Showing posts with label Knitting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Knitting. Show all posts

Saturday, January 21, 2017

Diary of 1st Sergeant John L. Ransom: December 17, 1863

I have plenty to eat. Go outside every day whether clothing is issued or not. To explain the manner of issuing clothing: The men are called outside by squads, that is, one squad of a hundred men at a time; all stand in a row in front of the boxes of clothing. The officer in charge, Col. Sanderson, begins with the first at the head of the column, looks him over, and says to us paroled men: “Here, give this man a pair of pants,” or coat, or such clothing as he may stand in need of. In this way he gets through with a hundred men in about half an hour. Us boys often manage to give three or four articles where only one has been ordered. There seems to be plenty of clothing here, and we can see no reason why it should not be given away. Have to be very careful, though, for if we are caught at these tricks are sent inside to stay. Officers stay on the island only two or three hours, and clothe four or five hundred men, when they could just as well do three or four times as much. It is comical the notes that come in some of the good warm woolen stockings. These have evidently been knit by the good mothers, wives and sisters at the North, and some of the romantic sort have written letters and placed inside, asking the receiver to let them know about himself, his name, etc , etc. Most of them come from the New England states, and they cheer the boys up a great deal.

SOURCE: John L. Ransom, Andersonville Diary, p. 18-9

Sunday, October 4, 2015

Captain Charles Fessenden Morse, November 22, 1862

Camp Near Sharpsburgh,
November 22, 1862.

Yesterday, I received the great box of clothing which has been the matter of so much interest with us all for the last few weeks. It was in perfect condition and everything was most satisfactory.

All my men are now well provided against the cold, and are as comfortable as they can ever expect to be while they are soldiers.

I forget as to who you told me was the knitter of that pair of patriotic stockings for Sergeant Lundy; she would have felt nattered if she could have seen the expression of thanks on his handsome face as I gave them to him. Hogan also received his pair, pleased at the distinction.
I cannot say for certain that some of the men with slim shanks and long feet didn't, in some cases, receive the stockings designed for thick ankles and chubby feet; but generally, the written instructions were followed out to the letter.

I have tried to write a note of thanks, but it is a very poor expression of them. You know that speech-making and that sort of thing were never in my line, but such as the note is, I enclose it with this epistle and you can circulate it among those of my friends who may be most interested in it.* I believe that the greatest share of the thanks belongs to you, and you must so take it.
_______________

* The note was as follows: — [Click Here].

SOURCE: Charles Fessenden Morse, Letters Written During the Civil War, 1861-1865, p. 106-7

Saturday, September 5, 2015

Major Wilder Dwight: October 16, 1861

pleasant Hill, October 16, 1861.

I always have an impulse to write when I get a letter, and as yours of last Friday gladdened me this evening, I am pen in hand again, though without a story. No! I have one, now I think of it. My maiden lady friend of the spinning-wheel and flower-garden came to see me to-day. She and her brother in their best. I gave them my hospitalities, showed them the camp, &c., and made them very content. They are full of patriotic ardor. Its form of expression is various. The good lady brought me to-day as a present, first, two quarts of milk; second, a pair of roast chickens; third, two loaves of bread; fourth, some preserved cherries; fifth, two apple-pies; sixth, an immense bouquet of roses and dahlias; seventh, a bottle of balsam for cuts and bruises, and “other wounds, — whether of the heart or not the stanch maiden did not explain; eighth, some butter. I am persuaded that she brought me everything that occurred to her mind as possible.

The Colonel had quite a joke over my trophies; but I noticed he ate the pies, and liked the cherries. It is refreshing to see two honest country folk loving their flag with such naïve simplicity.

They wish “they could only do something,” and just now I seem to be the object of their baffled patriotism. There is no evading the constancy of their attachment; their love of country will express itself on me. The bouquet, which is half as tall as I am, fills my tent with its fragrance while I write, and it is of an obtrusive and ardent gayety, which seems almost out of season among the falling leaves of October.

