Journal of the Association for Thuringian History and Archaeology

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"Those who crossed the sea... A Thuringian emigrant writes from America during the Civil War to his father (1863)"

 

Dr. H. Tümmler, Erfurt

 

The great emigration movement of the 19th century rightly appears to the fervent minds of our time as one of the most painful losses in the history of our nation. Hundreds of thousands of Germans, especially since the end of the Wars of Liberation, strove out of political disappointment, severe economic hardship, religious enthusiasm, but often also out of a desire for adventure, to distant North America with its "untouched possibilities." The last and most important reason for this great German migration movement can be summed up as "Volk without space": our Volk, with its rapidly growing population, was, since it lacked the ability to unite into a powerful state, too late for the distribution of the world and therefore came up short. Thus, the surplus went abroad, took the greatest part in the establishment of the German state, made the greatest sacrifices for it, often wasted itself even more on it, but in the long run was all too often lost to German society. 1) While during the first half of the 19th century the tribes of the German sub-west had constituted the bulk of the emigrants, shortly before the middle of the century a shift in the areas of origin occurred. 2) Central and North Germany increasingly came to the fore, and since the critical times, increasing numbers have been emigrating. In the 1840s, Thuringian compatriots also traveled across the sea.

Almost every Thuringian clan provided its emigrants at that time, and some can still report on them today.  The history of the Thuringian emigration movement has not yet been comprehensively documented.

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Here, as a small contribution to the history of Thuringian emigration, a letter from a native German-American to his father,  a ducal chamberlain, Carl Friedrich Felix Tümmler (1808-1871), is published. The letter reveals nothing of the reasons that led the young pastor to emigrate, or at most, it hints at very personal reasons between the lines. However, it does provide information about how the author established a livelihood over there in the state of Indiana (USA), and gains a certain general interest due to the fact that the American Civil War, which was raging at the time, formed the background to the young Thuringian's experiences and naturally also enlivened his account. At that time (1861-1865), in a terrible war fought with modern weapons, the Northern states faced the Southern states in North America, which had seceded from the Union after Lincoln's election as President and formed an independent state. With difficulty, the North ultimately achieved victory. Like most Germans living in America, who hoped that a Northern victory would strengthen their national interests and who achieved astonishing things to preserve the Union, our letter writer was wholeheartedly on the side of the North.

 

Goblesereer, August 9, 1863.

My address:

Charles Tümmler,

Blue Creek P.O.,

Franklin County,

Indiana.

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Dear Father!

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It may well surprise you that you haven't heard from me for so long, but I hope you weren't too worried about me because of it. I wrote my last letter to you in April of last year, if I'm not mistaken, and haven't written since. Nothing came of the marriage for the time being, and I had firmly resolved not to write home again until I had something proper to announce, at the very least my marriage. However, since my hopes had been dashed for once, there was little prospect of that. I once again had to fight through a very difficult time. My prospects in New Philadelphia had already begun to bleak since the outbreak of the unfortunate war.

 

We had just built the little church and gotten into debt, and wartime, when general discontent alienates the minds of ordinary people from the higher interests of life, well enough, a great lukewarmness suddenly swept through the congregation, which I was unable to overcome despite all my efforts.  Added to this was the fact that over time, several members of the congregation adopted the military uniform, and thus the already small group shrank not imperceptibly. But I held out and accepted the election as the congregation's preacher (the election is renewed every year), despite the low income.

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At first, things seemed to be getting better again, and it was as if new spiritual life was returning. People had already gotten used to the war a little, and the Germans seemed to be able to tie special hopes of an elevated national position in America to the outcome of the war. But, to cut a long story short, this new zeal soon cooled again, I became quite grumpy, and the end of it was, after another year of plodding along, I accepted my discharge in the fall of last year. Another place had already been found for me. Brookville, my former congregation, had invited me back to take up the preaching office there. So, after a three-year stay within its walls (which, however, only exist in the idea), I left New Philadelphia and moved back to Brookville, Indiana, Franklin County.  I didn't set up my home in the town itself, but rather sought a nice place in the country near Brookville with decent people.

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I soon found one with the help of a good friend, whose hospitality I availed myself of. (In America, preachers aren't cared for as much as in Germany; they mostly have to fend for themselves—otherwise, I personally wouldn't have had to worry about finding an apartment.) However, even before I arrived in my new quarters, I had this misfortune while taking a walk through the woods, carrying my rifle, and wounded my right arm. I escaped fortunately; it could have cost me my life, but it was a long, drawn-out operation before the wound healed and I could use my arm. This incident didn't cost me any other expenses, because the doctor, an American, did everything for free because it was for a preacher, but it still had a very upsetting and disturbing effect on me. How did the shot happen, you ask? I stumbled and the loaded rifle went off, and there I lay, bleeding. Otherwise, everything went well.

