Diary of William S. White, April 13, 1861

FALL OF FORT SUMTER.

The ball has opened; crowds of eager citizens may be seen gathered together at the corners of the streets excitedly discussing the grand topic of the day, and that topic is war. Yes! bloody, destructive war will soon be upon us in all its horror. Oh, God! grant us the power and fortitude to withstand the terrible calamity now hanging o'er us, which no power, save that of Divine interposition, can prevent.

Dispatch after dispatch, from the far South, comes over the magnetic wires, and soon the astounding news, "big with the fate" of a new-born people, is shouted by a thousand tongues that

“SUMTER HAS FALLEN."

The crowds on the street soon become a dense mass—calm, dignified men seem instantly transformed into wild Secessionists; there are no Unionists now; we are all determined to stand by the South, right or wrong—too late for discussion now—with her to conquer or die.

Some one in the crowd cries out, "For the Governor's House." This was received with a shout, and as “Honest John Letcher" had been excessively Union, the crowd rushed furiously toward the Governor's mansion, and after repeated calls, Governor Letcher made his appearance, not a little discomposed by the clamor and confusion of this excited mob. He attempted to speak, but the maddened populace suspected "Honest John" was still unwilling to come out boldly for the Confederate cause, and consequently his remarks were unheard, save by those immediately around him.

Only half appeased were the dizzy and infatuated mass. Some other excitement was wanted, and the "Star Spangled Banner" floated, as it were, half timidly upon the highest point of our State Capitol, and each star seemed to weep as the Demon of Death stretched forth his mighty wings to begin his sad flight.

"Tear down that accursed flag," was shouted by the crowd, and immediately some half dozen, bolder than the rest, rushed quickly into the Capitol, in which the State Convention was then sitting, hurried up the steps, and in less time than I take to write this the Star Spangled Banner was torn from its flag-staff, and supplanted by Virginia's proud motto, "Sic Semper Tyrannis."

Peal after peal of long continued applause rent the air, seeming to ascend up to the very throne of Heaven and calling upon God to witness the stern determination of the Southern people. The few Unionists who still madly clung to the fond hope that peace would yet be restored, threatened vengeance on the Secessionists for tearing down the United States flag, and, in fact, it was said that "Honest John" went so far as to order out the "Public Guard" to disperse the crowd collected on the Capitol Square.

Well was it for the "Guard," and also for “Honest John" that such was not the case, for had they made their appearance, a terrible riot would have been the inevitable consequence.

Indeed, the times and the Richmond people remind me much of the run-mad Red Republicanism of France, for never were a people so enthusiastically mad as now. However, any nation to be successful, must first be baptized in the blood of its own citizens, and now we are to have this theory brought practically into effect.

Nightfall, instead of quieting the excitement, seemed if possible to add fresh fuel to the flame. The crowded streets and wild shouts of the people, together with the lurid glare of an hundred tar-barrels, torches steeped in rosin, and rockets whirling high above the houses, presented a spectacle rarely witnessed by our somewhat apathetic people of Richmond.

Already the work of Revolution has commenced. Far away on the coast of South Carolina the smoke and din of battle has awakened the people of Virginia, who too long have slumbered when work should have been done, to the consciousness that the war cloud, with all its pent up fury, is now bursting upon them. The question now most agitating the public mind is—“What will be the action of the Virginia Convention, now sitting in the State-House, and elected as it was by such an overwhelming Union majority?"

They cannot withstand this outside pressure brought to bear upon them, and must either remove to some other point in the State or pass the Ordinance of Secession at an early date, and then leave it to the people whether or not we will cast our lot with our sister Southern States. My mind is fully made up to join the Southern army no matter whether Virginia secedes or not, though from the time I can remember I have bitterly opposed the doctrine of secession.

SOURCE: William S. White, A Diary of the War; or What I Saw of It, p. 89-91

John M. Clayton to John J. Crittenden, October 8, 1851

BUENA VISTA, DELAWARE, October 8, 1851.

