Major Wilder Dwight: Thursday Morning, September 12, 1861

pleasant Hill, September 12, 1861,

Thursday Morning.

Yes! There they go again! Home, sweet home! And then the maddening suggestion of pleasures and palaces! If our band were malicious and impish, could they insist upon a more discontenting theme? Yet, as sure as there comes a chill, cloudy, morose morning, the band come out to guard-mounting, and fill the air with sighings after home, &c. Now they change; it is Hail Columbia, happy land! Is there not a bitterness of satire in that, even, which alloys the patriotic associations of the melody? Columbia seems anything but a happy land just now, in the midst of rebellion and treason. But the music kindles one, after all. It is the morning that is out of tune, or myself, perhaps. A raw and bitter night, — rainy and chill. The tents blowing down, the rain blowing in, dripping visitors in india-rubber garments sitting down on your bed, a spluttering candle flickering out, and leaving you hopelessly in the dark, a new pool surprising your slipper, a sudden freshet carrying away your dressing-case, the quick, sharp rattle and tattoo of the raindrops, and the tent fluttering with every gusty squall, sleep precarious and uncertain. At last reveillé, and a hoarse, damp “Good morning” from the Doctor, who speculates grimly, in the next tent, upon the folly of getting up. Yet we do get up, and after breakfast I sit down to write to the tune of home. “Sich,” as the Doctor is fond of saying, “is life; and, more particularly, camp life.” I happen to have a delicious bit of romance for you to-day; and as the sun is getting warmer, and the rain is drying up, I may get cheerful by telling it. The Chaplain appeared yesterday with the confidential narrative that he had been performing an uncommon ceremony. In a word, he had married a couple! “Who was the bridegroom?” asks Colonel Andrews, who is still in command. “Sergeant .” It then appeared that the bride came out from Massachusetts to be married, and it had all been “fixed,” as they phrase it, in a house near the camp that morning, a few hours after her arrival. The Sergeant was to remain true to his duty, and the new wife was to return by the next day's stage. But the romance goes further. The true love had met other ripples in its flow. Malice traduced the Sergeant last spring to his enslaver. She gave him up, and “he went, and in despair enlisted for a soldier.” The truth came at last to the maiden's mind, and her meditations were no longer “fancy free.” She loved her lost Sergeant more than ever, and so out she came, and said so plump and fairly, once for all, to the parson, and they were a happy pair again. The Colonel expressed some doubt to the Chaplain, whether it was precisely according to military discipline to get married in camp, but did not take a rigid view of it. Soon after, the Sergeant appeared at the Colonel's tent. “I should like a leave of absence for three hours, sir.” “What for, Sergeant?” “To see a friend, sir.” “Can't your friend come here?” “No, sir, not very well.” “Do you want to be away as long as that?” (severely). “Yes, sir, I should like two or three hours” (timidly). “Sergeant,” said the Colonel, with a twinkle — a benevolent twinkle —in his eye, “I think I know who your friend is. Wouldn't you like to be gone till to-morrow morning?” “Yes, sir, I should, sir.” “Well, you've been a faithful man, and you may.” Sich, again, is life, but not often camp life.

I am busy on court-martial, having been appointed President of the General Court-Martial of this division, — that is, having been designated as senior officer. We sit in the morning, and I am amused to see how kindly I take to the forms of law again. I am getting quite well again of my bruise, but it is good easy work for a lame man. We do not know when we may move, but I am getting to think that orders must come pretty soon now.

We had a visit from General Banks yesterday before the rain began. The General visited our kitchens, and tasted, with apparent approval, my doughnuts. I say mine, because I regard as, perhaps, the most successful endeavor of my military life, the general introduction of doughnuts into the regiment. It you could have seen the helplessness in which the flour ration left us, and the stupidity of the men in its use, you would hail, as the dawn, the busy frying of doughnuts which goes on here now. Two barrels is a small allowance for a company. They are good to carry in the haversack, and 'stick by a feller on the march.' And when the men have not time to build an oven, as often they have not, the idea is invaluable. Pots of beans baked in holes in the ground, with a pan of brown bread on top, is also a recent achievement, worthy of Sunday morning at an old Exeter boarding-house. The band produced that agreeable concord yesterday, and contributed from their success to my breakfast. Our triumphs, just now, are chiefly culinary; but an achievement of that kind is not to be despised. “A soldier's courage lies in his stomach,” said Frederick the Great. And I mean that the commissary of our division and the commissary of our regiment, and the captains and the cooks, shall accept the doctrine and apply its lessons, if I can make them. . . . .

