ever saw," however, is either too poor or too mean to furnish them.
March 22d to 24th—Among others whose beds are near mine are Colonel S. M. Boykin, of the Twentieth South Carolina infantry, a very dignified and intelligent middle aged gentleman from Camden, South Carolina, and Captain James W. McSherry, of Thirty-sixth Virginia infantry, from Martinsburg, Virginia. The latter is a physician of talent and fine standing, but preferred to serve the South as an officer of the line to accepting a place as surgeon. Captain M. is a cousin of my excellent friend Miss Anna L. McSherry, and is a bold and outspoken denouncer of the Yankees. He has scurvy badly. My bed is near the stove, and I have frequent talks with those who come around it to warm themselves, or to interchange opinions about the situation.
March 25th and 26th—I find myself much improved, my fevers being slight and rare and hoarseness disappearing. Smallpox, that most loathsome of diseases, has made its appearance in our ward. Colonel Montgomery, of Georgia, was sick with it for several days, with high fever, his face and body being broken out with pimples, but was not removed until several officers, fearing infection, urged his removal from their vicinity to the pest-house. Lieutenant Birkhead, of North Carolina, who lay next to me, showed me his hands, neck and face covered with pimples, yesterday, and asked me what was the matter. I took his hand and wrist in mine, and laughingly pronounced it "smallpox," little dreaming that I was correct. Today our young doctor decided it was a genuine case of smallpox, and ordered his removal to the smallpox hospital. I never saw nor heard of poor Birkhead again. Deaths from smallpox, pneumonia, scurvy, fevers, dysentery, and various other diseases, are alarmingly frequent. There is honor and glory in death on the field of battle, amid the whistling of bullets, the shrieks of shells, the fierce roar of cannon, and the defiant shouts of the brave combatants, but the saddest, most solemn and painful of deaths is that within prison walls, far from home and loved ones. The picture of his loved home flits across the dying soldier's mind; dear faces seem to look down upon him, but no gentle hands ease his pain, no loving lips whisper words of peace and comfort,—the suffering forms of his sick and wounded comrades are all the friends he sees, their groans all the prayers he hears. As he fights his last fight with the grim monster, no doubt he sees floating aloft the flag he has so often followed—he hears his commander's cheering words urging
