To see a whole city draped in mourning is certainly an
imposing spectacle, and becomes almost grand when it is considered as an
expression of universal affliction. So it is, in one sense. For the more
violently “Secesh” the inmates, the more thankful they are for Lincoln's death,
the more profusely the houses are decked with the emblems of woe. They all look
to me like “not sorry for him, but dreadfully grieved to be forced to this
demonstration.” So all things have indeed assumed a funereal aspect. Men who
have hated Lincoln with all their souls, under terror of confiscation and
imprisonment which they understand is the alternative, tie
black crape from every practicable knob and point to save their homes. Last evening
the B–––s were all in tears, preparing their mourning. What sensibility! What
patriotism! a stranger would have exclaimed. But Bella's first remark was: “Is
it not horrible? This vile, vile old crape! Think of hanging it out when
—” Tears of rage finished the sentence. One would have thought pity for the
murdered man had very little to do with it.
Coming back in the cars, I had a rencontre that makes
me gnash my teeth yet. It was after dark, and I was the only lady in a car
crowded with gentlemen. I placed little Miriam on my lap to make room for some
of them, when a great, dark man, all in black, entered, and took the seat and
my left hand at the same instant, saying, “Good-evening, Miss Sarah.”
Frightened beyond measure to recognize Captain Todd1 of the Yankee
army in my interlocutor, I, however, preserved a quiet exterior, and without
the slightest demonstration answered, as though replying to an internal
question. “Mr. Todd.” “It is a long while since we met,” he ventured. “Four
years,” I returned mechanically. “You have been well?” “My health has been bad.”
“I have been ill myself”; and determined to break the ice he diverged with “Baton
Rouge has changed sadly.” “I hope I shall never see it again. We have suffered
too much to recall home with any pleasure.” “I understand you have suffered
severely,” he said, glancing at my black dress. “We have yet one left in the
army, though,” I could not help saying. He, too, had a brother there, he said.
He pulled the check-string as we reached the house, adding, “This
is it,” and absurdly correcting himself with “Where do you live?” — “211. I
thank you. Good-evening”; the last with emphasis as he prepared to follow. He
returned the salutation, and I hurriedly regained the house. Monsieur stood
over the way. A look through the blinds showed him returning to his domicile,
several doors below.
I returned to my own painful reflections. The Mr. Todd who
was my “sweetheart” when I was twelve and he twenty-four, who was my brother's
friend, and daily at our home, was put away from among our acquaintance at the
beginning of the war. This one, I should not know. Cords of candy and mountains
of bouquets bestowed in childish days will not make my country's enemy my
friend now that I am a woman.
_______________
1 A cousin of Mrs. Lincoln.
SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's
Diary, p. 437-9
