Browsing named entities in Judith White McGuire, Diary of a southern refugee during the war, by a lady of Virginia. You can also browse the collection for St. Paul's church (United Kingdom) or search for St. Paul's church (United Kingdom) in all documents.

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true to the Church, and true to the Lord his God. Saturday night, March 15, 1862. Spent to-day at the hospital. Heard of the shelling of Newbern, N. C., and of its fall. My heart sickens at every acquisition of the Federals. No further news from Arkansas. Yesterday evening L went to see the body of our dear Bishop; cut a piece of his hair; kissed his forehead, and took my last look at that revered face. Monday night, March 17, 1862. This morning I was at the funeral, at St. Paul's Church; the service was read by the Rev. J. P. McGuire and Rev. C. J. Gibson. Bishop Johns made a most solemn address. The procession, long and sad, then wended its way to Hollywood Cemetery. March 15th, 1862. Our army has fallen back to the Rappahannock, thus giving up the splendid Valley and Piedmont country to the enemy. This, I suppose, is right, but it almost breaks our hearts to think of it. Winchester was occupied last Wednesday! Lord, how long shall our enemies prosper? Give
to his home of refuge in Lexington. This hope proved delusive. It soon appeared that his whole nervous system was shattered, and his end rapidly approaching; his wife was sent for, but did not arrive until the day after he died. Not dreaming of what awaited her, she came full of hope and joy at the anticipated meeting. But who may describe the grief which overwhelmed her on her arrival? His checkered life was closed in his sixty-sixth year. The funeral took place this evening at St. Paul's Church. He was buried with military honors, at Hollywood Cemetery. While manacled in the horrid dungeon, his only petition was to be allowed to keep a Bible, from which he professed to have derived great peace and comfort. His family think that he returned from prison a changed man. His spirit, which was naturally stern, had become gentle and loving, and strangely grateful to every being who showed him the least kindness. The Bible was still his daily companion; from it he seemed to deri
hat it had been long worn by his wife, now dead, though not a man who liked or approved of scenes, he obeyed the affectionate impulse of his heart, took it up quickly, kissed it, and replaced it on the table. March 12th, 1865. A deep gloom has just been thrown over the city by the untimely death of one of its own heroic sons. General John Pegram fell while nobly leading his brigade against the enemy in the neighbourhood of Petersburg. But two weeks before he had been married in St. Paul's Church, in the presence of a crowd of relatives and friends, to the celebrated Miss H. C., of Baltimore. All was bright and beautiful. Happiness beamed from every eye. Again has St. Paul's, his own beloved church, been opened to receive the soldier and his bride — the one coffined for a hero's grave, the other, pale and trembling, though still by his side, in widow's garb. March 31st, 1865. A long pause in my diary. Every thing seems so dark and uncertain that I have no heart for k