By the way, do you know that I have grown the most alarming beard of modern times? I am inclined to think it must be so. It has the true glare of Mars, and is, I flatter myself, warlike, though not becoming. I have forborne allusion to it in the tenderness of its youth and the uncertainty of its hue, but now that it has taken on full proportions and color, I announce it to you as a decided feature.

Dr. ––– may be a good reasoner, but he can't reason the Secession army into winter-quarters in Philadelphia. There is no real cause for depression. Subduing rebellion, conquering traitors, in short, war, is the work of soldiers. Soldiers are a product of time, and so it comes that our mad impatience of delay is chastised by disaster. In the fulness of time, we shall wipe out this Southern army, as surely as the time passes. But we have got to work for it instead of talking about it. That is all. Between the beginning of this letter and the end is a course of the sun. It has been scratched at intervals, and now I look out of my tent on a glorious sunset, and the music is just beginning for parade.

SOURCE: Elizabeth Amelia Dwight, Editor, Life and Letters of Wilder Dwight: Lieut.-Col. Second Mass. Inf. Vols., p. 99-102

Diary of Mary Boykin Chesnut: March 19, 1864

A new experience: Molly and Lawrence have both gone home, and I am to be left for the first time in my life wholly at the mercy of hired servants. Mr. Chesnut, being in such deep mourning for his mother, we see no company. I have a maid of all work.

Tudy came with an account of yesterday's trip to Petersburg. Constance Cary raved of the golden ripples in Tudy's hair. Tudy vanished in a halo of glory, and Constance Cary gave me an account of a wedding, as it was given to her by Major von Borcke. The bridesmaids were dressed in black, the bride in Confederate gray, homespun. She had worn the dress all winter, but it had been washed and turned for the wedding. The female critics pronounced it “flabby-dabby.” They also said her collar was only "net," and she wore a cameo breastpin. Her bonnet was self-made.

SOURCE: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 300-1

Diary of Mary Boykin Chesnut: February 26, 1864

We went to see Mrs. Breckinridge, who is here with her husband. Then we paid our respects to Mrs. Lee. Her room was like an industrial school: everybody so busy. Her daughters were all there plying their needles, with several other ladies. Mrs. Lee showed us a beautiful sword, recently sent to the General by some Marylanders, now in Paris. On the blade was engraved, “Aide tôt et Dieu t'aidera.” When we came out someone said, “Did you see how the Lees spend their time? What a rebuke to the taffy parties!”

Another maimed hero is engaged to be married. Sally Hampton has accepted John Haskell. There is a story that he reported for duty after his arm was shot off; suppose in the fury of the battle he did not feel the pain.

General Breckinridge once asked, “What's the name of the fellow who has gone to Europe for Hood's leg?” “Dr. Darby.” “Suppose it is shipwrecked?” “No matter; half a dozen are ordered.” Mrs. Preston raised her hands: “No wonder the General says they talk of him as if he were a centipede; his leg is in everybody's mouth.”

SOURCE: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 292-3

Lieutenant William Thompson Lusk to Lou Thompson, August 22, 1861

Camp Causten, Aug. 22d, 1861.

My dear Cousin Lou:

What a pleasant thing it is to live, and how I do enjoy it here on the banks of the Potomac. I do not believe God ever made a more beautiful land than this. How I would fight for it if I believed it threatened by an unscrupulous foe! Cousin Lou, I used to think the “booty and beauty” allusion a sort of poor joke, too sorry even for ridicule, but I now see it as the cunning work of the far-sighted master who knew his people.

