Yesterday we sent letters to the Court-House to be mailed,
presuming, as we had not seen an enemy for twenty-four hours, that the coast
would be clear for awhile; but Bartlett rode into a detachment of them in
Taliaferro's Lane. The poor old man, in his anxiety to save his letters,
betrayed himself by putting his hand on his pocket. They were, of course, taken
from him. [The letters I mentioned as having been published in the New York
papers.] They are heartily welcome to mine; I hope the perusal may do them
good, but C. is annoyed. It was the first letter she had written to her husband
since the depredations at W., and she had expressed herself very freely.
SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern
Refugee, During the War, p. 144
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