I can't help writing it--it relieves my mind. All morning have we been driving about that horrid region into which our beautiful, desolate moor has been transmogrified; round and round, up and down, in at the south camp and out at the north camp; directed hither and thither by muddle-headed privates; stared at by puppyish young officers; choked with chimney-smoke; jolted over roads laid with ashes--or no roads at all--and pestered everywhere with the sight of lounging, lazy, red groups,--that color is becoming to me a perfect eye-sore! What a treat it is to get home and lock myself--in my own room--the tiniest and safest nook in all Rockmount--and spurt out my wrath in the blackest of ink wi…
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