Diary of a Southern Refugee, Judith White McGuire.

10th.—Another gloomy Sabbath-day and harrowing night. We went to St. Paul’s in the morning,.and heard a very fine sermon from Dr. Minnegerode—at least so said my companions. My attention, which is generally riveted by his sermons, wandered continually. I could not listen; I felt so strangely, as if in a vivid, horrible dream. Neither President was prayed for; in compliance with some arrangement with the Federal authorities, the prayer was used as for all in authority! How fervently did we all pray for our own President! Thank God, our silent prayers are free from Federal authority. “The oppressor keeps the body bound, but knows not what a range the spirit takes.” Last night, (it seems strange that we have lived to speak or write of it,) between nine and ten o’clock, as some of the ladies of the house were collected in our room, we were startled by the rapid firing of cannon. At first we thought that there must be an attack upon the city; bright thoughts of the return of our army darted through my brain; but the firing was too regular. We began to think it must be a salute for some great event. We threw up the windows, and saw the flashes and smoke of cannon towards Camp Jackson. Some one present counted one hundred guns. What could it be? We called to passers-by: “What do those guns mean?” Sad voices answered several times: “I do not know.” At last a voice pertly, wickedly replied: “General Lee has surrendered, thank God! ” Of course we did not believe him, though the very sound was a knell. Again we called out: “What is the matter? ” A voice answered, as if from a broken heart: “They say General Lee has surrendered.” We cannot believe it, but my heart became dull and heavy, and every nerve and muscle of my frame seems heavy too. I cannot even now shake it off. We passed the night, I cannot tell how—I know not how we live at all. At daybreak the dreadful salute commenced again. Another hundred guns at twelve to-day. Another hundred—can it be so? No, we do not believe it, but how can we bear such a doubt? Where are all our dear ones, our beloved soldiers, and our noble chief to-night, while the rain falls pitilessly? Are they lying on the cold, hard ground, sleeping for sorrow? or are they moving southward trinmphantly, to join General Johnston, still able and willing—ah, far more than willing—to avenge their country’s wrongs? God help usl—we must take refuge in unbelief.