March 8th [1863]. Clear and beautiful, this Sunday morning. Orange trees in full bloom and roses, honeysuckle and jessamine scenting the air. Too warm. Spring with all its beauty is a desolate season with me. I miss the kindly blaze, the bracing atmosphere and even the lonely sad tone of the winter wind. There is something sad in seeing all things renewed but one’s self. Children finely dressed are hurrying to Sunday school. Mrs. Norton in her best, getting ready for church. I do not feel like going. I wish I had some vent for myself, whether it were church going or visiting. I feel so lonely-hearted always. Yesterday afternoon I was mortified, being for the first time in my life the occasion of a servant’s falsehood. Often I have allowed myself to be persecuted by trifling converse rather than to send a false “Not at home,” or a rude “Beg to be excused.” After dinner Ginnie and I felt tired and not quite well—we had exhausted ourselves talking with Mrs. Norton and Mr. Randolph, and as Mrs. Norton had gone down town, we thought we would refuse all that called and have a quiet time.
Ginnie told Jane to say that Mrs. N—— was out and that we were not well. Mrs. Wells and Mrs. Montgomery called. We heard Jane say “Not at home” for all of us. Called her up afterward and gave her a lecture on story-telling. She said she couldn’t say we did not want to see anybody. Mrs. Roselius came; heard her tell the same thing. I was not dressed, or should have contradicted her in person. I was nervous really—partly because Mrs. R—— is accustomed to pass through our room, or would peep through the blind on the gallery to find if we were in. She retreated before I could get ready. Mr. Dudley called; Mrs. Callender—all shut up. Presently Mrs. Norton returned, bringing Mrs. Roselius with her and Jaque. The impudent little fellow had to open wide our door and make some remark about our being shut in the dark. We felt mortified, but did not go out. Indeed there should be some decent, yet truthful, way of denying one’s self to people when one is weary and out of spirits. After tea, Mrs. Dameron and Mrs. White called and sat for a while. I went down to the gate with them and stood alone a little while looking upon the night. A full moon struggling with heavy clouds; patches of blue sky and a few sweet stars. “Custom can not stale” the infinite variety of the world above us—the voices of the vast eternity are never trite, and the emotions they inspire never weary—they are ever fresh, though as old as the world.
Mary Ogden in from Greenville this morning. The Yankees took away everything from the camp, she says, and burned everything they could not carry—not expected back in that region. Mary brought a letter from her friend, Roberta Archer, of Baltimore, to read to us. She writes as a Unionist—though a warm Southerner—and in this way can tell us much of the position of things in Old Maryland. She is thoroughly out of spirits about the political situation in her native State. That Lee was not reenforced and welcomed by her country people, she is grieved and mortified. The Southern cause is warmly supported by the women and those men who have gone to the Southern battle fields are in high favor. Men, it seems, make the excuse of “Want of arms” in Maryland, as they do here. I, too, am distressed about Maryland’s position. I would not have believed once that the dear old State would have stood calm when the South was trampled on. However, many of her sons have left all to fight for a cause which their State has not adopted. They are noble fellows and will be exiles henceforth. God help this ruined land. I would rather that Maryland should help to form a new Confederacy than to remain a dishonored member of this one. There will, I expect, eventually be formed three Confederacies, if not now. New England should remain alone.
Sammy Erwin has just come in to tell us that his sister, Mrs. Chalmers, is going to be sent out to-morrow and wants to see us. His brother, Stanhope, they have just heard, was killed at the battle of Murfreesboro. Went to see Em—Mrs. Chalmers—on Sunday; found much company and had a full view of General Miles’ house and yard, which are now occupied by Yankees. The privates were wrestling and tumbling over in the yard and out by the street gate, looking wholly unimpressed by the great questions now at issue. I detached myself as much as possible from the general converse and speculated in my usual way. No one talks anything but war-talk. At home and abroad the eternal Yankee is dinned into my ears. I feel an intense interest in this terrible struggle— it underlies almost my every thought and action, and my alternate hopes and fears as to future events have worn me mentally and physically, so much so, that a “waiting-for-the-war-to-be-over” feeling has paralyzed my every energy. It is for this reason—because I have suffered and do suffer so much—I am soon wearied by the trivial details of the hour, even though the war and the Yankees give them birth. I found Sarah looking badly and Em is not to leave to-morrow. She is awaiting Yankee orders. I do not think that either she or the Wilkinsons will be sent out till that awful affair at Port Hudson is over. Em is not to be allowed to carry more provisions with her than are to be actually needed on the journey. “1 presume you will find plenty when that is over, madame,” says satirical Mr. Officer, which meant, “I know that they are half starving in the Confederacy, but if you are silly enough to go there, you must abide the consequences.” These officers ask numberless insolent (necessary?) questions when applied to for passports. They are gruff or otherwise, as the humor takes them. “Why don’t you stay here and take your tea and coffee in peace?” Bowen asked of Ginnie. “Those people in the Confederacy can’t let you have anything to eat out there.” “I don’t fear deprivations outside the lines,” said Miss Pride. I met the Misses Pritchard at Sarah’s, daughters of a lady quite famous in Confederate sewing societies and all sorts of associations. They are graceful girls; not very pretty, but intelligent, filled with sublime contempt for the Yankees. They are Philadelphia people. These adopted Southerners are much hotter than we, strange to say. Butler poured out particular venom on this class.
