4. CHAPTER IV.
The roasting of an Abolitionist, by a greatly infuriated
community, was my first taste of the horrors
of civil war. Heavens! Why will the North persist
in this fratricidal warfare? The expulsion of
several Union refugees, which soon followed, now
fairly plunged my beloved State in the seething vortex.
I was sitting at the piano one afternoon, singing
that stirring refrain, so justly celebrated, but which a
craven spirit, unworthy of England, has excluded
from some of her principal restaurants, and was
dwelling with some enthusiasm on the following
line:
“Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum!”
when a fragment of that scum, clothed in that detestable
blue uniform which is the symbol of oppression,
entered the apartment. “I have the honor of addressing
the celebrated rebel spy, Miss McGillup,”
said the Vandal officer.
In a moment I was perfectly calm. With the
exception of slightly expectorating twice in the face
of the minion, I did not betray my agitation.
Haughtily, yet firmly, I replied:
“I am.”
“You looked as if you might be,” the brute replied,
as he turned on his heel to leave the apartment.
In an instant I threw myself before him. “You
shall not leave here thus,” I shrieked, grappling him
with an energy which no one, seeing my frail figure,
would have believed. “I know the reputation of
your hireling crew. I read your dreadful purpose
in your eye. Tell me not that your designs are not
sinister. You came here to insult me—to kiss me,
perhaps. You shan't—you naughty man. Go
away!”
The blush of conscious degradation rose to the
cheek of the Lincoln hireling as he turned his face
away from mine.
In an instant I drew my pistol from my belt, which,
in anticipation of some such outrage, I always carried,
and shot him.
