December 31.—The last day of ’64, and much coveted peace seemingly as distant as ever. If it were not for the knowledge that there is an end to all things, and that some day there will be an end to this, it would be unbearable. The past year has equaled any of its predecessors for carnage and bloodshed. Our land is drenched with the blood of martyrs! Her fair hills and valleys, lit by blazing homesteads, and echoing to the booming of artillery and the roar of musketry. The very air is rent with the groans of the wounded and dying, and the wail of the widow and orphan. Lord, turn not thy face from us, and save, O, save us from this terrible scourge! “Let not our sins now cry against us for vengeance! Hear us, Jehovah, for mercy imploring: from thy dread displeasure, O, bid us be free!”
Although woe and desolation stare at us every way we turn, the heart of the patriot is as firm as ever, and determined that, come what may, he will never yield. There is no doubt but we have some among us whose love of self forbids their minds to rise above the dank sod upon which they tread; men who have never known what it is to experience a thrill of pleasure, when listening to the “patriot’s moving story, shedding for freemen’s rights his generous blood.” Such we have among us; but, thank the Giver of all good, they are in the minority.
“Chains for the dastard knave,
Recreant limbs should wear them;
But blessings on the brave,
Whose valor will not bear them!”
The brave army of Virginia is defending Richmond as gallantly as ever.
Any news we hear from Tennessee is uncertain, as the railroad for many miles between Corinth and Nashville is destroyed. The last heard from there our army was besieging Nashville.
Charleston, heroic Charleston, has proved a very Charybdis to the invader. Our champions on the water are doing us good service by destroying the enemy’s commerce. Their very names strike terror to the heart of the foe. The army, with the valiant Kirby Smith at its head, is keeping the enemy in check in Louisiana.
But O, my heart sickens when I think of the many, many valiant heroes who have left us, never more to return.
“Their fame is alive, though their spirits have fled
On the wings of the year that’s awa’.”
God grant that their lives have not been offered up in vain, and that the time is not far distant when triumphant peace will spread her wings over this now distracted land.
