The Journal of Julia LeGrand

March 5th [1863]. We have company all day long. I think I prefer the fashionable way of receiving—only on reception days. I hate the custom, but acknowledge the wisdom of it. I can not read, write, or do anything I wish, people are so very social. Mrs. Waugh brought us an armful of books this morning. She is so kind, so true, that she is no restraint on one, as some other people are. She respects and comprehends opinion, though that opinion may not agree with her own. She is accustomed to luxury, but is so simple-mannered that I do not mind carrying on any of my work before her. I told her she always saw me au naturelle—she laughed and said she felt highly complimented. I wish we might have her for a neighbor always. She says we shall not be separated in another world. I willingly give a morning to her. This afternoon there were others here, but somehow they slip my mind.

The Greatest Victory of the War, La Bataille des Mouchoirs.

Fought Friday, February 20th, 1863.

Of all the battles, modern or old,

By poet sung, or historian told,

Of all the routs that ever were seen,

From the days of Saladin to Marshal Turenne,

Of all the victories later yet won,

From Waterloo’s field to that of Bull Run,

All, all must hide their fading light

In the radiant glow of the Handkerchief Fight.

And a paean of joy must thrill through the land

When they hear the deeds of Banks’ band.

‘Twas on the levee, where the tide

Of Father Mississippi flows,

Our gallant lads, our country’s pride,

Won this victory o’er their foes,

Four hundred Rebels were to leave

That morning for Secessia’s shades,

When down there came, you’d scarce believe,

A troop of children, wives and maids

To wave farewells, to bid God speed,

To shed for them the parting tear,

 To waft them kisses, as the meed

 Of praise to soldier’s heart most dear.

 They came in hundreds. Thousands lined

 The streets, the roofs, the shipping too,

 Their ribbons dancing in the wind,

 Their bright eyes speaking love’s adieu.

 ‘Twas then to danger we awoke,

 But nobly faced the unarmed throng,

 And beat them back with hearty stroke,

 Till reinforcements came along.

 We waited long; our aching sight

 Was strained in eager, anxious gaze,

 At last we saw the bayonets bright

 Flash in the sunlight’s welcome blaze;

 The cannon’s dull and heavy roar

 Fell greeting on our gladdened ear,

 Then fired each eye, then glowed each soul,

 For well we knew the strife was near.

 “Charge!” rang the cry and on we dashed

 Upon our female foes,

 As seas in stormy fury lashed

 When’er the tempest blows.

 Like chaff their parasols went down,

 As on our gallants rushed,

 And many a bonnet, robe and gown,

 Was torn to shreds, or crushed.

 Though well we plied the bayonet,

 Still some our efforts braved;

 Defiant both of blow and threat

 Their handkerchiefs still waved.

 Thick grew the fight, loud rolled the din,

 When “Charge!” rang out again,

 And then the cannon thundered in,

 And sounded o’er the plain.

 Down ‘neath the unpitying iron heels

 Of horses, children sank,

 While through the crowd the cannon wheels

 Mowed rows on either flank;

 One startled shriek, one hollow groan,

 One head-long rush, and then—

 Huzza, the field was all our own,

 For we were Banks’ men.

 That night relieved from all our toils,

 Our danger past and gone.

 We gathered up the spoils

 Our chivalry had won.

 Five hundred kerchiefs had we snatched

 From Rebel ladies’ hands;

 Ten parasols, two shoes not matched,

 Some ribbons, belts and bands,

 And other things that I forget;

 But then you’ll find them all,

 As trophies, in that hallowed spot,

 The cradle—Faneuil Hall.

 And, long on Massachusetts’ shores,

 Or on Green Mountain’s side,

 Or where Long Island’s breakers roar,

 And by the Hudson’s tide,

 In time to come, when lamps are lit,

 And home-fires brightly blaze,

 While round the knees of heroes sit

 The young of happier days,

 Who listen to their storied deeds,

 To them sublimely grand,

 Then Glory shall award its meed,

 Of praise to Banks’ band,

 And Fame proclaim that they alone,

 In triumph’s loudest note,

 May wear henceforth, for valor shown,

 A woman’s petticoat!

This poem is written by no one knows who, and printed sub-rosa. An order was issued sometime back by General Banks, attaching severe penalties to throw scorn upon any United States officer. This order was issued in Butler’s behalf, I believe, as the streets were at one time filled with accusatory and satirical productions inspired by that famous general. I have heard that Banks has seen this poem and that he is very angry. I have heard, too, that he had nothing to do with having the cannon sent upon the women and children, and that the infamy of the whole affair rests with Colonel French. Oh, well, I have also a surreptitious ode commanding this dear Crescent City to “Cheer up,” so I suppose that our day is coming. Thornton wanted the Cavalry armed with cowhides.

