Blicks Station, September 24th, 1864.
Another letter from home reached me this morning, giving me cause to thank God anew for His goodness and mercy in preserving, thus far, the lives of my dear family. It seems to me that, notwithstanding the sufferings we have endured the past two years, we have been highly favored by a kind Providence. We still remain an unbroken family, while others have fallen on our right hand and on our left. Although death has come so near we could almost feel his icy touch and see his grizzled visage, we have been spared. It is not for us to know why—short-sighted mortals that we are—we are led in safety through dangerous, crooked paths, but our past experience should teach us to trust, with unwavering faith, the hand that guides us. But, after all, how frail we mortals be, and powerless. I find it to be impossible to abate one jot of my anxiety in their behalf. I am keenly alive to all the embarrassments our situation exposes them to, and can only school myself to endure, for a brief period, by considering the sacredness of the cause in which we are engaged. My wife can never know how much the confidence she expresses in my integrity has strengthened me in my determination to deal justly. I acknowledge I have been tempted. The inducements held out to me have been strong. Thus far, I have been enabled to resist them. The knowledge that my wife expects better things of me, added to my own sense of right, has thus far kept me, but there are times when I need advice—encouragement. I want it—crave it—from my wife alone.
With men I am sufficiently self-reliant, asking no favors. With her it is different. I know she is sincere. I confide in her judgment; her intuition.
I am somewhat disappointed in McClellan’s letter of acceptance. I had given him credit for more manliness than he possesses. He accepts the nomination but repudiates the platform, which is the soul of the party that nominated him.
I do not know how it may be in the North, but he has lost his influence in the army. I have talked with many who were his friends, who now say they would as soon vote for Vallandingham. In fact, I hear none but boys, and a class of men whose only reason is, “d—n the man who won’t vote for McClellan, anyhow,” speak in his favor the last ten days. There is not the least excitement. Everyone seems to have settled down to the conviction that “Old Abe is the best we can do,” and acts accordingly.
