Test Bank for Operations Management 9th Edition by Krajewski
Test Bank for Operations Management 9th Edition by Krajewski
Test Bank for Operations Management 9th Edition by Krajewski
Test Bank for Operations Management 9th Edition by Krajewski
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33. play with them. He sits silent and motionless, with his hands on his
knees, his head bent forward, and his eyes fixed upon you. I could
think of nothing like it but a setter and a covey of partridges.
As to President Davis, he sank to profounder deeps of abuse of
him than even Gonzales. I quoted Yancey: “A crew may not like their
captain, but if they are mad enough to mutiny while a storm is
raging, all hands are bound to go to the bottom.” After that I
contented myself with a mild shake of the head when I disagreed
with him, and at last I began to shake so persistently it amounted to
incipient palsy. “Jeff Davis,” he said, “is conceited, wrong-headed,
wranglesome, obstinate—a traitor.” “Now I have borne much in
silence,” said I at last, “but that is pernicious nonsense. Do not let us
waste any more time listening to your quotations from the Mercury.”
He very good-naturedly changed the subject, which was easy just
then, for a delicious supper was on the table ready for us. But
Doctor Gibbes began anew the fighting. He helped me to some pâté
—“Not foie gras,” said Madame Togno, “pâté perdreaux.” Doctor
Gibbes, however, gave it a flavor of his own. “Eat it,” said he, “it is
good for you; rich and wholesome; healthy as cod-liver oil.”
A queer thing happened. At the post-office a man saw a small boy
open with a key the box of the Governor and the Council, take the
contents of the box and run for his life. Of course, this man called to
the urchin to stop. The urchin did not heed, but seeing himself
pursued, began tearing up the letters and papers. He was caught
and the fragments were picked up. Finding himself a prisoner, he
pointed out the negro who gave him the key. The negro was
arrested.
Governor Pickens called to see me to-day. We began with Fort
Sumter. For an hour did we hammer at that fortress. We took it, gun
by gun. He was very pleasant and friendly in his manner.
James Chesnut has been so nice this winter; so reasonable and
considerate—that is, for a man. The night I came from Madame
Togno’s, instead of making a row about the lateness of the hour, he
34. said he was “so wide awake and so hungry.” I put on my dressing-
gown and scrambled some eggs, etc., there on our own fire. And
with our feet on the fender and the small supper-table between us,
we enjoyed the supper and glorious gossip. Rather a pleasant state
of things when one’s own husband is in good humor and cleverer
than all the men outside.
This afternoon, the entente cordiale still subsisting, Maum Mary
beckoned me out mysteriously, but Mr. Chesnut said: “Speak out, old
woman; nobody here but myself.” “Mars Nathum Davis wants to
speak to her,” said she. So I hurried off to the drawing-room, Maum
Mary flapping her down-at-the-heels shoes in my wake. “He’s gwine
bekase somebody done stole his boots. How could he stay bedout
boots?” So Nathan said good-by. Then we met General Gist, Maum
Mary still hovering near, and I congratulated him on being promoted.
He is now a brigadier. This he received with modest complaisance. “I
knowed he was a general,” said Maum Mary as he passed on, “he
told me as soon as he got in his room befo’ his boy put down his
trunks.”
As Nathan, the unlucky, said good-by, he informed me that a Mr.
Reed from Montgomery was in the drawing-room and wanted to see
me. Mr. Reed had traveled with our foreign envoy, Yancey. I was
keen for news from abroad. Mr. Reed settled that summarily. “Mr.
Yancey says we need not have one jot of hope. He could bowstring
Mallory for not buying arms in time. The very best citizens wanted to
depose the State government and take things into their own hands,
the powers that be being inefficient. Western men are hurrying to
the front, bestirring themselves. In two more months we shall be
ready.” What could I do but laugh? I do hope the enemy will be
considerate and charitable enough to wait for us.
Mr. Reed’s calm faith in the power of Mr. Yancey’s eloquence was
beautiful to see. He asked for Mr. Chesnut. I went back to our
rooms, swelling with news like a pouter pigeon. Mr. Chesnut said:
“Well! four hours—a call from Nathan Davis of four hours!” Men are
too absurd! So I bear the honors of my forty years gallantly. I can
35. but laugh. “Mr. Nathan Davis went by the five-o’clock train,” I said;
“it is now about six or seven, maybe eight. I have had so many
visitors. Mr. Reed, of Alabama, is asking for you out there.” He went
without a word, but I doubt if he went to see Mr. Reed, my laughing
had made him so angry.