I left Doctor Glen’s early and called on the Wilkinsons ; met there Doctor Fenner, who told us that our big “Rebel Ram” is finished, and has run out of the Yazoo and is now lying at Vicksburg. She will soon begin to write her history. I hope the fate of the ram Arkansas will not be hers. After the Arkansas‘ brilliant dash from the Yazoo last summer, through the whole Federal fleet, fighting her way safely to Vicksburg, a thrill of enthusiasm and admiration passed through us poor prisoners here, lighting our way, as it were. This feeling ended in a positive personification of the boat, and we spoke of our grim-faced champion as though it were a human being. We loved it and felt protected, even from afar. The Federal accounts of its passage through the great fleet, proved what a splendid and wonderful thing had been done, and after vessel after vessel had given her broadsides and left her unharmed, we began to feel towards the Arkansas as the mother of Achilles must have felt toward that invulnerable (vulnerable) hero after she dipped him. We were sure she was invulnerable, so after the battle of Baton Rouge, when news of her death and destruction came to us, we indignantly rejected such wild beliefs. For weeks, for months, the matter aroused warm discussions. One said, “It was a ruse of ours, the Arkansas would stir our blood again and yet again.” Another contended that she had been blown up by our own people, because her machinery had failed. Of course many resisted the idea of inefficiency in our pride and pet. “No, we would not believe it,” and so we did not for months. Indeed our faiths pro and con were sadly confused by the reports of eye witnesses. This man had seen her blown up— the other had seen her captured and finished by the Essex (Federal), while yet another had seen her towed off in safety toward Vicksburg. (Later accounts.) This lady knew a reliable gentleman who had just run the blockade—he could swear that he had seen the Arkansas on such a day under the batteries safe at Vicksburg. This was to be kept a great secret, both as regarded the ram and the blockade-runner—this reliable gentleman, through fear of the meddling Butler, was never forthcoming, and so we went on keeping his secret with all our might, only whispering it throughout our various circles. I know a gentleman (Doctor Camel) who still believes in the Arkansas. On this day, March 8th, Mr. Randolph knows a man who is bold enough to say that he knows she is safe. Queer world this.
People are beginning to look forward to an attack on this place once more. I do not intend to get excited as I did last summer. How often was I told as I lay down at night to put a dark dress by my bedside, as the Confederates would be here by morning. Dozens and dozens of nights were appointed for the attack, and dozens of mornings broke in disappointment to thousands. We believe now but for the loss of our dear ram we would have had the city back long ago, though croakers cry, “Never again; except by treaty.” I was among those croakers at first. I felt we could never get it back the sad ignominious day it fell, but I grew into a more hopeful state after awhile and joined with some faith the whispering conclaves. How often we imagined we heard the guns at the Fort, I could not at this time safely determine, but their attack and fall were often talked over enough in the dim twilight to stir my blood. What deeds of valor and devotion were we not to perform. We partly rose from the sluggish channel in which sorrow had made us float so long. I do not think that either Gin or myself would fear in battle—we are too sad-hearted. The town is in Federal hands still, but after long silence on this momentous topic, men and women begin again to whisper of attack. General Banks, Farragut and fleet have left for Baton Rouge to aid the attack at Port Hudson. This place is now poorly defended, and we might take it if the 290 and Oreta were here. I would rather get it by treaty, oh, so much— there would be no blood shed then, but if I say so before Mrs. Norton it raises a perfect storm. I would fight as bravely as she, if the city is attacked and needs women’s help, but I cannot help nourishing a hope that the fights at all the different points may be delayed until some decision is arrived at in Congress, which will leave us a free people without further shedding of blood. Why desolate more homes; especially why slaughter more of these poor wretches, more than half of whom are in open insubordination with their own authorities, who are deserting to us constantly? Bayonets were drawn on the poor fellows who refused to embark for the attack on Port Hudson. The men do not wish to fight us, they openly say so.
There are many ways to get together an army in any cause—many of these men have joined for bread. Mrs. Norton wants the negroes all killed, too, “because they listened to Yankee lies.” This is being no greater, wiser or better than Wendell Phillips, who wants all slave holders killed. What a world this is. The North is hating England for her sympathy with us, and for the help she has given us—we are hating her because she does not give us recognition, because she did not long ago. If the extremists were not held in check by a more humane class, the earth would soon be depopulated. I hear numbers of humane sentiments from true Southern people who would fight our enemies bravely, but who do not hate them. When Judge Ogden’s house was guarded he had a fire made in an outhouse for the poor desolate-looking fellows to warm themselves by, and Mary Ogden gave the sick medicine, toast and coffee that she made for them herself. She was “too good to be a Rebel,” one poor wretch said— the whole family are registered enemies. Saw the picture of Mrs. Lieutenant Andrews at Mrs. Wilkinson’s. She had it taken with great alacrity when Mrs. W—— asked her. She does not know she is to figure in the family annals as the keeper of The Female Bastile. Mrs. W—— still has to report herself; it rained for two days, heavily, and she did not go down, and therefore received a message from Lieutenant Andrews that if she did not report herself before 4 o’clock that day, he would send a sergeant after her. Has the world ever seen before a woman on parole! A woman, old and delicate, a lady, wholly unconnected with politics of any sort, who went over the lines because a report of her husband’s death had reached her, and who returned to her children! Mr. Randolph says ’tis a pity that the Confederates take no women prisoners—if they did, Mrs. W—— might be exchanged.
