[The reflections and moralizings on my situation, which follow, it was my first impulse to omit from this paper entirely; but on the whole I decide to let them stand as I find them, requesting only that comrades will consider them as given in a sort of family confidence.] Of my life, if life it may be called [continues the diary], in this place, I desire to make no record, the _olim haec meminisse_ principle having no application here. Let the waters of oblivion cover it forever, if I am ever again a free man. To lie a crippled and helpless butt for the exulting Philistine and his women ten thousand times worse than himself, while such tremendous history is being made of which we can only guess at the reality, is a living death. And with such a companion! What is happening behind the impenetrable curtain between us and the North? Until the news that God has abdicated and Satan reigns is confirmed beyond a peradventure, so long will I believe that the right will triumph in the end. But where the end may be, this year or twenty hence, _quien sabe_? Of my own chances for life and liberty, I cannot even guess. The blackness of darkness surrounds me on every hand, with no perceptible ray or glimmer from any quarter, as yet. But, doubtless, many a man who thinks he sees his path of life stretching away in far perspective is really as blind as I, and can discern no further beyond his nose. When the tide of war shall turn, as turn it will, what will be done with us? where shall I be,--here or in the Libby? Well, each place has its merits: here, enough to eat and no bracelets; there, the company of gentlemen. Oh Harry Russell! if you and I were together to cheer each other with regimental chat, or gallant Major Jim, _sans peur et sans reproche_, in your company I could suffer and be strong unto the end. But I fear that, through desperate wounds, his mortal body has had no longer strength to retain the soul of one of the bravest Christian gentlemen that ever drew sword for the right since the world began. And Stephen, my friend, man of culture, reading, and intellect, whose only complaint of camp life was the loss of time and opportunity for the growth of mind,--that such lights should be forever extinguished by the bullets of men so few degrees above the brute level, saddens the soul. And shall all this have been in vain? Answer, freemen and gentlemen of the North, with unborn generations waiting: to bless or curse your memory,--answer now!