Mr. Barnwell says democracies lead to untruthfulness. To be
always electioneering is to be always false; so both we and the Yankees are
unreliable as regards our own exploits. “How about empires? Were there ever
more stupendous lies than the Emperor Napoleon's?” Mr. Barnwell went on: “People
dare not tell the truth in a canvass; they must conciliate their constituents.
Now everybody in a democracy always wants an office; at least, everybody in
Richmond just now seems to want one.” Never heeding interruptions, he went on: “As
a nation, the English are the most truthful in the world.” “And so are our
country gentlemen: they own their constituents — at least, in some of the
parishes, where there are few whites; only immense estates peopled by negroes.”
Thackeray speaks of the lies that were told on both sides in the British wars
with France; England kept quite alongside of her rival in that fine art. England
lied then as fluently as Russell lies about us now.
Went to see Agnes De Leon, my Columbia school friend. She is
fresh from Egypt, and I wished to hear of the Nile, the crocodiles, the
mummies, the Sphinx, and the Pyramids. But her head ran upon Washington life,
such as we knew it, and her soul was here. No theme was possible but a
discussion of the latest war news.
Mr. Clayton, Assistant Secretary of State, says we spend two
millions a week. Where is all that money to come from? They don't want us to
plant cotton, but to make provisions. Now, cotton always means money, or did
when there was an outlet for it and anybody to buy it. Where is money to come
from now?
Mr. Barnwell's new joke, I dare say, is a Joe Miller, but
Mr. Barnwell laughed in telling it till he cried. A man was fined for contempt
of court and then, his case coming on, the Judge talked such arrant nonsense
and was so warped in his mind against the poor man, that the “fined one” walked
up and handed the august Judge a five-dollar bill, “Why? What is that for?” said
the Judge. “Oh, I feel such a contempt of this court coming on again!”
I came up tired to death; took down my hair; had it hanging
over me in a Crazy Jane fashion; and sat still, hands over my head (half undressed,
but too lazy and sleepy to move). I was sitting in a rocking-chair by an open
window taking my ease and the cool night air, when suddenly the door opened and
Captain walked in.
He was in the middle of the room before he saw his mistake;
he stared and was transfixed, as the novels say. I dare say I looked an ancient
Gorgon. Then, with a more frantic glare, he turned and fled without a word. I
got up and bolted the door after him, and then looked in the glass and laughed
myself into hysterics. I shall never forget to lock the door again. But it does
not matter in this case. I looked totally unlike the person bearing my name,
who, covered with lace cap, etc., frequents the drawing-room. I doubt if he
would know me again.
SOURCE: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin
and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 110-1
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