MY DEAR CRITTENDEN,—Square yourself, for I have a favor to ask of you for one of my friends. Don't knit your brows, nor utter one of those significant snorts which you are accustomed to give when reading anything unpleasant, especially an application for an office. I must have what I am about to ask for, and if you grant it I will give you a receipt in full, and do you be thankful that I let you off so easily; for the appointment I want is no great affair, and it will do more to make the administration popular in this section of the country than any other appointment they could make.

I want you to obtain a promise from President Fillmore to appoint Charles I. Dupont, Jr., a purser in the navy of the United States, on the happening of the first vacancy.

Now, if I had you with me, just seated in the arm-chair opposite my table, I would talk to you in my own peculiar and sensible way; and I would give you such reasons as would start you right off to obtain the promise of this appointment. Deprived, as I am, of the influence of my colloquial eloquence, which was always deservedly great upon you, I shall present my wishes in less vivid colors and with much more feeble power by the aid of my pen.

I have often boasted to you of the Dupont family of Delaware; I have told you how proud I was of their friendship, and therefore I need not repeat to you the story of their merits. Eleuthere Irene Dupont and Victor Dupont, sons of one of the most virtuous and distinguished noblemen of France, both narrowly escaped the malice of Robespierre and the deadly hostility of the Jacobins during the French Revolution, and emigrated to this country and settled on the banks of the Brandywine, where, by their industry and talents, they converted what was but a rocky desert into one of the most beautiful and enchanting portions of our country. No men were more beloved and honored in their day, and it has always been with me a source of high gratification, amidst the struggles of this life, to reflect that I enjoyed their friendship and kind regard. Each of these left a family, whose sons are all highly esteemed and beloved in Delaware for their own virtues. Victor left two sons, Charles I. Dupont, the celebrated manufacturer of the Brandywine, known to you as your friend, and Captain S. F. Dupont, one of the most distinguished officers of our navy. Young Dupont, the applicant, is the son of Charles. He is a young man of the finest qualities of heart and head, well educated, moral, temperate, and industrious, of business habits, and possessing the same character, integrity, and honor which mark every member of the family, without an exception.

Now, my dear Crittenden, these Duponts have spent a fortune for the Whig party, and have never received a favor from it, for they never desired any, they have been the chief prop and support of our party ever since its origin; they did more to build it up, originally, than any other family in the State, and but for their powerful influence we should have sent two Locofoco senators to Congress for the last twenty years.

Charles has now set his heart upon the appointment of his son as a purser, and he is sustained in this application not only by the just influence of his relatives and personal friends, but by all the Whigs of the State and the friends of the administration, who feel that they owe more and have paid less to these Duponts than to any other family.

I think I am boring you with some things as well known to you as to me; let me, therefore, cut my letter short by begging you, as soon as you have read this letter, to go down and see the President, and tell him he would do more to gratify his friends by this little appointment than he could by a full mission abroad. Take a glass of Bourbon whisky before you start; call on Graham, and get him to go along with you, and do not leave the President until you get a promise that young Dupont shall have the first vacancy. This little appointment will do more to enable us to redeem the State at the next election than anything else the President could do for us.

I am, dear Crittenden, faithfully yours,

JOHN M. CLAYTON.

SOURCE: Ann Mary Butler Crittenden Coleman, Editor, The Life of John J. Crittenden: With Selections from His Correspondence and Speeches, Vol. 2, p. 10-11

Diary of George Mifflin Dallas, March 12, 1861

Letters and newspapers, both in abundance, from home are gloomier than ever. We may yet pass through a convulsion only less frightful than the revolution of 1789 in France.

SOURCE: George Mifflin Dallas, Diary of George Mifflin Dallas, While United States Minister to Russia 1837 to 1839, and to England 1856 to 1861, Volume 3, p. 441

Samuel Gridley Howe to Theodore Parker, July 5, 1853

Sunday, 1853.