By-the-way do you know we are now encamped on the Kosciusko farm, and near by the house still stands where the patriot lived? I was walking in a cornfield today, and spied the silk drooping from one of the ears, dyed a deep red. I plucked it, and send it now to you in memory of Kosciusko, or if you like it better, in memory of Cousin Will. Bother! I was getting sentimental, when a gust of wind tore up the tent pins and blew out the candle. One has great experiences in camp. The other night I was softly slumbering, dreaming of Dolly Ann or of cutting a Secessionist's throat, or something agreeable at any rate, when I heard a sound like that of mighty waters — I felt the waves washing over me — then followed a chilly sensation. I awoke. The stars were above me and by my side lay a sea of canvas — “in short,” as Mr. Micawber would say, my tent was blown down. Another night my tent was pitched on the side of a steep hill. I wrapped myself in my blanket, braced my feet against the tent-pole and fell asleep. In the night my knees relaxed, and no longer prevented by the prop, I slid quietly downward, awaking in the morning at a good night's march from the point at which I first lay down to rest.

Much obliged for the information you send me regarding that youngest son of the Earl of Montrose, who came to America and graduated at Yale College. I always knew I was of noble degree, and have felt my blood preeminently Scotch since the first time I heard Aunt Caroline singing “Where, and oh where is my Highland Laddie gone?” I look too, admiringly upon the queenly Julia, and I say, “Nay, nay, but there's no churl's blood there.” In beatific vision the sisters five file past me; then comes long lanky Sylvester Vegetable Graham, leanest of men, with a bag of oatmeal, and I say to myself, “verily my blood is very Scotch.”

Give my best love to that wee mite of a little lady, who is to have the delightful honor of taking charge of my wooden leg, when I return from the wars a garrulous one-legged old soldier. Imagine me, Cousin Lou, tripping it at my own wedding not on the light fantastic, but on timber toes. Now let us consider the matter, Cousin Lou. Shall the leg be a real timber one though, or shall a compromise be made with Nature, and one of the flexible Anglesea pattern be chosen?

Alas, alas! All day long we have heard guns firing in the distance. Some poor fellows must have fallen, though we get no intelligence of movements made. We are left out of the question. There is a great battle soon to take place, but I fear the 79th is too much crippled to make a great show. We numbered once a thousand gallant hearts — we number now 700 men capable for action; to such a pass we have been reduced by death and what is worse, by desertion. Officers have deserted, and the men have followed the base example. I have seen enough to convince me that this is no war for foreigners. It is our war, and let us cheerfully bear the burden ourselves. The South sends its best blood to fight for a phantom, but we, in the North, send our scum and filth to fight for a reality. It is not thus we are to gain the victory. I would have all our Northern youth not talk, but act — not deem their lives so precious as their honor. Have you read the names of those who resigned their commissions after the Battle of Manassas? The names of over 250 cowards. Life is sweet to all, but have they no trust in God that they fear the bitterness of death? Love to all friends in Enfield. I must say good-night.

Au-Revoir,

Will.

I did not serve as a private but in the capacity of Lieut, at Bull Run.

SOURCE: William Chittenden Lusk, Editor, War Letters of William Thompson Lusk, p. 77-80

Diary of Mary Boykin Chesnut: December 19, 1863

A box has come from home for me. Taking advantage of this good fortune and a full larder, have asked Mrs. Davis to dine with me. Wade Hampton sent me a basket of game. We had Mrs. Davis and Mr. and Mrs. Preston. After dinner we walked to the church to see the Freeland-Lewis wedding. Mr. Preston had Mrs. Davis on his arm. My husband and Mrs. Preston, and Burton Harrison and myself brought up the rear. Willie Allan joined us, and we had the pleasure of waiting one good hour. Then the beautiful Maria, loveliest of brides, sailed in on her father's arm, and Major John Coxe Lewis followed with Mrs. Freeland. After the ceremony such a kissing was there up and down the aisle. The happy bridegroom kissed wildly, and several girls complained, but he said: “How am I to know Maria's kin whom I was to kiss? It is better to show too much affection for one's new relations than too little.”

SOURCE: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 264-5

Diary of Mary Boykin Chesnut: November 30, 1863 – First Entry

I must describe an adventure I had in Kingsville. Of course, I know nothing of children: in point of fact, am awfully afraid of them.

Mrs. Edward Barnwell came with us from Camden. She had a magnificent boy two years old. Now don't expect me to reduce that adjective, for this little creature is a wonder of childlike beauty, health, and strength. Why not? If like produces like, and with such a handsome pair to claim as father and mother! The boy's eyes alone would make any girl's fortune.