Mrs. Norton has a written bet on hand with Mayor Miller—formerly on Shepley’s staff—that Port Hudson would yield to Federal forces on or before the 4th of July. The stake, a basket of champagne. Mrs. Norton advised him to marry a Southern heiress and to change his politics. I would not let the upstart think, even in jest, that a Southern woman would marry him. He is good natured, but to my certain knowledge he is not honest. He lives in a “captured house” and broke open the trunks which Mrs. Brown left there, in search of sheets and table cloths. This he said himself.

The Indianola war ram has been captured by the Confederates. She passed the batteries at Vicksburg between the coal barges, which we also have taken. She was boarded, and the Queen of the West, which had also passed the batteries and been previously captured, was used in the fight against her old friend. She now floats another flag. We now have the river between Vicksburg and Port Hudson free of Federal vessels. Our trade from Red River, on which our soldiers so much depend, is still undisturbed. The last New York papers seem quite jubilant because their boat succeeded in passing the stronghold—but they were captured even before the news of the passing reached there. We are getting quite a navy. We have captured so much in Virginia, that the letters U. S. are stamped upon most everything we use—even the wagons and horses. Captain Semmes has been entertained at Kingston, and made a speech. People are anxiously looking for French recognition. Louis Napoleon is a deep character. I, for one, have no faith in his disinterestedness, and I am afraid to accept an overture of any sort from him. Should we be entangled with his politics I think our people would have more to remember than Louis XVI gave our forefathers. Recognition, perhaps, is our due, and nothing withholds it but a selfish fear of being accused of being too anxious to divide these States. That Europe desires the separation, we have had proof. Intervention (armed) I do not want. We have sustained ourselves so magnificently, that I feel a pride to fight all our own battles—fight them we can, both on sea and land.

March 2nd [1863]. Mr. Randolph was here soon after breakfast. He sits a long time and talks wonderfully slow. He had nothing new to tell us of war matters and Mrs. Norton gave him a cut for that—she lives entirely on the daily events without connecting them in her philosophy with other events. The rumors of the hour and the miserable newspapers, falsifying one day what they have given out as truth the day previous, filled with impossible schemes and barefaced braggadocio, fill her mind. She reads scraps of these papers to us before we are up, calling through the door which leads to her room, oftener opening it wide so we are put to straits to dress ourselves in private. Whether I am reading, writing, or thinking, those newspaper scraps are read and their contradictory jargon mangle and cut into pieces any idea which might soothe my brain, whether of mine or another’s. Oh, I am so, so weary. The making of the new Mississippi channel is now occupying the attention of the brave authorities here and elsewhere. Therefore we don’t expect, as we have been expecting, the great attacks at Port Hudson and Vicksburg. We had a solemn “extra” out this morning to tell us that New Orleans is to be made an island; so, also, Vicksburg and Baton Rouge. Mary Harrison came in while Mr. Randolph was here and read the “extra” aloud to us. We laughed a good deal over Yankee boasting. Our batteries on the river which they have been saying were a “mere nothing” to take, are now to be “got round.” The great armies and navies of the United States are to make a new channel for themselves immediately in time to save that poor old Union. Nature may have in contemplation some changes in the bed of this wonderful river, but the Yankees are in this matter—as in most others—mere boasters. The people at large are deceived that a wretched administration may rule with a tyrannical sway—they are robbed that public functionaries may fill their pockets, speculators run riot. I believe the Yankees themselves consider they have but two honest men, Burnside and the President.

McClellan is not a favorite with the party in power, though his soldiers idolized him, and long for his reestablishment. We had a great argument at Judge Ogden’s one night whether McClellan would or would not be the meanest of mankind if he again should accept his old position as Commander-in-Chief. Ginnie, Jule, Lizzie and myself took the stand that no man belongs to himself, but to his country, if his country needs him, he must obey her call, though like any other mother she may have been both unjust and unkind to him. We contended that McClellan was the only approach to a general that the Yankees could boast; therefore, if he really loved the cause and his soldiers, he ought to accept his old place if offered, besides, we argued, his defeat was the result of a party, and the whole country rose to welcome him on his return, and that was a real triumph for him, and the army made bitter complaints about his recall. Mr. Randolph and Mary Harrison sat some time, and the latter carried me off with her to see the Wilkinsons, leaving Mr. B—— with Ginnie and Mrs. Norton. I am afraid of hurting his feelings, as he is very sensitive; he is a good friend of ours and would, I believe, serve us in any way. He has led a wild, rambling life in Mexico, Peru and other places, and in this way has neglected many means of education. He would have made a fine specimen of a man if he had had the proper opportunities. He is quick and sagacious, and his instinctive judgment of’ men and things is good. His ideas have much more range than is usual with city men, whose thoughts (it seems to me) run in but two channels, pleasure or business. But his expression is slow and restricted; he has neglected the means which would have aided his utterance. This man has a true chivalry of nature, which makes him interesting; he is not at all demonstrative or elegant in manner, yet you feel instinctively there is no meanness, no coarseness, no unkindness in his nature, and that he would do anything for a woman—for a woman—without respect to her age or rank. He has dubbed himself a true friend of ours, and indeed I feel that sort of trust in him that would incline me to call on him in any trouble in preference to earlier friends. His brothers, who happen to be unmarried, are both in the army; so, also, are his brothers-in-law, and owing to circumstances he is compelled to remain here and take care of his family and the family of his sister-in-law; she has three children, he has two; they are all quite young, timid and helpless. He pines to be in the army—his brothers have written him that they do not envy his position. I believe Southern men seldom fear in battle and like its terrible excitements.

