Sunday, July 17.—I went down to the train to see Miss W. off. After she left we were informed that there was a raid near West Point, and that Miss W. will reach there in time to meet it. It is useless to think of going any place and getting rid of the enemy, as they seem to have it in their power to overrun the whole country.
Miss W. and I have agreed that, if either should lose our clothes, the one spared would share with the other. The enemy have a particular liking for ladies’ wardrobes. I presume they send them to their lady-loves in the North. I wonder how they feel in their stolen finery!
I do not suppose that the men would rob us as they do if they were not incited by the importunities of their women. Many letters, taken from dead Federals on the battle-fields, contain petitions from the women to send them valuables from the South. One says she wants a silk dress; another, a watch; and one writer told her husband that now was the time to get a piano, as they could not afford to buy one. “O shame, where is thy blush!” What a commentary on the society of “the best government the world ever saw!” Would we had the pen of a Thackeray to delineate the angelic and supereminent virtues of this great people!
On my return I met a friend from Mobile, Dr. Henderson, the surgeon of a hospital in that place. He brought me a letter from home, which was gladly received. He has been visiting the army, and intends remaining here till the expected great battle comes off. He is an Englishman, and came out from England last fall. On his arrival he received a commission in our army.
This afternoon we went to a funeral in the Methodist Church. Dr. Adams officiated, as the deceased was an Episcopalian— young Colston of Louisville. He was the color-bearer of a Kentucky regiment, and a gallant soldier. He was buried with the full honors of war. The day was very lovely. We walked round that sacred spot, the soldiers’ graveyard, and I saw many a familiar name on the head-boards of the graves—the occupants now calmly sleeping, heedless of the cannon’s roar, and the peal of musketry:
“The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all the beauty, all that wealth o’er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour,—
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.”
Though no towering monument is there to mark their last resting-place, it matters little, Nature shall adorn them with her choicest sweets:
“And oft upon the midnight air
Shall viewless harps be murmuring there.”