My Dear Parker: — I have been in to hear you, but did not like what you were saying well enough to stay more than a quarter of an hour in a thorough draught, which I liked still less than your wind.

Why do you hammer away at the heads of Boston merchants, none of whose kith or kin come to hear you, when the rest of the population of the city, and even many of the mechanics, were just as ready to back up the authorities for kidnapping men as the merchants were?

Why do you say, and reiterate so often, that God uses the minimum force to accomplish the maximum ends? Is it so? How do you know? Does God know quantity or space or regard them? Is there more or less with Him? How do you know that without this or that thing or man this or that fact or deed would not have followed?

With the vast waste (or apparent waste) of animal life and mineral resources which geology reveals — families, species, whole races, whole worlds swept away — how do you, Theodore Parker, know that without salt to a potato, or even without salt or potato either, this or that thing would not and could not have been?

That was all very fine about God's great span, Centrifugal and Centripetal, but suppose either one of them should break down or slip a joint, has not the Governor a whole stud in the stable all ready for work? But, coolly, is there not something of what the Turks call Bosh about this? I never knew you to deal in the article before; but did you not go to the wrong barrel this morning? How can you say that without our revolution France would not have had hers — a little later perhaps, but still had it? Who told you that God would have broken down in his purpose if Washington had had the quinsy at a score, instead of three score years; and that New England would have now been worse off than Canada?

I did not stay long enough to hear you say any more unparkerish things, and so I will have done with my comment and close by saying that if I loved you less I might admire you more.

Your incorrigible,

Old Samuel South Boston.

SOURCE: Laura E. Richards, Editor, Letters and Journals of Samuel Gridley Howe, Volume 2, p. 394-5

Senator Salmon P. Chase to Edward L. Pierce, May 16, 1854

Washington, May 16, 1854.

My Dear Pierce: I enclose to you a brief which has no merit except simplicity and directness.

Many thanks to you for the pamphlet you sent me. I have not yet had time to read it, but shall certainly do so. I read your article in support of Mrs. Peters design with great pleasure, and am gratified you find time for such good work.

Sumner showed me your letter about E. S. I rejoiced greatly to hear of his success. That he should have failed of a good and appreciative audience in Circuit would have been a personal mortification to me.

The Nebraska scheme is on its legs again. Its passage into law is uncertain; it will be determined by superior tactics. Nous verroux, as Father Ritchie used to say, when disposed to seem sagacious and to make a parade of all the French the Revolution of '98 ever permitted him to acquire.

Have you seen Derby about publishing that book? I am sometimes spoken to on the subject, and would try to furnish you the material if Derby thinks fit to undertake the publication.

Yours truly.

[SALMON P. CHASE.]

SOURCE: Diary and correspondence of Salmon P. Chase, Annual Report of the American Historical Association for the Year 1902, Vol. 2, p. 260-1

