where I am stopping, looks . . .

Culpepper,
where
I
am
stopping,
looks
like
a
place
of
two
or
three
thousand
inhabitants.
Must
be
one
of
the
pleasantest
towns
in
Virginia.
Even
now,
dilapidated
fences,
all
broken
down,
windows
out,
it
has
the
remains
of
much
beauty.
I
am
standing
on
an
eminence
overlooking
the
town,
though
within
its
limits.
To
the
west
the
long
Blue
Mountain
range
is
very
plain,
looks
quite
near,
though
from
30
to
50
miles
distant,
with
some
gray
splashes
of
snow
yet
visible.
The
show
is
varied
and
fascinating.
I
see
a
great
eagle
up
there
in
the
air
sailing
with
pois’d
wings,
quite
low.
Squads
of
red-legged
soldiers
are
drilling;
I
suppose
some
of
the
new
men
of
the
Brooklyn
14th;
they
march
off
presently
with
muskets
on
their
shoulders.
In
another
place,
just
below
me,
are
some
soldiers
squaring
off
logs
to
build
a
shanty—chopping
away,
and
the
noise
of
the
axes
sounding
sharp.
I
hear
the
bellowing,
unmusical
screech
of
the
mule.
I
mark
the
thin
blue
smoke
rising
from
camp
fires.
Just
below
me
is
a
collection
of
hospital
tents,
with
a
yellow
flag
elevated
on
a
stick,
and
moving
languidly
in
the
breeze.
Two
discharged
men
(I
know
them
both)
are
just
leaving.
One
is
so
weak
he
can
hardly
walk;
the
other
is
stronger,
and
carries
his
comrade’s
musket.
They
move
slowly
along
the
muddy
road
toward
the
depot.
The
scenery
is
full
of
breadth,
and
spread
on
the
most
generous
scale
(everywhere
in
Virginia
this
thought
fill’d
me.)
The
sights,
the
scenes,
the
groups,
have
been
varied
and
picturesque
here
beyond
description,
and
remain
so.