MOUNTAIN VIEW, Mr. ––– and myself came over here on Friday,
to spend a few days with the Bishop and his family. He delivered a delightful
address yesterday in the church, on the thankfulness and praise due to Almighty
God, for (considering the circumstances) our unprecedented victory at Manassas.
Our President and Congress requested that thanks should be returned in all of
our churches. All rejoice for the country, though there are many bleeding
hearts in our land. Among our acquaintances, Mr. Charles Powell, of Winchester,
Col. Edmund Fontaine, of Hanover, and Mr. W. N. Page, of Lexington, each lost a
son; and our friend, Mr. Clay Ward, of Alexandria, also fell. The gallant
Generals Bee and Bartow were not of our State, but of our cause, and we all
mourn their loss. Each mail adds to the list of casualties. The enemy admit
their terrible disaster, and are busy inquiring into causes.
This house has been a kind of hospital for the last month.
Several sick soldiers are here now, men of whom they know nothing except that
they are soldiers of the Confederacy. They have had measles, and are now
recruiting for service. One who left here two weeks ago, after having been
carefully nursed, was killed at Manassas. The family seem to lament him as an
old friend, though they never saw him until he came here from the Winchester
hospital. Two sons of this house were in the fight; and the Bishop had several
other grandchildren engaged, one of whom, R. M., lost his right arm. His
grandfather has been to Winchester to see him, and is much gratified by the
fortitude with which he bears his suffering. He says, “R. is a brave boy, and
has done his duty to his country, and I will try to do my duty to him, and make
up the loss of his arm to him, as far as possible.” It is delightful to be with
Bishop Meade. There is so much genuine hospitality and kindness in his manner
of entertaining, which we perhaps appreciate more highly now than we ever did
before. His simple, self-denying habits are more conspicuous at home than
anywhere else. We sit a great deal in his study, where he loves to entertain
his friends. Nothing can be more simple than its furniture and arrangements,
but he gives you so cordial a welcome to it, and is so agreeable, that you
forget that the chair on which you sit is not cushioned. He delights in walking
over the grounds with his friends, and as you stop to admire a beautiful tree
or shrub, he will give you the history of it. Many of them he brought with him
from Europe; but whether native or foreign, each has its association. This he
brought in his trunk when a mere scion, from the tide-water section of
Virginia; that from the "Eastern Shore;" another from the Alleghany
mountains; another still, from the Cattskill mountains. Here is the oak of old
England; there the cedar of Lebanon; there the willow from St. Helena, raised
from a slip which had absolutely waved over the grave of Napoleon. Here is
another, and prettier willow, native of our own Virginia soil. Then he points
out his eight varieties of Arbor Vitse, and the splendid yews, hemlocks,
spruces, and firs of every kind, which have attained an immense size. Our own
forest trees are by no means forgotten, and we find oaks, poplars, elms, etc.,
without number. He tells me that he has more than a hundred varieties of trees
in his yard. His flowers, too, are objects of great interest to him,
particularly the old-fashioned damask rose. But his grape-vines are now his
pets. He understands the cultivation of them perfectly, and I never saw them so
luxuriant. It has been somewhat the fashion to call him stern, but I wish that
those who call him so could see him among his children, grandchildren, and
servants. Here he is indeed a patriarch. All are affectionately
respectful, but none of them seem at all afraid of him. The grandchildren are
never so happy as when in “grandpapa's room;” and the little coloured children
frequently come to the porch, where he spends a great deal of his time, to
inquire after “old master's health,” and to receive bread and butter or fruit
from his hands.
SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern
Refugee, During the War, p. 44-6
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