A freshman came quite eager to be instructed in all the
wiles of society. He wanted to try his hand at a flirtation, and requested
minute instructions, as he knew nothing whatever: he was so very fresh. “Dance
with her,” he was told, “and talk with her; walk with her and natter her; dance
until she is warm and tired; then propose to walk in a cool, shady piazza. It
must be a somewhat dark piazza. Begin your promenade slowly; warm up to your
work; draw her arm closer and closer; then, break her wing.”
“Heavens, what is that — break her wing?” “Why, you do not
know even that? Put your arm round her waist and kiss her. After that, it is
all plain sailing. She comes down when you call like the coon to Captain Scott:
‘You need not fire, Captain,’ etc.”
The aspirant for fame as a flirt followed these lucid
directions literally, but when he seized the poor girl and kissed her, she
uplifted her voice in terror, and screamed as if the house was on fire. So
quick, sharp, and shrill were her yells for help that the bold flirt sprang
over the banister, upon which grew a strong climbing rose. This he struggled
through, and ran toward the college, taking a bee line. He was so mangled by
the thorns that he had to go home and have them picked out by his family. The
girl's brother challenged him. There was no mortal combat, however, for the gay
young fellow who had led the freshman's ignorance astray stepped forward and
put things straight. An explanation and an apology at every turn hushed it all
up.
Now, we all laughed at this foolish story most heartily. But
Mr. Venable remained grave and preoccupied, and was asked: “Why are you so
unmoved? It is funny.” “I like more probable fun; I have been in college and I
have kissed many a girl, but never a one scrome yet.”
Last Saturday was the bloodiest we have had in proportion to
numbers.1 The enemy lost 1,500. The handful left at home are rushing
to arms at last. Bragg has gone to join Beauregard at Columbus, Miss, Old Abe
truly took the field in that Scotch cap of his.
Mrs. McCord,2 the eldest daughter of Langdon
Cheves, got up a company for her son, raising it at her own expense. She has
the brains and energy of a man. To-day she repeated a remark of a low-country gentleman,
who is dissatisfied: “This Government (Confederate) protects neither person nor
property.'” Fancy the scornful turn of her lip! Some one asked for Langdon
Cheves, her brother. “Oh, Langdon!” she replied coolly, “he is a pure patriot;
he has no ambition. While I was there, he was letting Confederate soldiers
ditch through his garden and ruin him at their leisure.”
Cotton is five cents a pound and labor of no value at all;
it commands no price whatever. People gladly hire out their negroes to have
them fed and clothed, which latter can not be done. Cotton osnaburg at 37½ cents a yard, leaves no chance to
clothe them. Langdon was for martial law and making the bloodsuckers disgorge
their ill-gotten gains. We, poor fools, who are patriotically ruining ourselves
will see our children in the gutter while treacherous dogs of millionaires go
rolling by in their coaches — coaches that were acquired by taking advantage of
our necessities.
This terrible battle of the ships — Monitor, Merrimac, etc.
All hands on board the Cumberland went down. She fought gallantly and fired a
round as she sank. The Congress ran up a white flag. She fired on our boats as
they went up to take off her wounded. She was burned. The worst of it is that
all this will arouse them to more furious exertions to destroy us. They hated
us so before, but how now?
In Columbia I do not know a half-dozen men who would not
gaily step into Jeff Davis's shoes with a firm conviction that they would do
better in every respect than he does. The monstrous conceit, the fatuous
ignorance of these critics! It is pleasant to hear Mrs. McCord on this subject,
when they begin to shake their heads and tell us what Jeff Davis ought to do.
_______________
1 On March 7 and 8, 1862, occurred the battle of
Pea Ridge in Western Arkansas, where the Confederates were defeated, and on
March 8th and 9th, occurred the conflict in Hampton Roads between the warships
Merrimac, Cumberland, Congress, and Monitor.
2 Louisa Susanna McCord, whose husband was David
J. McCord, a lawyer of Columbia, who died in 1855. She was educated in
Philadelphia, and was the author of several books of verse, including Caius
Gracchus, a tragedy; she was also a brilliant pamphleteer,
SOURCE: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin
and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 138-40
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