Nothing yet from Mr. —— about our rooms. All the furnished
rooms that I have seen, except those, would cost us from $100 to $110 per month
for each room, which, of course, we cannot pay; but we will try and not be
anxious overmuch, for the Lord has never let us want comforts since we left our
own dear home, and if we use the means which He has given us properly and in
His fear, He will not desert us now.
I went with Mr. —— as usual this morning to the “Officers' Hospital,”
where he read a part of the service and delivered an address to such patients
among the soldiers as were well enough to attend. I acted as his chorister, and
when the services were over, and he went around to the bedsides of the
patients, I crossed the street, as I have done several times before, to the
cemetery — the old “Shockoe Hill Cemetery.” It is, to me, the most interesting
spot in the city. It is a melancholy thought, that, after an absence of thirty
years, I am almost a stranger in my native place. In this cemetery I go from
spot to spot, and find the names that were the household words of my childhood
and youth; the names of my father's and mother's friends; of the friends of my
sisters, and of my own school-days. The first that struck me was that of the
venerable and venerated Bishop Moore, on the monument erected by his church;
then, that of his daughter, the admirable Miss Christian; then the monument to
Colonel Ambler, erected by his children. Mrs. Ambler lies by him. Mr. and Mrs.
Chapman Johnson, Judge and Mrs. Cabell, Mr. and Mrs. John Wickham, surrounded
by their children, who were the companions of my youth; also, their lovely
grand-daughter, Mrs. W. H. F. Lee, who passed away last winter, at an early
age, while her husband was prisoner of war. Near them is the grave of the Hon.
Benjamin Watkins Leigh; of Judge and Mrs. Stanard, and of their gifted son; of
dear Mrs. Henningham Lyons and her son James, from whose untimely end she never
recovered; of our sweet friend, Mrs. Lucy Green. Then there is the handsome
monument of Mrs. Abraham Warwick and the grave of her son, dear Clarence, who
died so nobly at Gaines's Mill in 1862. His grave seems to be always covered
with fresh flowers, a beautiful offering to one whose young life was so freely
given to his country. Again I stood beside the tombs of two friends, whom I
dearly loved, Mrs. Virginia Heth and Mrs. Mary Ann Barney, the lovely daughters
of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Gwathney, whose graves are also there. Then the tomb of
our old friend, Mr. James Rawlings, and those of Mr. and Mrs. Herbert A.
Claiborne and their daughter, Mary Burnet. Just by them is the newly-made grave
of our sweet niece, Mary Anna, the wife of Mr. H. Augustine Claiborne, freshly
turfed and decked with the flowers she loved so dearly. A little farther on
lies my young cousin, Virginia, wife of Major J. H. Claiborne, and her two
little daughters. But why should I go on? Time would fail me to enumerate all
the loved and lost. Their graves look so peaceful in that lovely spot. Most of
them died before war came to distress them. The names of two persons I cannot
omit, before whose tombs I pause with a feeling of veneration for their many
virtues. One was that of Mrs. Sully, my music-teacher, a lady who was known and
respected by the whole community for her admirable character, accompanied by
the most quiet and gentle manner. The other was that of Mr. Joseph Danforth,
the humble but excellent friend of my precious father. The cemetery at
Hollywood is of later date, though many very dear to me repose amid its
beautiful shades.
But enough of the past and of sadness. I must now turn to
busy life again, and note a little victory, of which General Lee telegraphed
yesterday, by which we gained some four hundred prisoners, many horses and
wagons, and 2,500 beeves. These last are most acceptable to our commissariat!
The Southern Army are having an armistice of ten days, for
the inhabitants of Atlanta to get off from their homes. Exiled by Sherman, my
heart bleeds for them. May the good Lord have mercy upon them, and have them in
His holy keeping!
SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern
Refugee, During the War, p. 307-9
