I have been so busy making Lieutenant Bourge's shirt that I
have not had time to write, besides having very little to write about. So my
industry saved my paper and spared these pages a vast amount of trash. I would
not let any one touch Lieutenant Bourge's shirt except myself; and last
evening, when I held it up completed, the loud praises it received satisfied me
it would answer. Miriam and Miss Ripley declared it the prettiest ever made. It
is dark purple merino. The bosom I tucked with pleats a quarter of an inch
deep, all the way up to the collar, and stitched a narrow crimson silk braid up
the centre to hold it in its place. Around the collar, cuffs, pockets, and band
down the front, the red cord runs, forming a charming contrast to the dark
foundation. Indeed, I devoted the sole article the Yankees let fall from my two
workboxes — a bunch of soutache — to the work. Large white pearl buttons
completed the description, and my shirt is really as quiet, subdued, and pretty
a one as I ever saw. I should first hear the opinion of the owner, though. If
he does not agree with all the others, I shall say he has no taste.
I got a long sweet letter from Sophie on Friday that made me
happy for the whole day. They were about leaving for Alexandria. I was glad to
hear they would be out of danger, but still I was sorry they were going so far
away. I have been laying a hundred wild schemes to reach Baton Rouge and spend
a day or two with them, which is impossible now. Sophie writes just as she
talks — and that means remarkably well, so I can at least have the pleasure of
corresponding. At Dr. Carnal's they will be out of the reach of all harm and
danger; so I ought to rejoice. There is one thing in which Sophie and I agree,
and that is in making Stonewall Jackson our hero. Talk of Beauregard! he never
had my adoration; but Stonewall is the greatest man of the age, decidedly.
Still no authentic reports of the late battles in Virginia.
I say late, referring to those fought two weeks ago. From the Federal accounts,
glowing as they usually are, I should gather the idea that their rout was
complete. I cannot imagine why we can hear nothing more from our own side. . .
.
I think my first act on my return home will be to take a cup
of coffee and a piece of bread, two luxuries of which I have been deprived for
a long while. Miriam vows to devour an unheard-of number of biscuits, too. How
many articles we considered as absolutely necessary, before, have we now been
obliged to dispense with! Nine months of the year I reveled in ice, thought it
impossible to drink water without it. Since last November, I have tasted it but
once, and that once by accident. And oh, yes! I caught some hail-stones one day
at Linwood! Icecream, lemonade, and sponge cake was my chief diet; it was a
year last July since I tasted the two first, and one since I have seen the
last. Bread I believed necessary to life; vegetables, senseless. The former I
never see, and I have been forced into cultivating at least a toleration of the
latter. Snap beans I can actually swallow, sweet potatoes I really like, and
one day at Dr. Nolan's I “bolted” a mouthful of tomatoes, and afterwards kept
my seat with the heroism of a martyr. These are the minor trials of war. If
that were all — if coarse, distasteful food were the only inconvenience!
When I think of what Lavinia must suffer so far from us, and
in such ignorance of our condition, our trials seem nothing in comparison to
hers. And think how uneasy Brother must be, hearing of the battle, and not
knowing where we fled to! For he has not heard of us for almost two months. In
return we are uneasy about him and Sister. If New Orleans is attacked, what
will become of them with all those children?
SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's
Diary, p. 222-5
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