Diary of a Southern Refugee, Judith White McGuire.

19th.—My birthday. While in Richmond, this morning, brother J. and myself called on some friends, among others our relative Mrs. H., who has lately been celebrating the marriage of her only son, and took us into the next room for a lunch of wine and fruit-cake. We had never, during two years, thought of fruit-cake, and found it delightful. The fruit consisted of dried currants and cherries from her garden, at her elegant James River home, Brandon, now necessarily deserted. She fortunately was enabled to bring her furniture to Richmond, and is the only refugee that I know who is surrounded by home comforts.