At last Lincoln threatens us with a proclamation abolishing
slavery[75]—here in the free Southern Confederacy; and they say
McClellan is deposed. They want more fighting—I mean the
government, whose skins are safe, they want more fighting, and
trust to luck for the skill of the new generals.
March 28th.—I did leave with regret Maum Mary. She was such a
good, well-informed old thing. My Molly, though perfection
otherwise, does not receive the confidential communications of new-
made generals at the earliest moment. She is of very limited military
information. Maum Mary was the comfort of my life. She saved me
from all trouble as far as she could. Seventy, if she is a day, she is
spry and active as a cat, of a curiosity that knows no bounds, black
and clean; also, she knows a joke at first sight, and she is honest. I
fancy the negroes are ashamed to rob people as careless as James
Chesnut and myself.
One night, just before we left the Congaree House, Mr. Chesnut
had forgotten to tell some all-important thing to Governor Gist, who
was to leave on a public mission next day. So at the dawn of day he
put on his dressing-gown and went to the Governor’s room. He
found the door unlocked and the Governor fast asleep. He shook
him. Half-asleep, the Governor sprang up and threw his arms around
Mr. Chesnut’s neck and said: “Honey, is it you?” The mistake was
rapidly set right, and the bewildered plenipotentiary was given his
instructions. Mr. Chesnut came into my room, threw himself on the
sofa, and nearly laughed himself to extinction, imitating again and
again the pathetic tone of the Governor’s greeting.
Mr. Chesnut calls Lawrence “Adolphe,” but says he is simply
perfect as a servant. Mary Stevens said: “I thought Cousin James
the laziest man alive until I knew his man, Lawrence.” Lawrence will
36. not move an inch or lift a finger for any one but his master. Mrs.
Middleton politely sent him on an errand; Lawrence, too, was very
polite; hours after, she saw him sitting on the fence of the front
yard. “Didn’t you go?” she asked. “No, ma’am. I am waiting for Mars
Jeems.” Mrs. Middleton calls him now, “Mr. Take-it-Easy.”
My very last day’s experience at the Congaree. I was waiting for
Mars Jeems in the drawing-room when a lady there declared herself
to be the wife of an officer in Clingman’s regiment. A gentleman who
seemed quite friendly with her, told her all Mr. Chesnut said,
thought, intended to do, wrote, and felt. I asked: “Are you certain of
all these things you say of Colonel Chesnut?” The man hardly
deigned to notice this impertinent interruption from a stranger
presuming to speak but who had not been introduced! After he went
out, the wife of Clingman’s officer was seized with an intuitive
curiosity. “Madam, will you tell me your name?” I gave it, adding, “I
dare say I showed myself an intelligent listener when my husband’s
affairs were under discussion.” At first, I refused to give my name
because it would have embarrassed her friend if she had told him
who I was. The man was Mr. Chesnut’s secretary, but I had never
seen him before.
A letter from Kate says she had been up all night preparing David’s
things. Little Serena sat up and helped her mother. They did not
know that they would ever see him again. Upon reading it, I wept
and James Chesnut cursed the Yankees.
Gave the girls a quantity of flannel for soldiers’ shirts; also a string
of pearls to be raffled for at the Gunboat Fair. Mary Witherspoon has
sent a silver tea-pot. We do not spare our precious things now. Our
silver and gold, what are they?—when we give up to war our
beloved.
April 2d.—Dr. Trezevant, attending Mr. Chesnut, who was ill, came
and found his patient gone; he could not stand the news of that last
battle. He got up and dressed, weak as he was, and went forth to
hear what he could for himself. The doctor was angry with me for
permitting this, and more angry with him for such folly. I made him
37. listen to the distinction between feminine folly and virulent vagaries
and nonsense. He said: “He will certainly be salivated after all that
calomel out in this damp weather.”
To-day, the ladies in their landaus were bitterly attacked by the
morning paper for lolling back in their silks and satins, with tall
footmen in livery, driving up and down the streets while the poor
soldiers’ wives were on the sidewalks. It is the old story of rich and
poor! My little barouche is not here, nor has James Chesnut any of
his horses here, but then I drive every day with Mrs. McCord and
Mrs. Preston, either of whose turnouts fills the bill. The Governor’s
carriage, horses, servants, etc., are splendid—just what they should
be. Why not?
April 14th.—Our Fair is in full blast. We keep a restaurant. Our
waitresses are Mary and Buck Preston, Isabella Martin, and Grace
Elmore.
