we were obliged to pass, and
which is best undescribed. Four miles from town we stopped at Mrs.
Brown's to see mother, and after a few moments' talk, went on our road.

I saw the first Yankee camp that Will Pinckney and Colonel Bird had set
fire to the day of the battle. Such a shocking sight of charred wood,
burnt clothes, tents, and all imaginable articles strewn around, I had
never before seen. I should have been very much excited, entering the
town by the route our soldiers took; but I was not. It all seemed tame
and familiar. I could hardly fancy I stood on the very spot where the
severest struggle had taken place. The next turn of the road brought us
to two graves, one on each side of the road, the resting-place of two
who fell that day. They were merely left in the ditch where they fell,
and earth from the side was pulled over them. When Miriam passed, parts
of their coats were sticking out of the grave; but some kind hand had
scattered fresh earth over them when I saw them. Beyond, the sight
became more common. I was told that their hands and feet were visible
from many. And one poor fellow lay unburied, just as he had fallen,
with his horse across him, and both skeletons. That sight I was spared,
as the road near which he was lying was blocked up by trees, so we were
forced to go through the woods, to enter, instead of passing by, the
Catholic graveyard. In the woods, we passed another camp our men
destroyed, while the torn branches above testified to the number of
shells our men had braved to do the work. Next to Mr. Barbee's were the
remains of a third camp that was burned; and a few more steps made me
suddenly hold my breath, for just before us lay a dead horse with the
flesh still hanging, which was hardly endurable. Close by lay a
skeleton,--whether of man or horse, I did not wait to see. Not a human
being appeared until we reached the Penitentiary, which was occupied by
our men. After that, I saw crowds of wagons moving furniture out, but
not a creature that I knew. Just back of our house was all that
remained of a nice brick cottage--namely, four crumbling walls. The
offense was that the husband was fighting for the Confederates; so the
wife was made to suffer, and is now homeless, like many thousands
besides. It really seems as though God wanted to spare our homes. The
frame dwellings adjoining were not touched, even. The town was hardly
recognizable; and required some skill to avoid the corners blocked