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 that of Nature to-night.  On the 4th the cannon boomed in honor of Jefferson Davis’s election, and day before yesterday Washington’s Birthday was made the occasion of another grand display and illumination, in honor of the birth of a new nation and the breaking of that Union which he labored to cement.  We drove to the racecourse to see the review of troops.  A flag was presented to the Washington Artillery by ladies.  Senator Judah Benjamin made an impassioned speech.  The banner was orange satin on one side, crimson silk on the other, the pelican and brood embroidered in pale green and gold.  Silver crossed cannon surmounted it, orange-colored fringe surrounded it, and crimson tassels drooped from it.  It was a brilliant, unreal scene; with military bands clashing triumphant music, elegant vehicles, high-stepping horses, and lovely women richly appareled.

Wedding cards have been pouring in till the contagion has reached us; Edith will be married next Thursday.  The wedding dress is being fashioned, and the bridesmaids and groomsmen have arrived.  Edith has requested me to be special mistress of ceremonies on Thursday evening, and I have told this terrible little rebel, who talks nothing but blood and thunder, yet faints at the sight of a worm, that if I fill that office no one shall mention war or politics during the whole evening, on pain of expulsion.  The clock points to ten.  I must lay the pen aside.

March 10, 1861.—­The excitement in this house has risen to fever heat during the past week.  The four gentlemen have each a different plan for saving the country, and now that the bridal bouquets have faded, the three ladies have again turned to public affairs; Lincoln’s inauguration and the story of the disguise in which he traveled to Washington is a never-ending source of gossip.  The family board being the common forum, each gentleman as he appears first unloads his pockets of papers from all the Southern States, and then his overflowing heart to his eager female listeners, who in turn relate, inquire, sympathize, or cheer.  If I dare express a doubt that the path to victory will be a flowery one, eyes flash, cheeks burn, and tongues clatter, till all are checked up suddenly by a warning rap for “Order, order!” from the amiable lady presiding.  Thus we swallow politics with every meal.  We take a mouthful and read a telegram, one eye on table, the other on the paper.  One must be made of cool stuff to keep calm and collected.  I say but little.  There is one great comfort; this war fever has banished small talk.  The black servants move about quietly, never seeming to notice that this is all about them.