I answered: "Well, what do you
expect? This is not their quarrel," he raved at me, ending by a
declaration that he would willingly pay my passage to foreign parts if I
would like to go. "Rob," said his father, "keep cool; don't let that
threat excite you. Cotton is king. Just wait till they feel the pinch a
little; their tone will change." I went to Trinity Church. Some Union
people who are not Episcopalians go there now because the pastor has not
so much chance to rail at the Lord when things are not going to suit: but
yesterday was a marked Sunday. The usual prayer for the President and
Congress was changed to the "governor and people of this commonwealth and
their representatives in convention assembled."

The city was very lively and noisy this evening with rockets and lights in
honor of secession. Mrs. F., in common with the neighbors, illuminated. We
walked out to see the houses of others gleaming amid the dark shrubbery
like a fairy scene. The perfect stillness added to the effect, while the
moon rose slowly with calm splendor. We hastened home to dress for a
soiree, but on the stairs Edith said, "G., first come and help me dress
Phoebe and Chloe [the negro servants]. There is a ball to-night in
aristocratic colored society. This is Chloe's first introduction to New
Orleans circles, and Henry Judson, Phoebe's husband, gave five dollars for
a ticket for her." Chloe is a recent purchase from Georgia. We
superintended their very stylish toilets, and Edith said, "G., run into
your room, please, and write a pass for Henry. Put Mr. D.'s name to it."
"Why, Henry is free," I said.--"That makes no difference; all colored
people must have a pass if out late. They choose a master for protection
and always carry his pass. Henry chose Mr. D., but he's lost the pass he
had." When the pass was ready, a carriage dashed up to the back-gate and
the party drove off in fine style.

At the soiree we had secession talk sandwiched everywhere; between the
supper, and the music, and the dance; but midnight has come, and silence,
and a few too brief hours of oblivion.

II.

THE VOLUNTEERS.--FORT SUMTER.

_Feb. 24, 1861_.--The toil of the week has ended. Nearly a month has
passed since I wrote here. Events have crowded upon one another. A
lowering sky closes in upon the gloomy evening, and a moaning wind is
sobbing in every key. They seem in keeping with the national sorrow, and
in lieu of other sympathy I am glad to have tha