Many families in Vicksburg have caves under their houses containing stores and furniture, to which they intend to retire when the threatened bombardment of Vicksburg takes place. The house of Mrs. Eccleston, in which Mrs. W—— has been staying, had part of a wall and the tester of a bedstead torn away in the last engagement. Some of our soldiers imprisoned by the Federals were thrust into a house in which negroes had died of smallpox. These prisoners were then returned to us in their diseased state—this horror has since been spreading among our troops, many of whom have died, though we keep this matter as secret as possible. Refugees from New Orleans have been received into all houses by order of General Pemberton. Our soldiers need nurses, lint and bandages more than anything. Poor fellows, how I long to go out and take them something. Mrs. M—— took out a cheese to eat on the way, but as she did not touch it, gave it to the managers of the hospital at Vicksburg. It was received with delight and made much of. I left Mary H—— to get through her visit with Mrs. Pinkhard alone, and returned home. She came to dinner after the visit was over; said she had found some of our mutual acquaintances there dressed in the finest laces, silks and jewels, which added to the rather flashy elegance of the house, made Mary H—— ,

just from the pure circle of the Wilkinson’s discoursing on our trials and patriotic struggles, and the homespun which many ladies wear, feel as if she were in another world. The Misses Norcum, rather noted for extravagance and worldliness, entertained her with their exploits on the levee the day of the trouble there. It is astonishing what latitude Miss M. Norcum allows herself. She says she has gone further than any other woman in the Confederacy. Her father is not rich, but she dresses extravagantly, even in these times when wealthy women generally feel the cares and distress of the day too much to entertain a love of display. Miss Norcum’s patriotism consists in making saucy speeches to and ugly faces at the Federal soldiers. She does not tell her father what she does, she says. She comes of good blood; she has had the education and associations of a lady, and is old enough (being some time out of her teens) to know better. Mary and I heard of hundreds of ludicrous circumstances connected with the levee fight. “The Battle of the Handkerchiefs,” it is called, is rather a good poem composed to honor the occasion and which I will copy here. Each day I hear something more of this scandalous scene. A Captain or Lieutenant Thornton on General Shepley’s staff (I won’t say Governor Shepley) was speaking of the Levee Scene to a lady. “I would have managed them better,” said he. “And what would you have done, sir?” said the lady. “I would not have sent for cannon,” said this Yankee knight, “but I would have had cavalry armed with cowhides, to ride them down, whipping as they went along.” What think you of this, future ages? Those are the civilizers who are prompted by pity to make war upon us lest we should become too savage, when entirely cut off from Northern influences.

This afternoon a great troop of negroes were escorted by our door by Yankee soldiers, bearing bayonets. They were to be taken to a brick yard and “put to work,” the soldiers said, and were mad enough because of it. I could but pity the forlorn looking wretches as they went by. The Federals have done nothing worse than in deceiving this race; they have been made the tools of both politicians and army officers. Mr. Syewart brought us up Blackwood’s, containing an article called, “A month’s stay at Confederate headquarters.” It is by an English officer and written in a spirit which seems wonderfully kindly for one of that nation. The descriptions of our magnificent Lee and Jackson, filled my heart with pleasure. The simple elegance of these two heroes have long ago captured my imagination. They are surrounded by no state, living like their men, yet they are venerated and obeyed. Our people are described as being brave and earnest, bearing ever in their hearts the greatness of the struggle, and a willingness for every sacrifice that can aid it. Read an article by Wendell Holmes entitled, “My Hunt for the Captain.” He met many “Rebel” prisoners, and they were all dirty, or idiotic, or something else which was hateful. They never knew for what they were fighting, except in one instance, and he “loved excitement.” Maryland is spoken of as a State entirely “loyal”—this I know is false, or why have Maryland soldiers crossed the blue, peaceful Potomac to share the fortunes of their Southern brothers!

