Bardstown, March 31st, 1863.
Bardstown, where we are now encamped, is an old city of about six thousand inhabitants. The Seminary, which we now occupy as a hospital, was built when there were but three houses in Cincinnati. The majority of the people, I am told, are secessionists. We are encamped on the farm of Senator Wycliff, just outside of the city, in a fine grove of beech and maple; a beautiful stream runs through our camp, while a spring of pure water, enough to supply a brigade, bursts from a crevice in the rocks.
