19, How to Pay for a Year’s Subscription to the Tennessee Baptist in War Time
What a Woman Can Do.
Jenkins Depot, Tenn., Sept. 16th, 1861.
Dear Bro. Graves:--Inclosed [sic] you will find two dollars, which is to pay you for the Tennessee Baptist for the present year.
Mr. Grace has been very hard run in his financial affairs this year, and I concluded that I could make money and pay you myself, so I went to work and soon found that it was not so hard a task as I had expected. A few pounds of butter, a few chickens, potatoes, or anything of this kind, will secure the amount for any one, and I think any one who is in arrears for the Tennessee Baptist could spare enough of poultry to pay for it. I do not miss what I have sold, and I would not be without the Tennessee Baptist for twice the amount. It is but little to us, but if all would do this it would amount to a considerable sum with you.
Yours in Christian love,
R. A. Grace,
for J. M. Grace.
Tennessee Baptist, October 19, 1861.
What a Woman Can Do.
Jenkins Depot, Tenn., Sept. 16th, 1861.
Dear Bro. Graves:--Inclosed [sic] you will find two dollars, which is to pay you for the Tennessee Baptist for the present year.
Mr. Grace has been very hard run in his financial affairs this year, and I concluded that I could make money and pay you myself, so I went to work and soon found that it was not so hard a task as I had expected. A few pounds of butter, a few chickens, potatoes, or anything of this kind, will secure the amount for any one, and I think any one who is in arrears for the Tennessee Baptist could spare enough of poultry to pay for it. I do not miss what I have sold, and I would not be without the Tennessee Baptist for twice the amount. It is but little to us, but if all would do this it would amount to a considerable sum with you.
Yours in Christian love,
R. A. Grace,
for J. M. Grace.
Tennessee Baptist, October 19, 1861.
19, A view from the inside of the Confederate hospital in Chattanooga; an entry from Kate Cumming’s diary
I have been kept quite busy ever since I came here; in fact, we all have been. We have a good deal to try us, but our minds were made up to expect that before we came. The stove smokes badly, and we find it almost impossible to do any thing [sic] with it; besides it is so small that we scarcely have room to cook on it what little we have. The surgeon, Dr. Hunter, like many other men, is totally ignorant of domestic arrangements, and also like many others, wholly unaware of his ignorance. The only consolation we get from him is a fabulous tale about a woman (a “Mrs. Harris”) who cooked for five hundred people on the same kind of a stove.
One of our greatest trials is want of proper diet for sick men. We do the best we can with what we have -- toast the bread and make beef-tea; and we have a little butter -- bad at that.
There are no changes of clothing for the men; but we have cloth, and after our day’s work is done, we each make a shirt, which is a great help. The last, though by no means the least, of our troubles is the steward who has taken a dislike to us, and annoys us in every little petty way possible. His wife has charge of the wards across the street from us. The assistant surgeon complains of her inattention to her duties in waiting on the sick.
A man, by the name of Watt Jones, died in my ward to-day [sic]; another, by the name of Allen Jones, yesterday -- both members of the Fourth Florida Regiment.
Our room is in the third story, facing the west; the view from it is really grand, and when worn out physically and mental, I derive great pleasure from looking out. On the north of us runs the Tennessee River; opposite that is a range of hills -- one rising above the other -- dotted with beautiful residences, surrounded by prettily laid out gardens. On the southwest is Lookout Mountain, its peak frowning down on the river which winds around its base -- looking like a lion couchant, ready to spring on its pray.
Cumming, A Journal of Hospital Life, p. 46.
I have been kept quite busy ever since I came here; in fact, we all have been. We have a good deal to try us, but our minds were made up to expect that before we came. The stove smokes badly, and we find it almost impossible to do any thing [sic] with it; besides it is so small that we scarcely have room to cook on it what little we have. The surgeon, Dr. Hunter, like many other men, is totally ignorant of domestic arrangements, and also like many others, wholly unaware of his ignorance. The only consolation we get from him is a fabulous tale about a woman (a “Mrs. Harris”) who cooked for five hundred people on the same kind of a stove.
One of our greatest trials is want of proper diet for sick men. We do the best we can with what we have -- toast the bread and make beef-tea; and we have a little butter -- bad at that.
There are no changes of clothing for the men; but we have cloth, and after our day’s work is done, we each make a shirt, which is a great help. The last, though by no means the least, of our troubles is the steward who has taken a dislike to us, and annoys us in every little petty way possible. His wife has charge of the wards across the street from us. The assistant surgeon complains of her inattention to her duties in waiting on the sick.
A man, by the name of Watt Jones, died in my ward to-day [sic]; another, by the name of Allen Jones, yesterday -- both members of the Fourth Florida Regiment.
Our room is in the third story, facing the west; the view from it is really grand, and when worn out physically and mental, I derive great pleasure from looking out. On the north of us runs the Tennessee River; opposite that is a range of hills -- one rising above the other -- dotted with beautiful residences, surrounded by prettily laid out gardens. On the southwest is Lookout Mountain, its peak frowning down on the river which winds around its base -- looking like a lion couchant, ready to spring on its pray.
Cumming, A Journal of Hospital Life, p. 46.
19, "A Contraband Funeral.”
We were forcibly reminded on Saturday last [19th] of the uncertainties of life by observing a contraband funeral passing solemnly down Front Row. The hearse was a light spring wagon, the body just long enough for half of the body in the coffin, on one end of which was the driver. Behind the hearse walked seven men, and in their rear, seven women. We could scarcely forbear quoting the lines of Horace, so appropriate[:] ” Eheu Posthume, Posthume!” as the lugubrious procession moved on. “There is no hard work for poor Uncle Ned.”
Memphis Bulletin, September 22, 1863
We were forcibly reminded on Saturday last [19th] of the uncertainties of life by observing a contraband funeral passing solemnly down Front Row. The hearse was a light spring wagon, the body just long enough for half of the body in the coffin, on one end of which was the driver. Behind the hearse walked seven men, and in their rear, seven women. We could scarcely forbear quoting the lines of Horace, so appropriate[:] ” Eheu Posthume, Posthume!” as the lugubrious procession moved on. “There is no hard work for poor Uncle Ned.”
Memphis Bulletin, September 22, 1863
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