Virginia Commissioners here. Mr. Staples and Mr. Edmonston
came to see me. They say Virginia “has no grievance; she comes out on a point
of honor; could she stand by and see her sovereign sister States invaded?”
Sumter Anderson has been offered a Kentucky regiment. Can
they raise a regiment in Kentucky against us? In Kentucky, our sister
State?
Suddenly General Beauregard and his aide (the last left him
of the galaxy who surrounded him in Charleston), John Manning, have gone — Heaven
knows where, but out on a war-path certainly. Governor Manning called himself “the
last rose of summer left blooming alone” of that fancy staff. A new fight will
gather them again. Ben McCulloch, the Texas Ranger, is here, and Mr. Ward,1
my “Gutta Percha” friend's colleague from Texas. Senator Ward in appearance is
the exact opposite of Senator Hemphill. The latter, with the face of an old
man, has the hair of a boy of twenty. Mr. Ward is fresh and fair, with blue
eyes and a boyish face, but his head is white as snow. Whether he turned it
white in a single night or by slower process I do not know, but it is strangely
out of keeping with his clear young eye. He is thin, and has a queer stooping
figure.
This story he told me of his own experience. On a Western
steamer there was a great crowd and no unoccupied berth, or sleeping place of
any sort whatsoever in the gentlemen's cabin — saloon, I think they called it.
He had taken a stateroom, 110, but he could not eject the people who had already
seized it and were asleep in it. Neither could the Captain. It would have been
a case of revolver or “eleven inch Bowie-knife.”
Near the ladies' saloon the steward took pity on him. “This
man,” said he, “is 110, and I can find no place for him, poor fellow.” There was
a peep out of bright eyes: “I say, steward, have you a man 110 years old out
there? Let us see him. He must be a natural curiosity.” “We are overcrowded,”
was the answer, “and we can't find a place for him to sleep.” “Poor old soul;
bring him in here. We will take care of him.”
“Stoop and totter,” sniggered .the steward to No. 110, “and
go in.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Ward, “how those houris patted and pitied me
and hustled me about and gave me the best berth! I tried not to look; I knew it
was wrong, but I looked. I saw them undoing their back hair and was lost in
amazement at the collapse when the huge hoop-skirts fell off, unheeded on the
cabin floor.”
One beauty who was disporting herself near his curtain
suddenly caught his eye. She stooped and gathered up her belongings as she
said: “I say, stewardess, your old hundred and ten is a humbug. His eyes are
too blue for anything,” and she fled as he shut himself in, nearly frightened
to death. I forget how it ended. There was so much laughing at his story I did
not hear it all. So much for hoary locks and their reverence-inspiring power!
Russell, the wandering English newspaper correspondent, was
telling how very odd some of our plantation habits were. He was staying at the
house of an ex-Cabinet Minister, and Madame would stand on the back piazza and
send her voice three fields off, calling a servant. Now that is not a Southern
peculiarity. Our women are soft, and sweet, low-toned, indolent, graceful,
quiescent. I dare say there are bawling, squalling, vulgar people everywhere.
_______________
1 Matthias Ward was a native of Georgia, but had
removed to Texas in 1836. He was twice a delegate to National Democratic
Conventions, and in 1858 was appointed to fill a vacancy from Texas in the
United States Senate, holding that office until 1860.
SOURCE: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin
and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 50-2
