The Whole Army Is Burning

I Hate Newspapermen. They Come Into Camp And Pick Up Their Camp Rumors And Print Them As Facts. I Regard Them As Spies, Which, In Truth, They Are.

Many And Many A Person In Georgia Asked Me Why We Did Not Go To South Carolina; And, When I Answered That We Were En Route For That State, The Invariable Reply Was, - Well, If You Will Make Those People Feel The Utmost Severities Of War, We Will Pardon You For Your Desolation Of Georgia.

There Will Soon Come An Armed Contest Between Capital And Labor. They Will Oppose Each Other, Not With Words And Arguments, But With Shot And Shell, Gun-powder And Cannon. The Better Classes Are Tired Of The Insane Howling Of The Lower Strata And They Mean To Stop Them.

I Confess, Without Shame, That I Am Sick And Tired Of Fighting — Its Glory Is All Moonshine; Even Success The Most Brilliant Is Over Dead And Mangled Bodies, With The Anguish And Lamentations Of Distant Families, Appealing To Me For Sons, Husbands, And Fathers ... It Is Only Those Who Have Never Heard A Shot, Never Heard The Shriek And Groans Of The Wounded And Lacerated ... That Cry Aloud For More Blood, More Vengeance, More Desolation.

To Secure The Safety Of The Navigation Of The Mississippi River I Would Slay Millions. On That Point I Am Not Only Insane, But Mad... I Think I See One Or Two Quick Blows That Will Astonish The Natives Of The South And Will Convince Them That, Though To Stand Behind A Big Cottonwood And Shoot At A Passing Boat Is Good Sport And Safe, It May Still Reach And Kill Their Friends And Families Hundreds Of Miles Off. For Every Bullet Shot At A Steamboat, I Would Shoot A Thousand 30-pounder Parrots Into Even Helpless Towns On Red, Ouachita, Yazoo, Or Wherever A Boat Can Float Or Soldier March.