April 15th.—Trescott is too clever ever to be a bore; that was
proved to-day, for he stayed two hours; as usual, Mr. Chesnut said
“four.” Trescott was very surly; calls himself ex-Secretary of State of
the United States; now, nothing in particular of South Carolina or the
Confederate States. Then he yawned, “What a bore this war is. I
wish it was ended, one way or another.” He speaks of going across
the border and taking service in Mexico. “Rubbish, not much Mexico
for you,” I answered. Another patriot came then and averred, “I will
take my family back to town, that we may all surrender together. I
gave it up early in the spring.” Trescott made a face behind backs,
and said: “Lache!”
The enemy have flanked Beauregard at Nashville. There is grief
enough for Albert Sidney Johnston now; we begin to see what we
have lost. We were pushing them into the river when General
Johnston was wounded. Beauregard was lying in his tent, at the
rear, in a green sickness—melancholy—but no matter what the name
of the malady. He was too slow to move, and lost all the advantage
gained by our dead hero.[76] Without him there is no head to our
Western army. Pulaski has fallen. What more is there to fall?
38. April 15th.—Mrs. Middleton: “How did you settle Molly’s little
difficulty with Mrs. McMahan, that ‘piece of her mind’ that Molly gave
our landlady?” “Oh, paid our way out of it, of course, and I
apologized for Molly!”
Gladden, the hero of the Palmettos in Mexico, is killed. Shiloh has
been a dreadful blow to us. Last winter Stephen, my brother, had it
in his power to do such a nice thing for Colonel Gladden. In the dark
he heard his name, also that he had to walk twenty-five miles in
Alabama mud or go on an ammunition wagon. So he introduced
himself as a South Carolinian to Colonel Gladden, whom he knew
only by reputation as colonel of the Palmetto regiment in the
Mexican war. And they drove him in his carriage comfortably to
where he wanted to go—a night drive of fifty miles for Stephen, for
he had the return trip, too. I would rather live in Siberia, worse still,
in Sahara, than live in a country surrendered to Yankees.
The Carolinian says the conscription bill passed by Congress is
fatal to our liberties as a people. Let us be a people “certain and
sure,” as poor Tom B. said, and then talk of rebelling against our
home government.
Sat up all night. Read Eothen straight through, our old Wiley and
Putnam edition that we bought in London in 1845. How could I
sleep? The power they are bringing to bear against our country is
tremendous. Its weight may be irresistible—I dare not think of that,
however.
April 21st.—Have been ill. One day I dined at Mrs. Preston’s, pâté
de foie gras and partridge prepared for me as I like them. I had
been awfully depressed for days and could not sleep at night for
anxiety, but I did not know that I was bodily ill. Mrs. Preston came
home with me. She said emphatically: “Molly, if your mistress is
worse in the night send for me instantly.” I thought it very odd. I
could not breathe if I attempted to lie down, and very soon I lost my
voice. Molly raced out and sent Lawrence for Doctor Trezevant. She
said I had the croup. The doctor said, “congestion of the lungs.”
39. So here I am, stranded, laid by the heels. Battle after battle has
occurred, disaster after disaster. Every morning’s paper is enough to
kill a well woman and age a strong and hearty one.
To-day, the waters of this stagnant pool were wildly stirred. The
President telegraphed for my husband to come on to Richmond, and
offered him a place on his staff. I was a joyful woman. It was a way
opened by Providence from this Slough of Despond, this Council
whose counsel no one takes. I wrote to Mr. Davis, “With thanks, and
begging your pardon, how I would like to go.” Mrs. Preston agrees
with me, Mr. Chesnut ought to go. Through Mr. Chesnut the
President might hear many things to the advantage of our State, etc.
Letter from Quinton Washington. That was the best tonic yet. He
writes so cheerfully. We have fifty thousand men on the Peninsula
and McClellan eighty thousand. We expect that much disparity of
numbers. We can stand that.
April 23d.—On April 23, 1840, I was married, aged seventeen;
consequently on the 31st of March, 1862, I was thirty-nine. I saw a
wedding to-day from my window, which opens on Trinity Church.
Nanna Shand married a Doctor Wilson. Then, a beautiful bevy of
girls rushed into my room. Such a flutter and a chatter. Well, thank
Heaven for a wedding. It is a charming relief from the dismal litany
of our daily song.
A letter to-day from our octogenarian at Mulberry. His nephew,
Jack Deas, had two horses shot under him; the old Colonel has his
growl, “That’s enough for glory, and no hurt after all.” He ends,
however, with his never-failing refrain: We can’t fight all the world;
two and two only make four; it can’t make a thousand; numbers will
not lie. He says he has lost half a million already in railroad bonds,
bank stock, Western notes of hand, not to speak of negroes to be
freed, and lands to be confiscated, for he takes the gloomiest views
of all things.
