Amid all the turbulent scenes which surround us, our only
grandchild has first seen the light, and the dear little fellow looks as quiet
as though all were peace. We thank God for this precious gift, this little
object of all-absorbing interest, which so pleasantly diverts our troubled
minds. His father has left his far-off military post to welcome him, and before
he returns we must by baptism receive him into the Church on earth, praying
that he may be a “member of Christ, a child of God, and an inheritor of the
kingdom of heaven.” This rite thus early administered, bringing him into the
Episcopal Church, seems to belong to him by inheritance, as he is the grandson
of a Presbyter on one side, and of a Bishop on the other.
The city looks warlike, though the inhabitants are quiet.
Troops are constantly passing to and fro; army wagons, ambulances, etc., rattle
by, morning, noon, and night. Grant remains passive on the Appomattox,
occasionally throwing a shell into Petersburg, which may probably explode among
women and children — but what matters it? They are rebels — what difference
does it make about their lives or limbs?
SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During
the War, p. 281-2
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