Nathaniel Peabody Rogers: The New Hampshire Patriot, November 17, 1838

A Friend has shown us this week's number, and we see by it that poor Mr. Barton is yet at home. We wonder people should be so insensible to the pleasures of journeying. To be sure, the season is getting to be inauspicious—the trees are naked, and the landscape muddy, and the winds chilled, and the music of the birds hushed—all, all very uncongenial to such a mellifluous spirit as the patriot's of New Hampshire. But still we somehow feel disappointed that he don't travel more. We would respectfully suggest to Mr. Barton the interesting objects with which this free country abounds—all parts of which he cannot yet have visited. Has he ever been to the White Sulphur springs? He need be under no apprehension in going there. To be sure, complexion is attended with inconvenience there, and blood has its hazards. But we think Judge Larrimer and Colonel Singleton and General Carter and Major Thornton would stand the friend of a Colonel from the North, and prevent him any disagreeable consequences of an indiscriminate operation of the domestic slave trade. They are keen observers. They know the invasions the peculiar institution has made upon the Anglo-Saxon color, and they know how the pure Americo-Anglo-Saxon has verged towards the servile shadows without coming within the lawful scope of the institution, and then the symptomatic cry of “nigger,” ever and anon breaking out asleep and awake, would reveal to them at once that the Colonel had the genuine negro-phobia, which a nominal slave never has, and which goes so hard with doubtful white people. They would protect any northern gentleman against being imprisoned and sold for fees, provided they could be satisfied that his proslavery merits overbalanced his colored liabilities—which we think might easily be vouched. The Colonel has a vein of “chivalry” about him, which would go a good way in offset to mere color of liability, which after all is but prima facie evidence of servility.—We warrant him a journey to the White Sulphur against the lawful claims of any person or persons whomsoever.

Then there is Texas—the Colonel has not, peradventure, been to Texas. It is a place of resort for people of enterprise, and where patriotism is a ready passport to consideration, although it has been slanderously styled a valley of villains, field of felons, sink of scoundrels, sewer of scamps, &.c. &,c. Yet it is a most republican clime, “where patriots most do congregate.”

There is Arkansas too—all glorious in new-born liberty—fresh and unsullied, like Venus out of the ocean—that newly-discovered star in the firmament-banner of this republic. Sister Arkansas, with her bowie knife graceful at her side, like the huntress Diana with her silver bow—her knife dripping with the heart's blood of her senators and councillors, shed in legislative debate,—O, it would be refreshing and recruiting to an exhausted patriot to go and replenish his soul at her fountains. The newly-evacuated lands of the Cherokee, too—a sweet place now for a lover of his country to visit, to renew his self-complacency by wandering among the quenched hearths of the expatriated Indians, a land all smoking with the red man's departing curse— a malediction that went to the centre. Yes, and Florida—blossoming and leafy Florida, yet warm with the life-blood of Osceola and his warriors, shed gloriously under flag of truce. Why should a patriot of such a fancy for nature immure himself in the cells of the city, and forego such an inviting and so broad a landscape? Ite viator. Go forth, traveller, and leave this mouldy editing to less elastic fancies. We would respectfully incite our Colonel to travel. What signifies? Journey—wander—go forth —itinerate—exercise—perambulate—roam.

We cannot sustain ourselves or our waning cause against the reasonings of this military chieftain if he stays at home and concentrates his powers. Nigger nigger nigger, and nigger, and besides that nigger, and moreover nigger, and therefore nigger, and hence nigger, and wherefore nigger, and more than all that, and yielding every thing else, “bobalition!” urged with the peculiar force and genius of this deadly writer—with his grace, point and delicacy—with his “nihil tetigit, quod non ornavit." We crave a truce. We appeal to the magnanimity of the Patriot,— to his nighthood—to go abroad, and leave us in apprentice hands or some journeyman's; or if he won't travel in courtesy, we beseech him to turn his editorship upon other enemies than us. Let him point his guns at the Statesman, or the Courier.

But if we must meet him, we protest against encountering the arguments aforesaid. That we are a nigger we can't deny, and we can't help it. That our little paper is a "Nigger Herald," we can't deny, and we can't help it. What signifies arguing that against us, all the time? We don't deny it—we never did deny it—we never shall. And what can we do? We can't wash off our color. We cannot change our Ethiopian skin any more than the Patriot can its “spots.” The sun has looked upon us, and burnt upon us a complexion incompatible with freedom?