April 26th.—Doleful dumps, alarm-bells ringing. Telegrams say the
mortar fleet has passed the forts at New Orleans. Down into the
40. very depths of despair are we.
April 27th.—New Orleans gone[77] and with it the Confederacy.
That Mississippi ruins us if lost. The Confederacy has been done to
death by the politicians. What wonder we are lost.
The soldiers have done their duty. All honor to the army.
Statesmen as busy as bees about their own places, or their personal
honor, too busy to see the enemy at a distance. With a microscope
they were examining their own interests, or their own wrongs,
forgetting the interests of the people they represented. They were
concocting newspaper paragraphs to injure the government. No
matter how vital it may be, nothing can be kept from the enemy.
They must publish themselves, night and day, what they are doing,
or the omniscient Buncombe will forget them.
This fall of New Orleans means utter ruin to the private fortunes of
the Prestons. Mr. Preston came from New Orleans so satisfied with
Mansfield Lovell and the tremendous steam-rams he saw there.
While in New Orleans Burnside offered Mr. Preston five hundred
thousand dollars, a debt due to him from Burnside, and he refused
to take it. He said the money was safer in Burnside’s hands than his.
And so it may prove, so ugly is the outlook now. Burnside is wide
awake; he is not a man to be caught napping.
Mary Preston was saying she had asked the Hamptons how they
relished the idea of being paupers. If the country is saved none of us
will care for that sort of thing. Philosophical and patriotic, Mr.
Chesnut came in, saying: “Conrad has been telegraphed from New
Orleans that the great iron-clad Louisiana went down at the first
shot.” Mr. Chesnut and Mary Preston walked off, first to the bulletin-
board and then to the Prestons’.
April 29th.—A grand smash, the news from New Orleans fatal to
us. Met Mr. Weston. He wanted to know where he could find a place
of safety for two hundred negroes. I looked into his face to see if he
were in earnest; then to see if he were sane. There was a certain set
of two hundred negroes that had grown to be a nuisance.
41. Apparently all the white men of the family had felt bound to stay at
home to take care of them. There are people who still believe
negroes property—like Noah’s neighbors, who insisted that the
Deluge would only be a little shower after all.
These negroes, however, were Plowden Weston’s, a totally
different part of speech. He gave field-rifles to one company and
forty thousand dollars to another. He is away with our army at
Corinth. So I said: “You may rely upon Mr. Chesnut, who will assist
you to his uttermost in finding a home for these people. Nothing
belonging to that patriotic gentleman shall come to grief if we have
to take charge of them on our own place.” Mr. Chesnut did get a
place for them, as I said he would.
Had to go to the Governor’s or they would think we had hoisted
the black flag. Heard there we are going to be beaten as Cortez beat
the Mexicans—by superior arms. Mexican bows and arrows made a
poor showing in the face of Spanish accoutrements. Our enemies
have such superior weapons of war, we hardly any but what we
capture from them in the fray. The Saxons and the Normans were in
the same plight.
War seems a game of chess, but we have an unequal number of
pawns to begin with. We have knights, kings, queens, bishops, and
castles enough. But our skilful generals, whenever they can not
arrange the board to suit them exactly, burn up everything and
march away. We want them to save the country. They seem to think
their whole duty is to destroy ships and save the army.
Mr. Robert Barnwell wrote that he had to hang his head for South
Carolina. We had not furnished our quota of the new levy, five
thousand men. To-day Colonel Chesnut published his statement to
show that we have sent thirteen thousand, instead of the mere
number required of us; so Mr. Barnwell can hold up his head again.
April 30th.—The last day of this month of calamities. Lovell left the
women and children to be shelled, and took the army to a safe
place. I do not understand why we do not send the women and
42. children to the safe place and let the army stay where the fighting is
to be. Armies are to save, not to be saved. At least, to be saved is
not their raison d’être exactly. If this goes on the spirit of our people
will be broken. One ray of comfort comes from Henry Marshall. “Our
Army of the Peninsula is fine; so good I do not think McClellan will
venture to attack it.” So mote it be.
May 6th.—Mine is a painful, self-imposed task: but why write
when I have nothing to chronicle but disaster?[78] So I read instead:
First, Consuelo, then Columba, two ends of the pole certainly, and
then a translated edition of Elective Affinities. Food enough for
thought in every one of this odd assortment of books.
