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.
May 13th.—We have been down from Montgomery on the boat to that God-forsaken landing, Portland, Ala. Found everybody drunk—that is, the three men who were there. At last secured a carriage to carry us to my brother-in-law’s house. Mr. Chesnut had to drive seven miles, pitch dark, over an unknown road. My heart was in my mouth, which last I did not open.
Next day a patriotic person informed us that, so great was the war fever only six men could be found in Dallas County. I whispered to Mr. Chesnut: “We found three of the lone ones hors de combat at Portland.” So much for the corps of reserves—alcoholized patriots.
Saw for the first time the demoralization produced by hopes of freedom. My mother’s butler (whom I taught to read, sitting on his knife-board) contrived to keep from speaking to us. He was as efficient as ever in his proper place, but he did not come behind the scenes as usual and have a friendly chat. Held himself aloof so grand and stately we had to send him a “tip” through his wife Hetty, mother’s maid, who, however, showed no signs of disaffection. She came to my bedside next morning with everything that was nice for breakfast. She had let me sleep till midday, and embraced me over and over again. I remarked: “What a capital cook they have here!” She curtsied to the ground. “I cooked every mouthful on that tray—as if I did not know what you liked to eat since you was a baby.”
May 19th.—Mrs. Fitzpatrick says Mr. Davis is too gloomy for her. He says we must prepare for a long war and unmerciful reverses at first, because they are readier for war and so much stronger numerically. Men and money count so in war. “As they do everywhere else,” said I, doubting her accurate account of Mr. Davis’s spoken words, though she tried to give them faithfully. We need patience and persistence. There is enough and to spare of pluck and dash among us, the do-and-dare style.