We must give up our rooms by the last of this month, and the
question now arises about our future abode. We are searching hither and
thither. We had thought for a week past that our arrangements were most
delightfully made, and that we had procured, together with Dr. M. and Colonel
G., six rooms in a house on Franklin Street. The arrangement had been made, and
the proprietor gone from town. The M's and ourselves were to take four rooms in
the third story; the back parlour on the first floor was to be used by all
parties; and Colonel G, would take the large front basement room as his
chamber, and at his request, as our dining-room, as we could not be allowed to
use the upper chambers as eating-rooms. Our large screen was to be transferred
to the Colonel's bedstead and washing apparatus, and the rest of the room
furnished in dining-room style. These rooms are all furnished and carpeted.
Nothing could have suited us better, and we have been for some days
anticipating our comfortable winter-quarters. The M's have left town with the
blissful assurance of a nice home; to add to it all, the family of the
proprietor is all that we could desire as friends and companions. Last night I
met with a friend, who asked me where we had obtained rooms. I described them
with great alacrity and pleasure. She looked surprised, and said, “Are you not
mistaken? those rooms are already occupied.” “Impossible,” said I; “we have
engaged them.” She shook her head, saying, “There was some mistake; they have
been occupied for some days by a family, who say that they have rented them.”
None but persons situated exactly in the same way can imagine our
disappointment. The Colonel looked aghast; Mr. ––– pronounced it a mistake; the
girls were indignant, and I went a little farther, and pronounced it bad
treatment. This morning I went up before breakfast to hear the truth of the
story — the family is still absent, but the servants confirmed the statement by
saying that a family had been in the rooms that we looked at for a week, and
that a gentleman, a third party, had been up the day before to claim the rooms,
and said that the party occupying them had no right to them, and must be turned
out. The servant added, that this third gentleman had sent up a dray with flour
which was now in the house, and had put his coal in the coal-cellar. All this seems
passing strange. Thus have we but three weeks before us in which to provide
ourselves with an almost impossible shelter. The “Colonel” has written to Mr. –––
for an explanation, and the M's have been apprised of their dashed hopes. I
often think how little the possessors of the luxurious homes of Richmond know
of the difficulties with which refugees are surrounded, and how little we ever
appreciated the secure home-feeling which we had all enjoyed before the war
began. We have this evening been out again in pursuit of quarters. The
advertisements of “Rooms to let” were sprinkled over the morning papers, so
that one could scarcely believe that there would be any difficulty in our being
supplied. A small house that would accommodate our whole party, five or six
rooms in a large house, or two rooms for ourselves, if it were impossible to do
better, would answer our purpose — any thing for a comfortable home. The first
advertisement alluded to basement rooms—damp, and redolent of rheumatism. The
next was more attractive — good rooms, well furnished, and up but two flights
of stairs; but the price was enormous, far beyond the means of any of the
party, and so evidently an extortion designed to take all that could be
extracted from the necessity of others, that we turned from our hard-featured
proprietor with disgust. The rooms of the third advertisement had been already
rented, and the fourth seemed more like answering our purpose than any we had
seen. There were only two rooms, and though small, and rather dark, yet persons
whose shelter was likely to be the “blue vault of heaven” could not be very
particular. The price, too, was exorbitant, but with a little more self-denial
it might be paid. The next inquiry was about kitchen, servant's room and
coal-house; but we got no further than the answer about the kitchen. The lady
said there was no kitchen that we could possibly use; her stove was small, and
she required it all; we must either be supplied from a restaurant, or do our
own cooking in one of the rooms. As neither plan was to be thought of, we ended
the parley. A part of a kitchen is indispensable, though perhaps the
most annoying thing to which refugees are subjected. The mistress is generally
polite enough, but save me from the self-sufficient cook. “I would like to
oblige you, madam, but you can't have loaf-bread to-morrow morning, because my
mistress has ordered loaf-bread and rolls, and our stove is small;” or, “No,
madam, you can't ‘bile’ a ham, nor nothing else to-day, because it is
our washing-day;” or, “No, ma'am, you can't have biscuits for tea, because the
stove is cold, and I've got no time to heat it.” So that we must either submit,
or go to the mistress for redress, and probably find none, and thus run the
risk of offending both mistress and maid, both of whom have us very much in
their power. As I walked home from this unsuccessful effort, it was nearly
dark; the gas was being lighted in hall, parlour, and chamber. I looked in as I
passed, and saw cheerful countenances collecting around centre-tables, or
sitting here and there on handsome porticoes or marble steps, to enjoy the cool
evening breeze — countenances of those whose families I had known from infancy,
and who were still numbered among my friends and acquaintances. I felt sad, and
asked myself, if those persons could realize the wants of others, would they
not cheerfully rent some of their extra rooms? Rooms once opened on grand
occasions, and now, as such occasions are few and far between, not opened at
all for weeks and months together.