At the Prestons’, where I am staying (because Mr. Chesnut has
gone to see his crabbed old father, whom he loves, and who is
reported ill), I met Christopher Hampton. He tells us Wigfall is out on
a war-path; wants them to strike for Maryland. The President’s
opinion of the move is not given. Also Mr. Hampton met the first
lieutenant of the Kirkwoods, E. M. Boykin. Says he is just the same
man he was in the South Carolina College. In whatever company you
may meet him, he is the pleasantest man there.
A telegram reads: “We have repulsed the enemy at
Williamsburg.”[79] Oh, if we could drive them back “to their ain
countree!” Richmond was hard pressed this day. The Mercury of to-
day says, “Jeff Davis now treats all men as if they were idiotic
insects.”
Mary Preston said all sisters quarreled. No, we never quarrel, I
and mine. We keep all our bitter words for our enemies. We are
frank heathens; we hate our enemies and love our friends. Some
people (our kind) can never make up after a quarrel; hard words
once only and all is over. To us forgiveness is impossible. Forgiveness
means calm indifference; philosophy, while love lasts. Forgiveness of
love’s wrongs is impossible. Those dutiful wives who piously overlook
—well, everything—do not care one fig for their husbands. I settled
that in my own mind years ago. Some people think it magnanimous
43. to praise their enemies and to show their impartiality and justice by
acknowledging the faults of their friends. I am for the simple rule,
the good old plan. I praise whom I love and abuse whom I hate.
Mary Preston has been translating Schiller aloud. We are provided
with Bulwer’s translation, Mrs. Austin’s, Coleridge’s, and Carlyle’s,
and we show how each renders the passage Mary is to convert into
English. In Wallenstein at one point of the Max and Thekla scene, I
like Carlyle better than Coleridge, though they say Coleridge’s
Wallenstein is the only translation in the world half so good as the
original. Mrs. Barstow repeated some beautiful scraps by Uhland,
which I had never heard before. She is to write them for us. Peace,
and a literary leisure for my old age, unbroken by care and anxiety!
General Preston accused me of degenerating into a boarding-
house gossip, and is answered triumphantly by his daughters: “But,
papa, one you love to gossip with full well.”
Hampton estate has fifteen hundred negroes on Lake Washington,
Mississippi. Hampton girls talking in the language of James’s novels:
“Neither Wade nor Preston—that splendid boy!—would lay a lance in
rest—or couch it, which is the right phrase for fighting, to preserve
slavery. They hate it as we do.” “What are they fighting for?”
“Southern rights—whatever that is. And they do not want to be
understrappers forever to the Yankees. They talk well enough about
it, but I forget what they say.” Johnny Chesnut says: “No use to give
a reason—a fellow could not stay away from the fight—not well.” It
takes four negroes to wait on Johnny satisfactorily.
It is this giving up that kills me. Norfolk they talk of now; why not
Charleston next? I read in a Western letter, “Not Beauregard, but the
soldiers who stopped to drink the whisky they had captured from the
enemy, lost us Shiloh.” Cock Robin is as dead as he ever will be now;
what matters it who killed him?
44. May 12th.—Mr. Chesnut says he is very glad he went to town.
Everything in Charleston is so much more satisfactory than it is
reported. Troops are in good spirits. It will take a lot of ironclads to
take that city.
Isaac Hayne said at dinner yesterday that both Beauregard and
the President had a great opinion of Mr. Chesnut’s natural ability for
strategy and military evolution. Hon. Mr. Barnwell concurred; that is,
Mr. Barnwell had been told so by the President. “Then why did not
the President offer me something better than an aideship?” “I heard
he offered to make you a general last year, and you said you could
not go over other men’s shoulders until you had earned promotion.
You are too hard to please.” “No, not exactly that, I was only offered
a colonelcy, and Mr. Barnwell persuaded me to stick to the Senate;
then he wanted my place, and between the two stools I fell to the
ground.”
My Molly will forget Lige and her babies, too. I asked her who sent
me that beautiful bouquet I found on my center-table. “I give it to
you. ’Twas give to me.” And Molly was all wriggle, giggle, blush.
May 18th.—Norfolk has been burned and the Merrimac sunk
without striking a blow since her coup d’état in Hampton Roads.
Read Milton. See the speech of Adam to Eve in a new light. Women
will not stay at home; will go out to see and be seen, even if it be by
the devil himself.
Very encouraging letters from Hon. Mr. Memminger and from L. Q.
Washington. They tell the same story in very different words. It
amounts to this: “Not one foot of Virginia soil is to be given up
without a bitter fight for it. We have one hundred and five thousand
men in all, McClellan one hundred and ninety thousand. We can
stand that disparity.”
