Chattanooga, Sunday, Feb. 19. A most beautiful day has passed. It seems as though we have been suddenly transferred from midwinter to beautiful summer. The sun shone in its softest mood, everybody outdoors to bask in its rays, content to enjoy it alone. We are camped opposite the old city cemetery. Many of both sexes have been paying their visit to the dead, some to satisfy idle curiosity, others to view once more the spot where lies some home idol. It is in a shocking state of repair, and bore sad evidence of the ravage of war, fences all gone, graves overrun, marble slabs misplaced and marble monuments broken. The soldiers have even been carrying off the tombstones of the dead to be used in their quarters. Thoughtless sacrilege. We have had a guard on all day to prevent such proceedings by order of the pro [vost] marshal.
The soft twilight was too pleasant to lie still, so D. Evans, who has come to stay with us, Griff, and myself started off for a walk. On our way the peal of the church bell fell on our ears, calling us thither, but we found the house overflowing. Returned to camp. Boys sang sweet home music till taps, and lights put out.