At first he made himself very agreeable, repeating nursery rhymes and singing. Then something went wrong. Suddenly he changed to a little fiend, fought and kicked and scratched like a tiger. He did everything that was naughty, and he did it with a will as if he liked it, while his lovely mamma, with flushed cheeks and streaming eyes, was imploring him to be a good boy.

When we stopped at Kingsville, I got out first, then Mrs. Barnwell's nurse, who put the little man down by me. “Look after him a moment, please, ma'am,” she said, “I must help Mrs. Barnwell with the bundles,” etc. She stepped hastily back and the cars moved off. They ran down a half mile to turn. I trembled in my shoes. This child! No man could ever frighten me so. If he should choose to be bad again! It seemed an eternity while I waited for that train to turn and come back again. My little charge took things quietly. For me he had a perfect contempt, no fear whatever. And I was his abject slave for the nonce.

He stretched himself out lazily at full length. Then he pointed downward. “Those are great legs,” said he solemnly, looking at his own. I immediately joined him in admiring them enthusiastically. Near him he spied a bundle. “Pussy cat tied up in that bundle.” He was up in a second and pounced upon it. If we were to be taken up as thieves, no matter, I dared not meddle with that child. I had seen what he could do. There were several cooked sweet potatoes tied up in an old handkerchief—belonging to some negro probably. He squared himself off comfortably, broke one in half and began to eat. Evidently he had found what he was fond of. In this posture Mrs. Barnwell discovered us. She came with comic dismay in every feature, not knowing what our relations might be, and whether or not we had undertaken to fight it out alone as best we might. The old nurse cried, “Lawsy me!” with both hands uplifted. Without a word I fled. In another moment the Wilmington train would have left me. She was going to Columbia.

We broke down only once between Kingsville and Wilmington, but between Wilmington and Weldon we contrived to do the thing so effectually as to have to remain twelve hours at that forlorn station.

The one room that I saw was crowded with soldiers. Adam Team succeeded in securing two chairs for me, upon one of which I sat and put my feet on the other. Molly sat flat on the floor, resting her head against my chair. I woke cold and cramped. An officer, who did not give his name; but said he was from Louisiana, came up and urged me to go near the fire. He gave me his seat by the fire, where I found an old lady and two young ones, with two men in the uniform of common soldiers.

We talked as easily to each other all night as if we had known one another all our lives. We discussed the war, the army, the news of the day. No questions were asked, no names given, no personal discourse whatever, and yet if these men and women were not gentry, and of the best sort, I do not know ladies and gentlemen when I see them.

Being a little surprised at the want of interest Mr. Team and Isaac showed in my well-doing, I walked out to see, and I found them working like beavers. They had been at it all night. In the break-down my boxes were smashed. They had first gathered up the contents and were trying to hammer up the boxes so as to make them once more available.

At Petersburg a smartly dressed woman came in, looked around in the crowd, then asked for the seat by me. Now Molly's seat was paid for the same as mine, but she got up at once, gave the lady her seat and stood behind me. I am sure Molly believes herself my body-guard as well as my servant.

The lady then having arranged herself comfortably in Molly's seat began in plaintive accents to tell her melancholy tale. She was a widow. She lost her husband in the battles around Richmond. Soon some one went out and a man offered her the vacant seat. Straight as an arrow she went in for a flirtation with the polite gentleman. Another person, a perfect stranger, said to me, '”Well, look yonder. As soon as she began whining about her dead beau I knew she was after another one.” “Beau, indeed!” cried another listener, “she said it was her husband.” “Husband or lover, all the same. She won't lose any time. It won't be her fault if she doesn't have another one soon.”

But the grand scene was the night before: the cars crowded with soldiers, of course; not a human being that I knew. An Irish woman, so announced by her brogue, came in. She marched up and down the car, loudly lamenting the want of gallantry in the men who would not make way for her. Two men got up and gave her their seats, saying it did not matter, they were going to get out at the next stopping-place.

She was gifted with the most pronounced brogue I ever heard, and she gave us a taste of it. She continued to say that the men ought all to get out of that; that car was “shuteable” only for ladies. She placed on the vacant seat next to her a large looking-glass. She continued to harangue until she fell asleep.