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: January 8, 1865

Some persons in this beleaguered city seem crazed on the subject of gayety. In the midst of the wounded and dying, the low state of the commissariat, the anxiety of the whole country, the troubles of every kind by which we are surrounded, I am mortified to say that there are gay parties given in the city. There are those denominated “starvation parties,” where young persons meet for innocent enjoyment, and retire at a reasonable hour; but there are others where the most elegant suppers are served – cakes, jellies, ices in profusion, and meats of the finest kinds in abundance, such as might furnish a meal for a regiment of General Lee's army. I wish these things were not so, and that every extra pound of meat could be sent to the army. When returning from the hospital, after witnessing the dying scene of a brother, whose young sister hung over him in agony, with my heart full of the sorrows of hospital-life, I passed a house where there were music and dancing. The revulsion of feeling was sickening. I thought of the gayety of Paris during the French Revolution, of the “cholera ball” in Paris, the ball at Brussels the night before the battle of Waterloo, and felt shocked that our own Virginians, at such a time, should remind me of scenes which we were wont to think only belonged to the lightness of foreign society. It seems to me that the army, when it hears of the gayety of Richmond, must think it heartless, particularly while it is suffering such hardships in her defence. The weddings, of which there are many, seem to be conducted with great quietness. We were all very much interested in a marriage which took place in this house a short time ago. Our sweet young friend, Miss Annette Powell, was married to a Confederate States' surgeon from South Carolina. We assembled in the parlour, which was brilliantly lighted, before the dawn of day. The bride appeared in travelling costume; as soon as the solemn ceremony was done the folding-doors were thrown open, revealing a beautifully spread breakfast-table in the adjoining room. Breakfast being over, the bride and groom were hurried off to the cars, which were to bear them South. But, as usual in these war-times, the honeymoon was not to be uninterrupted. The furlough of the groom was of short continuance — the bright young bride will remain in the country with a sister, while he returns to his duty on the field. As soon as the wedding was over and the bridal party had gone, the excitement of the week had passed with us, leaving a blank in the house; but the times are too unquiet for a long calm—the gap was closed, and we returned to busy life. There seems to be a perfect mania on the subject of matrimony. Some of the churches may be seen open and lighted almost every night for bridals, and wherever I turn I hear of marriages in prospect.

"In peace Love tunes the shepherd's reed;

In war he mounts the warrior's steed,"

sings the “Last Minstrel” of the Scottish days of romance; and I do not think that our modern warriors are a whit behind them either in love or war. My only wonder is, that they find the time for the love-making amid the storms of warfare. Just at this time, however, I suppose our valiant knights and ladies fair are taking advantage of the short respite, caused by the alternate snows and sunshine of our variable climate having made the roads impassable to Grant's artillery and baggage-wagons. A soldier in our hospital called to me as I passed his bed the other day, “I say, Mrs. –––, when do you think my wound will be well enough for me to go to the country?” “Before very long, I hope.” “But what does the doctor say, for I am mighty anxious to go?” I looked at his disabled limb, and talked to him hopefully of his being able to enjoy country air in a short time. “Well, try to get me up, for, you see, it ain't the country air I am after, but I wants to get married, and the lady don't know that I am wounded, and maybe she'll think I don't want to come.” “Ah,” said I, "but you must show her your scars, and if she is a girl worth having she will love you all the better for having bled for your country; and you must tell her that

"'It is always the heart that is bravest in war,

That is fondest and truest in love.'"

He looked perfectly delighted with the idea; and as I passed him again he called out, "Lady, please stop a minute and tell me the verse over again, for, you see, when I do get there, if she is affronted, I wants to give her the prettiest excuse I can, and I think that verse is beautiful.”

_______________

[Editor's Note: My research leads me to believe that Annette Powell is likely to be Marie Antoinette Powell (1841-1908), daughter of William Alexander Powell & Lucy Peachy Lee. She married Dr. James Evans (1831-1909), son of Thomas Evans and Jane Beverly Daniel, on January 4, 1865 in Richmond, Virginia.]

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 328-30

Diary of Mary Boykin Chesnut: March 5, 1865

Is the sea drying up? Is it going up into mist and coming down on us in a water-spout? The rain, it raineth every day. The weather typifies our tearful despair, on a large scale. It is also Lent now — a quite convenient custom, for we, in truth, have nothing to eat. So we fast and pray, and go dragging to church like drowned rats to be preached at.

My letter from my husband was so — well, what in a woman you would call heart-broken, that I began to get ready for a run up to Charlotte. My hat was on my head, my traveling-bag in my hand, and Ellen was saying “Which umbrella, ma'am?” “Stop, Ellen,” said I, “someone is speaking out there.” A tap came at the door, and Miss McLean threw the door wide open as she said in a triumphant voice: “Permit me to announce General Chesnut.” As she went off she sang out, “Oh, does not a meeting like this make amends?”

