Mr. Lincoln has visited our devoted city to-day. His
reception was any thing but complimentary. Our people were in nothing rude or
disrespectful; they only kept themselves away from a scene so painful. There
are very few Unionists of the least respectability here; these met them (he was
attended by Stanton and others) with cringing loyalty, I hear, but the rest of
the small collection were of the low, lower, lowest of creation. They drove
through several streets, but the greeting was so feeble from the motley crew of
vulgar men and women, that the Federal officers themselves, I suppose, were
ashamed of it, for they very soon escaped from the disgraceful association. It
is said that they took a collation at General Ord's — our President's house!!
Ah! it is a bitter pill. I would that dear old house, with all its
associations, so sacred to the Southerners, so sweet to us as a family, had
shared in the general conflagration. Then its history would have been
unsullied, though sad. Oh, how gladly would I have seen it burn! I have been
nowhere since Monday, except to see my dear old friend Mrs. R., and to the
hospital. There I am not much subjected to the harrowing sights and sounds by
which we are surrounded. The wounded must be nursed; poor fellows, they are so
sorrowful! Our poor old Irishman died on Sunday. The son of a very old
acquaintance was brought to our hospital a few days ago, most severely wounded —
Colonel Charles Richardson, of the artillery. We feared at first that he must
die, but now there is a little more hope. It is so sad that after four years of
bravery and devotion to the cause, he should be brought to his native city, for
the defence of which he would have gladly given his life, dangerously if not
mortally wounded, when its sad fate is just decided. I love to sit by his
bedside and try to cheer him; his friends seem to vie with each other in kind
attentions to him.
We hear rumours of battles, and of victories gained by our
troops, but we have no certain information beyond the city lines.
SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern
Refugee, During the War, p. 350-1
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