The Briars —We are now in the beautiful Valley
of Virginia, having left Chantilly on the 8th. The ride through the Piedmont
country was delightful; it looked so peaceful and calm that we almost forgot
the din of war we had left behind us. The road through Loudoun and Fauquier was
picturesque and beautiful. We passed through the villages of Aldie, Middleburg,
and Upperville. At Middleburg we stopped for an hour, and regaled ourselves on
strawberries and cream at the house of our excellent brother, the Rev. Mr. K.
At Upperville we spent the night. Early next morning we went on through the
village of Paris, and then began to ascend the Blue Ridge, wound around on the
fine turnpike, paused a moment at the top to “view the landscape o'er,” and
then descended into the “Valley.” The wheat, which is almost ready for the
reaper, is rich and luxuriant, foreshadowing an abundant commissariat for our
army. After driving some miles over the delightful turnpike, we found ourselves
at this door, receiving the warm-hearted welcome of the kindest of relatives
and the most pleasant of hosts. Our daughters were here before us, all well,
and full of questions about “home.” This is all very delightful when we fancy
ourselves making a voluntary visit to this family, as in days gone by,
to return home when the visit is over, hoping soon to see our friends by our
own fireside; but when the reality is before us that we were forced from home,
and can only return when it pleases our enemy to open the way for us, or when
our men have forced them away at the point of the bayonet, then does our future
seem shadowy, doubtful, and dreary, and then we feel that our situation is
indeed sorrowful. But these feelings must not be indulged; many are already in
our situation, and how many more are there who may have to follow our example!
Having no houses to provide for, we must be up and doing for our country;
idleness does not become us now — there is too much to be done; we must work
on, work ever, and let our country's weal be our being's end and aim.
Yesterday we went to Winchester to see my dear S., and found
her house full of refugees: my sister Mrs. C, and her daughter Mrs. L., from
Berkeley County. Mrs. C.'s sons are in the army; her eldest, having been
educated at the Virginia Military Institute, drilled a company of his own
county men during the John Brown raid; he has now taken it to the field, and is
its commander; and Mr. L. is in the army, with the rank of major. Of course the
ladies of the family were active in fitting out the soldiers, and when an
encampment was near them, they did every thing in their power to contribute to
the comfort of the soldiers; for which sins the Union people around them have
thought proper to persecute them, until they were obliged to leave home — Mrs.
L. with two sick children. Her house has been searched, furniture broken, and
many depredations committed since she left home ; books thrown Out of the
windows during a rain: nothing escaped their fury.
Winchester is filled with hospitals, and the ladies are
devoting their energies to nursing the soldiers. The sick from the camp at
Harper's Ferrry are brought there. Our climate seems not to suit the men from
the far South. I hope they will soon become acclimated. It rejoices my heart to
see how much everybody is willing to do for the poor fellows. The ladies there
think no effort, however self-sacrificing, is too great to be made for the
soldiers. Nice food for the sick is constantly being prepared by old and young.
Those who are very sick are taken to the private houses, and the best chambers
in town are occupied by them. The poorest private and the officer of high
degree meet with the same treatment. The truth is, the elite of the land
is in the ranks. I heard a young soldier say, a few nights ago, that his
captain was perhaps the plainest man, socially, in the company, but that he was
an admirable officer. We heard a good story about a wealthy young private whose
captain was his intimate friend, but not being rich, he could not afford to
take a servant to camp; it therefore fell to the lot of the privates to clean
the captain's shoes. When the turn of the wealthy friend came, he walked up,
cap in hand, with an air of due humility, gave the military salute, and said,
with great gravity, “Captain, your shoes, if you please, sir.” The
ludicrousness of the scene was more than either could stand, and they laughed
heartily. But the wealthy private cleaned the captain's shoes.
SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern
Refugee, During the War, p. 27-9
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