After our entrance into the city, we go into camp in the suburbs, where we remain during the night and the following day. On the twenty-fourth we are ordered to Fort Brown, two miles from the city, where we go into a more permanent camp. During our first days at Savannah, the Seventh's boys are seen strolling everywhere, viewing the fortifications and the great guns; they are also seen pacing the streets of the beautiful city, looking with admiration upon her gorgeous buildings, and standing in awe in the shade of the peerless monument reared by a generous people to that noble Pole, Count Pulaski, who fought, bled and died in America's first revolution for independence. Can it be that traitors have walked around its base and sworn that the great Union for which this grand and liberal spirit sacrificed his life should be consigned to the wrecks of dead empires? As we stand and gaze upon this marble cenotaph, we are constrained to say, Oh! wicked men, why stood here above the dust of Poland's martyr, seeking to ye defame his name and tear down what he helped to rear! May God pity America's erring ones! In our wanderings we are made to stop, by an acre enclosed with a high but strong palisade, the work of Colonel G. F. Wiles, Seventy-eighth Ohio Veteran Volunteer Infantry, commanding Second Brigade, Third Division, Seventeenth Army Corps, and his gallant command. This is God's acre and liberty's, and emphatically can this be said, for here three hundred or more of our fallen comrades sleep death's silent sleep. Here in trenches, unknelled, uncoffined, but not alone, "life's fitful fever over," they sleep well.

They fell not in the deadly breach, nor yet on the grassy plain. For them no choir of musketry rattled, no anthem of cannon rolled, but unclad and unfed, their lamps of life flickered out in that worse than Egyptian bondage-a Confederate prison. For long weary months they suffered and waited for the time to come when they would inhale freedom's pure air; for long weary nights they watched the signal lights as they flashed upwards from the monitors to guide Sherman through the wilderness of pines, down to the sea; long did they wait to see the sunlight from the waters flash on his serried lines, but he came not. They suffered on, and died—died martyrs upon the altar of human freedom; died that not one single star, however wayward, should be erased from the Union's great banner of freedom. Has the world, in all its history of blood, from the creation to the christian era, from the reformation to the revolution, ever produced examples of such heroic endurance as this second revolution has given to the world? Echoes coming from the soft south winds that sweep along the Atlantic shore, answer no. These men were murdered! Yes, murdered because they wore the blue, and fought for the flag and freedom. The poet alludes most touchingly to an incident that caused the murder of one of these lonely sleepers, who plead for his wife's letters.

"First pay the postage, whining wretch."
Despair had made the prisoner brave-

"I'm a captive, not a slave;

You took my money and my clothes,

Take my life too, but for the love of God

Let me know how Mary and the children are,
And I will bless you ere I go."

This plea proved fruitless, and across the dead-line the soldier passed, and soon a bullet passed through his brain, and his crushed spirit was free with God. What a sad picture.

We remember when we stood there and gazed upon that hallowed acre of God's and liberty's. We thought of those wicked men who whelmed this land into those dark nights of war; who told us then that the Union soldier died in vain; that the names of those uncoffined sleepers there would be forgotten and unsung, and as my comrades and myself stood there revolving these thoughts in our minds, we vowed over those graves, before heaven, to be the enemies of traitors. "Died in vain! sacrificed their lives for naught! their names to be forgotten and unsung!" Who uttered those words in application to the noble sleepers there? Who spoke thus to the weeping mother and stricken sister? Traitors in the North! Traitors on the legislative floors uttered these words! We speak the sentiment of the Seventh when we say that we would not take millions for what we hate these men, contemptible in nature, pusillanimous in soul, with hearts as black as the "steeds of night." Like Brownlow, were we not afraid of springing a theological question, we would say that better men have been going down with the wailing hosts for the last eighteen hundred years.

.

A few days after going into camp at Fort Brown, Major Johnson is ordered with Companies A, H and K, to proceed down the river to Bonniventure, about five miles from Savannah. Arriving, we take up our quarters in the old Bonniventure mansion, a fashionable resort for the chivalry in the days that have flown. During our stay here we live chiefly on oysters, which are obtained in great abundance by the boys. Major Johnson and his detachment will not soon forget how they gamboled and loitered beneath the shades of those live oaks down by the great Atlantic's shore.

The Seventh remains in camp at Fort Brown and Bonniventure until the latter part of January, 1865. In the mean time Captain Norton, with the mounted portion of the regiment, was ordered across the Savannah river into South Carolina, joining Howard's command at Pocataligo.

About the twenty-fifth of January, Major Johnson, with his detachment, leaves Bonniventure, and joins the regiment at Fort Brown. Receiving marching orders, General Corse, with his division, who were now isolated and alone from the corps, leaves Savannah, marching up the Savannah river as far as Sister's Ferry, where we find Gen. Slocum struggling with the floods. We remain here until the fourth of February. In the evening we cross over into the Palmetto State and go into camp three miles from the river; we doubt if ever an army encountered more difficulties than did Slocum's command and General Corse's Division encounter in crossing the

Savannah. The river was up, and for three long miles the army was compelled to build a solid road.

February 5th. In the evening we move about four miles across an almost impassable swamp and go into camp. The seventy thousand are now making a terrible stride in South Carolina, moving through the swamps, the favorite haunts of the slave hunter and his blood hounds. But the tables are turning; other hounds will soon yelp down here-Sherman's fierce hounds of war,-they will go sweeping on their path for freedom and law, making John C. Calhoun restless in his tomb.

February 6th.-We move early this morning; our Division is moving by itself upon a lone road, General Corse having orders to move across the country and form a junction with the corps now moving from Pocataligo. The roads are desperate; we only succeed in getting about eight miles to-day.

February 7th. We cross Black Water swamps and go into camp at Hickory Hill, making a distance of ten miles.

February 8th.-We cross Whippie Swamp about noon to-day and go into camp for the night.

February 9th.-The roads still continue desperate, and in consequence we move slowly. In the evening we cross the little Saltkatchie swamp.

February 10th.-We move early this morning, but very slow; these swamps prove to be terrible obstacles to Sherman's seventy thousand. We soon come to the great Saltkatchie swamp at Beaufort's Bridge; we find the swamp all flooded, about one mile wide,