Though I date this letter to-day, it was begun last night, and will progress slowly, I am afraid, amid the interruptions of this morning. One does not see exactly what has been accomplished by living a day in this camp; but he finds, as the hours pass, that something claims attention pretty much all the time.

I am just now going out to skirmish-drill with the bugle. It is a part of the military duty which I fully understand, and, accordingly, I like to perform it. I hope it won't be long before I can say the same of all parts. . . . .

Tell Lillie and Charlie P. that I am glad they are knitting for their country, and I should like to come over and take tea some evening.

SOURCE: Elizabeth Amelia Dwight, Editor, Life and Letters of Wilder Dwight: Lieut.-Col. Second Mass. Inf. Vols., p. 117-8

Wednesday, August 5, 2015

Diary of Sarah Morgan: June 26, 1862

Yesterday morning, just as I stepped out of bed I heard the report of four cannon fired in rapid succession, and everybody asked everybody else, “Did you hear that?” so significantly, that I must say my heart beat very rapidly for a few moments, at the thought of another stampede. At half-past six this morning I was wakened by another report, followed by seven others, and heard again the question, “Did you hear that? on a higher key than yesterday. — It did not take me many minutes to get out of bed, and to slip on a few articles, I confess. My chief desire was to wash my face before running, if they were actually shelling us again. It appears that they were only practicing, however, and no harm was intended. But we are living on such a volcano, that, not knowing what to expect, we are rather nervous.

I am afraid this close confinement will prove too much for me; my long walks are cut off, on account of the soldiers. One month to-morrow since my last visit to the graveyard! That haunts me always; it must be so dreary out there! Here is a sketch of my daily life, enough to finish me off forever, if much longer persisted in.

First, get up a little before seven. After breakfast, which is generally within a few minutes after I get down (it used to be just as I got ready, and sometimes before, last winter), I attend to my garden, which consists of two strips of ground the length of the house, in front, where I can find an hour's work in examining and admiring my flowers, replanting those that the cows and horses occasionally (once a day) pull up for me, and in turning the soil over and over again to see which side grows best. O my garden! abode of rare delights! how many pleasant hours I have passed in you, armed with scissors, knife, hoe, or rake, only pausing when Mr. This or Mr. That leaned over the fence to have a talk! — last spring, that was; ever so many are dead now, for all I know, and all off at the war. Now I work for the edification of proper young women, who look in astonishment at me, as they would consider themselves degraded by the pursuit. A delicate pair of hands my flower mania will leave me!

Then I hear Dellie's and Morgan's lessons, after which I open my desk and am lost in the mysteries of Arithmetic, Geography, Blair's Lectures, Noël et Chapsal, Ollendorff, and reading aloud in French and English, besides writing occasionally in each, and sometimes a peep at Lavoisne, until very nearly dinner. The day is not half long enough for me. Many things I would like to study I am forced to give up, for want of leisure to devote to them. But one of these days, I will make up for present deficiencies. I study only what I absolutely love, now; but then, if I can, I will study what I am at present ignorant of, and cultivate a taste for something new.

The few moments before dinner, and all the time after, I devote to writing, sewing, knitting, etc., and if I included darning, repairs, alterations, etc., my list would be tremendous, for I get through with a great deal of sewing. Somewhere in the day, I find half an hour, or more, to spend at the piano. Before sunset I dress, and am free to spend the evening at home, or else walk to Mrs. Brunot's, for it is not safe to go farther than those three squares, away from home. From early twilight until supper, Miriam and I sing with the guitar, generally, and after, sit comfortably under the chandelier and read until about ten. What little reading I do, is almost exclusively done at that time. It sounds woefully little, but my list of books grows to quite a respectable size, in the course of a year.