What things I have been said to have said! Mr. —— heard me
make scoffing remarks about the Governor and the Council—or he
thinks he heard me. James Chesnut wrote him a note that my name
was to be kept out of it—indeed, that he was never to mention my
45. name again under any possible circumstances. It was all
preposterous nonsense, but it annoyed my husband amazingly. He
said it was a scheme to use my chatter to his injury. He was very
kind about it. He knows my real style so well that he can always tell
my real impudence from what is fabricated for me.
There is said to be an order from Butler[80] turning over the
women of New Orleans to his soldiers. Thus is the measure of his
iniquities filled. We thought that generals always restrained, by shot
or sword if need be, the brutality of soldiers. This hideous, cross-
eyed beast orders his men to treat the ladies of New Orleans as
women of the town—to punish them, he says, for their insolence.
Footprints on the boundaries of another world once more. Willie
Taylor, before he left home for the army, fancied one day—day,
remember—that he saw Albert Rhett standing by his side. He
recoiled from the ghostly presence. “You need not do that, Willie.
You will soon be as I am.” Willie rushed into the next room to tell
them what had happened, and fainted. It had a very depressing
effect upon him. And now the other day he died in Virginia.
May 24th.—The enemy are landing at Georgetown. With a little
more audacity where could they not land? But we have given them
such a scare, they are cautious. If it be true, I hope some cool-
headed white men will make the negroes save the rice for us. It is so
much needed. They say it might have been done at Port Royal with
a little more energy. South Carolinians have pluck enough, but they
only work by fits and starts; there is no continuous effort; they can’t
be counted on for steady work. They will stop to play—or enjoy life
in some shape.
Without let or hindrance Halleck is being reenforced. Beauregard,
unmolested, was making some fine speeches—and issuing
proclamations, while we were fatuously looking for him to make a
tiger’s spring on Huntsville. Why not? Hope springs eternal in the
Southern breast.
46. My Hebrew friend, Mem Cohen, has a son in the war. He is in John
Chesnut’s company. Cohen is a high name among the Jews: it
means Aaron. She has long fits of silence, and is absent-minded. If
she is suddenly roused, she is apt to say, with overflowing eyes and
clasped hands, “If it please God to spare his life.” Her daughter is
the sweetest little thing. The son is the mother’s idol. Mrs. Cohen
was Miriam de Leon. I have known her intimately all my life.
Mrs. Bartow, the widow of Colonel Bartow, who was killed at
Manassas, was Miss Berrien, daughter of Judge Berrien, of Georgia.
She is now in one of the departments here, cutting bonds—
Confederate bonds—for five hundred Confederate dollars a year, a
penniless woman. Judge Carroll, her brother-in-law, has been urgent
with her to come and live in his home. He has a large family and she
will not be an added burden to him. In spite of all he can say, she
will not forego her resolution. She will be independent. She is a
resolute little woman, with the softest, silkiest voice and ways, and
clever to the last point.
Columbia is the place for good living, pleasant people, pleasant
dinners, pleasant drives. I feel that I have put the dinners in the
wrong place. They are the climax of the good things here. This is the
most hospitable place in the world, and the dinners are worthy of it.
In Washington, there was an endless succession of state dinners. I
was kindly used. I do not remember ever being condemned to two
dull neighbors: on one side or the other was a clever man; so I liked
Washington dinners.
In Montgomery, there were a few dinners—Mrs. Pollard’s, for
instance, but the society was not smoothed down or in shape. Such
as it was it was given over to balls and suppers. In Charleston, Mr.
Chesnut went to gentlemen’s dinners all the time; no ladies present.
Flowers were sent to me, and I was taken to drive and asked to tea.
There could not have been nicer suppers, more perfect of their kind
than were to be found at the winding up of those festivities.
47. In Richmond, there were balls, which I did not attend—very few to
which I was asked: the MacFarlands’ and Lyons’s, all I can
remember. James Chesnut dined out nearly every day. But then the
breakfasts—the Virginia breakfasts—where were always pleasant
people. Indeed, I have had a good time everywhere—always clever
people, and people I liked, and everybody so good to me.
Here in Columbia, family dinners are the specialty. You call, or
they pick you up and drive home with you. “Oh, stay to dinner!” and
you stay gladly. They send for your husband, and he comes willingly.