March 1st [1863]. Beautifully clear—rather cold; trees all in bud and the squares opposite emerald green and glittering. Mary Harrison, Ella, Sissie and Ally, their brother, called on their way to church. Didn’t go with them. Stopped on their way back and waited for the car—told us of the welcome to Confederates in Lexington, Ky., and showed us a likeness of Kirby Smith, which had arrived in a letter from that city. Smith looks like the earnest, brave and pious soldier which report speaks him. This likeness is somewhat faded, having been sunk on the Ella Warley on her way from New York and recovered. Two bags of letters have been fished up. We, Ginnie and I, cannot help hoping that the one granting a power of attorney to the Campos family, which will enable them to pay us, is amongst the rescued. It seems that the common thread must mingle with that which Lachesis lengthens and Atropos severs. What life and life interests must have gone down on the Ella Warley. Mrs. Roselius came in the evening with Mr. Denman, a Yankee, but a Southern one. Butler’s arrival in New York, he says, created no sensation. His arrival was not published. The flaming accounts we had read here of his magnificent reception, were little more than advertisements of a non-existing greatness, paid for by Butler himself. This wretch, it seems, is in favor with none but the vile Abolitionists. They continuously talk of sending him to Charleston, or back to this city. Charleston is not taken yet—never will be—and we don’t believe Butler would risk meeting the 290 on his way here. I was sorry when I heard he had been made much of at the North. For I am humanitarian enough, and Christian enough, I hope, to wish to see a respect for right, purity and justice even among enemies. No man who had respect for himself, honesty, truthfulness, bravery or kindness to women would take Butler by the hand. The cause of humanity is served, I think, when such brutes meet their deserts—universal contempt.

The Federal army is rich in brutes and brute force. Mr. Denman gave a description of a visit of Stafford (the general of the negroes) to the bank last summer. He came in with a shinplaster, and with a horrible oath told one of the bank gentlemen to pay the amount in gold. On being told that there was no gold, but that small notes would be issued soon, he swore terribly, drew his sword and flourished it in the wildest manner, threatening to cut their heads off. Mr. D____ owned that he was as afraid of him as he would be of a horned devil. “I’se got your Mayor down to Fort Jackson,” said Stafford, grinding his teeth, “where I hope the mosquitoes will eat out his d____d heart.” And more of this sort. The banker looked at the note and found it one of the coffee-house issues, with which the city last spring was flooded, and which Butler (very properly) had ordered to be redeemed, said he: “This is not our note; we have nothing to do with it,” whereupon, Stafford took it up and turned round upon a crowd of women and children who had followed him into the bank, flourishing his sword over them and swearing at them. This creature is below the city, having in command 1,400 negroes, armed and equipped, wearing the leather belt which other soldiers wear, having the letters U. S. in brass upon it. The once honored “Stars and Stripes” can be borne by such hands as these. Many of the negroes in camp having yielded to temptation, and been beguiled by Yankee falsehoods into running away from their masters, now that they realize their position, wish to return to them. But Stafford refuses to allow them to go home. We, against whom these poor creatures are arrayed, have no fear of them, at least as soldiers. They will fly at the first fire. Stafford, with his band, have been committing depredations in the country, but their gallant efforts have been confined to house-breaking, house-burning, chicken, horse and cattle stealing, and impudence to white people. Nothing more clearly defines the subordinate position, or the real justice of their position, more than their total want of social virtues. They are never true to each other, either in friendship or love. And even the maternal tie is not strong with them. Last spring, when the Yankees came, and even before then, many persons had gone into the country with their house servants, very often leaving behind husbands or wives in the Confederacy. I know of many instances where such interest was taken by their owners that they have written or sent for servants so situated, but in not one case have I known one to go. A life of lounging round the streets, feeding at the expense of the United States Government, has proved more enticing than the memories of wife or child. They have mostly gotten new mates. Mrs. Norton, in letters from her family and friends, is often charged with messages to servants who do not even wish to hear from those that are gone. I was once an Abolitionist, and resented for this race’s sake their position in the awful scale of humanity. But, I verily believe, that negroes are not now developed creatures. What they may be sometime I can not prognosticate, but I do believe in the law of progress. I call to mind the age when Britons wore skins, and hope for all things.

February 28th [1863]. Intended to go and help Katy Wilkinson pack to go out with her mother, but it rained too hard. Have written two letters, to Mrs. Chilton and Claude on soft Blockade paper, we call it, which are to go in a spool of cotton. It is a great deprivation not to be able to go beyond these hateful lines with the Wilkinsons. But I need money. Mrs. Dameron offered me some yesterday, but I can not borrow. Mrs. Randolph, whose husband owes us for a few months’ rent, offered to raise it for me, but times are so hard for people who are out of business, and who came here strangers as they did and who are cut off from friends who might aid them, that we told her we would not take it from her, even should she get it for us. I felt grateful to both for their heartfelt interest in us and feel that we have made friends for life. The Campos people who owe us a great deal are also in trouble, and thank us for not troubling them. Mr. Lancaster went off in fright when the Yankees came, without paying us. Mrs. Norton has money owed by Mrs. Chilton in her possession, but we can not bear to ask for it. It is ours really, but she does not offer it. So here we are a fixture, where our hearts are almost breaking. From the little store we had left, an acquaintance borrowed $300 “just until my husband comes in”; that was six weeks ago, and no word of it yet. I would not ask for so small a sum, but I greatly fear we shall need it. I have visited her twice and she has been here and members of her family, and it would be something for an outsider to pity us for if he could note our hope that it might be offered us. I would pity anyone who had been reduced to such straits as we have. All through others, too, and a weakness we have in not being able to ask for our own money. If I could get outside these hateful lines, I could use my Confederate money, and Claude, poor fellow, could perhaps send me some more, even if we could not get to Texas. Ah, well, some people are born for both small and large mishaps.

