Mrs. Lyon’s Diary.
June 17.—Arrived home at five o’clock in the morning, having stayed over in Chicago a couple of days. Attended the Sanitary Fair.
June 2015
Saturday, 17th—Still pleasant. We have not yet received our pay. A part of the Fifteenth Corps has been paid, and the paymaster is paying the men of the First Brigade.
Chattanooga, Saturday, June 17. Another battery drill this morning; did not go out, being on post. Awful hot. My weekly letters from home have ceased their coming, owing to their expectations of my arrival home. This is making a bad matter worse. Two men received sick furloughs, start to-morrow.
June 17th, 1865.—We had our first riding lesson yesterday and we had quite a respectable company, fifteen young ladies and as many gentlemen. Best of all, they, the gentlemen, came dressed in our beloved gray. We are so proud of the Confederate Army and we love the gray uniform. We love and reverence our captive President; we place the name of Jefferson Davis at the head of all martyred heroes. Our hearts throb with pride when we think of General Robert E. Lee and we love every officer and every man who served under him. We love, and we admire the courage of the Army of the West, which so stubbornly and so hopelessly, fought Sherman, inch by inch, in his hateful “March to the Sea”—and now, an insult has been offered these “heroes of the gray.”
These men have given their parole and a Southerner’s word of honor means everything to him and yet, afraid of men they have conquered; afraid of the men whose sworn promise they hold, an order comes from headquarters, that Confederate soldiers, both officers and privates, must remove from their uniforms all brass buttons and every insignia of rank.
At first, I have been told, it was the intention of the military to order the gray uniform to be discarded, but realizing that many of these men had nothing else to wear, this present order was issued. The cowards! They ought to be ashamed of themselves!
This piece of news quite spoiled the riding for me. I wonder if the time will ever come when I can take insults coolly?
Cousin Henry’s uniform, which he wore this afternoon, is right new, uncle Tom having ordered it by a blockade-runner, when Cousin Henry was in prison at Johnson’s Island. It is a magnificent suit of French broadcloth and he is so handsome in it; now he must “remove or cover all buttons and all insignia of rank.” Isn’t it a pity?
I have to go to town tomorrow. Father does not feel well enough to go and he has some business which needs attention. Of course Mother could do all that, but she insists that she will never go again to Tallahassee until the last Yankee soldier is gone.
June 8.—There have been unusual attractions down town for the past two days. About 5 p.m. a man belonging to the Ravel troupe walked a rope, stretched across Main street from the third story of the Webster House to the chimney of the building opposite. He is said to be Blondin’s only rival and certainly performed some extraordinary feats. He walked across and then returned backwards. Then took a wheel-barrow across and returned with it backwards. He went across blindfolded with a bag over his head. Then he attached a short trapeze to the rope and performed all sorts of gymnastics. There were at least 1,000 people in the street and in the windows gazing at him. Grandmother says that she thinks all such performances are wicked, tempting Providence to win the applause of men. Nothing would induce her to look upon such things. She is a born reformer and would abolish all such schemes. This morning she wanted us to read the 11th chapter of Hebrews to her, about faith, and when we had finished the forty verses, Anna asked her what was the difference between her and Moses. Grandmother said there were many points of difference. Anna was not found in the bulrushes and she was not adopted by a king’s daughter. Anna said she was thinking how the verse read, “Moses was a proper child,” and she could not remember having ever done anything strictly “proper” in her life. I noticed that Grandmother did not contradict her, but only smiled.
June 13.—Van Amburgh’s circus was in town to-day and crowds attended and many of our most highly respected citizens, but Grandmother had other things for us to consider.
June 16.—The census man for this town is Mr. Jeudevine. He called here to-day and was very inquisitive, but I think I answered all of his questions although I could not tell him the exact amount of my property. Grandmother made us laugh today when we showed her a picture of the Siamese twins, and I said, “Grandmother, if I had been their mother I should have cut them apart when they were babies, wouldn’t you?” The dear little lady looked up so bright and said, “If I had been Mrs. Siam, I presume I should have done just as she did.” I don’t believe that we will be as amusing as she is when we are 82 years old.
16th. Went to town to see about selling my horse. Chester left for Davenport, Iowa. I feel most homesick. I do dislike to leave the boys for many reasons. I love them all.
Friday, 16th—Pleasant weather. We cleaned up our camping ground today and built “ranches” covering them with our rubber ponchos. General Hinkenlooper, a West Pointer, is in command of our brigade and has given orders to put on camp guard.
