Ground white with snow; no mails still: Mr. P. consents to
postpone his going to the army, till there is a more decided change in George
(an ill child). How this unnatural war affects everything! Mr. P. asks me for
some old pants of Willy's or Randolph's, for a boy at the farm. I tell him that
on them I am relying wholly to clothe John and George this summer.
For months we have had no service at night in any church in
town, owing to the scarcity of candles, or rather to save lights and
fuel. Common brown sugar, too dark to use in coffee, sells here now for 25
cents per lb. Salt is 50 cents per quart in Richmond. I jot down things like
these, to show how the war is affecting us. A bit of silver is never seen.
We are afraid of all sorts of notes. Mr. P. is trying to put what means he has
left, from the wreck of his handsome fortune, in land, as the only safe
investment; he bought a farm (which he does not want, and doesn't know how to
get cultivated) the other day from Dr. Leyburn, so as to have something tangible
for his money. While watching beside my child, I have managed to read, “Twelve
Years of a Soldier's Life in India,” a most interesting book. What a brave,
noble fellow Hodson was! But in its best, most exciting aspects, how
unattractive (to me at least) is a soldier's life!
I think continually of Father and Julia, and long to hear
from them. Thank God they are not suffering the apprehension — the undefined
fear — the constant dread — which I am never free from. We hesitate about
engaging in anything. Is it worth while to have garden made? We may be flying
before an advancing Federal army before many weeks. Mrs. Cocke writes imploring
us to come down to Oakland, bag and baggage; but to fly (in case of the
occupation of the Valley) would be to give up everything to certain
destruction. The disposition of people here seems to be
— very universally, to hold on to their homes. I shall do
so, unless Mr. P. constrains me to go away.
One thing surprises me very much in the progress of this
war; and I think it is a matter of general surprise — the entire quietness
and subordination of the negroes. We have slept all winter with the doors
of our house, outside and inside, all unlocked; indeed the back door has not
even a hasp on it, and stands open. I have shut it frequently at midnight (when
accident called me down stairs), to keep the dogs out; and some $600 worth of
silver, most of it in an unlocked closet, is in the dining room. Would I get my
Northern friends to believe this? It is more remarkable, this quietness and
sense of security, because there are no men left in the town, except the old
men and boys. I note this thing, by the way, as an unexpected phase of these
war times. There is not, and never has been, a particle of fear of anything
like insurrectionary movements. I am sure I
have none.
SOURCE: Elizabeth Preston Allan, The Life and
Letters of Margaret Junkin Preston, p. 135-7
No comments:
Post a Comment