"Oh, do, Miss
Morgan, forget all about me!" as though it was a difficult matter! Who
can he be?

We had a delightful drive in the moonlight, though it was rather long;
and it was quite late when we drove up to the house, and were most
cordially welcomed by the family. We sat up late on the balcony
listening for the report of cannon, which, however, did not come. Baton
Rouge is to be attacked to-morrow, "they say." Pray Heaven it will all
be over by that time! Nobody seems to doubt it, over here. A while ago
a long procession of guerrillas passed a short distance from the house,
looking for a party of Yankees they heard of in the neighborhood, and
waved their hats, for lack of handkerchiefs, to us as we stood on the
balcony.

I call this writing under difficulties! Here I am employing my knee as
a desk, a position that is not very natural to me, and by no means
comfortable. I feel so stupid, from want of sleep last night, that no
wonder I am not even respectably bright. I think I shall lay aside this
diary with my pen. I have procured a nicer one, so I no longer regret
its close. What a stupid thing it is! As I look back, how faintly have
I expressed things that produced the greatest impression on me at the
time, and how completely have I omitted the very things I should have
recorded! Bah! it is all the same trash! And here is an end of it--for
_this_ volume, whose stupidity can only be equaled by the one that
precedes, and the one that is to follow it. But who expects to be
interesting in war times? If I kept a diary of events, it would be one
tissue of lies. Think! There was no battle on the 10th or 11th,
McClellan is _not_ dead, and Gibbes was never wounded! After that, who
believes in reliable information? Not I!

BOOK III

WESTOVER,
Monday, August 4th, 1862.

Here we are at Dr. Nolan's plantation, with Baton Rouge lying just
seven miles from us to the east. We can surely hear the cannon from
here. They are all so kind to us that I ought to be contented; but
still I wish I was once more at home. I suppose it is very unreasonable
in me, but I cannot help it. I miss my old desk very much; it is so
awkward to write on my knee that I cannot get used to it. Mine is a
nice little room upstairs, detached from all the rest, for it is formed
by a large dormer window looking to the north, from which I have seen a