Would they not cheerfully remove some of their showy and
fragile furniture for a time, and allow those who had once been accustomed to
as large rooms of their own, to occupy and take care of them? The rent would
perhaps be no object with them, but their kindness might be twice blessed — the
refugees would be made comfortable and happy, and the money might be applied to
the wants of the soldiers or the city poor. And yet a third blessing might be
added — the luxury of doing good. Ah, they would then find that the “quality of
mercy is not strained,” but that it would indeed, like the “gentle dew from
heaven,” fall into their very souls, and diffuse a happiness of which they know
not. These thoughts filled my mind until I reached the present home of a
refugee friend from Washington. It was very late, but I thought I would run in,
and see if she could throw any light upon our difficulties. I was sorry to find
that she was in a similar situation, her husband having that day been notified
that their rooms would be required on the first of October. We compared notes
of our room-hunting experiences, and soon found ourselves laughing heartily
over occurrences and conversations which were both provoking and ridiculous. I
then wended my way home, amid brilliantly lighted houses and badly lighted
streets. Squads of soldiers were sauntering along, impregnating the ail with
tobacco-smoke; men were standing at every corner, lamenting the fall of Atlanta
or the untimely end of General Morgan. I too often caught a word, conveying
blame of the President for having removed General Johnston. This blame always
irritates me, because the public became so impatient at General Johnston's want
of action, that they were clamorous for his removal. For weeks the President
was abused without measure because he was not removed, and now the same people
are using the same terms towards him because the course which they absolutely
required at his hands has disappointed them. The same people who a month ago
curled the lip in scorn at General Johnston's sloth and want of energy, and
praised General Hood's course from the beginning of the war, now shrug their
unmilitary shoulders, whose straps have never graced a battle-field, and
pronounce the change “unfortunate and uncalled for.” General Hood, they say,
was an “admirable Brigadier,” but his “promotion was most unfortunate;” while
General Johnston's “Fabian policy” is now pronounced the very thing for the “situation”
— the course which would have saved Atlanta, and have made all right. This may
all be true, but it is very distressing to hear it harped upon now; quite as
much so as it was six weeks ago to hear the President called obstinate, because
he was raining the country by not removing General J. But I will no longer make
myself uneasy about what I hear, for I have implicit confidence in our leaders,
both in the Cabinet and on the field. Were I a credulous woman, and ready to
believe all that I hear in the office, in the hospital, in my visits and on the
streets, I should think that Richmond is now filled with the most accomplished
military geniuses on which the sun shines. Each man expresses himself, as an
old friend would say, with the most “dogmatic infallibility” of the conduct of
the President, General Lee, General Johnston, General Hampton, General Beauregard,
General Wise, together with all the other lights of every degree. It is true
that there are as many varieties of opinion as there are men expressing them,
or I should profoundly regret that so much military light should be obscured
among the shades of the Richmond Departments; but I do wish that some of them
would refrain from condemning the acts of our leaders, and from uttering such
awful prophecies, provided the President or General Lee does not do so and so.
Although I do not believe their forebodings, yet the reiteration of such
opinions, in the most assured tones, makes me nervous and uneasy. I would that
all such men could be sent to the field; I think at least a regiment could be
spared from Richmond, for then the women of the city at least would be more
peaceful.
SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern
Refugee, During the War, p. 298-304
