bout the robbing of the Virginia banks by the Confederates but not a word is said in their public prints about the $300,000 they stole from the bank at Greenville, S. C., nor the thousands they have taken in spoils from private houses, as well as from banks, since these angels of peace descended upon us. They have everything their own way now, and can tell what tales they please on us, but justice will come yet. Time brings its revenges, though it may move but slowly.
Some future Motley or Macaulay will tell the truth about our cause, and some unborn Walter Scott will spread the halo of romance around it. In all the poems and romances that shall be written about this war, I prophesy that the heroes will all be rebels, or if Yankees, from some loyal Southern State.
The bare idea of a full-blown Yankee hero or heroine is preposterous.
They made no sacrifices, they suffered no loss, and there is nothing on their side to call up scenes of pathos or heroism.
This afternoon our premi