_New Orleans, Dec. 1, 1860_.--I understand it now. Keeping journals is for
those who can not, or dare not, speak out. So I shall set up a journal,
being only a rather lonely young girl in a very small and hated minority.
On my return here in November, after a foreign voyage and absence of many
months, I found myself behind in knowledge of the political conflict, but
heard the dread sounds of disunion and war muttered in threatening tones.
Surely no native-born woman loves her country better than I love America.
The blood of one of its revolutionary patriots flows in my veins, and it
is the Union for which he pledged his "life, fortune, and sacred honor"
that I love, not any divided or special section of it. So I have been
reading attentively and seeking light from foreigners and natives on all
questions at issue. Living from birth in slave countries, both foreign
and American, and passing through one slave insurrection in early
childhood, the saddest and also the pleasantest features of slavery have
been familiar. If the South goes to war for slavery, slavery is doomed in
this country. To say so is like opposing one drop to a roaring torrent.
This is a good time to follow St. Paul's advice that women should refrain
from speaking, but they are speaking more than usual and forcing others to
speak against their will.
_Sunday, Dec.--, 1860_.--In this season for peace I had hoped for a lull
in the excitement, yet this day has been full of bitterness. "Come, G.,"
said Mrs. F. at breakfast, "leave _your_ church for to-day and come with
us to hear Dr. ---- on the situation. He will convince you." "It is good to
be convinced," I said; "I will go." The church was crowded to suffocation
with the élite of New Orleans. The preacher's text was, "Shall we have
fellowship with the stool of iniquity which frameth mischief as a law?" ...
The sermon was over at last and then followed a prayer ... Forever
blessed be the fathers of the Episcopal Church for giving us a fixed
liturgy! When we met at dinner Mrs. F. exclaimed, "Now, G., you heard him
prove from the Bible that slavery is right and that therefore secession
is. Were you not convinced?" I said, "I was so busy thinking how
completely it proved too that Brigham Young is right about polygamy that
it quite weakened the force of the argument for me." This raised a laugh,
and covered my retreat.
_Jan. 26, 1861_.--The solemn boom of cannon today announced that the
convention have passed the ordinance of secession. We must take a reef in
our patriotism and narrow it down to State limits. Mine still sticks out
all around the borders of the State. It will be bad if New Orleans should
secede from Louisiana and set up for herself. Then indeed I would be
"cabined, cribbed, confined." The faces in the house are jubilant to-day.
Why is it so easy for them and not for me to "ring out the old, ring in
the new"? I am out of place.
_Jan. 28, Monday_.--Sunday has now got to be a day of special excitement.
The gentlemen save all the sensational papers to regale us with at the
late Sunday breakfast. Rob opened the battle yesterday morning by saying
to me in his most aggressive manner, "G., I believe these are your
sentiments"; and then he read aloud an article from the "Journal des
Debats" expressing in rather contemptuous terms the fact that France will
follow the policy of non-intervention. When I answered: "Well, what do you
expect? This is not their quarrel," he raved at me, ending by a
declaration that he would willingly pay my passage to foreign parts if I
would like to go. "Rob," said his father, "keep cool; don't let that
threat excite you. Cotton is king. Just wait till they feel the pinch a
little; their tone will change." I went to Trinity Church. Some Union
people who are not Episcopalians go there now because the pastor has not
so much chance to rail at the Lord when things are not going to suit: but
yesterday was a marked Sunday. The usual prayer for the President and
Congress was changed to the "governor and people of this commonwealth and
their representatives in convention assembled."
The city was very lively and noisy this evening with rockets and lights in
honor of secession. Mrs. F., in common with the neighbors, illuminated. We
walked out to see the houses of others gleaming amid the dark shrubbery
like a fairy scene. The perfect stillness added to the effect, while the
moon rose slowly with calm splendor. We hastened home to dress for a
soirée, but on the stairs Edith said, "G., first come and help me dress
Phoebe and Chloe [the negro servants]. There is a ball to-night in
aristocratic colored society. This is Chloe's first introduction to New
Orleans circles, and Henry Judson, Phoebe's husband, gave five dollars for
a ticket for her." Chloe is a recent purchase from Georgia. We
superintended their very stylish toilets, and Edith said, "G., run into
your room, please, and write a pass for Henry. Put Mr. D.'s name to it."
"Why, Henry is free," I said.--"That makes no difference; all colored
people must have a pass if out late. They choose a master for protection
and always carry his pass. Henry chose Mr. D., but he's lost the pass he
had." When the pass was ready, a carriage dashed up to the back-gate and
the party drove off in fine style.
At the soirée we had secession talk sandwiched everywhere; between the
supper, and the music, and the dance; but midnight has come, and silence,
and a few too brief hours of oblivion.