 

There are still three rural congregations near Brookville, none of which had a preacher at the time. I gradually received invitations from all three to give trial sermons and accepted. I don't preach for all four congregations every Sunday, but only for two at a time. They now have church one Sunday after the other. Admittedly, they are all small, but together they provide me with a salary of $400. If you're reading this, you're probably thinking to yourself that I could save up some money, but first, everything is incredibly expensive now because of the war, and second, I've already been married for a few months, and furnishing it costs a few months. at least for the last first year of my service to the local parish.

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Yes, dear Father, I have finally entered the harbor—if not of peace, then at least of marriage. When I least expected it, I have found a life partner who understands me, and a life companion who understands me, and whom I had imagined and wished for in my most beautiful dreams.  Her name is Marie, née Hahn, a native of Kassel, and is at the beautiful age of 20, blooming with youth and very talented.

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We quickly met; our hearts first met in the church during the sanctuary service. I asked for her hand, she said "I do," we traveled to Cincinnati, were married by my friend Eisenlohr, and have since lived in the small rectory of one of my rural parishioners.

 

My extensive official duties made it necessary for me to get a horse. I got a very beautiful four-year-old horse with a yellow coat, long mane and tail (similar to your foals?), but, I think, even more beautiful, for $77, which, given the prices, is worth its $120. You should watch me groom, comb, and brush my horse, which is quite lively to boot, because in this country, one has to be one's own John, although I would certainly prefer to have a mate to do it for me. How often have I thought, as I rode along so stately: If your father were to suddenly come towards you, how surprised he would be, what joy he would have! Sometimes I also rent a cart in the neighborhood and have the horse harnessed—because I hadn't learned how to do that yet—and then my wife and I drive together. It's so beautiful—

If I should briefly describe our apartment to you, it has two rooms. One room is used for general living, and the other is where we work and sleep; that's our sanctum sanctorum. For a pantry and lumber room, we have a bed on one side, and a so-called "smoke house," like the ones they have in America, for smoking hams, side dishes, and sausages. Around the cottage are fields that also belong to the pastor's house. However, we only own about six acres; the other is leased. We had three acres sown with oats, and three are planted with corn or maize. A short distance from the cottage, on the west side, separated from it by an open grassy area, is the stable and next to it the container where the corn is usually stored.  Incidentally, all our household goods are made of metal, which is quite interesting to me.   

 

In front of the cottage, we have painstakingly planted a small garden ourselves, in which vegetables and flowers flourish in luxuriant abundance, and which also boasts a rather beautiful vine arbor. On the other side, east of our house, lies a small orchard in which the apple trees are so richly laden this year that one would think they might collapse under their weight. Behind the orchard, a fence extends into the valley, and opposite our hut, on a slope where the road meets another, stands the little church, surrounded by the churchyard. Well, you can now get a rough idea of ​​what it's like if you add to all this a black, white-speckled cow grazing in one of the now-harvested fields, and who my wife has to milk every morning and evening in community with me.

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Now you would certainly like to know something about the state of political events and what the North's prospects for victory and the entire country's prospects for peace are. However, I won't write you anything more about that now, as I have a very stubborn, scribble-like, and critical steel pen, with which I have already written too much for my, and perhaps your, patience; as for us, you learn everything from newspapers just as accurately as we can ever know it here.

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I just want to mention one thing briefly: a few weeks ago, we had the famous gang of robbers of the American Schinderhannes, John Morgan, very close by. In many places not far from where we live, they burned, plundered, stole horses, devastated fields, and the like. That caused a stir, a fear among the people! However, there were also many who rejoiced at Morgan's invasion of Indiana, and it is probably not unreasonable to suspect that a secret society of Southern sympathizers treacherously invited him and promised him a large contingent of auxiliary troops. However, matters took a completely different turn than Morgan and his friends had expected. The former, along with his gang, was captured and is now a resident of the Columbus Penitentiary (7). The latter, his fellow-thinkers in the North, have once again become quiet and subdued. A major success, however, has been achieved, to which one can now pin hopes for an imminent victory for the North and the Union. Vicksburg, an almost impregnable natural fortress blocking the entire Mississippi, finally fell into the hands of the unfriendly on July 4 after a long siege and assault. The first steamer from New Orleans has now safely arrived in St. Louis. That must have been a shout; for Americans love boisterous expressions of their joy. All eyes are now on the siege of Charleston, the capital of South Carolina.

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But now I will conclude, although I could still write much. My wife is not at home now, as I close this letter, otherwise she would add a few more lines. Would you like to see her picture? You shall, God willing, soon. I have received your letter, which you wrote to me in New Philadelphia.

 

Heinrich's picture adorns our wall cornice, admired by all. Warm greetings and

kisses from me and my wife, who, judging by the description, knows the whole family, to

Mother, Luise, Julius, Pauline, Max, Heinrich. Write again soon! Luise

should pick up her pen again sometime. Warm greetings to all friends

and acquaintances, whom space and time prohibit me from naming now;

because I have to get on my horse right away, it's Sunday morning.

Warm greetings and hugs!

Your faithful son Karl