A tired soldier coming in, seeing what he supposed to be an empty seat, quietly slipped into it. Crash went the glass. The soldier groaned, the Irish woman shrieked. The man was badly cut by the broken glass. She was simply a mad woman. She shook her fist in his face; said she was a lone woman and he had got into that seat for no good purpose. How did he dare to? — etc. I do not think the man uttered a word. The conductor took him into another car to have the pieces of glass picked out of his clothes, and she continued to rave. Mr. Team shouted aloud, and laughed as if he were in the Hermitage Swamp. The woman's unreasonable wrath and absurd accusations were comic, no doubt.

Soon the car was silent and I fell into a comfortable doze. I felt Molly give me a gentle shake. “Listen, Missis, how loud Mars Adam Team is talking, and all about ole marster and our business, and to strangers. It's a shame.” “Is he saying any harm of us?” “No, ma'am, not that. He is bragging for dear life 'bout how ole ole marster is and how rich he is, an' all that. I gwine tell him stop.” Up started Molly. “Mars Adam, Missis say please don't talk so loud. When people travel they don't do that a way.”

Mr. Preston's man, Hal, was waiting at the depot with a carriage to take me to my Richmond house. Mary Preston had rented these apartments for me.

I found my dear girls there with a nice fire. Everything looked so pleasant and inviting to the weary traveler. Mrs. Grundy, who occupies the lower floor, sent me such a real Virginia tea, hot cakes, and rolls. Think of living in the house with Mrs. Grundy, and having no fear of “what Mrs. Grundy will say.”

My husband has come; he likes the house, Grundy's, and everything. Already he has bought Grundy's horses for sixteen hundred Confederate dollars cash. He is nearer to being contented and happy than I ever saw him. He has not established a grievance yet, but I am on the lookout daily. He will soon find out whatever there is wrong about Gary Street.

I gave a party; Mrs. Davis very witty; Preston girls very handsome; Isabella's fun fast and furious. No party could have gone off more successfully, but my husband decides we are to have no more festivities. This is not the time or the place for such gaieties.

Maria Freeland is perfectly delightful on the subject of her wedding. She is ready to the last piece of lace, but her hard-hearted father says “No.” She adores John Lewis. That goes without saying. She does not pretend, however, to be as much in love as Mary Preston. In point of fact, she never saw any one before who was. But she is as much in love as she can be with a man who, though he is not very handsome, is as eligible a match as a girl could make. He is all that heart could wish, and he comes of such a handsome family. His mother, Esther Maria Coxe, was the beauty of a century, and his father was a nephew of General Washington. For all that, he is far better looking than John Darby or Mr. Miles. She always intended to marry better than Mary Preston or Bettie Bierne.

Lucy Haxall is positively engaged to Captain Coffey, an Englishman. She is convinced that she will marry him. He is her first fancy.

Mr. Venable, of Lee's staff, was at our party, so out of spirits. He knows everything that is going on. His depression bodes us no good. To-day, General Hampton sent James Chesnut a fine saddle that he had captured from the Yankees in battle array.

Mrs. Scotch Allan (Edgar Allan Poe's patron's wife) sent me ice-cream and lady-cheek apples from her farm. John R. Thompson,¹ the sole literary fellow I know in Richmond, sent me Leisure Hours in Town, by A Country Parson.

My husband says he hopes I will be contented because he came here this winter to please me. If I could have been satisfied at home he would have resigned his aide-de-campship and gone into some service in South Carolina. I am a good excuse, if good for nothing else.

Old tempestuous Keitt breakfasted with us yesterday. I wish I could remember half the brilliant things he said. My husband has now gone with him to the War Office. Colonel Keitt thinks it is time he was promoted. He wants to be a brigadier.

Now, Charleston is bombarded night and day. It fairly makes me dizzy to think of that everlasting racket they are beating about people's ears down there. Bragg defeated, and separated from Longstreet. It is a long street that knows no turning, and Rosecrans is not taken after all.

_______________

¹ John R. Thompson was a native of Richmond and in 1847 became editor of the Southern Literary Messenger. Under his direction, that periodical acquired commanding influence. Mr. Thompson's health failed afterward. During the war he spent a part of his time in Richmond and a part in Europe. He afterward settled in New York and became literary editor of the Evening Post.

SOURCE: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 253-8

Colonel Charles Russell Lowell to Major Henry Lee Higginson, September 17, 1863

Centreville, Va., Sept. 28, 1863.

