In the middle hours of the day it is in order to get a pass to go to Washington, or to visit some of the camps, which now, in the middle of May, begin to form a cordon around the city.  Some of these I may criticize before the end of this paper.  Our capital seems arranged by Nature to be protected by fortified camps on the circuit of its hills.  It may be made almost a Verona, if need be.  Our brother regiments have posts nearly as charming as our own in these fair groves and on these fair slopes on either side of us.

In the afternoon, comes target-practice, skirmishing-drill, more company- or recruit-drill, and, at half-past five, our evening parade.  Let me not forget tent-inspection, at four, by the officer of the day, when our band plays deliciously.

At evening parade all Washington appears.  A regiment of ladies, rather indisposed to beauty, observe us.  Sometimes the Dons arrive,—­Secretaries of State, of War, of Navy,—­or military Dons, bestriding prancing steeds, but bestriding them as if “’twas not their habit often of an afternoon.”  All which,—­the bad teeth, pallid skins, and rustic toilets of the fair, and the very moderate horsemanship of the brave,—­privates, standing at ease in the ranks, take note of, not cynically, but as men of the world.

Wondrous gymnasts are some of the Seventh, and after evening parade they often give exhibitions of their prowess to circles of admirers.  Muscle has not gone out, nor nerve, nor activity, if these athletes are to be taken as the types or even as the leaders of the young city-bred men of our time.  All the feats of strength and grace of the gymnasiums are to be seen here, and show to double advantage in the open air.

Then comes sweet evening.  The moon rises.  It seems always full moon at Camp Cameron.  Every tent becomes a little illuminated pyramid.  Cooking-fires burn bright along the alleys.  The boys lark, sing, shout, do all those merry things that make the entertainment of volunteer service.  The gentle moon looks on, mild and amused, the fairest lady of all that visit us.

At last, when the songs have been sung and the hundred rumors of the day discussed, at ten the intrusive drums and scolding fifes get together and stir up a concert, always premature, called tattoo.  The Seventh Regiment begins to peel for bed:  at all events, Private W. does; for said W. takes, when he can, precious good care of his cuticle, and never yields to the lazy and unwholesome habit of soldiers,—­sleeping in the clothes.  At taps—­half-past ten—­out go the lights.  If they do not, presently comes the sentry’s peremptory command to put them out.  Then, and until the dawn of another day, a cordon of snorers inside of a cordon of sentries surrounds our national capital.  The outer cordon sounds its “All’s well”; and the inner cordon, slumbering, echoes it.

And that is the history of any day at Camp Cameron.  It is monotonous, it is not monotonous, it is laborious, it is lazy, it is a bore, it is a lark, it is half war, half peace, and totally attractive, and not to be dispensed with from one’s experience in the nineteenth century.