At ten comes my Bible class for the servants. Lucy, Rose, Nancy, and Dophy assemble in my room, and hear me read the Bible, or stories from the Bible for a while. Then one by one say their prayers — they cannot be persuaded to say them together; Dophy says “she can't say with Rose, ’cause she ain't got no brothers and sisters to pray for,” and Lucy has no father or mother, and so they go. All difficulties and grievances during the day are laid before me, and I sit like Moses judging the children of Israel, until I can appease the discord. Sometimes it is not so easy. For instance, that memorable night when I had to work Rose's stubborn heart to a proper pitch of repentance for having stabbed a carvingfork in Lucy's arm in a fit of temper. I don't know that I was ever as much astonished as I was at seeing the dogged, sullen girl throw herself on the floor in a burst of tears, and say if God would forgive her she would never do it again. I was lashing myself internally for not being able to speak as I should, furious at myself for talking so weakly, and lo! here the girl tumbles over wailing and weeping! And Dophy, overcome by her feelings, sobs, “Lucy, I scratched you last week! please forgive me this once!” And amazed and bewildered I look at the touching tableau before me of kissing and reconciliation, for Lucy can bear malice toward no one, and is ready to forgive before others repent, and I look from one to the other, wondering what it was that upset them so completely, for certainly no words of mine caused it. Sometimes Lucy sings a wild hymn, “Did you ever hear the heaven bells ring?” “Come, my loving brothers,” “When I put on my starry crown,” etc.; and after some such scene as that just described, it is pleasant to hear them going out of the room saying, “Good-night, Miss Sarah!” “God bless Miss Sarah!” and all that.

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 86-90

Tuesday, July 28, 2015

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: February 28, 1863

To-day we are all at home. It is amusing to see, as each lady walks into the parlour, where we gather around the centre-table at night, that her work-basket is filled with clothes to be repaired. We are a cheerful set, notwithstanding. Our winding “reel, too, is generally busy. L. has a very nice one, which is always in the hands of one or the other, preparing cotton for knitting. We are equal to German women in that line. Howitt says that throughout Germany, wherever you see a woman, you see the “everlasting knitting;” so it is with Confederate women. I only wish it was “everlasting,” for our poor soldiers in their long marches strew the way with their wornout socks.

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 195

Wednesday, June 24, 2015

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: October 9, 1862

A very pleasant day at S. H. The ladies all busily knitting for our soldiers — oh, that we could make them comfortable for the winter!

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 166

Thursday, February 26, 2015

Diary of Mary Boykin Chesnut: August 29, 1861

No more feminine gossip, but the licensed slanderer, the mighty Russell, of the Times. He says the battle of the 21st was fought at long range: 500 yards apart were the combatants. The Confederates were steadily retreating when some commotion in the wagon train frightened the “Yanks,” and they made tracks. In good English, they fled amain. And on our side we were too frightened to follow them — in high-flown English, to pursue the flying foe.

In spite of all this, there are glimpses of the truth sometimes, and the story leads to our credit with all the sneers and jeers. When he speaks of the Yankees’ cowardice, falsehood, dishonesty, and braggadocio, the best words are in his mouth. He repeats the thrice-told tale, so often refuted and denied, that we were harsh to wounded prisoners. Dr. Gibson told me that their surgeon-general has written to thank our surgeons: Yankee officers write very differently from Russell. I know that in that hospital with the Sisters of Charity they were better off than our men were at the other hospitals: that I saw with my own eyes. These poor souls are jealously guarded night and day. It is a hideous tale — what they tell of their sufferings.

Women who come before the public are in a bad box now. False hair is taken off and searched for papers. Bustles are “suspect.” All manner of things, they say, come over the border under the huge hoops now worn; so they are ruthlessly torn off. Not legs but arms are looked for under hoops, and, sad to say, found. Then women are used as detectives and searchers, to see that no men slip over in petticoats. So the poor creatures coming this way are humiliated to the deepest degree. To men, glory, honor, praise, and power, if they are patriots. To women, daughters of Eve, punishment comes still in some shape, do what they will.

Mary Hammy's eyes were starting from her head with amazement, while a very large and handsome South Carolinian talked rapidly. “What is it?” asked I after he had gone. “Oh, what a year can bring forth — one year! Last summer you remember how he swore he was in love with me? He told you, he told me, he told everybody, and if I did refuse to marry him I believed him. Now he says he has seen, fallen in love with, courted, and married another person, and he raves of his little daughter's beauty. And they say time goes slowly” — thus spoke Mary Hammy, with a sigh of wonder at his wonderful cure.

