Chattanooga, Friday, March 10. Last night, 8 P. M., I was relieved in heavy rain. At midnight I entered my tent white with snow, and this morning 6 A. M. pinched through with cold, everything frozen hard and very cold, but the sun soon warmed us up a little. Griffith gone off on guard to Major’s headquarters, the others on duty. I alone had nothing to do all day, and I had some trouble to amuse myself without mail.
The forenoon I passed reading an excellent volume entitled The Hills of the Shatmuck a story in which the characters were noted for high purposes and aims and pure moral interest, a rare exception among novels, but the book was finished and all the afternoon was given to thinking and day dreaming. I too once, like “Winthrop,” longed to pluck the precious fruits of knowledge and prepare myself for something high and ennobling. But the time that I once wished to be spent in the school room and among books, I have freely devoted to my country. But he, in spite of obstacles, kept his aim towards the desired point, and accomplished it nobly. Cannot I too learn much that is to be learned, and is there not a niche somewhere in this free country that I may occupy yet with profit to myself and others? “I’ll not give up! No grim despair shall ever forge a chain for me.” And I’ll try to do my best though humble it may be.