We went after luncheon to see Mrs. Munroe. My husband wanted to thank her for all her kindness to me. I was awfully proud of him. I used to think that everybody had the air and manners of a gentleman. I know now that these accomplishments are things to thank God for. Father O'Connell came in, fresh from Columbia, and with news at last. Sherman's men had burned the convent. Mrs. Munroe had pinned her faith to Sherman because he was a Roman Catholic, but Father O'Connell was there and saw it. The nuns and girls marched to the old Hampton house (Mrs. Preston's now), and so saved it. They walked between files of soldiers. Men were rolling tar barrels and lighting torches to fling on the house when the nuns came. Columbia is but dust and ashes, burned to the ground. Men, women, and children have been left there homeless, houseless, and without one particle of food — reduced to picking up corn that was left by Sherman's horses on picket grounds and parching it to stay their hunger.

How kind my friends were on this, my fete day! Mrs. Rutledge sent me a plate of biscuit; Mrs. Munroe, nearly enough food supplies for an entire dinner; Miss McLean a cake for dessert. Ellen cooked and served up the material happily at hand very nicely, indeed. There never was a more successful dinner. My heart was too full to eat, but I was quiet and calm; at least I spared my husband the trial of a broken voice and tears. As he stood at the window, with his back to the room, he said: “Where are they now — my old blind father and my sister? Day and night I see her leading him out from under his own rooftree. That picture pursues me persistently. But come, let us talk of pleasanter things.” To which I answered, “Where will you find them?”

He took off his heavy cavalry boots and Ellen carried them away to wash the mud off and dry them. She brought them back just as Miss Middleton walked in. In his agony, while struggling with those huge boots and trying to get them on, he spoke to her volubly in French. She turned away from him instantly, as she saw his shoeless plight, and said to me, “I had not heard of your happiness. I did not know the General was here.” Not until next day did we have time to remember and laugh at that outbreak of French, Miss Middleton answered him in the same language. He told her how charmed he was with my surroundings, and that he would go away with a much lighter heart since he had seen the kind people with whom he would leave me.

I asked my husband what that correspondence between Sherman and Hampton meant — this while I was preparing something for our dinner. His back was still turned as he gazed out of the window. He spoke in the low and steady monotone that characterized our conversation the whole day, and yet there was something in his voice that thrilled me as he said: “The second day after our march from Columbia we passed the M.’s. He was a bonded man and not at home. His wife said at first that she could not find forage for our horses, but afterward she succeeded in procuring some. I noticed a very handsome girl who stood beside her as she spoke, and I suggested to her mother the propriety of sending her out of the track of both armies. Things were no longer as heretofore; there was so much struggling, so many camp followers, with no discipline, on the outskirts of the army. The girl answered quickly, ‘I wish to stay with my mother.’ That very night a party of Wheeler's men came to our camp, and such a tale they told of what had been done at the place of horror and destruction, the mother left raving. The outrage had been committed before her very face, she having been secured first. After this crime the fiends moved on. There were only seven of them. They had been gone but a short time when Wheeler's men went in pursuit at full speed and overtook them, cut their throats and wrote upon their breasts: ‘These were the seven!’”

“But the girl?”

“Oh, she was dead!”

"Are his critics as violent as ever against the President?" asked I when recovered from pity and horror. “Sometimes I think I am the only friend he has in the world. At these dinners, which they give us everywhere, I spoil the sport, for I will not sit still and hear Jeff Davis abused for things he is no more responsible for than any man at that table. Once I lost my temper and told them it sounded like arrant nonsense to me, and that Jeff Davis was a gentleman and a patriot, with more brains than the assembled company.” “You lost your temper truly,” said I. '”And I did not know it. I thought I was as cool as I am now. In Washington when we left, Jeff Davis ranked second to none, in intellect, and may be first, from the South, and Mrs. Davis was the friend of Mrs. Emory, Mrs. Joe Johnston, and Mrs. Montgomery Blair, and others of that circle. Now they rave that he is nobody, and never was.” “And she?” I asked. “Oh, you would think to hear them that he found her yesterday in a Mississippi swamp!” “Well, in the French Revolution it was worse. When a man failed he was guillotined. Mirabeau did not die a day too soon, even Mirabeau.”