Chattanooga, Friday, June 16. Rained heavy last night. Called out at 4 A. M. to harness up before breakfast. Out to drill immediately afterwards. Captain Simpson put us through the maneuvers for the first time, drilled us accurately with mechanical precision, but he is not loud enough, will never make a good drill master, but will do. Feasted on blackberry pie and sauce from yesterday’s picking. On guard to-night. Oh, dear!
15th. Went to town and saw Sister M. and A. B. off at 4:20. Hated to see them go. Hope to see them at home soon. Very warm.
Chattanooga, Thursday, June 15. Breakfast passed as usual. Charlie Pickard and myself procured a blackberry pass, and armed each with a tin pail, set out while it was yet cool, and we walked fast. We followed the old Georgia Railroad out into Chickamauga Valley, passed the vineyard which we tugged through on the 25th of November, 1863, under the rebel fire. The scene looked very natural, but the houses used as hospitals close by are burnt down, fences repaired and crops growing, Here we conversed with a negro, once a slave but now a free man. When “Massa run, aha,” he staid behind, and has forty acres of good corn planted and cultivated by himself for his own benefit. We saw many others industriously engaged for the welfare of self and family. What better proof need we have than this that the negro will support himself.
Here we found plenty of berries, but not many of them ripe yet, so we marched on, struck Chickamauga Creek, followed it about half a mile to the ferry, when cries and shrieks fell upon our ears, evidently a woman in great agony. Our minds were readily carried back to the time when such cries were often extorted from the poor slaves by the cruel hand of the master. And could it be possible that such a scene was being enacted in this valley now under the very eye of the power that had abolished it? It seemed incredible, yet we feared it, and we hastily turned our steps in the direction of the sound. As we approached, it still became more hideous and different voices could be discerned. Up high on the hill we at last discovered the place whence the noise proceeded, from a rough log negro hut. Passing a neat white house about fifty rods below the shanty, we were informed of the cause by a woman unconcernedly smoking her pipe. She “reckoned they were shouting up there”. A little suspecting the cause, yet we were bent on investigation. We met a young woman on the way with long, flowing disheveled hair, looking very much excited.
Charley asked “What’s the row up there?”
“An old ‘oman ‘fessed ‘ligion this morn’ “.
Now we are at the door, and such a sight I never saw before. Here two large negro women and two young white girls, 16 and 17 years old about, from all appearances raving maniacs, still screeching, yelling, jumping, hugging, dancing, crying, shaking, hands, and uttering incoherent sentences, foaming at the mouth with perspiration rolling down their cheeks in streams. No cessation, but each making as much noise as though a dagger were at their hearts. The spell appeared to be partially broken by one of the girls seeing us. She stopped, looked at us with a mesmeric glare for a few minutes, then shrunk a corner, where she remained quietly until her sister (I suppose) returned to her from covering the negro woman, and commenced violent demonstrations, such as bumping her head against the wall, etc. until both soon moved.
We looked on thus for over half an hour. I was filled with amazement and sometimes provoked to laughter. I had heard of such excitement in revival meetings where enthusiastic preachers and brethren were at work, working up the imagination of the victim. But to find it in such a sequestered place with but four solitary women was such as I never dreamt of. The superstitious character and education of the negro caused me to wonder less at them than the white girls, which looked awful. But when I remembered the unconcern of the people in the white house, I concluded it was nothing strange after all for these ignorant people (for I consider it nothing but ignorance of the true standard of the human soul).
A revival is going on there, it seems, and the old woman said God had been allowing her to go on in her “devilment” for a long time, but this morning ”Jesus stood right squar’ in her way and she found him right in the chair,” and then again she started. The girls I suppose came to see her and were taken with the influence. I felt it my duty to do what I could to restore these poor creatures to their senses, and believe if I had entered the room and spoken firmly to them in earnest, the spell would be broken and the excitement quieted.
But modesty prevented me from making the experiment, and we went on in quest of berries. Found plenty of beautiful ones in a field adjoining, and we soon filled our pails and started for camp in another direction. The shouting which we heard a mile away at first, still continued while we were within hearing. Reached camp before 2 P. M. tired and very warm, having walked at least fourteen miles, well pleased with our success at berrying. Told our story of the revivalists in camp, which caused much amusement. I shall always consider it as one of the greatest psychological phenomena.