But enough of this—we must stay here until the Blockade is over, I suppose—we have expended within a few dollars our whole stock in laying in provisions lately. I feel, and so does Ginnie, the honest principle to purchase what we eat. I find myself, since the hard thoughts have taken possession of me, doing without everything at the table which we have not helped to buy. These are homely details indeed, when the Muse of History may wander at will, and dignify my pages with the hopes, fears, sacrifices and misfortunes of nations. Garibaldi, in Italy; Louis Napoleon in Mexico; English operatives perishing with hunger; Exeter Hall jubilant and triumphant over our Southern distress and what they call the “Freed negro race”; battles lost and won; cities captured and recaptured; a virgin soil bathed with the blood of its sons; a nation bathed in its tears; a new Confederacy and a new flag born into the world. Ah, Stars and Bars! How many years will it be before you float in an unjust cause over fields to which you have no right! All these things and more the Tragic Muse and her sisters may gather and record in this awful year of ’63— and here am I penning the common items which belong to a suppressed and narrow life; the pitiful details; the painful platitudes; the wearisome monotony incident to the everyday life of two women. Well, I have some right to make my cry go up with the general voice, more especially that I feel indeed that I “have no language, but a cry.”

Mrs. Dameron stayed all day with us. A sweet, earnest little soul. She is not demonstrative, but we have been made to feel that she is fond of us. I rely upon her wonderfully, but we have few thoughts in common. Mrs. Roselius spent the afternoon with us, and I found myself again unaware a champion of a religion. A friend of Mrs. R——’s has joined the Catholic Church and she has “ceased to respect her.” So runs the everyday stream. We all think differently and hate each other because we can not see alike. With the standing point changed, the view would alter, too. The more I see of life, the more lonely I feel. I shall never, never be tempted into a church—a membership I mean—sectarianism awes and disgusts me, yet I often, often covet that brotherhood feeling which the members of one association seem to enjoy. A common cause; whether it be religion, politics or business binds men, though they may hate all other causes beside. My ideas meet nobody’s, whether they are stirred by patriotism (by which I mean loving all that is good—not claiming all among my country’s people, boasting only of what is good—not claiming all good and a willingness to submit to much— to all trials—for the common good and honor and defence of home), by religion, or by any of the high or low possibilities which range our daily pathway. My ideas meet no one’s, I say again, and I often feel an isolation of heart even when meeting with general kindness. By religion I cannot understand anything but a kindly interpretation of human action; a gentle forbearance with all efforts of the human heart toward God— whether those efforts be Catholic or Protestant. It is with a feeling of profound wonder and awe even, with which I behold the common idea of hugging salvation for one’s own people and communities—and committing all others to—to say the least of it, to some undefined horrors. The general satisfaction under such a state of things, I say, awes me.

I wish I could have known a certain poet who lived here before the war—Capt. Harry Flash. I wish I knew Tennyson, Hawthorne, George Eliot (Miss Evans) and I wish I could journey back far enough on the pathway of time to meet the large, untrammeled gaze of Edmund Burke. I have admired the sermons, rather the philosophizings, of Ellery Channing; and those of the Right Reverend Doctor Clapp of this city; to me they seem imbued with Christ’s spirit, though they differ in letter from the churches. The “Great Harmonia” of Jackson, the Spiritualist, is a work which has met and convinced my reason, soothed my anxieties, unraveled my perplexities, pleased my imagination, lifted my aspirations, reconciled much of paradox to my mind and tinged with far-off hope my longings. These books my friends condemn. All authors that I love, fall under the ban with my acquaintances. I allow latitude—and take it—and yet it is a lonely life that I lead now. I have known the bliss of meeting of thought’ but it is gone, and never on this side of eternity can it be mine again. Our opinions make us—I cannot yield mine.

I had had a sort of enthusiastic regard for Beauregard, but to-day I heard that his wife has much need to complain of him—I was told by one who is familiar with his social relations—in an instant the feeling in my heart for this hero vanished, and a pained one of disappointment took its place—so we go on in life until we have nothing left. In my walk this afternoon I met little Charley Mushaway(?), a little dark-eyed, fair-haired beauty, who cheers for Beauregard and Stonewall Jackson constantly. I did not wish him to cheer for Beauregard to-day. A man is as nothing to me who sins against the purity and divinity which sits by his hearthstone—Love. Saw Mrs. Wilkinson and the girls—told us much of matters going on outside of the lines. She is very much changed—grown completely gray in one month. She went out some months ago. The death of her husband at Manassas having reached her as a rumor, she went out to ascertain its truth. She had much difficulty in getting a passport out and has now been arrested for not taking the oath upon returning to see her children. Some faces relax, even under great grief, but she seems even to have forgotten how to smile. She is going out with her children, whenever the upstarts will let her. Our soldiers outside are far from starvation. They have food and clothes, even coffee in plenty. Many of our young privates, who are from the best families in the land, miss thousands of home comforts, but there is no desponding; no lack of spirit and determination to stand until the last man, rather than to give up to the Yankees.