“Time works wonders,” said the explainer-general. “What conclusion did you come to as to Southern men at the grand pow-wow, you know?” “They are nicer than the nicest — the gentlemen, you know. There are not too many of that kind anywhere. Ours are generous, truthful, brave, and — and — devoted to us, you know. A Southern husband is not a bad thing to have about the house.”

Mrs. Frank Hampton said: “For one thing, you could not flirt with these South Carolinians. They would not stay at the tepid degree of flirtation. They grow so horridly in earnest before you know where you are.” “Do you think two married people ever lived together without finding each other out? I mean, knowing exactly how good or how shabby, how weak or how strong, above all, how selfish each was?” “Yes; unless they are dolts, they know to a tittle; but you see if they have common sense they make believe and get on, so so.” Like the Marchioness's orange-peel wine in Old Curiosity Shop.

A violent attack upon the North to-day in the Albion. They mean to let freedom slide a while until they subjugate us. The Albion says they use lettres de cachet, passports, and all the despotic apparatus of regal governments. Russell hears the tramp of the coming man — the king and kaiser tyrant that is to rule them. Is it McClellan? — “Little Mac”? We may tremble when he comes. We down here have only “the many-headed monster thing,” armed democracy. Our chiefs quarrel among themselves.

McClellan is of a forgiving spirit. He does not resent Russell's slurs upon Yankees, but with good policy has Russell with him as a guest.

The Adonis of an aide avers, as one who knows, that “Sumter” Anderson's heart is with us; that he will not fight the South. After all is said and done that sounds like nonsense. ”Sumter” Anderson's wife was a daughter of Governor Clinch, of Georgia. Does that explain it? He also told me something of Garnett (who was killed at Rich Mountain).1 He had been an unlucky man clear through. In the army before the war, the aide had found him proud, reserved, and morose, cold as an icicle to all. But for his wife and child he was a different creature. He adored them and cared for nothing else.

One day he went off on an expedition and was gone six weeks. He was out in the Northwest, and the Indians were troublesome. When he came back, his wife and child were underground. He said not one word, but they found him more frozen, stern, and isolated than ever; that was all. The night before he left Richmond he said in his quiet way: “They have not given me an adequate force. I can do nothing. They have sent me to my death.” It is acknowledged that he threw away his life — “a dreary-hearted man,” said the aide, “and the unluckiest.”

On the front steps every evening we take our seats and discourse at our pleasure. A nicer or more agreeable set of people were never assembled than our present Arlington crowd. To-night it was Yancey2 who occupied our tongues. Send a man to England who had killed his father-in-law in a street brawl! That was not knowing England or Englishmen, surely. Who wants eloquence? We want somebody who can hold his tongue. People avoid great talkers, men who orate, men given to monologue, as they would avoid fire, famine, or pestilence. Yancey will have no mobs to harangue. No stump speeches will be possible, superb as are his of their kind, but little quiet conversation is best with slow, solid, common-sense people, who begin to suspect as soon as any flourish of trumpets meets their ear. If Yancey should use his fine words, who would care for them over there?

Commodore Barron, when he was a middy, accompanied Phil Augustus Stockton to claim his bride. He, the said Stockton, had secretly wedded a fair heiress (Sally Cantey). She was married by a magistrate and returned to Mrs. Grillaud's boarding-school until it was time to go home —that is, to Camden.

Lieutenant Stockton (a descendant of the Signer) was the handsomest man in the navy, and irresistible. The bride was barely sixteen. When he was to go down South among those fire-eaters and claim her, Commodore Barron, then his intimate friend, went as his backer. They were to announce the marriage and defy the guardians. Commodore Barron said he anticipated a rough job of it all, but they were prepared for all risks. “You expected to find us a horde of savages, no doubt,” said I. “We did not expect to get off under a half-dozen duels.” They looked for insults from every quarter and they found a polished and refined people who lived en prince, to say the least of it. They were received with a cold, stately, and faultless politeness, which made them feel as if they had been sheep-stealing.

