JUNE 8TH—This morning Col. Bledsoe came in with his letters, some fifty in number, looking haggard and worn. It was, indeed, a vast number. But with one of his humorous smiles, he said they were short. He asked me to look over them, and I found them mainly appropriate responses to the letters marked for answer, and pretty closely in accordance with the Secretary’s dictation. In one or two instances, however, he had been unable to decipher the Secretary’s most difficult chirography—for be had no idea of punctuation. In these instances he had wholly misconcieved the meaning, and the replies were exactly the reverse of what they were intended to be. These he tore up, and wrote others before submitting any to the Secretary.
I had only written some thirty letters; but mine were longer—longer than there was any necessity for. I told the colonel that the Secretary had a partiality for “full” letters, especially when addressing any of his friends; and that Major Tyler, who had returned, and was then sitting with the Secretary, rarely dismissed one from his pen under less than three pages. The colonel smiled, and said when there was nothing further to say, it was economy to say nothing. He then carried his letters into the Secretary’s office, clearing his throat according to custom on passing a door. I trembled for him; for I knew Mr. Walker had an aversion to signing his name to letters of merely two or three lines. He returned again immediately, saying the Secretary was busy. He left the letters, however.
Presently Major Tyler came out of the Secretary’s room with several voluminous letters in his own handwriting, duly signed. The major greeted the colonel most cordially; and in truth his manners of a gentleman are so innate that I believe it would be utterly impossible for him to be clownish or rude in his address, if he were to make a serious effort to be so.
The major soon left us and reentered the Secretary’s office; but returned immediately bearing the colonel’s fifty letters, which he placed before him and then retired. The very first one the colonel’s eye rested upon, brought the color to his face. Every line in it had been effaced, and quite a different answer substituted in pencil marks between the lines! “I wrote that,” said the colonel, “according to his own dictation.” And as every letter carried in its fold the one to which it was a reply, he exhibited the Secretary’s words in pencil marks. The colonel was right. The Secretary had omitted the little word “not”; and hence the colonel had written to the Georgian : “Your company of cavalry is accepted.” The Secretary refused almost uniformly to accept cavalry, and particularly Georgia cavalry. I took blame to myself for not discovering this blunder previously. But the colonel, with his rapid pen, soon wrote another answer. About one-half the letters had to be written over again; and the colonel, smiling, and groaning, and perspiring so extravagantly that he threw off his coat, and occupied himself several hours in preparing the answers in accordance with the Secretary’s corrections. And when they were done, Mr. S. S. Scott, who was to copy them in the letter-book, complimented the colonel on their brevity. In response to this, the colonel said, unfortunately, he wished he, Scott, were the secretary. Scott abused every one who wrote a long letter.
