I saw the President's house. It looks like a wedding cake. I wonder if I'll ever go in. I wish I could ask R. directly. We went to see a play at the Ford's Theater. A woman's dress caught fire. Some of these new dyes are so dangerous. We are staying in the Willard Hotel while the inside of our house is painted. Julia Ward Howe wrote "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" when she stayed here. She heard Union troops outside her window singing "John Brown's Body" and decided they needed something more serious. Me, I favor "John Brown's Body." What could be more serious than "moldering in the grave"? This morning we went to a little church across Lafayette Square from the President's house, St. Johns. It's painted bright yellow and has a dome.
Would R. take me, could we go, to the White House? He never tells me the rules, and I don't ask. I just see. Do they let Negroes in the front door? I wonder about the servants in the house. I hope they colored. The worst white folks in the world are the ones don't know any black folks at all—those up North with Irish maids.