Diary of Margaret Junkin Preston: April 10, 1865

News has come that Lee's army has surrendered! We are struck dumb with astonishment! Why then all these four years of suffering — of separations — of horror — of blood — of havoc — of awful bereavement! Why these ruined homes — these broken family circles — these scenes of terror that must scathe the brain of those who witnessed them till their dying day! Why is our dear Willy in his uncoffined grave? Why poor Frank to go through life with one arm? Is it wholly and forever in vain? God only knows!

SOURCE: Elizabeth Preston Allan, The Life and Letters of Margaret Junkin Preston, p. 207-8

John T. L. Preston to Margaret Junkin Preston, January 24, 1865

Richmond, Tuesday, January 24th, 1865.

You will get this by General Smith. He goes up to rest, leaving me to discharge his duties as well as my own as professor. I will not underrate the laborious nature of the work, as I mean to make it the foundation of a claim for furlough when he gets back!

I send you as the principal item, Thackeray's last novel, “Philip.” Remember when you read it to return your thanks for it to Colonel Crutchfield. I have read it with much satisfaction. As a story it is a mere framework, hastily and inartistically run up, and scarce aims to excite much interest by the events. It is a book of characters, and of characters by no means perfect. In fact there is but one actor introduced (Mrs. Pendennis) who does not require the veil of charity to conceal very considerable flaws. The staple of the book is a merciless exhibition of the badness of human nature. D. and the preacher Hunt are two of the most unmitigated evildoers on the records of fiction. Other characters you will find in the book that are strong types of bad men, each in his peculiar line, but the analysis will bring out from all the root evil of supreme selfishness. The philosophy of his book is to make selfishness odious, or at all events, in a cynical way, to show how prevalent it is. His female characters are not quite as bad as his men, but they are hard cases indeed. I have not time to individualize. But you will relish, I know, the picture of true married love in Pendennis and his wife. It is so exquisite and so natural and of course so true. And what art there is in the way in which he just opens the gates of Eden for us as we stand outside, not permitting us to enter, and not describing its beauties, but only allowing us to get a view along one vista of the trees in the heavenly garden, to hear one song of the birds of Paradise, to inhale the perfume wafted to the gate from the banks of ever blooming flowers, and to see at a distance Adam and Eve in loving talk and quiet bliss! And then the gates close upon our eager eyes, to be opened again when we do not expect it, and to furnish some other scene, differing in features, but the same in entrancing loveliness. I have hardly ever met with anything more charming than this fragmentary vision of perfect wifehood. The author gives us different colored bits of glory, and says to our imagination, “Put them together, and see what they will make.”

Somebody has undertaken to restore the lost books of Livy, by his profound and minute acquaintance with history: I think if we were together, we know enough about the subject matter of Mrs. Pendennis' story, to fill up the gaps in it! The story falls off decidedly at the end, and the denouement is as manifest, commonplace, and clap-trap as ever a lazy man of genius was guilty of. But take it altogether, it is so sharp and witty, and, from its standpoint, so true, that I enjoyed it amazingly. How much better it would have been if Phebe had read it aloud to us, so that we could have exchanged criticisms! By the time I see you I will have forgotten all about it. Indeed it would cost me some trouble to recall its particulars even now. But at all events, I have had my talk with you about it.

Item second is a pair of rubber shoes. I don't think Cinderella's foot can get into them, but they are the only pair I have been able to find, and maybe they will answer. If they are too small, write me word; you can give them away, or sell them. I gave $30. for them. Perhaps by further search I may pick up another pair.

Also, a ream of paper for you, like this I am writing on. It will try your eyes less than that you have been writing on. As it is much better than what we get ordinarily, you had better send to Captain Polk and get some of a larger size for the use of the household. . . .

Also, a piece of stuff for Phebe which Sister gave me at Oakland; this is the first opportunity I have had to send it.

Also, one orange. Some lady gave this ostentatious piece of blockade goods to Frank, and he (after eating another, I believe), brought this to me two weeks ago. Of course I was not child enough to eat it, but saved it for you all.

