I was compelled to
send my excuses to Governor Pettus, and remained quietly within the house of my
host, entreating him to protect me from visitors and especially my own confreres,
that I might secure a few hours even in that ardent heat to write letters
to home. Now, there is some self-denial required, if one be at all solicitous
of the popularis aura, to offend the susceptibilities of the irritable
genus in America. It may make all the difference between millions of people
hearing and believing you are a high-toned, whole souled gentleman or a
wretched, ignorant and prejudiced John Bull; but, nevertheless, the solid
pudding of self-content and the satisfaction of doing one's work are preferable
to the praise even of a New York newspaper editor.
When my work was
over I walked out and sat in the shade with a gentleman whose talk turned upon
the practices of the Mississippi duello. Without the smallest animus, and in
the most natural way in the world, he told us tale after tale of blood, and
recounted terrible tragedies enacted outside bars of hotels and in the public
streets close beside us. The very air seemed to become purple as he spoke, the
land around a veritable “Aceldama.” There may, indeed, be security for
property, but there is none for the life of its owner in difficulties, who may
be shot by a stray bullet from a pistol as he walks up the street.
I learned many
valuable facts. I was warned, for example, against the impolicy of trusting to
small-bored pistols or to pocket six-shooters in case of a close fight, because
suppose you hit your man mortally he may still run in upon you and rip you up
with a bowie-knife before he falls dead; whereas if you drive a good heavy
bullet into him, or make a hole in him with a “Derringer” ball, he gets
faintish and drops at once.
Many illustrations,
too, were given of the value of practical lessons of this sort. One
particularly struck me. If a gentleman with whom you are engaged in altercation
moves his hand towards his breeches pocket, or behind his back, you must smash
him or shoot him at once, for he is either going to draw his six-shooter, to
pull out a bowie-knife, or to shoot you through the lining of his pocket. The
latter practice is considered rather ungentlemanly, but it has somewhat been
more honored lately in the observance than in the breach. In fact, the savage
practice of walking about with pistols, knives, and poniards, in bar-rooms and
gambling-saloons, with passions ungoverned, because there is no law to punish
the deeds to which they lead, affords facilities for crime which an uncivilized
condition of society leaves too often without punishment, but which must be put
down or the country in which it is tolerated will become as barbarous as a
jungle inhabited by wild beasts.
Our host gave me an
early dinner, at which I met some of the citizens of Jackson, and at six
o'clock I proceeded by the train for Memphis. The carriages were, of course,
full of soldiers or volunteers, bound for a large camp at a place called
Corinth, who made night hideous by their song and cries, stimulated by enormous
draughts of whiskey and a proportionate consumption of tobacco, by teeth and by
fire. The heat in the carriages added to the discomforts arising from these
causes, and from great quantities of biting insects in the sleeping places. The
people have all the air and manners of settlers. Altogether the impression
produced on my mind was by no means agreeable, and I felt as if I was indeed in
the land of Lynch-law and bowie-knives, where the passions of men have not yet
been subordinated to the influence of the tribunals of justice. Much of this
feeling has no doubt been produced by the tales to which I have been listening
around me — most of which have a smack of manslaughter about them.
SOURCE: William Howard Russell, My Diary North and
South, p. 300-1
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