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Troup Butler (search for this): chapter 3
ch provisions as could be hastily gotten together and placed before them. Among those who did this were my sister, Mrs. Troup Butler, and her neighbors, the Bacons, so frequently mentioned in this part of the diary. My sister says that she had eve My sister's white family at the time of our arrival consisted of herself and two little children, Tom and Julia, and Mr. Butler's invalid sister, Mrs. Julia Meals, a pious widow of ample means which it was her chief ambition in life to spend in doirely submerged and we had to stand on the seats to keep our feet dry. It was nine o'clock before we reached home, and Mrs. Butler and Mrs. Meals had become so uneasy that they were about to send a man on horseback to see what had become of us. I fots; as dear old father expressed it: Go where you please, when you please, do what you please and call on Mr. Farley or Mr. Butler for all the money you need. That is the way I like to be treated. I think now we will go to Chunnennuggee by way of E
oor, down-trodden creature! what a text for Mrs. Stowe! She has relented since then, however, and Cousin Bessie says often sends her presents of delicious rolls and light bread. She took me into favor at once, told me all about her rheumatiz, and de spiration of her heart, and kissed my hand fervently when I went away. Capt. Rust was so afraid of being left again that he would not wait for the omnibus, but trotted me off on foot an hour ahead of time, although it was raining. We met Mr. Wheatley and Maj. Daniel on our way to the depot, and they told us that a dispatch had just been received stating that the Yanks have landed at St. Mark's and are marching on Tallahassee. We first heard they were 4,000 strong, but before we reached the depot, their numbers had swelled to 15,000. March 9, Thursday Mrs. Warren gave a dinner party to which all the people from Gopher Hill and a good many from Albany were invited, but very few attended on account of the weather. It poured down
Greenlee Butler (search for this): chapter 3
received into private houses and cared for by the women of the South till the end of the war. My sister's white family at the time of our arrival consisted of herself and two little children, Tom and Julia, and Mr. Butler's invalid sister, Mrs. Julia Meals, a pious widow of ample means which it was her chief ambition in life to spend in doing good. The household was afterwards increased by the arrival of Mrs. Julia Butler (also called in the diary, Mrs. Green Butler) the widow of Mr. Greenlee Butler, who had died not long before in the army. He was the elder and only brother of my sister's husband. Col. Maxwell, of Gopher Hill, was an uncle of my brother-in-law, the owner of several large plantations, where he was fond of practicing the oldtime Southern hospitality. The Cousin Bolling so frequently mentioned, was Dr. Bolling A. Pope, a stepson of my mother's youngest sister, Mrs. Alexander Pope, of Washington, Ga., the Aunt Cornelia spoken of in a later chapter. He was in Ber
frey, but I don't like the square dances very much. The Prince Imperial is too slow and stately, and so complicated that the men never know what to do with themselves. Even the Lancers are tame in comparison with a waltz or a galop. I love the galop and the Deux Temps better than any. We kept it up till two o'clock in the morning, and then walked home. While going our rounds in the morning, we found a very important person in Peter Louis, a paroled Yankee prisoner, in the employ of Capt. Bonham. The captain keeps him out of the stockade, feeds and clothes him, and in return, reaps the benefit of his skill. Peter is a French Yankee, Everybody that fought in the Union army was classed by us as a Yankee, whether Southern Union men, foreigners, or negroes; hence the expressions Irish Yankee, Dutch Yankee, black Yankee, etc., in contradistinction to the Simon-pure native product, the Yankee par excellence. a shoemaker by trade, and makes as beautiful shoes as I ever saw importe
peritual songs, in contradistinction to the hymns that the preachers read to them in church, out of a book, and seem to enjoy them a great deal more. One of them has a quick, lively melody, which they sing to a string of words like these: Mary an' Marthy, feed my lambs, Feed my lambs, feed my lambs; Mary an' Marthy, feed my lambs, Settin‘ on de golden altar. I weep, I moan; what mek I moan so slow? I won'er ef a Zion traveler have gone along befo‘. Mary an' Marthy, feed my lambs, etc. Paul de ‘postle, feed my lambs, Feed my lambs, feed my lambs and so on, through as many Bible names as they could think of. Another of their sperrituals runs on this wise: I meet my soul at de bar of God, I heerd a mighty lumber. Hit was my sin fell down to hell Jes' like a clap er thunder. Mary she come runnin‘ by, Tell how she weep an' wonder. Mary washin‘ up Jesus' feet, De angel walkin‘ up de golden street, Run home, believer; oh, run home, believer! Run home, believer, run home.
