Is it not that we have gone on in a suicidal career of extravagance, luxury, and dissipation, which has finally brought its own punishment upon us? Sorely did we need humbling, and sorely have we been humbled. Bitter has been our lesson, but bitterly was it needed. The thought will sometimes arise, would that the trial had come from foreign foe; would that friend had never lifted hand against friend, nor brother against brother! Had that grand rising, at the sound of Sumter’s wrong, which swelled throughout the North--had it, I say, but thrilled through our whole land with a mighty throb, till, with one heart and hand united, we had joined to defend that Flag, so treacherously assailed, where is the foe we should have feared to face--where the enemy, which, humanly speaking, we might not have conquered? But so, the lesson had been lost. We had but gained further food for pride, further motives for self-glorification. The medicine would but have increased the disorder, the remedy added to the disease. We must acknowledge--we must recognize the Chastening Hand which is dealing with us. Where is the victory which has ever yet, as a people, sent us to our knees? Where the defeat which has ever yet been attributed to any but secondary causes? Want of reinforcements, want of supplies, want of suitable weather, want of skill in the commanding officers,--any and every want but the true one. We send our men forth wanting the one weapon, which, springing from its scabbard, and flashing in the bright sunlight of Faith and Trust, must insure success. It is the Sword of Prayer. “’Tis Prayer that moves the silver bowers afar; Gains wings, and through the ever-opened door, Swift as the image of the twinkling star, Shows its reflection in the Ocean’s floor; It moves the inmates of that Heavenly Shore, As, gently rippling o’er the leafy shade, Comes the soft, sighing gale, and passes o’er; E’en so in Heaven, each Prayer, in secret made, Ruffles a thousand Wings prepar’d for instant aid.” I humbly beg pardon, dear C. You asked for some account of our Christmas festivities at the hospital, and I have been betrayed into what, I fear you will find, a tedious expression of my feelings upon the questions which have such an absorbing interest at the present time. Forgive me this once, and I will promise to spare you in future. POOR JOSÉ! “But these men have no feeling.”