Then comes a perfect dinner. You do not see how it could be
improved; and yet they have not had time to alter things or add
because of the unexpected guests. They have everything of the best
—silver, glass, china, table linen, and damask, etc. And then the
planters live “within themselves,” as they call it. From the plantations
come mutton, beef, poultry, cream, butter, eggs, fruits, and
vegetables.
It is easy to live here, with a cook who has been sent for training
to the best eating-house in Charleston. Old Mrs. Chesnut’s Romeo
was apprenticed at Jones’s. I do not know where Mrs. Preston’s got
his degree, but he deserves a medal.
At the Prestons’, James Chesnut induced Buck to declaim
something about Joan of Arc, which she does in a manner to touch
all hearts. While she was speaking, my husband turned to a young
gentleman who was listening to the chatter of several girls, and said:
“Écoutez!” The youth stared at him a moment in bewilderment;
then, gravely rose and began turning down the gas. Isabella said:
“Écoutez, then, means put out the lights.”
I recall a scene which took place during a ball given by Mrs.
Preston while her husband was in Louisiana. Mrs. Preston was
resplendent in diamonds, point lace, and velvet. There is a gentle
dignity about her which is very attractive; her voice is low and
sweet, and her will is iron. She is exceedingly well informed, but very
quiet, retiring, and reserved. Indeed, her apparent gentleness
48. almost amounts to timidity. She has chiseled regularity of features, a
majestic figure, perfectly molded.
Governor Manning said to me: “Look at Sister Caroline. Does she
look as if she had the pluck of a heroine?” Then he related how a
little while ago William, the butler, came to tell her that John, the
footman, was drunk in the cellar—mad with drink; that he had a
carving-knife which he was brandishing in drunken fury, and he was
keeping everybody from their business, threatening to kill any one
who dared to go into the basement. They were like a flock of
frightened sheep down there. She did not speak to one of us, but
followed William down to the basement, holding up her skirts. She
found the servants scurrying everywhere, screaming and shouting
that John was crazy and going to kill them. John was bellowing like a
bull of Bashan, knife in hand, chasing them at his pleasure.
Mrs. Preston walked up to him. “Give me that knife,” she
demanded. He handed it to her. She laid it on the table. “Now come
with me,” she said, putting her hand on his collar. She led him away
to the empty smoke-house, and there she locked him in and put the
key in her pocket. Then she returned to her guests, without a ripple
on her placid face. “She told me of it, smiling and serene as you see
her now,” the Governor concluded.
Before the war shut him in, General Preston sent to the lakes for
his salmon, to Mississippi for his venison, to the mountains for his
mutton and grouse. It is good enough, the best dish at all these
houses, what the Spanish call “the hearty welcome.” Thackeray says
at every American table he was first served with “grilled hostess.” At
the head of the table sat a person, fiery-faced, anxious, nervous,
inwardly murmuring, like Falstaff, “Would it were night, Hal, and all
were well.”
At Mulberry the house is always filled to overflowing, and one day
is curiously like another. People are coming and going, carriages
driving up or driving off. It has the air of a watering-place, where
one does not pay, and where there are no strangers. At Christmas
the china closet gives up its treasures. The glass, china, silver, fine
49. linen reserved for grand occasions come forth. As for the dinner
itself, it is only a matter of greater quantity—more turkey, more
mutton, more partridges, more fish, etc., and more solemn stiffness.
Usually a half-dozen persons unexpectedly dropping in make no
difference. The family let the housekeeper know; that is all.
People are beginning to come here from Richmond. One swallow
does not make a summer, but it shows how the wind blows, these
straws do—Mrs. “Constitution” Browne and Mrs. Wise. The Gibsons
are at Doctor Gibbes’s. It does look squally. We are drifting on the
breakers.
May 29th.—Betsey, recalcitrant maid of the W.’s, has been sold to
a telegraph man. She is as handsome as a mulatto ever gets to be,
and clever in every kind of work. My Molly thinks her mistress “very
lucky in getting rid of her.” She was “a dangerous inmate,” but she
will be a good cook, a good chambermaid, a good dairymaid, a
beautiful clear-starcher, and the most thoroughly good-for-nothing
woman I know to her new owners, if she chooses. Molly evidently
hates her, but thinks it her duty “to stand by her color.”
Mrs. Gibson is a Philadelphia woman. She is true to her husband
and children, but she does not believe in us—the Confederacy, I
mean. She is despondent and hopeless; as wanting in faith of our
ultimate success as is Sally Baxter Hampton. I make allowances for
those people. If I had married North, they would have a heavy
handful in me just now up there.
