Then the camps of the wounded--O heavens, what scene is this?--is this indeed _humanity_--these butchers' shambles? There are several of them. There they lie, in the largest, in an open space in the woods, from 200 to 300 poor fellows--the groans and screams--the odor of blood, mixed with the fresh scent of the night, the grass, the trees--that slaughter-house! O well is it their mothers, their sisters cannot see them--cannot conceive, and never conceiv'd, these things. One man is shot by a shell, both in the arm and leg--both are amputated--there lie the rejected members. Some have their legs blown off--some bullets through the breast--some indescribably horrid wounds in the face or head, all mutilated, sickening, torn, gouged out--some in the abdomen--some mere boys--many rebels, badly hurt--they take their regular turns with the rest, just the same as any--the surgeons use them just the same. Such is the camp of the wounded--such a fragment, a reflection afar off of the bloody scene--while all over the clear, large moon comes out at times softly, quietly shining. Amid the woods, that scene of flitting souls--amid the crack and crash and yelling sounds--the impalpable perfume of the woods--and yet the pungent, stifling smoke--the radiance of the moon, looking from heaven at intervals so placid--the sky so heavenly the clear-obscure up there, those buoyant upper oceans--a few large placid stars beyond, coming silently and languidly out, and then disappearing--the melancholy, draperied night above, around. And there, upon the roads, the fields, and in those woods, that contest, never one more desperate in any age or land--both parties now in force--masses--no fancy battle, no semi-play, but fierce and savage demons fighting there--courage and scorn of death the rule, exceptions almost none.