Peebles House, October 13th, 1864.
The evenings are all my own, to pass as best I may, when in camp. When I can get candles I write either to wife or children, or jot down some straggling thought in my diary. But candles are hard to get. Government furnishes only about one inch per day, and sutlers sell at seventy-five cents a pound, or two for a quarter. When I have no light, my evenings are spent in “wandering to and fro,” dreaming of my Northern home. I live, at present, a very secluded life, although surrounded by human beings. I have few sympathies in common with most men—or so it seems. Perhaps it is because all the sympathies of my nature, all the emotions of my soul, are constantly flowing, in one unceasing tide, back to my distant fireside. How my impatient spirit chafes at the long delay. Fain would I lash the lagging wheels of time into more furious pace. What power there is in love—even human love. If I have any virtues that other men have not, they all are born of love. If fewer vices, love is. the shield. Daily I strive to be that which the fond imagination of my loving wife doth paint me. Oh, from the darkness of our sorrow may new light break forth, new strength to do and suffer, if need be, new resolves and freshest hopes.
Colonel Luce, whom we have looked for since last Saturday, has just arrived. I have not seen him, but can now hear his voice as he inquires, with fatherly solicitude, as to the well-being of his men. He is one of the kindest, most indulgent of commanders; too indulgent, perhaps, but his men obey him cheerfully. I refer to the rank and file of the regiment; with officers he is sufficiently exacting.
