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-a-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.