"
"It is supposed by some," says he, "that seed of this American specimen
(now dead) yet remains in the land; but as for this author
(who, with many friends, suffered from the unhealthy odors of the plant),
he could find it in his heart to wish fervently that this seed,
if there be verily any, might perish in the germ, utterly out of sight
and life and memory, and out of the remote hope of resurrection,
forever and ever, no matter in whose granary they are cherished!"
Through those four years, though earnestly devoted to the cause,
and fulfilling his duties with zeal, his horror of war grew to the end.
He had entered it in a "crack" regiment, with a dandy uniform,
and was first encamped near Norfolk, where the gardens,
with the Northern market hopelessly cut off, were given freely
to the soldiers, who lived in every luxury; and every man had his sweetheart
in Norfolk. But the tyranny and Christlessness of war oppressed him,
though he loved the free life in the saddle and under the stars.
In February, 1865, he was released from Point Lookout
and undertook the weary return on foot to his home in Georgia,
with the twenty-dollar gold piece which he had in his pocket when captured,
and which was returned to him, with his other little effects, when he
was released. Of course he had the flute, which he had hidden in his sleeve
when he entered the prison, and which had earned him some comforts.
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