Poor Miriam! Poor Sarah! they are disgraced again! Last
night we were all sitting on the balcony in the moonlight, singing as usual
with our guitar. I have been so accustomed to hear father say in the evening, “Come,
girls! where is my concert?” and he took so much pleasure in listening, that I
could not think singing in the balcony was so very dreadful, since he
encouraged us in it. But last night changed all my ideas. We noticed Federals,
both officers and soldiers, pass singly, or by twos or threes at different
times, but as we were not singing for their benefit, and they were evidently
attending to their own affairs, there was no necessity of noticing them at all.
But about half-past nine, after we had sung two or three
dozen others, we commenced “Mary of Argyle.” As the last word died away, while
the chords were still vibrating, came a sound of — clapping hands, in short!
Down went every string of the guitar; Charlie cried, “I told you so!” and
ordered an immediate retreat; Miriam objected, as undignified, but renounced
the guitar; mother sprang to her feet, and closed the front windows in an
instant, whereupon, dignified or not, we all evacuated the gallery and fell
back into the house. All this was done in a few minutes, and as quietly as
possible; and while the gas was being turned off downstairs, Miriam and I flew
upstairs, — I confess I was mortified to death, very, very much ashamed, — but
we wanted to see the guilty party, for from below they were invisible. We stole
out on the front balcony above, and in front of the house that used to be
Gibbes's, we beheld one of the culprits. At the sight of the creature, my
mortification vanished in intense compassion for his. He was standing under the
tree, half in the moonlight, his hands in his pockets, looking at the
extinction of light below, with the true state of affairs dawning on his
astonished mind, and looking by no means satisfied with himself! Such an
abashed creature! He looked just as though he had received a kick, that,
conscious of deserving, he dared not return! While he yet gazed on the house in
silent amazement and consternation, hands still forlornly searching his
pockets, as though for a reason for our behavior, from under the dark shadow of
the tree another slowly picked himself up from the ground — hope he was not
knocked down by surprise —and joined the first. His hands sought his pockets,
too, and, if possible, he looked more mortified than the other. After looking
for some time at the house, satisfied that they had put an end to future singing
from the gallery, they walked slowly away, turning back every now and then to
be certain that it was a fact. If ever I saw two mortified, hangdog-looking
men, they were these two as they took their way home. Was it not shocking?
But they could not have meant it merely to be insulting or
they would have placed themselves in full view of us, rather than out of sight,
under the trees. Perhaps they were thinking of their own homes, instead of us.
SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's
Diary, p. 109-11
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