Is it so? Will the demoeratic Patriot aver this? Are we to be denied the right of a hearing because we are a "nigger?" Are we to be deprived in New Hampshire of human consideration because we are black, and shall Cyrus Barton dispose of us thus, because he is White? We lay before the yeomanry of New Hampshire the appalling truth, that slavery has rooted itself deep into the heart of American liberty;—“Nigger Herald,” argues this snow-drop Colonel; “Bobalition!” and our appeal is silenced. We warn the country that slavery is overshadowing the North, and that ranting and rampant professing democrats will give their very backs to the southern cart-whip. "Nigger!" replies the Honorable Cyrus Barton; “eh, old nigger!” “old black nigger!” Is it an answer, we ask the country?

But poor Mister Barton is jealous we are after votes for James Wilson. If he is really so, we pity him. He is non compos if he suspects it. He ought to be sent right up to the town farm. Votes for James Wilson! Is this the purpose and aim of the great anti-slavery enterprise that now shakes Europe and America to the centre? Is West India emancipation a plot to defeat the Patriot's democracy here in universal New Hampshire? Are George Thompson and Daniel O'Connell and Henry Brougham thundering for human liberty in Exeter Hall, (henceforth and forever the cradle of liberty—not the cradle of the bastard infant, rocked in Faneuil Hall of Boston, now formally dedicated to the Genius of Slavery,) are these champions of liberty plotting with the fifteen hundred anti-slavery societies of America to defeat the election of Governor John Page?

We give our poor jaundice-visioned neighbor no other answer than this to his paltry accusations about plotting against his partisans. We have other and bigger objects altogether.

SOURCE: Collection from the Miscellaneous Writings of Nathaniel Peabody Rogers, Second Edition, p. 51-4 which states it was published in the Herald of Freedom of November 17, 1838.

Gerrit Smith to the callers of the Kansas Convention at Syracuse, New York, May 31, 1856

I wish the convention would go with me in voting slavery to death. But I tell you, gentlemen, with all my heart, that if the convention is not ready to go with me in voting slavery to death, I am ready to go with it in putting slavery to a violent death. . . Concluding that your convention will decide to fight rather than to vote against slavery, I hope it will originate a movement as broad as our whole State, and taxing the courage, energy and liberality of every part of the State. I hope to hear that it has adopted measures to raise one million of dollars and one thousand men. I will not doubt that both can be readily obtained. If they cannot be, then are the people of New York so degenerate and abject as to invite the yoke of slavery on their own necks.

A word in regard to the thousand men. They should not be whiskey drinkers, nor profane swearers. They should have the purity and zeal of Cromwell's armies, and, therefore, would they have the invincibility of those armies.

For myself, I am too old, and too ignorant of arms, to fight. I scarcely know how to load a gun, and I am not certain that I ever saw a Sharpe's rifle, or a revolver, or a bowie knife. I could not have encouraged others to fight, had not slavery invaded the free State of Kansas. Which of the Free States it will next seek to conquer, I cannot conjecture. Hitherto I have opposed the bloody abolition of slavery. But now, when it begins to march its conquering bands into the Free States, I and ten thousand other peace men are not only ready to have it repulsed with violence, but pursued even unto death, with violence. Remember, however, that antislavery voting — real, not sham anti-slavery voting — would have prevented all need of this.

I said that I am unfit to fight. Nevertheless I can do something for the good cause. Some can give to it brave hearts and strong arms, and military skill; others can give to it the power of prayer with Him who shall break in pieces the oppressor; and others can give money to it, — the cheapest indeed, and least meritorious of all the gifts — nevertheless indispensable. I am among those who can help the cause with this poorest of gifts. It is true that my very frequent contributions during the past year in aid of our suffering people in Kansas, have exhausted my current means. Nevertheless, I authorize you to put me down for ten thousand dollars of the million.

SOURCES: Octavius Brooks Frothingham, Gerrit Smith: A Biography, p. 232-3 which states this letter was published in the in the Syracuse Daily Journal, Syracuse, New York, May 31, 1856.

Major Wilder Dwight to Elizabeth White Dwight, Monday Evening, June 2, 1862

Williamsport, Maryland, Monday Evening,

June 2, 1862. At last.

Soon after my last words, Mr. Barnhardt, with corpulent and puffy energy, came up stairs. “Well, will you go this morning?” “Yes.” He had previously told me, when I asked him about a wagon for Martinsburg, “O, it worrits me, it worrits me!” Now he said, “I've got a wagon for ye, yes I have, already!”¹ Sure enough, a contraband and his cart were at our door in half an hour. Dr. Stone² and I started at once. Colonel Kenly bade me good by and God speed.