ved somewhat with the cool weather, the tales that are told of the condition of things there last summer are appalling. Mrs. Brisbane heard all about it from Father Hamilton, a Roman Catholic priest from Macon, who has been working like a good Samaritan in those dens of filth and misery. It is a shame to us Protestants that we have let a Roman Catholic get so far ahead of us in this work of charity and mercy. Mrs. Brisbane says Father Hamilton told her that during the summer the wretched prisoners burrowed in the ground like moles to protect themselves from the sun. It was not safe to give them material to build shanties as they might use it for clubs to is in the hands of oppressors. One would think that the Poles, of all nations in the world, ought to sympathize with a people fighting for their liberties. Father Hamilton said that at one time the prisoners died at the rate of 150 a day, and he saw some of them die on the ground without a rag to lie on or a garment to cover the
Wallace Brumby (search for this): chapter 3
ld Aby despaired of ever getting us out of town, and when at last we started down the street, we had not gone a hundred yards when I saw a young officer in a captain's uniform running after us and we came to another halt. It turned out to be Wallace Brumby. He says that he left Washington two weeks ago, and is water-bound here, on his way to Florida, where some of his men are straggling about, if they haven't been swallowed up by the freshets that have disorganized everything. He promised to stop at Pine Bluff on his way down, and give us the news. Then Uncle Aby grew desperate, and seeing another squad of officers coming up to join Capt. Brumby, whipped up his horses and drove off without further ceremony. He was right to hurry, for the roads are so flooded that we had to travel 20 miles to get home. Everything is under water. In some places the front wheels were entirely submerged and we had to stand on the seats to keep our feet dry. It was nine o'clock before we reached hom
Joseph E. Johnston (search for this): chapter 3
t the Mallarys' till the creek became fordable, for we knew it would fall as rapidly as it had risen. We bid our soldier friends good-by, and drove away to the Mallarys', where we spent a pleasant day and night. Gen. and Mrs. Dahlgren called after dinner and said that we ought to have stopped with them. Mrs. Dahlgren is a beautiful woman, and only twentytwo years old, while her husband is over sixty. He is a pompous old fellow and entertained us by telling how his influence made Gen. Joseph E. Johnston commander-in-chief of the Army of Tennessee; how Hood lost Atlanta by not following his (Dahlgren's) advice; how he was the real inventor of the Dahlgren gun, which is generally attributed to his brother, the Yankee admiral-and so on. March 23, Thursday We left the Mallarys' soon after breakfast and were successful in crossing the creek. It seems hard to believe that this stream, which is giving so much trouble now, will be as dry as a baked brick next summer. The road on t
Old Dame Wiggins (search for this): chapter 3
did not get a full choir. At their praise meetings they go through with all sorts of motions in connection with their songs, but they won't give way to their wildest gesticulations or engage in their sacred dances before white people, for fear of being laughed at. They didn't get out of their seats while I was there, but whenever the sperrit of the song moved them very much, would pat their feet and flap their arms and go through with a number of motions that reminded me of the game of Old Dame Wiggins that we used to play when we were children. They call these native airs little speritual songs, in contradistinction to the hymns that the preachers read to them in church, out of a book, and seem to enjoy them a great deal more. One of them has a quick, lively melody, which they sing to a string of words like these: Mary an' Marthy, feed my lambs, Feed my lambs, feed my lambs; Mary an' Marthy, feed my lambs, Settin‘ on de golden altar. I weep, I moan; what mek I moan so slow?
Dutch Yankee (search for this): chapter 3
k in the morning, and then walked home. While going our rounds in the morning, we found a very important person in Peter Louis, a paroled Yankee prisoner, in the employ of Capt. Bonham. The captain keeps him out of the stockade, feeds and clothes him, and in return, reaps the benefit of his skill. Peter is a French Yankee, Everybody that fought in the Union army was classed by us as a Yankee, whether Southern Union men, foreigners, or negroes; hence the expressions Irish Yankee, Dutch Yankee, black Yankee, etc., in contradistinction to the Simon-pure native product, the Yankee par excellence. a shoemaker by trade, and makes as beautiful shoes as I ever saw imported from France. My heart quite softened towards him when I saw his handiwork, and little Mrs. Sims was so overcome that she gave him a huge slice of her Confederate fruit cake. I talked French with him, which pleased him greatly, and Mett and I engaged him to make us each a pair of shoes. I will feel like a lady on
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