February 27th [1863]. Invited to dine at Mrs. Dameron’s. Went. It rained all day. Had quite a defense to make of the Episcopalians and Catholics to Mrs. White. How the Methodists do hate other denominations. So do the Presbyterians. I rarely hear Episcopalians speak illiberally. I hate bigotry. I believe that the churches have aided to harden people’s hearts against one another. There is nothing so narrowing as sectarianism.

February 26 [1863]. Read constantly of opposition to the Government at the North. A civil war there thought to be imminent. Mrs. Wilkinson, who lost her husband at the battle of Manassas, and who hastened out of the city at that time, leaving her children, has just come to town. Would people in any other land believe that a woman, under such circumstances, could be arrested for not taking the oath to the United States? No one is allowed to land without doing so, though nothing has been done so far to those in the city who resisted. Mrs. Wilkinson is under arrest, having refused the oath at St. Andrew’s House. Her children would not have learned of her arrival through the morning paper but for an accident. She is to be sent back, and is trying to get leave to take her children. Kate W—— took breakfast with us this morning. I told her that I thought her mother highly honored, she had resisted and that we were leading the dryest and tamest sort of life, and had no chance of being thought martyrs, though we are, in truth, often, in another fashion. Mrs. W—— says that no attack is to be feared at Vicksburg, the Yankee troops having come over to us in the last fight there in whole squads, bearing with them the smallest flags of truce. Our people did not see the flags at first, being so excited and the generals had difficulty to restrain their ardor. In this way, many poor fellows were murdered who would have been our friends. The Yankees have deceived us so often that our people fear almost to trust a flag of truce. I feel so sad to think of those poor fellows; what a hopeless feeling must have taken possession of them between the two fires, not trusted by either side. Under other circumstances I would not trust deserters, but in this war thousands long to come to us, being convinced that it is wrong to overrun the South. Some, too, consider their cause a hopeless one. There are three hundred deserters in Jackson alone and they are coming in all the time, Mrs. W says. They are in high spirits, Mrs. W says, outside the lines and do not look as we do here. Our soldiers have plenty of everything, even coffee, though out-siders have to pay well for it, if they get it at all. Flour is $80 per barrel. Kate says that her aunt, Mrs. Eccleston, in Vicksburg, has devoted herself to the Louisiana troops. They say she belongs to them. We want to go out with the Wilkinsons, if these people will let us—here comes the martyrdom—money due us all round, and cannot ask for it, because the times are pressing so on all. Mr. Randolph was here this morning; he thanked us for letting our house free of rent to them. Mr. R—— did not take the oath and was thrown outof business. We were glad to be of some use. Oh, I wish we were rich. Kate W——, Mrs. Randolph and Detty [Margaretta] Harrison have taken up my morning. I like them all, but love best to be alone of all things. I am so worn out sometimes by the constant stream of talk around me that I am nearly crazy. I fear I shall get the same sort of buzzing in my head that Mrs. Wragge complains of (from “No Name,” by Wilkie Collins, that I have just read). I like this book better than his “White Woman” or “Woman in White.” He has too much plot to suit my taste. Life is full of plot, too, but I have never felt that a book that contains much of it gives a true representation of life. I prefer the volume that seems but a page torn from real life. I care not for startling incidents, but only the gradual development of social life and a good delineation of character. I notice though that plot and incident are more popular than quiet truthful pictures.

Thackeray is no favorite here; I find few of my friends here who will even try to comprehend him. To me he is the first of English writers. “Vanity Fair” gave me a great shock. I do not think I could ever have been quite so happy again, after having read that book, even if life had not gone hard with me. It taught me to look under the veil, and I have been looking under it ever since. And my God, what have I not seen! Indeed I do not love the world, but I have met with some really good and pure people. Thackeray’s books are magnificent protests against the social life of England. I wish we had such a man. We would not take our lashing and dissection from a stranger. I sometimes think that even one of us could not tell the whole truth to our country people. They love flattery, it must be confessed. The Northern people have sickened me with boasting. I hope ours will adopt a system of inciting and elevating to a high state of things rather than claiming it without an effort. Let there be truth-telling in all things. Thackeray really holds up a glass to his country-folk, and to humanity at large. He is not popular, because people do not like the real cut of their features. There must be moral cosmetics as well as those of another sort to keep people in decent humor with you. People call Thackeray names, but for my part I even feel grateful to the man who has given to us a Thomas Newcome and an Ethel. Fault is found with his Washington, too; it is truthful, sublime. His whole “Virginians” is a splendid page from colonial history.

We went to see Mrs. Montgomery and Mrs. Wells this afternoon; met Mrs. Roselius, who asked us to call for her at the Little Calvary Church, whither she was going to attend another singing effort. Mrs. Hedges has sent word to Mr. Payne that she would not sing there for a thousand per night.

