Sept. 12th.—Yesterday was the wedding of our dear _____. The marriage of a child is always melancholy when it involves separation, but particularly so under such circumstances. But surely never were refugees so blessed with friends. Our plan was to have the ceremony in the church, and then to proceed to Winchester, where the bridal party would take the stage for Strasburg, and thence by the cars to Richmond; but we were overruled by Mr. P., who invited his and our friends for the evening, and a beautiful entertainment was prepared for them. We all exercised our taste in arranging the table, which, with its ices, jellies, and the usual etceteras of an elegant bridal supper, made us forget that we were in a blockaded country. A pyramid of the most luscious grapes, from Bishop Meade’s garden, graced the centre of the table. The bridesmaids were three, and groomsman one, and he, poor fellow, had to go off in the storm of last night, because his furlough lasted but forty-eight hours, and his station is Culpepper Court-House. The groom had a furlough of but three days, to come from and return to Richmond. The Bishop and Mrs. J. arrived in the morning. The party consisted of ladies, and gentlemen too old for the service. Bishop J. performed the ceremony. Bishop Meade professed to be too old for such occasions, and declined coming. We feel very lonely this morning, and turn to the newspapers more than we have done for some time.
I saw a young soldier the other day, who told me he could see the top of our house distinctly from “Munson’s Hill.” Oh, that I could know what is going on within those walls, all encompassed by armies as it is. With my mind’s eye I look into first one room and then another, with all the associations of the past; the old family Bible, the family pictures, the library, containing the collection of forty years, and so many things which seemed a part of ourselves. What will become of them? Who are now using or abusing them?
