Arkansas Civil War

(The following is from the December, 2011 issue of “The Iron Brigade”, the official newsletter of the J.O. Shelby SCV Camp in Harrison, Arkansas.

Old Capitol Prison,
Washington, D.C., Nov. 10, 1865

My dearest wife and children

When these lines reach you, the hand that wrote will be stiff and cold. In a few hours from now I shall be dead. Oh, if I could express myself as I wish – if I could tell you what I have suffered when I thought and the children! I must leave you without means to live to the miseries of a cold cruel world. Lize, do not grieve, do not despair; we will meet again in a better world. Console yourself, think as I do that I die innocent. Who knows better than you that all these tales of cruelties and murders are infamous lies, and why should I not say it?

A great many do call me hard hearted, because I tell them that I am not guilty – that I have nothing to confess. Oh, think for a moment how the thought that I must suffer and die innocent, must sustain me in the last terrible hour, that when I stand before my Maker, I can say “Lord, of these things you know I am not guilty. I have sinned often and rebelled againt Thee. Oh, let my unmerited death be an atonement”. Lize, I die reconciled; I die, as I hope, as a Christian. This is His holy will that I should die, and therefore let us say with Christ “Thy will, oh Lord, be done.”

I hardly know what to say. Oh, let me beg you do not give away to despair. Think that I am going to my Father, to your Father, to the Father of all, and that there I hope to meet you. Live for the dear children. Oh, do take good care of Cora, kiss her for me. Kiss Susan and Cornelia, and tell them to live so that we may meet again in the heaven above the skies. Tell them that my last thought, my last prayer, shall be for them.

You ask me about Cora’s schooling. My dear wife, you must do now as you think best. In regard to your going to Europe, I would advise you to wait until you hear from there. I have written to my father; if he should be dead, my brother, I hope, is still alive. I send you his address. You had better get a certificate of our marriage – also of Cora’s birth, and have them approved before a magistrate. If you should go to Europe you will need them. I shall hand this letter to Mr. Schade, who will send it to you, with some other papers and books. This is all I can leave you; but no, I can leave you something more, something better – my blessing. God bless you and protect you. God give you what you stand in need of and grant that you all so live that when you die, you can say: Lord, Thou called me, here I am! And now farewell, wife, children, all. I will and must close; farewell, farewell. God be with us.

Your unfortunate husband and father
H. Wirz.

A transcript of this letter with handwritten remarks from Hans Georg Wirz (grand-nephew of Captain Henry Wirz, father of Heinrich L. Wirz) is located in the Wirz family archives, Zentralbibliothek, Zürich, Switzerland. This letter was published in several American newspapers, for example in the “New York Times” from November 13, 1865. It is not known, if the original still exists.

This week’s “150 Years Ago…” column again reminds the reader that newspapers served many purposes in 1860. As noted in earlier columns, 1860 newspapers were a source of education, news, and entertainment, to only name a few.

Before reading this week’s primary source, the reader must be informed that America had yet to fully embrace compulsory education. There was no orthodoxy set in schooling and the ability to read and write were highly localized. The author of the following poem gets their point across, but notice the phoenetical method the poet uses:

[FAYETTEVILLE, ARK.] THE ARKANSIAN, July 28, 1860, p. 1, c. 7

I Wud Knott Dye in Wintur.
Bi the Orthor of “Thorts on a Faded Boka.”

I wud knott dye in wintur,
When whiskie punchiz flo—
When pooty gals are skeetin’
Oar fealds of ice & sno—
When sassidge meet is phrying
& Hickeri knuts is thick;
Owe! who kud thunk ov dighing,
Or even getting sick?

I wud knott dye in spring tiem,
& miss the turn up greans,
& the pooty song ov the leetle frawgs,
& the ski larkes airly screem;
When burds begin thare wobbling
& taters gin to sprowt—
When turkies go a gobblering,
I wud not then peg out.

I wud knott dye in summer,
& leeve the garding soss—
The roastie lam & buttur-milk—
The cool plase in the gras;
I wud nott dye in summer,
When every thing’s so hott,
& leeve the whiski Jew-lips—
Owe KNOW! ide rather nott.

I wud nott di in ortum,
With peeches fitt for erting;
When the wavy korn is gitting wripe,
& kandidates are treeting.
For these, and uther reesons,
Ide nott di in the phall;
& sence ive thort it over,
I wud not die a tall.

Happy Thanksgiving from The Arkansas Toothpick! While searching for a relevant subject to post on this Thanksgiving season, the Toothpick staff ran across an 1826 article from the Arkansas newspaper. Arkansas was still a territory (10 years prior to statehood). This was no regular article, but rather a poem about our patriots. We could not think of a better piece to to share with the world during this time of giving thanks than the following poem, as we should all give thanks to our patriots, our veterans, our heroes that have made America great:

The Patriot’s Grave

The flowerets are fair, where the ash and the oak
Have twisted their roots in the rifts of the rock;
The flowerets are fair where the mountains are high,
And fair, where the valley is far from the sky;
But, birth to no blossom the earth ever gave,
So far as the flower on the patriot’s grave.

If far by the shore, or the wilds or the shade,
The patriot’s relics be silently laid;
The spirits that moan the wild regions of air,
Heaven’s honey shall gather and scatter there;
The primrose shall bloom and the violet wave
Oh no flower, like that on the patriot’s grave.

And there shall the bard wake his anthem sublime,
And sweet as the hymns in the childhood of time,
Shall tell of the coarse all so brilliantly run,
Of the freeman subdued, and the liberty won;
And the fair maids shall say, and the tale of the brave,
Oh, no flower’s like the flower on the patriot’s grave.

It blooms on the breast whick was tender, yet bold,
To freedom aye true, and to love never cold;
It blooms on the bosom, that dauntless the while
Stood forth the warm guardian of the children and isle;
Whose power could repel, and whose influence save;
Oh, no flower’s like the flower on the patriot’s grave.

The morn is fair, the hour bright,
And singing birds are gay;
But in my musing mood I sit
And dream of one away.
The flowers bloom, and birds sing on,
But still my thoughts will flee,
With brighter hopes and sweeter chime,
To rest, dear one, with thee.

By Edna Cora

Peterson’s Magazine, Feb. 1861

By my widely open casement,
Where the crimson roses cling—
In the moonlight I’ve been sitting,
Singing songs we used to sing.
I’ve been waiting for thy coming,
But my watching has been vain,
For I hear not yet the foot-fall
Of thy steed upon the plain.
Once I thought I heard thee coming,
And my heart throbbed with delight,
But when forth sprang to greet thee,
‘Twas a stranger met my sight.
Sad and dreary I turned backward,
Sought my lonely room again,
And for hours I have been sitting,
Waiting there for thee in vain.
Now the Summer moon is waning,
Soon the stars will fade from sight;
I must seek repose, my darling,
I will watch no more to-night.
May bright angels guard thy slumber,
Bring dreams of love to thee,
And to-morrow’s cheerful sunlight
Send thee safely home to me.

By Antoinette LaValle

Peterson’s Magazine, February 1865