My Dear Henry, — I have heard from E. all sorts of pleasant tidings of you and ——. I did not, of course, expect to hear from you again, though I should like to hear from some one just how you are in body, and just when you expect to be in saddle again. I saw —— and ——, a few days ago, and heard rather bad accounts of you — something about inflammation. . . .

Did I tell you that I hoped to get a leave of absence sometime about November 1st, and meant therein to come home, — and that's not all, but meant also to be married? I don't believe I did tell you, for the plan, though inchoate, was not in shape to bear telling. Now I think it will; of course, I do not expect to get my leave, but I think I shall ask for it; Halleck is such a splendid old veteran that I expect he will refuse. I shall ask for twenty days, and shall try to be married in the first five (one of the first five, Henry; it only takes one day) and I want you to be married on one of the other five. E. and I would so much like to be at your wedding, old fellow.  . . . Of course, in these times, weddings are what they should be, quiet, simple, and sacred.  . . . My plan for the winter is headquarters at Fairfax Court House, with E. for Commander-in-Chief. She is not such a veteran as Halleck, but I think she can manage men better, in the field or anywhere else.

SOURCE: Edward Waldo Emerson, Life and Letters of Charles Russell Lowell, p. 307-8

Diary of Margaret Junkin Preston: November 16, 1863

Was present tonight at Louisa Brockenborough's wedding at the Episcopal Church; a beautiful affair; eight bridesmaids; one of the bride's silk dresses cost between $500 & $600 for the unmade material.  Wood is now $30 per cord; flour $100 per barrel in Richmond, $50 here, and rising. Butter selling here by the quantity for $3.50 per lb.

SOURCE: Elizabeth Preston Allan, The Life and Letters of Margaret Junkin Preston, p. 171-2

Diary of Mary Boykin Chesnut: June 13, 1862

Decca's wedding. It took place last year. We were all lying on the bed or sofas taking it coolly as to undress. Mrs. Singleton had the floor. They were engaged before they went up to Charlottesville; Alexander was on Gregg's staff, and Gregg was not hard on him; Decca was the worst in love girl she ever saw. “Letters came while we were at the hospital, from Alex, urging her to let him marry her at once. In war times human events, life especially, are very uncertain.” For several days consecutively she cried without ceasing, and then she consented. The rooms at the hospital were all crowded. Decca and I slept together in the same room. It was arranged by letter that the marriage should take place; a luncheon at her grandfather Minor's, and then she was to depart with Alex for a few days at Richmond. That was to be their brief slice of honeymoon.

The day came. The wedding-breakfast was ready, so was the bride in all her bridal array, but no Alex, no bridegroom. Alas! such is the uncertainty of a soldier's life. The bride said nothing, but she wept like a water-nymph. At dinner she plucked up heart, and at my earnest request was about to join us. And then the cry, “The bridegroom cometh.”  He brought his best man and other friends. We had a jolly dinner. “Circumstances over which he had no control” had kept him away.

His father sat next to Decca and talked to her all the time as if she had been already married. It was a piece of absent-mindedness on his part, pure and simple, but it was very trying, and the girl had had much to stand that morning, you can well understand. Immediately after dinner the belated bridegroom proposed a walk; so they went for a brief stroll up the mountain. Decca, upon her return, said to me: “Send for Robert Barnwell. I mean to be married to-day.”

“Impossible. No spare room in the house. No getting away from here; the trains all gone. Don't you know this hospital place is crammed to the ceiling?” “Alex says I promised to marry him to-day. It is not his fault; he could not. come before.” I shook my head. “I don't care,” said the positive little thing, “I promised Alex to marry him to-day and I will. Send for the Rev. Robert Barnwell.” We found Robert after a world of trouble, and the bride, lovely in Swiss muslin, was married.

Then I proposed they should take another walk, and I went to one of my sister nurses and begged her to take me in for the night, as I wished to resign my room to the young couple. At daylight next day they took the train for Richmond.  Such is the small allowance of honeymoon permitted in war time.

Beauregard's telegram: he can not leave the army of the West. His health is bad. No doubt the sea breezes would restore him, but — he can not come now. Such a lovely name — Gustave Tautant Beauregard. But Jackson and Johnston and Smith and Jones will do — and Lee, how short and sweet.

