Diary of a Southern Refugee, Judith White McGuire.

7th.—Just returned from the hospital. Several severe cases of typhoid fever require constant attention. Our little Alabamian seems better, but so weak! I left them for a few moments to go to see Bishop Meade; he sent for me to his room. I was glad to see him looking better, and quite cheerful. Bishops Wilmer and Elliott came in, and my visit was very pleasant. I returned to my post by the bedside of the soldiers. Some of them are very fond of hearing the Bible read; and I am yet to see the first soldier who has not received with apparent interest any proposition of being read to from the Bible. To-day, while reading, an elderly man of strong, intelligent face sat on the side of the bed, listening with interest. I read of the wars of the Israelites and Philistines. He presently said, “I know why you read that chapter; it is to encourage us, because the Yankee armies are so much bigger than ours; do you believe that God will help us because we are weak?” “No,” said I, “but I believe that if we pray in faith, as the Israelites did, that God will hear us.” “Yes,” he replied, “but the Philistines didn’t pray, and the Yankees do; and though I can’t bear the Yankees, I believe some of them are Christians, and pray as hard as we do; [“Monstrous few on ’em,” grunted out a man lying near him;] and if we pray for one thing, and they pray for another, I don’t know what to think of our prayers clashing.” “Well, but what do you think of the justice of our cause? don’t you believe that God will hear us for the justice of our cause?” “Our cause,” he exclaimed, “yes, it is just; God knows it is just. I never thought of looking at it that way before, and I was mighty uneasy about the Yankee prayers. I am mightily obleeged to you for telling me.” “Where are you from?” I asked. “From Georgia.” “Are you not over forty-five?” “Oh, yes, I am turned of fifty, but you see I am monstrous strong and well; nobody can beat me with a rifle, and my four boys were a-coming. My wife is dead, and my girls are married; and so I rented out my land, and came too; the country hasn’t got men enough, and we mustn’t stand back on account of age, if we are hearty.” And truly he has the determined countenance, and bone and sinew, which make a dangerous foe on the battle-field. I wish we had 50,000 such men. He reminds me of having met with a very plain-looking woman in a store the other day. She was buying Confederate gray cloth, at what seemed a high price. I asked her why she did not apply to the quartermaster, and get it cheaper. “Well,” she replied, “I knows all about that, for my three sons is in the army; they gets their clothes thar; but you see this is for my old man, and I don’t think it would be fair to get his clothes from thar, because he ain’t never done nothing for the country as yet—he’s just gwine in the army.” “Is he not very old to go into the army?” “Well, he’s fifty-four years old, but he’s well and hearty like, and ought to do something for his country. So he says to me, says he, ‘The country wants men; I wonder if I could stand marching; I’ve a great mind to try.’ Says I, ‘Old man, I don’t think you could, you would break down; but I tell you what you can do—you can drive a wagon in the place of a young man that’s driving, and the young man can fight.’ Says he, ‘So I will—and he’s agwine just as soon as I gits these clothes ready, and that won’t be long.'” “But won’t you be very uneasy about him?” said I. “Yes, indeed; but you know he ought to go—them wretches must be drove away.” “Did you want your sons to go?” “Want ’em to go!” she exclaimed; “yes; if they hadn’t agone, they shouldn’t a-staid whar I was. But they wanted to go, my sons did.” Two days ago, I met her again in a baker’s shop; she was filling her basket with cakes and pies. “Well,” said I, “has your husband gone?” “No, but he’s agwine tomorrow, and I’m getting something for him now.” “Don’t you feel sorry as the time approaches for him to go?” “Oh, yes, I shall miss him mightily; but I ain’t never cried about it; I never shed a tear for the old man, nor for the boys neither, and I ain’t agwine to. Them Yankees must not come a-nigh to Richmond; if they does, I will fight them myself. The women must fight, for they shan’t cross Mayo’s Bridge; they shan’t git to Richmond.” I said to her, “You are a patriot.” “Yes, honey—ain’t you? Ain’t everybody?” I was sorry to leave this heroine in homespun, but she was too busy buying cakes, etc., for the “old man,” to be interrupted any longer.