Daily Advocate
Baton Rouge
May 9, 1861
Letter from Grace Hopper.
New Orleans, May 5th, 1861.
Messrs. Editors—To say that New Orleans is one “vast camp” would be to use a stereotype expression that every country editor and city correspondent has flourished through the type. The truth is that everything and everybody is thoroughly pervaded and carried away by the military spirit.
Of course, the men are full of it—bless them, that is one of their redeeming traits, and an all-pervading one. No man, however low-lived and mean he is—how narrowly next to nothing he may whittle down his soul in the pursuit of dollars—how much he may perspire out all the nobler traits of an originally noble heart in the gold sweating business—but what will rally to his country-s defense when her honor is involved. The women are not far behind them. The tramp of their little feet on the stone flags come down with a semi-military vim, and the constant fusilade of their tittle-tattle would, if concentrated in one stream, put to flight a full regiment of Yankees.
These sewing societies, patriotically got up to equip our citizen-soldiery, are a credit to both city and country, but is not their usefulness impaired by one little drawback? Don’t the sex talk a little too much? You can’t get much out of a man—the brute may be out on the streets all day—get a hold of all the nice bits of news and when he comes home to his family at night, he will set quiet as an old grey cat, and absorb all the news that his better-half has picked up during the day through the medium of servants and tattlers, (only a few use this medium). But with the ladies it is otherwise. Their sewing societies constitute the central heart of the social nervous system. All sorts of vague rumors of insurrection are engendered and brought home, and if this thing continues, the main body of our fighting men will be compelled to stay at home.
Who is there, who will reflect calmly about this matter, and then distrust our loyal slaves? The utterances of idle tongues, like a faint thrill of wind of the coming storm, forces a vacuum in the still atmosphere of confident security which pervades Southern society—the vacuum is filled by wise utterances from addle-pated men, and the next thing we have all the
terrors of a moonshine insurrection.
terrors of a moonshine insurrection.
If this is to continue—this dreadful phantasm, gotten up by the weak and foolish, Mr. Jeff Davis had better at once accept peace on any terms—for our fighting men will have to tear from their necks the clinging arms of their wives—spurn from their knees their terror-stricken ones and go forth, not as now, cheered by the smiles of the one, and the foyish shouts of the other to do battle for their native land.
Women of the South!—away with such thoughts—turn the cold shoulder to the thoughtless feminine, who comes to you with her “they says,” and join with the men in frowning down with the very essence of contempt those weak-minded men who are inventing constantly these startling rumors.
May heaven bless our holy cause—and, oh! may nothing emanating from the lips of Southern women prove its bane and our downfall.
Grace Hopper.