He is gone. With despair in my heart I left that railroad station. Allan Green walked home with me. I met his wife and his four ragged little boys a day or so ago. She is the neatest, the primmest, the softest of women. Her voice is like the gentle cooing of a dove. That lowering black future hangs there all the same. The end of the war brings no hope of peace or of security to us. Ellen said I had a little piece of bread and a little molasses in store for my dinner to-day.

SOURCES: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 357-61

Diary of William Howard Russell: April 17, 1861

The streets of Charleston present some such aspect as those of Paris in the last revolution. Crowds of armed men singing and promenading the streets. The battle-blood running through their veins — that hot oxygen which is called “the flush of victory” on the cheek; restaurants full, revelling in bar-rooms, club-rooms crowded, orgies and earousings in tavern or private house, in tap-room, from cabaret — down narrow alleys, in the broad highway. Sumter has set them distraught; never was such a victory; never such brave lads; never such a fight. There are pamphlets already full of the incident. It is a bloodless Waterloo or Solferino.

After breakfast I went down to the quay, with a party of the General's staff, to visit Fort Sumter. The senators and governors turned soldiers wore blue military caps, with “palmetto” trees embroidered thereon; blue frock-coats, with upright collars, and shoulder-straps edged with lace, and marked with two silver bars, to designate their rank of captain; gilt buttons, with the palmetto in relief; blue trousers, with a gold-lace cord, and brass spurs — no straps. The day was sweltering, but a strong breeze blew in the harbor, and puffed the dust of Charleston, coating our clothes, and filling our eyes with powder. The streets were crowded with lanky lads, clanking spurs, and sabres, with awkward squads marching to and fro, with drummers beating calls, and ruffles, and points of war; around them groups of grinning negroes delighted with the glare and glitter, a holiday, and a new idea for them — Secession flags waving out of all the windows — little Irish boys shouting out, “Battle of Fort Sumter! New edishun!” — As we walked down towards the quay, where the steamer was lying, numerous traces of the unsettled state of men's minds broke out in the hurried conversations of the various friends who stopped to speak for a few moments. “Well, governor, the old Union is gone at last!” “Have you heard what Abe is going to do?” “I don't think Beauregard will have much more fighting for it. What do you think?” And so on. Our little Creole friend, by the by, is popular beyond description. There are all kinds of doggerel rhymes in his honor — one with a refrain —“With cannon and musket, with shell and petard, We salute the North with our Beau-regard” — is much in favor. We passed through the market, where the stalls are kept by fat negresses and old “unkeys.” There is a sort of vulture or buzzard here, much encouraged as scavengers, and — but all the world has heard of the Charleston vultures — so we will leave them to their garbage. Near the quay, where the steamer was lying, there is a very fine building in white marble, which attracted our notice. It was unfinished, and immense blocks of the glistening stone destined for its completion, lay on the ground. “What is that?” I inquired, “Why, it's a custom-house Uncle Sam was building for our benefit, but I don't think he'll ever raise a cent for his treasury out of it.” “Will you complete it?” “I should think not. We'll lay on few duties; and what we want is free-trade, and no duties at all, except for public purposes. The Yankees have plundered us with their custom-houses and duties long enough.” An old gentleman here stopped us. “You will do me the greatest favor,” he said to one of our party who knew him, “if you will get me something to do for our glorious cause. Old as I am, I can carry a musket — not far, to be sure, but I can kill a Yankee if he comes near.” When he had gone, my friend told me the speaker was a man of fortune, two of whose sons were in camp at Morris' Island, but that he was suspected of Union sentiments, as he had a Northern wife, and hence his extreme vehemence and devotion.

SOURCE: William Howard Russell, My Diary North and South, p. 98-100