Also, a number of illustrated papers for G. and H. — Bless their hearts — I wish I had something better to send them!

There now is my invoice. Very small, but it is my little all, and represents more love than many a bride's trousseau, or rich man's legacy. I wish I could have procured something for all the household, but it is impossible. You have no idea how meagre all the shops look, and how absolutely unesthetic in things great and small the metropolis is. Absolutely, there is nothing grand about here but General Lee, and nothing beautiful but the music at the Monumental Church. (Dinner Drum!)

Postscript item: Since dinner has come in another important addition; this time for Johnny — a bridle! A regular army bridle, from the Ordnance Department. I give this to him upon condition that he puts mine away, and keeps it safe until I get back. Mind, he must not lose anything about it, not even a bit! Poor pun, but like my presents, the best I can make in these Confederate times.

And now good-bye to you all. I send no news, though there are a great many rumors on the street today. You will see them all in the papers before this reaches you.

Your Husband.

SOURCE: Elizabeth Preston Allan, The Life and Letters of Margaret Junkin Preston, p. 204-7

Diary of Margaret Junkin Preston: Tuesday Morning, June 14, 1864

Have had many experiences since yesterday morning. Our guard has been very kind, and we have done everything for them as if they were our own men, because we feel that our safety rests with them. Yesterday the best one came and said, “An officer has just been at the gate, demanding to know if this house has been searched; I told him it had been; has it?” Phoebe said “No.” He said the officer asked if there were not anything suspicious about us; the guard assured him there was not. “Now,” said he, “you must assure me there is nothing contraband in your house, or I may compromise myself greatly by what I have done.” We told him of the cadets who had left their trunks here; he said they must be examined, but that it would not do to send them at this late hour down to the Provost Marshal, after he had pledged himself that the house had been searched. He evidently was nonplussed, and so were we. He begged us to be in haste and have the trunks opened. We furnished a hatchet; he hewed them open, and there were the uniforms! He said they must be destroyed somehow, and that we had better burn them. We kindled a big fire in the ironing room, and piled it up with nice cloth clothes; but the smell of the burning cloth went all over the house, and the guard said we would be betrayed. Then, in our alarm, we poured water on the charred clothes, and by his directions, tore them to pieces. I suppose what we destroyed had cost two thousand dollars. Oh! what a consternation seized us as the guards bade us hurry. We were in despair about concealing the remnants, but he bade us shun concealment; to leave the remnants out upon the floor, and tell the officers, if they should come, that we had been searched, and he would confirm what we said. “All this is out of order,” he said, “but I want to keep your house from being plundered, which it certainly will be if they find all these clothes.” Such a pile as they amounted to! We were frightened at it; so I crept into the loft above the porch, and stowed away under the rafters quantities of the rags. We tore to strips all Frank's outside clothes, and how my heart did revolt at it, and my fingers refuse to do their office: we cut up Mr. P.'s new coat, which he had just gotten at a cost of something like $300. We were afraid to let the guard know what an amount of uniform there was, lest he should think we were deceiving him. These officers and cadets (there were seven trunks besides Frank's and Mr. P.'s) had just sent their trunks here by the V. M. I. servants, and we did not know some of the young men even by name or sight. Just as I was descending from the loft, candle in hand, the guard's head appeared above the stairs! One of the servants had just time to wave me back, and then I crouched at the open trap door, the guard talking a few feet from me; I expecting every instant that he would advance and put his head up to see if there was anything suspicious up there. I never was placed in such circumstances of danger in my life. I called on God to aid me. After a little, the guard turned away, having ordered the buttons all to be given to him. Such a relief as I experienced! After coming down, I found another cadet's suit, which had never been worn, of nice English cloth, which in Confederate money would have cost $500. — I took a penknife and slit it to pieces, and added it to the pile. Going out into the passage I encountered the guard coming down from the third story where the clothes lay, with a pair of new shoes in his hand; he said his comrade had an old pair on, and he might as well take this cadet's, as they were contraband. He took Frank's cap, vest, and pants, and this morning the other fellow rode away with them on. I had become so alarmed that I thought it time he should know the wounded man was here, so I said, “Come in and see this wounded cadet!” He seemed surprised, but came in, and talked very civilly; the cadet lay pale and motionless, never opening his eyes. The guard asked if we did not need help in sitting up with him at night, and talked so kindly that quiet tears began to steal down the poor wounded boy's face — for he is only seventeen. Phoebe began to weep too; the guard looked on a moment, and then said, “Well, in the other world there will surely be somebody made to suffer for all this!” I take time to note this; it is an incident worth preserving.

