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I knowed it was a angel, I knowed it by de groanin‘.
I mean to make a collection of these songs some day and keep them as a curiosity.
The words are mostly endless repetitions, with a wild jumble of misfit Scriptural allusions, but the tunes are inspiring.
They are mostly a sort of weird chant that makes me feel all out of myself when I hear it way in the night, too far off to catch the words.
I wish I was musician enough to write down the melodies; they are worth preserving.
Feb. 13, Monday
Letters from home.
Our house is full of company, as it always is, only more so. All the Morgans are there, and Mary Day, and the Gairdners from Augusta, besides a host of what one might call transients, if father was keeping a hotel-friends, acquaintances, and strangers whom the tide of war has stranded in little Washington.
Mrs. Gairdner's husband was an officer in the English army at Waterloo, and a schoolmate of Lord Byron, and her sons are brave Confederates--which is bette