“The South are only doing what the Thirteen did in ‘76, trying to shake off the tyrant’s yoke. It’s the same thing precisely, only the shoe is on the other foot, and pinches mightily. We did not at first intend to subjugate the North, but maybe they’ll provoke us to do it, if they keep on. Now, however, we only want, or rather did want a peaceable separation, and you may as well yield to it first as last. What do you intend doing with us, any way, suppose you succeed in licking us? Hold us as a conquered province, just as England holds Ireland? Much good that will do you. It will be some like keeping a mad dog chained so tightly that he cannot get away, but is none the less snappish and non-come-at-able for that. No, no, acknowledge our independence, and call home the chaps you have dragged from Poor Houses and State Prisons, lanes and ditches, and sent to fight against Southern gentlemen. This, to me, is the most humiliating feature of the whole; and if I must be _shot_ or taken prisoner, I hope it will be by some one worthy of my steel. This last I’m writing for old Tom’s benefit. Give him my compliments, and tell him nothing would please me more than to welcome him to our camp some day. “Dear little Rose,—perhaps she would not let a Rebel kiss her, and I don’t know but I’d turn Federal for half an hour or so for the sake of tasting her sweet lips once more. I do love Rose, and I feel a mysterious lump in my throat every time I look at her picture, taken just before I left home. I never show it, for somehow it would seem like profanation to have the soldiers staring at it. So I wear it next my heart, and when I go into battle I shall keep it there. Perhaps it will save my life, who knows? “I am getting tired, and must close ere long. Now, mother, please don’t waste too many tears over me. The time will come when you’ll see we are right; and if it will be any consolation, I will say in conclusion, that I have written a heap worse than I really believe. I am not a fool. I understand exactly how the matter stands, but I like the Southern side the best. I think they are just as near right as the North, and I’m going to stick to them through thick and thin. We shall have a battle before long, and this may be the last time I’ll ever write to you. I’ve been a bad boy, mother, and troubled you so much, but if I’m shot you will forget all that, and only remember how, with all my faults, I loved you still,—you and Tom and little Rose,—more than you ever guessed.