September 20th, Saturday.
General Carter has just received a letter from Lydia, which contains what to me is the most melancholy intelligence — the news of the death of Eugene Fowler,[1] who was killed on the 22d of August, in some battle or skirmish in Virginia. Poor Eugene! . . . Does it not seem that this war will sweep off all who are nearest and dearest, as well as most worthy of life, leaving only those you least care for, unharmed?
