.Njg2.MTQ2Ng

1864

Chattanooga: Tennessee. Sunday Night. November 22. Is it a strange thing that an old bachelor, of bookish proclivities and contemplative ways, should - under the deprivation of so many things which have in times past constituted the piquant flavor of his life - grow sometimes a-weary of the blare of bugles, the clangor of swords, the multitudinous noises and dissonances of war, and should sometimes be a little haunted by that vague melancholy and indefinable sense of depression which we call "the blues?" And if, being sad without logical cause, I turn to you as the potent chance that I shall scare away the misty moodiness of morbid brooding, and conjure up healthful thinkings that I shall put the whole bevy of scowling witch-elves incontinently to flight, you surely will not demand a reason therefor. [crossed out text begin] Madam or Miss, the [crossed out text end] heart gives no reasons, for it has only perceptions, and emotions; and so you see I elude with nimble feet all manner of such common things as arguments,