Another Sunday. Strange that the time, which should seem so
endless, flies so rapidly! Miriam complains that Sunday comes every day; but
though that seems a little too much, I insist that it comes twice a week. Let
time fly, though; for each day brings us so much nearer our destiny, which I
long to know.
Thursday, we heard from a lady just from town that our house
was standing the day before, which somewhat consoled us for the loss of our
silver and clothing; but yesterday came the tidings of new afflictions. I
declare we have acted out the first chapter of Job, all except that verse about
the death of his sons and daughters. God shield us from that! I do not mind the
rest. “While he was yet speaking, another came in and said, ‘Thy brethren and
kinsmen gathered together to wrest thine abode from the hand of the Philistines
which pressed sore upon thee; when lo! the Philistines sallied forth with fire
and sword, and laid thine habitation waste and desolate, and I only am escaped
to tell thee.’” Yes! the Yankees, fearing the Confederates might slip in
unseen, resolved to have full view of their movements, so put the torch to all
eastward, from Colonel Matta's to the Advocate. That would lay open a fine
tract of country, alone; but unfortunately, it is said that once started, it
was not so easy to control the flames, which spread considerably beyond their
appointed limits. Some say it went as far as Florida Street; if so, we are
lost, as that is a half-square below us. For several days the fire has been
burning, but very little can be learned of the particulars. I am sorry for
Colonel Matta. Such a fine brown stone front, the finest in town. Poor Minna!
poverty will hardly agree with her. As for our home, I hope against hope. I
will not believe it is burnt, until somebody declares having been present on
that occasion. Yet so many frame houses on that square must have readily caught
fire from the sparks.
Wicked as it may seem, I would rather have all I own burned,
than in the possession of the negroes. Fancy my magenta organdie on a dark
beauty! Bah! I think the sight would enrage me! Miss Jones's trials are enough
to drive her crazy. She had the pleasure of having four officers in her house,
men who sported epaulets and red sashes, accompanied by a negro woman, at whose
disposal all articles were placed. The worthy companion of these “gentlemen”
walked around selecting things with the most natural airs and graces. “This,”
she would say, “we must have. And some of these books, you know; and all
the preserves, and these chairs and tables, and all the clothes, of course; and
yes! the rest of these things.” So she would go on, the “gentlemen” assuring
her she had only to choose what she wanted, and that they would have them
removed immediately. Madame thought they really must have the wine, and those
handsome cut-glass goblets. I hardly think I could have endured such a scene;
to see all I owned given to negroes, without even an accusation being brought
against me of disloyalty.1 One officer departed with a fine velvet
cloak on his arm; another took such a bundle of Miss Jones's clothes, that he
had to have it lifted by some one else on his horse, and rode off holding it
with difficulty. This I heard from herself, yesterday, as I spent the day with
Lilly and mother at Mr. Elder's, where she is now staying. Can anything more
disgraceful be imagined? They all console me by saying there is no one in Baton
Rouge who could possibly wear my dresses without adding a considerable piece to
the belt. But that is nonsense. Another pull at the corset strings would bring
them easily to the size I have been reduced by nature and bones. Besides, O
horror! Suppose, instead, they should let in a piece of another color? That
would annihilate me! Pshaw! I do not care for the dresses, if they had only
left me those little articles of father's and Harry's. But that is hard to
forgive.
_______________
1 The Act of July 16th, 1862, authorized the confiscation
of property only in the cases of rebels whose disloyalty was established. — W.
D.
SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's
Diary, p. 176-9
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