Slowly and wearily the days and weeks passed on in "Libby," leaving its drear monotony unbroken, except when the rumor of a prospect of being exchanged came to flush the faces of the captives with a hope destined not to be fulfilled while Willard Glazier was in Richmond. The result was that he at length abandoned all hope of being exchanged, and for a time tried hard to cultivate and "grow into the luxury of indifference." His experience told him that "however reprehensible" it might be in ordinary life, "stoicism, under the circumstances in which he then found himself, was an actual necessity." His mind appears at this time to have sustained him under many extreme bodily privations. But despite all his philosophy and cultivated resignation of spirit, despite the mental resources which he fortunately possessed in no small degree, and which enabled him to occupy his time profitably, while others were pacing up and down the room like caged beasts, feeding upon their own hearts, his bodily health was materially impaired. The first winter month, with its frosty atmosphere, and fierce northern blasts, instead of bringing invigoration to his wasted frame, left him more debilitated; and upon the eighth of December he succumbed to a disease which had been encroaching upon him for some time, and requested to be sent to the hospital. His sensations were far from pleasant when, for the first time in his life, he found himself seriously ill among enemies, and in that most dismal of all dismal places, a Prison Infirmary. "Once in the hospital," he writes, "I found myself soon subjected to its peculiar influences. There was the ominous stillness, broken only by the choking cough, or labored groan; the chilling dread, as though one were in the immediate presence of death, and under the ban of silence; and the anxious yearning--the almost frantic yearning one feels in the contemplation of suffering which he is powerless to alleviate. And worse than all, at last came the hardened feeling which a familiarity with such scenes produces. This is nothing but an immense charnel-house. We are constantly in the midst of the dead and dying. Nearly every day some of our comrades, and on some days several of them, are borne away coffinless and unshrouded to their unmarked graves. Nor flower, nor cross, nor hallowed token, gives grace to the dead, or beauty to the grave. I am well aware that in time of war, on the field of carnage, in camp, where the pestilential fever rages, or in the crowded prisons of the enemy, human life is but little valued. Yet there are moments amidst all these scenes, when the importance of life and the terrors of death, seem to force themselves upon the mind of every man, with a power which cannot be resisted."