Now for impudence and liberty! On we rode. Four miles, and then came the halt that we dreaded. Two mounted citizens pragmatically inspected our paroles, and at last let us go. Then two cavalrymen, whom we dissuaded. Then we were shouted at to halt! Two mounted men, with bowie-knife, revolver, carbine, and sabre, said, “You must turn back.” Our hearts sank, but we took out our papers, reasoned, persuaded, and, as Providence would guide it, led them to respect our paroles, and let us free. They said, “We will go back to town and ask again.” On we went, and, with only another halt, but with every nervousness of anxiety, we got to Bunker's Hill. There the harness broke, and again we looked to the rear, but on we went again. “What is that?” “Our cavalry?” “It must be”; and sure enough down they charged upon us, and we were, in an abrupt transition, at once within the Union lines. I cannot describe our thankfulness and heart-swell.

We reached Martinsburg. Then our contraband and colored driver, entering into the spirit of our pursuit, agreed to put us through to Williamsport. We crossed the river, met Brown's³ wagon. Brown's ready grin and constant delight prepared me a little for the enthusiasm of the regiment. I cannot describe their welcome. God knows, I should be proud to deserve it. I have never known greater happiness or thankfulness than to-night. Good by, my dear mother. I go to Washington to-morrow. I will come home when I can, and tell you all.

_______________

¹ After Major Dwight left Winchester, some of Mr. Barnhardt's neighbors, who were Rebels, said to him: “You’ll have to suffer yet for keeping your Major so long, and then helping him away.” “I told them,” said the brave old man, “that they couldn’t rob me of much if they took my life, for I was ’most eighty year old.”

² Dr. Lincoln Ripley Stone, then Assistant-Surgeon of the Second Massachusetts Infantry, who would not abandon the hospital in his charge at Winchester, was a prisoner. He was paroled; the parole to be a free release, if at Washington he could secure an agreement that surgeons should not be liable to capture; which was accomplished.

³ George H. Brown, Regimental Wagoner.

SOURCE: Elizabeth Amelia Dwight, Editor, Life and Letters of Wilder Dwight: Lieut.-Col. Second Mass. Inf. Vols., p. 266-7

Diary of Sir Arthur James Lyon Fremantle: Sunday, May 3, 1863

I paid a long visit this morning to Mr Lynn the British Consul, who told me that he had great difficulty in communicating with the outer world, and had seen no British man-of-war since the Immortalite.

At 1.30 I saw Pyron's regiment embark for Niblitt's Bluff to meet Banks. This corps is now dismounted cavalry, and the procession was a droll one. First came eight or ten instruments braying discordantly, then an enormous Confederate flag, followed by about four hundred men moving by fours — dressed in every variety of costume, and armed with every variety of weapon; about sixty had Enfield rifles; the remainder carried shot-guns (fowling-pieces), carbines, or long rifles of a peculiar and antiquated manufacture. None had swords or bayonets — all had six-shooters and bowie-knives. The men were a fine, determined-looking lot; and I saw amongst them a short stout boy of fourteen who had served through the Arizona campaign. I saw many of the soldiers take off their hats to the French priests, who seemed much respected in Galveston. This regiment is considered down here to be a very good one, and its colonel is spoken of as one of the bravest ofiicers in the army. The regiment was to be harangued by Old Houston before it embarked.*

In getting into the cars to return to Houston I was nearly forced to step over the dead body of the horse shot by the soldier yesterday, and which the authorities had not thought necessary to remove.

I got back to General Scurry's house at Houston at 4.30 P.M. The general took me out for a drive in his ambulance, and I saw innumerable negroes and negresses parading about the streets in the most outrageously grand costumes — silks, satins, crinolines, hats with feathers, lace mantles, &c, forming an absurd contrast to the simple dresses of their mistresses. Many were driving about in their masters' carriages, or riding on horses which are often lent to them on Sunday afternoons; all seemed intensely happy and satisfied with themselves.

—— told me that old Sam Houston lived for several years amongst the Cherokee Indians, who used to call him “the Raven” or the “Big Drunk.” He married an Indian squaw when he was with them.

Colonel Ives, aide-de-camp to the President, has just arrived from Richmond, and he seems a very well informed and agreeable man.

