January 9th [1863]. A very sad day to Ginnie and myself. I was careless enough to leave the key in my trunk, for I shall never, never learn to lock up, and my purse with $30 or $40 was taken out. There is a child in the house who stays to wait on us in our rooms, the greatest story-teller in the world; she is accused, and I suppose will be punished. If I had lost it in the street I should not have felt so unhappy about it. Punishment of no matter how great a criminal afflicts me. I have gone into the room in which Mrs. Norton has locked Harriet, to try and move her to tell the truth. She has been singing and amusing herself, while we have been suffering for her. She vows that she never touched the purse, yet no one else was in our room. I feel miserable lest she may be punished wrongfully. She is considered so dreadfully bad that she never gets a kind word from any one. The servants hate her and her old grandmother, who has taught her to lie and steal, almost beats her to death sometimes. Ginnie and I have been very kind to her, and she has waited on us so cheerfully and with so much apparent affection, that I feel an indescribable pang at the idea of having brought her into trouble. She says she would not have stolen from us. Oh, well, we are always in trouble of some sort. I feel so low in health and spirits that I wonder sometimes what more can happen. We have had $303.50 stolen in less than two years. It is our habit to be gentle with dependents, though we are proud and exacting with our equals. I begin to think that this is bad policy. The world will not let us be what we wish; it seems a part of chivalry, to my mind, to be gentle to the lowly and proud to the high. I have always practiced this, both from impulse and principle, but I must admit that I have always suffered for it.
Mrs. Norton called on General Banks to-day. She wished us to go with her, but we were not well enough. The orderly did not present her card, so the gentle-mannered ruler demanded of her quite bluntly who she was. “The mother of Mrs. Harrison,” she returned. “What Mrs. Harrison?” “The mother of the lady whose house you occupy.” He started visibly, but roughly demanded, “What do you want?” She stated her desire to sell her house, but as she had not taken the oath of allegiance to the United States she didn’t know if the sale would be lawful. He had no objection, he said; is that all you want? She then asked him if Mr. Harrison were to return to New Orleans would he be compelled to take the oath. “I know nothing about it,” returned the polite general. “I would be obliged if you would tell me who does know, as I had thought you are the very person to whom I should apply.” The General scarcely waited to hear her remark before turning on his heel to leave her. Other ladies were present with their requests. To each and all he spoke rudely. Having waited in vain for his return to the room, they all left. These people rob us of our houses, make laws forbidding us to sell property, or to leave town, or in fact to do anything without their permission, yet they are angry and rude when one calls on this necessary business. Men have been snatched up without knowing wherefore and kept in forts or in the custom house, and their wives and friends have been treated as impudent intruders for even making inquiry after them. Mr. Wilkinson, grandson of old General Wilkinson of the last war, has just got out of confinement, having been placed in same by Butler on the testimony of a negro woman—offence, keeping arms in his house—with the town filled with homeless, lawless negroes who commit robberies and other offences daily. I never realized until this Yankee rule here how many bad men America had produced. I took a walk with Katie Wilkinson; poor girl, she lost her father in the battle of Manassas, the last Manassas. She was devoted to him and he was fondly attached to his girls.