Found Mrs. M—— sick. The Judge sleeping in a big chair and Mrs. Wells out of spirits from not having heard from her little girls. Her husband she does not expect to hear from until the war is over, he having run the blockade to Vera Cruz. These are sad times. The girls are in Vicksburg, but word is sent to us outside the lines that no danger to that place is to be apprehended. The famous canal dug by the persevering Yankees is utterly useless to them. They are now on the lookout for some bayou that runs, I believe, into Red River, which they propose making into a new Mississippi. They waste much time and breath, also much newspaper—if we were timid we would be overwhelmed by the wonderful things which they intend to do. Judge Montgomery gave us Seward’s letter to read—the one in which he declines the proffered mediation of France. I wonder, really, if anyone will be deceived by this plausible, specious letter. Mr. Seward resembles the ostrich in one respect—he does not put his head in the sand, by any means—but he imagines other people can not see. The position he assumes for his Government is an utterly false one. He must know it. Deception on the part of the United States’ Government has kept up this cruel war; it remains now only to be proved that people are still willing to be blinded. We read protest after protest in Northern papers and speeches—some of them really noble ones. The leaders seem to fear no longer to tell the truth and the people are rapidly awakening from their lethargy and blindness. The people who have been unjustly imprisoned—now at liberty—are to meet in New York on the 4th of March. I think on that occasion the turning of periods will assist wonderfully in the turning of minds and purpose. There is something awfully exciting in the voice of a roused and angry people. The great stakes played for by this people and all the world, thrill me with a more tumultuous interest even than that I gave in my girlish days to the angry barons who met at Runnymede, and the stormy parliaments that raved at Martyr Charles. How history re-creates itself, or how, rather, man remains the same though his robes are changed.

Called for Mrs. R—— according to promise; met at the church door Mr. R——, also Miss Marcella Wilkinson, Mrs. Stevens and others.

Mrs. R—— took us home with her. Tried not to talk war with Mr. R——, but he would be provoking (and silly). Stayed until eight, and got home to find Mr. and Mrs. Burrows. Here was more talk over the same themes, until ever so late. I like them both, but oh, how tired I was. Could I have let them know it? How can we but regard a species of deceit as a peacemaker? My deceit, or amiability (there are two names for everything, and our characters depend upon the point of view), sent me to bed tired enough. There is a camp near the Burrows house. They are therefore able to give us many proofs of the insubordination and demoralization of the Federal soldiers. At 12 o’clock a few nights ago they were roused by one who was hiding in the house to elude the guard. They are escaping constantly, and Confederate women aid them by giving them clothes. A mulatto woman fined three dollars for singing a Confederate ballad. An exhibitor of portraits arrested and put in jail, after a loss of his pictures, for exhibiting Stonewall Jackson and Lee. The children are sometimes arrested for their “Rebel” cries and the street boys hate the Yankees and do not follow them in their most brilliant turn outs. Our Confederate and Livandais Guards could never drill or march without a crowd.

February 25th. Invited to lunch at Mrs. Roselius’s—had headache—so had Ginnie; concluded late to go. Found everything delightful, and pleasant company. Can’t say, though, that I have any fancy for any sort of company just now. After lunch, ran over to Mrs. Waugh’s in my light silk, to which she has taken such a fancy, and felt in another atmosphere with her. No memories of the jarring world when with her, or at least an inspiring confidence that we can live above them. How purely intellectual she is! How free from vanity, egotism and pedantry which men have pleased to associate with a learned woman. Her conversations are sometimes beautiful lectures that fall from her lips without effort and with simple elegance. Indeed her heart speaks in everything, and there is a sincerity and earnestness, a childlike sweetness, that spiritualizes her most didactic discourses. I like Mrs. Roselius better than any woman of the world I have ever known. She has seen much of society—she has elegance of manner, tact and good taste—she has not lost her natural warmth of heart, or her enthusiasms; she has much charity without show and is both ingenuous and truthful. She is smart, even talented; but neither thought or conversation are purified by sentiment. It amuses me to hear her talk, for she seems to know all that happens, but I never feel any better or wiser after having listened to her for hours. On the contrary, some of her most amusing sketches of life, people or character depress me wonderfully, though I laugh over them. She lives next door and is very sociable. I’m ashamed to say that we are not. Her husband is such a Federal and talks so abusively of Southerners that she excuses our want of sociability on that account—but I consider him such a silly person that his petulent talk does not affect me in the least. I never get angry with a silly person; I do not consider them responsible. When the New Orleans Guard was deserted outside of the lines, and its members stole ingloriously back to enjoy the luxuries of the city—Mr. R—— excused them. He said that he, too, “was brave, that he would stand to be shot at as well as any man, but that gentlemen could not endure camp life. He could not eat pork and beans. Those Virginians and Mississippians (mentioning people from other States) were not gentlemen, he said; they ought to fight.” It was useless to talk to a man who could not feel the meaning of hating, yet stealing in to lead a life of inglorious ease, leaving the burden of defence to be borne by others. Nobly has that burden been borne by others—Louisianians, American sons have won honors on every field.