The young lady had confessed to her guardians and they were for making the best of it; above all, for saving her name from all gossip or publicity. Colonel John Boykin, one of them, took Young Lochinvar to stay with him. His friend, Barron, was also a guest. Colonel Deas sent for a parson, and made assurance doubly sure by marrying them over again. Their wish was to keep things quiet and not to make a nine-days' wonder of the young lady.

Then came balls, parties, and festivities without end. He was enchanted with the easy-going life of these people, with dinners the finest in the world, deer-hunting, and foxhunting, dancing, and pretty girls, in fact everything that heart could wish. But then, said Commodore Barron, “the better it was, and the kinder the treatment, the more ashamed I grew of my business down there. After all, it was stealing an heiress, you know.”

I told him how the same fate still haunted that estate in Camden. Mr. Stockton sold it to a gentleman, who later sold it to an old man who had married when near eighty, and who left it to the daughter born of that marriage. This pretty child of his old age was left an orphan quite young. At the age of fifteen, she ran away and married a boy of seventeen, a canny Scotchman. The young couple lived to grow up, and it proved after all a happy marriage. This last heiress left six children; so the estate will now be divided, and no longer tempt the fortune-hunters.

The Commodore said: “To think how we two youngsters in our blue uniforms went down there to bully those people.” He was much at Colonel Chesnut's. Mrs. Chestnut being a Philadelphian, he was somewhat at ease with them. It was the most thoroughly appointed establishment he had then ever visited.

Went with our leviathan of loveliness to a ladies' meeting. No scandal to-day, no wrangling, all harmonious, everybody knitting. Dare say that soothing occupation helped our perturbed spirits to be calm. Mrs. C––– is lovely, a perfect beauty. Said Brewster: “In Circassia, think what a price would be set upon her, for there beauty sells by the pound!”

Coming home the following conversation: “So Mrs. Blank thinks purgatory will hold its own — never be abolished while women and children have to live with drunken fathers and brothers.” “She knows.” “She is too bitter. She says worse than that. She says we have an institution worse than the Spanish Inquisition, worse than Torquemada, and all that sort of thing.” “What does she mean?” “You ask her. Her words are sharp arrows. I am a dull creature, and I should spoil all by repeating what she says.”

“It is your own family that she calls the familiars of the Inquisition. She declares that they set upon you, fall foul of you, watch and harass you from morn till dewy eve. They have a perfect right to your life, night and day, unto the fourth and fifth generation. They drop in at breakfast and say, ‘Are you not imprudent to eat that?’ ‘Take care, now, don't overdo it.’ ‘I think you eat too much so early in the day.’ And they help themselves to the only thing you care for on the table. They abuse your friends and tell you it is your duty to praise your enemies. They tell you of all your faults, candidly, because they love you so; that gives them a right to speak. What family interest they take in you. You ought to do this; you ought to do that, and then the everlasting ' you ought to have done,' which comes near making you a murderer, at least in heart. 'Blood's thicker than water,' they say, and there is where the longing to spill it comes in. No locks or bolts or bars can keep them out. Are they not your nearest family? They dine with you, dropping in after you are at soup. They come after you have gone to bed, when all the servants have gone away, and the man of the house, in his nightshirt, standing sternly at the door with the huge wooden bar in his hand, nearly scares them to death, and you are glad of it.”

“Private life, indeed!” She says her husband entered public life and they went off to live in a far-away city. Then for the first time in her life she knew privacy. She never will forget how she jumped for joy as she told her servant not to admit a soul until after two o'clock in the day. Afterward, she took a fixed day at home. Then she was free indeed. She could read and write, stay at home, go out at her own sweet will, no longer sitting for hours with her fingers between the leaves of a frantically interesting book, while her kin slowly driveled nonsense by the yard — waiting, waiting, yawning. Would they never go? Then for hurting you, who is like a relative? They do it from a sense of duty. For stinging you, for cutting you to the quick, who like one of your own household? In point of fact, they alone can do it. They know the score, and how to hit it every time. You are in their power. She says, did you ever see a really respectable, responsible, revered and beloved head of a family who ever opened his mouth at home except to find fault? He really thinks that is his business in life and that all enjoyment is sinful. He is there to prevent the women from such frivolous things as pleasure, etc., etc.