I have settled to take the route to Shrieveport tomorrow, as it seems doubtful whether Alexandria will or will not fall.

_______________

* At the outbreak of the war it was found very difficult to raise infantry in Texas, as no Texan walks a yard if he can help it. Many mounted regiments were therefore organised, and afterwards dismounted.

SOURCE: Sir Arthur James Lyon Fremantle, Three months in the southern states: April-June, 1863, p. 71-3

Major Rutherford B. Hayes to Lucy Webb Hayes, September 15, 1861

Birch River, Eighteen Miles North Of Summersville,

Sunday, September 15, 1861.

Dearest: — We are as happy and care-for-nothing [a] set of fellows here today as you could find anywhere. I have now for a while an independent command of four companies, Twenty-third, Captain Moore, Captain Lovejoy, Woodward, and Drake, two companies of the Thirtieth and a squadron of the Chicago Dragoons. We are now about thirty miles from the battlefield, heading off (if there are any, which I doubt), reinforcements for the enemy. The men are jolly, the anxieties of the battle all forgotten. We seem to be in most prosperous circumstances. I shall rejoin the main army in three or four days.

You have heard about the fight. It was a very noisy but not dangerous affair.  . . . Where I was a few balls whistled forty or fifty feet over our heads. The next day, however, with Captain Drake's company I got into a little skirmish with an outpost and could see that the captain and myself were actually aimed at, the balls flying near enough but hurting nobody. The battle scared and routed the enemy prodigiously. . . .

I hardly think we will [shall] have another serious fight. Possibly, Wise and Floyd and Lee may unite and stiffen up the Rebel back in this quarter. If so we shall fight them. But if not encouraged by some success near Washington, they are pretty well flattened out in this region. We shall be busy with them for a few weeks, but as I remarked, unless we meet with some serious disaster near Washington, they will not, I think, have heart enough to make a stiff battle.

My “Webby,” tell the boys, pricked up his ears and pranced when he heard the cannon and volleys of musketry. He is in excellent condition.

Dr. Joe and McCurdy were very busy with the sick and wounded during and after the battle. Our troops who were taken from Colonel Tyler and retaken by us say they were very well treated by the enemy. McCurdy is now with me. Colonel Scammon couldn't spare Joe.

The last week has been the most stirring we have had during the war. If in all quarters things go on as well as here we shall end the war sometime. The captured letters show that Governor Floyd's army were getting tired of the business.

Did I tell you General Benham gave me an awful bowie knife and General Rosecrans a trunk out of the enemy's spoil? The last much needed.

Well, dearest, this is one of the bright days in this work. I am prepared for all sorts of days. There will be dark ones of course, but I suspect there is a gradual improvement which will continue with occasional drawbacks until we are finally successful. Love and kisses for all. Good-bye, darling.

Affectionately,

R. B. HAYES

P. S. — Captain McMullen who was wounded is well enough for another battle. Since writing in comes a mail carrier out on this road and your letter of the 5th and postage stamps is in his budget. So I put a stamp on it and if I had another envelope would direct it again.

Tell Webb that my pretty horse is the original Camp Chase “Webby,” the finest horse in the regiment. I tried one or two others, but Webb plucked up and beats them all.

Glad, very, you are at home and happy. We are here happy, too. This is all Cincinnati nearly — this army. Yes, Joe, is a great favorite with the colonel and with all. The colonel leans upon [him] entirely. He is really surgeon of the brigade and should Colonel Scammon be a brigadier, Dr. Joe will become his brigade surgeon permanently. All glad to get letters. I love you so much. Good-bye.

Affectionately,

R.

Mrs. Hayes.

SOURCE: Charles Richard Williams, editor, Diary and Letters of Rutherford Birchard Hayes, Volume 2, p. 93-5

The special boast of the rebels . . .

. . . during the war, has been their ability to destroy their enemies in hand to hand combat.  They have constantly flattered themselves that the superiority of their troops in fighting with the bayonet and bowie knife was an indisputable fact.  The Mississippians have prided themselves on the tremendous slaughter they would be able to inflict upon the Yankees with the bowie knife. – It must be especially disheartening to them to learn that at the battle of Webb’s Cross roads these terrible Mississippians with bowie knives two feet long, ran panic stricken before the leveled bayonets of the 2nd Minnesota and the 9th Ohio regiments.

– Published in The Burlington Weekly Hawk-Eye, Burlington, Iowa, Saturday, February 1, 1862, p. 1