“Every day,” says Mem, “they come here in shoals — men to say we can not hold Richmond, and we can not hold Charleston much longer. Wretches, beasts! Why do you come here? Why don't you stay there and fight? Don't you see that you own yourselves cowards by coming away in the very face of a battle? If you are not liars as to the danger, you are cowards to run away from it.'” Thus roars the practical Mem, growing more furious at each word. These Jeremiahs laugh. They think she means others, not the present company.

Tom Huger resigned his place in the United States Navy and came to us. The Iroquois was his ship in the old navy. They say, as he stood in the rigging, after he was shot in the leg, when his ship was leading the attack upon the Iroquois, his old crew in the Iroquois cheered him, and when his body was borne in, the Federals took off their caps in respect for his gallant conduct. When he was dying, Meta Huger said to him: “An officer wants to see you: he is one of the enemy.” “Let him come in; I have no enemies now.” But when he heard the man's name:

“No, no. I do not want to see a Southern man who is now in Lincoln's navy.” The officers of the United States Navy attended his funeral.

SOURCE: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 184-6

Diary of Mary Boykin Chesnut: April 23, 1862

On April 23, 1840, I was married, aged seventeen; consequently on the 31st of March, 1862, I was thirty-nine. I saw a wedding to-day from my window, which opens on Trinity Church. Nanna Shand married a Doctor Wilson. Then, a beautiful bevy of girls rushed into my room. Such a flutter and a chatter. Well, thank Heaven for a wedding. It is a charming relief from the dismal litany of our daily song.

A letter to-day from our octogenarian at Mulberry. His nephew, Jack Deas, had two horses shot under him; the old Colonel has his growl, “That's enough for glory, and no hurt after all.” He ends, however, with his never-failing refrain: We can't fight all the world; two and two only make four; it can't make a thousand; numbers will not lie. He says he has lost half a million already in railroad bonds, bank stock, Western notes of hand, not to speak of negroes to be freed, and lands to be confiscated, for he takes the gloomiest views of all things.

SOURCE: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 158

Diary of Judith W. McGuire: September 12, 1861

Yesterday was the wedding of our dear –––. The marriage of a child is always melancholy when it involves separation, but particularly so under such circumstances. But surely never were refugees so blessed with friends. Our plan was to have the ceremony in the church, and then to proceed to Winchester, where the bridal party would take the stage for Strasburg, and thence by the cars to Richmond; but we were overruled by Mr. P., who invited his and our friends for the evening, and a beautiful entertainment was prepared for them. We all exercised our taste in arranging the table, which, with its ices, jellies, and the usual etceteras of an elegant bridal supper, made us forget that we were in a blockaded country. A pyramid of the most luscious grapes, from Bishop Meade's garden, graced the centre of the table. The bridesmaids were three, and groomsman one, and he, poor fellow, had to go off in the storm of last night, because his furlough lasted but forty-eight hours, and his station is Culpepper Court-House. The groom had a furlough of but three days, to come from and return to Richmond. The Bishop and Mrs. J. arrived in the morning. The party consisted of ladies, and gentlemen too old for the service. Bishop J. performed the ceremony. Bishop Meade professed to be too old for such occasions, and declined coming. We feel very lonely this morning, and turn to the newspapers more than we have done for some time.

I saw a young soldier the other day, who told me he could see the top of our house distinctly from “Munson's Hill.” Oh, that I could know what is going on within those walls, all encompassed by armies as it is. With my mind's eye I look into first one room and then another, with all the associations of the past; the old family Bible, the family pictures, the library, containing the collection of forty years, and so many things which seemed a part of ourselves. What will become of them? Who are now using or abusing them?

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 53-5

Married

In Rock Island, at the Baptist Church, on the 15th inst., by Rev. Isaac Grey, Dr. JAMES A. REID, of Davenport, to Miss ANNIE E. BERRY, of Rock Island.

We called upon our young friends yesterday, after their return from that city of deep ravines and extensive water privileges, yclept Muscatine, and found them quite as happy as young people are generally while enjoying the rose-dream of prospective earthly bliss.

– Published in the Davenport Daily Gazette, Davenport, Iowa, Friday Morning, April 18, 1862, p.1