_Oct. 28, 1861_.--When I dropped in at Uncle Ralph's last evening to
welcome them back, the whole family were busy at a great center-table
copying sequestration acts for the Confederate Government. The property of
all Northerners and Unionists is to be sequestrated, and Uncle Ralph can
hardly get the work done fast enough. My aunt apologized for the rooms
looking chilly; she feared to put the carpets down, as the city might be
taken and burned by the Federals. "We are living as much packed up as
possible. A signal has been agreed upon, and the instant the army
approaches we shall be off to the country again."
Great preparations are being made for defense. At several other places
where I called the women were almost hysterical. They seemed to look
forward to being blown up with shot and shell, finished with cold steel,
or whisked off to some Northern prison. When I got home Edith and Mr. D.
had just returned also.
"Alex," said Edith, "I was up at your orange-lots to-day and the sour
oranges are dropping to the ground, while they cannot get lemons for our
sick soldiers."
"That's my kind, considerate wife," replied Mr. D. "Why didn't I think of
that before? Jim shall fill some barrels to-morrow and take them to the
hospitals as a present from you."
_Nov. 10_.--Surely this year will ever be memorable to me for its
perfection of natural beauty. Never was sunshine such pure gold, or
moonlight such transparent silver. The beautiful custom prevalent here of
decking the graves with flowers on All Saint's day was well fulfilled, so
profuse and rich were the blossoms. On All-hallow Eve Mrs. S. and myself
visited a large cemetery. The chrysanthemums lay like great masses of snow
and flame and gold in every garden we passed, and were piled on every
costly tomb and lowly grave. The battle of Manassas robed many of our
women in mourning, and some of these, who had no graves to deck, were
weeping silently as they walked through the scented avenues.
A few days ago Mrs. E. arrived here. She is a widow, of Natchez, a friend
of Mrs. F.'s, and is traveling home with the dead body of her eldest son,
killed at Manassas. She stopped two days waiting for a boat, and begged me
to share her room and read her to sleep, saying she couldn't be alone
since he was killed; she feared her mind would give way. So I read all the
comforting chapters to be found till she dropped into forgetfulness, but
the recollection of those weeping mothers in the cemetery banished sleep
for me.
_Nov. 26, 1861._--The lingering summer is passing into those misty autumn
days I love so well, when there is gold and fire above and around us. But
the glory of the natural and the gloom of the moral world agree not well
together. This morning Mrs. F. came to my room in dire distress. "You
see," she said, "cold weather is coming on fast, and our poor fellows are
lying out at night with nothing to cover them. There is a wail for
blankets, but there is not a blanket in town. I have gathered up all the
spare bed-clothing, and now want every available rug or table-cover in the
house. Can't I have yours, G.? We must make these small sacrifices of
comfort and elegance, you know, to secure independence and freedom."
"Very well," I said, denuding the table. "This may do for a drummer boy."
_Dec. 26, 1861._--The foul weather cleared off bright and cool in time for
Christmas. There is a midwinter lull in the movement of troops. In the
evening we went to the grand bazaar in the St. Louis Hotel, got up to
clothe the soldiers. This bazaar has furnished the gayest, most
fashionable war-work yet, and has kept social circles in a flutter of
pleasant, heroic excitement all through December. Everything beautiful or
rare garnered in the homes of the rich was given for exhibition, and in
some cases for raffle and sale. There were many fine paintings, statues,
bronzes, engravings, gems, laces--in fact, heirlooms, and bric-à-brac of
all sorts. There were many lovely Creole girls present, in exquisite
toilets, passing to and fro through the decorated rooms, listening to the
band clash out the Anvil Chorus.
This morning I joined the B.'s and their party in a visit to the new
fortifications below the city. It all looks formidable enough, but of
course I am no judge of military defenses. We passed over the
battle-ground where Jackson fought the English, and thinking of how he
dealt with treason, one could almost fancy his unquiet ghost stalking
about.
_Jan. 2, 1862_.--I am glad enough to bid '61 goodbye. Most miserable year
of my life! What ages of thought and experience have I not lived in it.
Last Sunday I walked home from church with a young lady teacher in the
public schools. The teachers have been paid recently in "shin-plasters." I
don't understand the horrid name, but nobody seems to have any confidence
in the scrip. In pure benevolence I advised my friend to get her money
changed into coin, as in case the Federals took the city she would be in a
bad fix, being in rather a lonely position. She turned upon me in a rage.
"You are a black-hearted traitor," she almost screamed at me in the
street, this well-bred girl! "My money is just as good as coin you'll see!
Go to Yankee land. It will suit you better with your sordid views and want
of faith, than the generous South."
"Well," I replied, "when I think of going, I'll come to you for a letter
of introduction to your grandfather in Yankee land." I said good-morning
and turned down another street in a sort of a maze, trying to put myself
in her place and see what there was sordid in my advice.
Luckily I met Mrs. B. to turn the current of thought. She was very merry.
The city authorities have been searching houses for fire-arms. It is a
good way to get more guns, and the homes of those men suspected of being
Unionists were searched first. Of course they went to Dr. B.'s. He met
them with his own delightful courtesy. "Wish to search for arms?
Certainly, gentlemen." He conducted them through all the house with
smiling readiness, and after what seemed a very thorough search bowed them
politely out. His gun was all the time safely reposing between the canvas
folds of a cot-bed which leaned folded up together against the wall, in
the very room where they had ransacked the closets. Queerly, the rebel
families have been the ones most anxious to conceal all weapons. They have
dug pits quietly at night in the back yards, and carefully wrapping the
weapons, buried them out of sight. Every man seems to think he will have
some private fighting to do to protect his family.