I sat placidly rocking in my chair by the window, trying to hope all was for the best. Mary Hammy rushed in literally drowned in tears. I never saw so drenched a face in my life. My heart stopped still. “Commodore Barron is taken prisoner,” said she. “The Yankees have captured him and all his lieutenants. Poor Imogen — and there is my father scouting about, the Lord knows where. I only know he is in the advance guard. The Barron's time has come. Mine may come any minute. Oh, Cousin Mary, when Mrs. Lee told Imogen, she fainted! Those poor girls; they are nearly dead with trouble and fright.”

“Go straight back to those children,” I said. “Nobody will touch a hair of their father's head. Tell them I say so. They dare not. They are not savages quite. This is a civilized war, you know.”

Mrs. Lee said to Mrs. Eustis (Mr. Corcoran's daughter) yesterday: “Have you seen those accounts of arrests in Washington?” Mrs. Eustis answered calmly: “Yes, I know all about it. I suppose you allude to the fact that my father has been imprisoned.” “No, no,” interrupted the explainer, “she means the incarceration of those mature Washington belles suspected as spies.” But Mrs. Eustis continued, “I have no fears for my father's safety.”
_______________

1 The battle of Rich Mountain, in Western Virginia, was fought July 11, 1861, and General Garnett, Commander of the Confederate forces, pursued by General McClellan, was killed at Carrick's Ford, July 13th, while trying to rally his rear-guard.

2 William Lowndes Yancey was a native of Virginia, who settled in Alabama, and in 1844 was elected to Congress, where he became a leader among the supporters of slavery and an advocate of secession. He was famous in his day as an effective public speaker.

SOURCE: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 117-24

Thursday, February 19, 2015

Diary of Mary Boykin Chesnut: August 17, 1861

Captain Shannon, of the Kirkwood Rangers, called and stayed three hours. Has not been under fire yet, but is keen to see or to hear the flashing of the guns; proud of himself, proud of his company, but proudest of all that he has no end of the bluest blood of the low country in his troop. He seemed to find my knitting a pair of socks a day for the soldiers droll in some way. The yarn is coarse. He has been so short a time from home he does not know how the poor soldiers need them. He was so overpoweringly flattering to my husband that I found him very pleasant company.

SOURCE: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 106

Wednesday, February 4, 2015

Diary of Judith W. McGuire: October 16, 1861

We had a pleasant evening. While N. read the papers we were knitting for the soldiers. An account is given of some small successes. Our men, near Pensacola, have broken up the camp of “Billy Wilson's Zouaves,” of which we have heard so much; and Captain Hollins of the navy has broken the blockade at New Orleans, sunk the “Vincennes, and captured a sloop, without the least damage to himself and men. Rosecranz has retreated before our men at Big Sewell Mountain. For these things we desire to be truly grateful, without rejoicing in the misfortunes of our enemies, except as they tend to the welfare of our invaded and abused country.

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 68-9

Friday, December 26, 2014

Diary of Judith W. McGuire: July 6, 1861

No army news to be relied on. We spent our time as usual. Knitting for the soldiers is our chief employment. Several suits of clothes for them are in progress in the house.

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 36

Monday, November 3, 2014

Diary of Josephine Shaw Lowell: December 16, 1861

Today is my birthday, — 18 years. Sent today 42 pairs of mittens to Rob.

SOURCE: William Rhinelander Stewart, The Philanthropic Work of Josephine Shaw Lowell, p. 22

Saturday, November 1, 2014

Diary of Josephine Shaw Lowell: November 12, 1861

. . .  I began knitting mittens last Monday.

SOURCE: William Rhinelander Stewart, The Philanthropic Work of Josephine Shaw Lowell, p. 22

Diary of Josephine Shaw Lowell: November 14, 1861

And have already knit four pairs

SOURCE: William Rhinelander Stewart, The Philanthropic Work of Josephine Shaw Lowell, p. 22