There was still Jackson's sword. With great trouble we carried it under our clothes — that sword that had flashed victoriously over many a battle field — and finally concealed it in an outhouse. Then breathing freely for the first time since our fright, we went to the guard and told him there was not to our knowledge, and we were willing to take our oath upon it, an article of contraband clothing, or an instrument of defence in the house. He said he was perfectly satisfied, and nobody should enter the house to search, except over him.

SOURCE: Elizabeth Preston Allan, The Life and Letters of Margaret Junkin Preston, p. 194-6

Diary of Margaret Junkin Preston: Sunday, June 12, 1864 – 12 o’Clock

We have just heard that Gen. Smith, Col. Williamson, and Col. Gilham with some of the Cadets have been taken prisoners! Where is my husband? Where is Frank? If our house is burned to night, and we hear of my husband being captured or killed, what will life be worth? God protect and have mercy upon us all! To whom can we look but Thee!

SOURCE: Elizabeth Preston Allan, The Life and Letters of Margaret Junkin Preston, p. 191-2

Diary of Margaret Junkin Preston: May 19, 1864

My birthday. I feel the pressure of years upon me in this respect, that all life seems sadder; hope's wings droop; illusions vanish. Yet am I a slow learner of the solemn lessons thus taught me. Letters from Frank; the Cadets have had a severe time of it. Several have died of their wounds; forty-five were wounded. They are now ordered on to Richmond, by the Secretary of War, and I expect nothing else than that they are in for the remainder of the war, and my husband with them. We hear nothing but tales of blood. Today comes another report of a fight between Lee and Grant, and the details of Beauregard's success at Richmond. Pickett's Division stormed the enemy's breastworks, and have 700 or 800 killed and wounded. E. C. is in this Division; we know not whether he has fallen, and are afraid to hear. People busy here scraping lint; the schools dismissed in order that the children may help. . . .

SOURCE: Elizabeth Preston Allan, The Life and Letters of Margaret Junkin Preston, p. 181

Diary of Margaret Junkin Preston: May 11, 1864

We surely “dwell in the midst of alarms.” We were roused from our beds this morning at five o'clock by an order for the impressment of our horses to haul the Institute cannon: then came Frank, Preston Cocke, and William Lewis for a hurried breakfast, and provision for their haversacks; ordered towards Winchester, where is Seigle with a large Yankee force. They left at seven o'clock; all the Home Guard is ordered out too; so Lexington is left without men. Last night firing was heard by a great many persons, more distinctly they say than ever before. They suppose it to be at Richmond. I'm thankful my husband is away, on the errand of God's Church, and so escapes going to Winchester. He will regret it no little!

I was very much struck, a few weeks ago, in listening to my children at play. They dramatized that familiar passage in Childe Harold as closely as if it had been explained to them, —

“There was a sound of revelry by night,” &c.

Of course they had never even heard it read; but they got their “Mammy” to cut paper soldiers and ladies; then they had a “party,” and made the soldiers and ladies dance together. While they were busy dancing, came a shout from George: “The enemy — the Yankees — they are coming! Your guns! Your guns!” So the soldiers tore themselves away. “There was mounting in hot haste,” and they made them rush to battle, leaving the poor paper ladies scattered disconsolately about the floor. The thought of war is never out of our minds. If it could be, our children would bring it back by their plays! For they are almost wholly of a military character. Oh! when will the end come! No mail last night; but news by stage that Pickett has been successful above Petersburg.

SOURCE: Elizabeth Preston Allan, The Life and Letters of Margaret Junkin Preston, p. 179-80