor Baldwin, one of the old school Whig Connecticut governors. His daughter, pretty girl—sensible too. Recollect how she sung? Her favorite, something about a little Indian boy that was lost & found again or something. Didn’t she make poetry & such things. I believe I was more than half in love with her myself one spell—wasn’t you? But she “hated cats”—and I couldn’t go that.

Bishop Bacon’s daughter—and—But I expect you remember all those dear young saints as well as I. It’s pleasant to think of ’em a little now & then, isn’t [it] though? I hope we shall all meet again.

Talking of daguerreotypes—that you may prepare yourself and look destiny in the face—I give you a prophecy and a compliment from a very discerning and clever man to whom I showed that plate. He put his finger on your head after studying it a minute and said, “That’s the greatest man in the crowd.” “Now mind what I say, that man will make a great noise in the world!” So you may as well be loading up to your calibre.

As for me, I am “the same old two and six.” Not quite so soft perhaps as I used to be—for at these presents, I do not know that I am violently in love anywhere. I think my taste for study and reading has rather increased. I am afraid it will interfere some with my character for business and I find it harder to write & take pains than ever.

This has been a good place for me. I have looked on and talked more than I’ve worked; but I’ve considerable faith that I shall make a good farmer. In fact, I don’t doubt it at all, if I can only get (a good wife and) a place to suit me and am not badly shaved in purchasing it. I’ll write you another letter—one of these days. You were so confounded impudent—a spell ago writing to me—I did not mean to write about anything else (but “war”) this time.

Captain (Kirby) Smith is here on a short furlough. Now Captain Smith is a tall, straight, well-made man, with an honest, frank, sun-burnt face, short curly hair and handsome whiskers. A nice looking fellow is not he in a neat undress uniform. But then, too, he is sociable, courteous, well-bred, unassuming, modest, gallant, well informed and all that-no extravagance. Splendid fellow isn’t he? You have only to ask him questions, and he’ll answer just as you want to have him, not as if you did not know anything, [267]and yet not above particularizing. It’s real fun to tap him and draw off the stirring incidents of the battles, the mess table jokes, and campaigning anecdotes.

In the first place it did not take long to discover the news-papers lied tremendously. That whole affair of Captain Martin Scott & the Texan rangers —sixty killed—was so nearly without foundation, that even now, he knows nothing of it. And Captain S. is a particular and confidential friend of his. He makes him out to be a great fellow. That keeping communication between the forts was desperate business. He admires General Taylor but General T. is not a classical scholar. He told May to take it “nolus volus.” They make a great deal of fun about it. There was a report in camp that “the Penn. University had conferred the degree of LL.D. on General T. on account of the classical erudition he displayed in the action of the 9th May.” Gen’l Taylor heard of it and enjoyed the joke.

Smith breakfasted with Major Ringgold on the morning of the 8th.

“What did you have for breakfast?”

“Cold ham”—(do you like it?) “hard bread and a bottle of claret.”

The first shot that hit his company knocked a man down at his feet. He looked up at him.

“I am killed, Captain!”

“Oh no, you are not. A dead man can’t speak.”

“But look here, Captain.”

The ball had struck him in the temple. Captain T. put his finger on the wound and told him the ball had not gone through his skull.

“Well then, by George, Sir, I am good for another.”

And he picked up his musket and marched on. The next man that was shot, the ball passed between the Captain’s legs.

The first day they had little to do but to stand fire and repulse the Mexican Cavalry in hollow square (Fifth Infantry). At the Resaca de la Palma his company, were among the first and longest engaged. The whole country is full of chapperel (so accented) and underbrush with little openings and cowpaths amongst it. They scouted up through the bushes on the left side of the road till they reached a low bank (near A. “A”) under cover of which they lay a few minutes protected from the fire of the Mexican Entrenchment (at E) while Smith & the officers reconnoitered. The main body with General Taylor were on the road (T) which was commanded by the battery (B).

They saw the immediate necessity of taking this and when they had drawn all the men they could collect into a body on the edge of the brush, gave the word to charge it ( the battery). His [268]company had been stationed at Fort Winnebago, and as they went down into the ravine on a full run they raised the Winnebago yell. Before they reached the battery they heard the cavalry coming down behind them and opened to the right and left for them to pass through. The cavalry were all yelling too—and came like a thunderbolt.

After they had taken the battery, they pushed on to the left where posted irregularly among the bushes were the “Tampico Guardo Costa,” who fought desperately hand-to-hand.

“Take care, Captain,” said a man by his side, “That fellow’s aiming at your head.”

He looked, and saw an esquibo (?) (large bored, heavy fire arm) ranging right at his head. He ducked as the man’s arm moved in pulling the trigger and the ball went over his head. Then he chased him (the Mex)—firing his pistols at him and hit him in the shoulder—and was just grabbing him when he found himself right in a squad of about twenty of the enemy. He defended himself with his sword till his men rushed in and succored him.

“Captain,” said another man, “that rascal yonder just shot at you—see his hat there through the mesquite bush. He’s loading again. If you’ll let me rest across your shoulder, I think I can fetch him—sure.” So he did. The puff of smoke blew off.

“Did you hit him?”

“He ain’t there—Sir!”

We have his blood-stained sword and two or three of the copper balls.

There’s a good story about the “Great Western”—that six foot and over Amazon, the heroine of Fort Brown, but it’s too long to write now. The story of the Mexican supper all ready and the grand feast on after the action is a yarn. But after it was all over, they brought the train up and got the mess chest and had a capital supper with some glorious hot coffee of their own. Smith was “officer of the day.” Had all the camp duty to attend to that night.

In strolling about looking up the bodies of his men, &c, he stumbled into a beautiful—kind of an arbour—very neatly made of bushes. It turned out to be General Vega’s bivouac—and in it he found a bundle of correspondence with Paredes, Arista, & government and other matters.

You’ll be glad to learn (at least I was) the truth about that young officer that Leander like swam the Rio Grande in his uniform, being captivated by a Mexican damsel: He was a friend of Colonel Cross—who you recollect disappeared (cut off by rancheros) and his object is supposed to be to discover what had become of him. If this had been known by the enemy, you see, he would have been hung as a spy. The general opinion among the officers was that he was acting with the approbation of General Taylor though he said nothing about it:

[269]

Cry “enough!” now & I’ll stop.

I don’t know just where to direct this letter, but I suppose you will be in New Haven at Commencement at any rate.

And if you are you will have to sketch those plans from memory. I should really be much obliged to you for them.