Perhaps we should have served our country better by a little Vandalism.  The decorations of the Capitol have a slight flavor of the Southwestern steamboat saloon.  The pictures (now, by the way, carefully covered) would most of them be the better, if the figures were bayoneted and the backgrounds sabred out.  Both—­pictures and decorations—­belong to that bygone epoch of our country when men shaved the moustache, dressed like parsons, said “Sir,” and chewed tobacco,—­a transition epoch, now become an historic blank.

The home-correspondence of our legion of young heroes was illimitable.  Every one had his little tale of active service to relate.  A decimation of the regiment, more or less, had profited by the tender moment of departure to pop the question and to receive the dulcet “Yes.”  These lucky fellows were of course writing to Dulcinea regularly, three meals of love a day.  Mr. Van Wyck, M.C., and a brace of colleagues were kept hard at work all day giving franks and saving threepennies to the ardent scribes.  Uncle Sam lost certainly three thousand cents a day in this manner.

What crypts and dens, caves and cellars there are under that great structure!  And barrels of flour in every one of them this month of May, 1861.  Do civilians eat in this proportion?  Or does long standing in the “Position of a Soldier” (vide “Tactics” for a view of that graceful pose) increase a man’s capacity for bread and beef so enormously?

It was infinitely picturesque in these dim vaults by night.  Sentries were posted at every turn.  Their guns gleamed in the gaslight.  Sleepers were lying in their blankets wherever the stones were softest.  Then in the guard-room the guard were waiting their turn.  We have not had much of this scenery in America, and the physiognomy of volunteer military life is quite distinct from anything one sees in European service.  The People have never had occasion until now to occupy their Palace with armed men.

THE FOLLOWING IS THE OATH.

We were to be sworn into the service of the United States the afternoon of April 26th.  All the Seventh, raw men and ripe men, marched out into the sweet spring sunshine.  Every fellow had whitened his belts, burnished his arms, curled his moustache, and was scowling his manliest for Uncle Sam’s approval.

We were drawn up by companies in the Capitol Square for mustering in.

Presently before us appeared a gorgeous officer, in full fig.  “Major McDowell!” somebody whispered, as we presented arms.  He is a General, or perhaps a Field Marshal, now.  Promotions come with a hop, skip, and jump, in these times, when demerit resigns and merit stands ready to step to the front.