New York, July 9, 4.30 p. m.
It is not quite one day since I left the “Ebbitt House,” dear G., and here I am writing to you from the table in my room with Pico by my faithful side — no! the other way. I arrived at the house an hour ago for all the base lies that the railroad guide tells, and am waiting in a serene perspiration the arrival of my trunk by express from the station. Journey on long and fearfully dusty. Passed, just out of Washington, a long train full of ambulances and took a walk in Baltimore. Everyone sat on his doorstep and every group without exception was talking about the war.
The Ebbitt House in Washington was a rambling, untidy place on F street, which became a sort of Army Headquarters, filled with officers and men connected with the service. We (G. and E.) were given a large parlor on the second floor, where cot beds were set up for us, and we began a sort of half army-life, with bundles of hospital supplies stacked in all the corners and extemporized arrangements for comfort. We were close by Willards and in the midst of all that was going on, and just opposite the headquarters of the Sanitary Commission.
Charley, having seen us established, hurried home. Rather later Uncle Edward Woolsey, Robert Howland and some gentlemen friends came on for a brief view of what was going on, and took us to Mr. Lincoln’s reception at the White House, where we are glad to think his great hand grasped ours for a moment. Mr. Seward, who was receiving too, was rather gruff and gave us welcome with the remark that “the fewer women there were there the better.”
