May 9th.—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 “‘leven 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.
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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.