Much dissatisfaction was felt here for a time over President Davis’ speech at Jackson. It was partial and addressed wholly to Mississippians, though the army by which he was surrounded was composed of men from all States. The battle of Chickasaw Bayou was fought by Louisianans and Georgians. These men were entitled, even as exiles from home, to kindly mention—but no word of praise, except to Mississippians. The women of Vicksburg were approved because they expressed wishes that the town should be shelled rather than surrendered. The women of New Orleans rushed in numbers to sign a paper imploring that this city should never be given up. They were fearless, they said; we signed it and would have been glad enough to have resistance made. I have always felt that Davis was a partisan, rather than a father of his country; a politician rather than a statesman. I heard him speak once and was not satisfied. I can never learn to love him as I do Washington or Lee, “Stonewall” Jackson, or the two Ashbys even, who were willing to serve their country in any capacity. It does me good to feel that thousands of men are privates in this war, undergoing, voluntarily, all sorts of deprivation and hardships, who, before the war, were wealthy and lived in luxury. Thousands of our countrymen are yielding to the authority of officers who are far beneath them in wealth and social standing. This state of things gratifies the hero-worship that has always stirred my heart. I hate man-worship or place-worship—it corrupts—but in hero-worship I feel that I serve but my ideal.

The ram, Queen of the West, has been captured by our Confederates up Red River. Some of the men escaped, but many were taken prisoners. We captured guns and useful supplies. One of our men, John Burke, had been seized to pilot the boat up Red River that our batteries could be captured or destroyed—he was forced under a Federal guard and therefore felt privileged to deceive them. When quite near he assured the Federals that they were still fifteen miles distant; they were, therefore, more unprepared than they would have been. A warehouse on shore was fired by one of our officers, which lighted up the river. We made a complete triumph of it. I am glad that this capture was made in Louisiana, for, owing to the fall of New Orleans, she has been somewhat depreciated in the Confederacy, though I think the Government at Richmond was more to be blamed in that disaster than the people who had trusted all defences to their military superiors. Large contributions were made here to the defence of the city and to the general war. And had not the citizens been trammeled by the general Government, the city would not have fallen. Its fall had been anticipated by those who knew anything of military matters, but to the people at large it was a great surprise. They were therefore totally surprised and unprepared and showed panic—that undignified state of things. It was reported at one time that Butler had gotten hold of the ladies’ list and was to bring to justice all offending therein. Butler was so senseless in much of his tyranny, that any report of him could receive credence. I firmly expected to go to prison when the others were taken, when the oath-taking was going on. Judge Ogden told us of a young lawyer friend of his who took the oath, not for his own interests, but to protect those of others. He had in charge a large property belonging to minors, and as he could have no control over it, or practice in any of the courts unless he took the oath, he took it. He has since gone completely mad in consequence—he suffered so and his thoughts were completely filled with it. This is a terrible case and I know of another just like it. That wretch Butler has much to answer for. They continually threaten to send him back here, but we do not fear that he will come. The Consuls had him removed, and beside we do not think that he would trust himself to the watery pathway in which the 290, or the Oreta, may find him.

The Yankee paper reports that the Alabama(the 290) is captured and that we are about to evacuate Port Hudson and Vicksburg on account of starvation. We do not heed these stories.

February 24th. Great stir among the Yankees. Much hard riding. They have stolen and forced people to give up every horse in town, even carriage horses. They ride as though the world were coming to an end. Some unhappy-looking troops have just passed our door with knapsacks packed and a pretty flag flying with 12th Battery upon it. The cannon have been sent to the boat; we presume that these people are on their way to Port Hudson.

February 22nd [1863]. Clear and beautiful. Cannons were fired. Numerous reports as usual. Company to dinner who reported fighting over the river. Mary Harrison on her way from church met three Confederate soldiers under arrest taken from the boat. A hundred were sent off, it is said. Willy Thompson, a young friend of Mary Waugh’s, became furious with disappointment— said if he could not go into the Confederacy, he would go to Fort Jackson. Consequently he gave his tongue license and was arrested on the boat and brought before Colonel Clarke. This gentleman, who stands out from the Federal groups here like a piece of harmonious statuary, merely said to him that he knew he had met with a disappointment, “and now, young man,” he continued, “you had best-take yourself off home as soon as possible.” The remaining prisoners were transferred to the Brunswick, and were carried a few miles above Baton Rouge. They left the boat giving three cheers for Colonel Clarke. We “Rebels” are not all fire-eaters and savages, as it pleases Northern satirists to style us, and really know how to appreciate a kindly enemy even. Our hearts ached this morning to hear that five of our Confederate friends fell overboard, owing to the slipping of some wood, and one of them was drowned. The Yankee Era says that the “Rebel” officer who called the roll of our prisoners at Houston, is Lieutenant Todd, brother of Mrs. Lincoln. He is tall, fat, and savage against the Yankees.