Mrs. Chesnut, my mother-in-law, has been sixty years in the
South, and she has not changed in feeling or in taste one iota. She
can not like hominy for breakfast, or rice for dinner, without a relish
to give it some flavor. She can not eat watermelons and sweet
potatoes sans discrétion, as we do. She will not eat hot corn bread à
discrétion, and hot buttered biscuit without any.
“Richmond is obliged to fall,” sighed Mrs. Gibson. “You would say
so, too, if you had seen our poor soldiers.” “Poor soldiers?” said I.
“Are you talking of Stonewall Jackson’s men? Poor soldiers, indeed!”
50. She said her mind was fixed on one point, and had ever been,
though she married and came South: she never would own slaves.
“Who would that was not born to it?” I cried, more excited than
ever. She is very handsome, very clever, and has very agreeable
manners.
“Dear madam,” she says, with tears in her beautiful eyes, “they
have three armies.” “But Stonewall has routed one of them already.
Heath another.” She only answered by an unbelieving moan.
“Nothing seemed to suit her,” I said, as we went away. “You did not
certainly,” said some one to me; “you contradicted every word she
said, with a sort of indignant protest.”
We met Mrs. Hampton Gibbes at the door—another Virginia
woman as good as gold. They told us Mrs. Davis was delightfully
situated at Raleigh; North Carolinians so loyal, so hospitable; she
had not been allowed to eat a meal at the hotel. “How different from
Columbia,” said Doctor Gibbes, looking at Mrs. Gibson, who has no
doubt been left to take all of her meals at his house. “Oh, no!” cried
Mary, “you do Columbia injustice. Mrs. Chesnut used to tell us that
she was never once turned over to the tender mercies of the
Congaree cuisine, and at McMahan’s it is fruit, flowers, invitations to
dinner every day.”
After we came away, “Why did you not back me up?” I was asked.
“Why did you let them slander Columbia?” “It was awfully awkward,”
I said, “but you see it would have been worse to let Doctor Gibbes
and Mrs. Gibson see how different it was with other people.”
Took a moonlight walk after tea at the Halcott Greens’. All the
company did honor to the beautiful night by walking home with me.
Uncle Hamilton Boykin is here, staying at the de Saussures’. He
says, “Manassas was play to Williamsburg,” and he was at both
battles. He lead a part of Stuart’s cavalry in the charge at
Williamsburg, riding a hundred yards ahead of his company.
Toombs is ready for another revolution, and curses freely
everything Confederate from the President down to a horse boy. He
51. thinks there is a conspiracy against him in the army. Why? Heavens
and earth—why?
June 2d.—A battle[81] is said to be raging round Richmond. I am
at the Prestons’. James Chesnut has gone to Richmond suddenly on
business of the Military Department. It is always his luck to arrive in
the nick of time and be present at a great battle.
Wade Hampton shot in the foot, and Johnston Pettigrew killed. A
telegram says Lee and Davis were both on the field: the enemy
being repulsed. Telegraph operator said: “Madam, our men are
fighting.” “Of course they are. What else is there for them to do now
but fight?” “But, madam, the news is encouraging.” Each army is
burying its dead: that looks like a drawn battle. We haunt the
bulletin-board.
Back to McMahan’s. Mem Cohen is ill. Her daughter, Isabel, warns
me not to mention the battle raging around Richmond. Young Cohen
is in it. Mrs. Preston, anxious and unhappy about her sons. John is
with General Huger at Richmond; Willie in the swamps on the coast
with his company. Mem tells me her cousin, Edwin de Leon, is sent
by Mr. Davis on a mission to England.
Rev. Robert Barnwell has returned to the hospital. Oh, that we had
given our thousand dollars to the hospital and not to the gunboat!
“Stonewall Jackson’s movements,” the Herald says, “do us no harm;
it is bringing out volunteers in great numbers.” And a Philadelphia
paper abused us so fervently I felt all the blood in me rush to my
head with rage.
June 3d.—Doctor John Cheves is making infernal machines in
Charleston to blow the Yankees up; pretty name they have, those
machines. My horses, the overseer says, are too poor to send over.
There was corn enough on the place for two years, they said, in
January; now, in June, they write that it will not last until the new
crop comes in. Somebody is having a good time on the plantation, if
it be not my poor horses.
52. Molly will tell me all when she comes back, and more. Mr. Venable
has been made an aide to General Robert E. Lee. He is at Vicksburg,
and writes, “When the fight is over here, I shall be glad to go to
Virginia.” He is in capital spirits. I notice army men all are when they
write.
Apropos of calling Major Venable “Mr.” Let it be noted that in social
intercourse we are not prone to give handles to the names of those
we know well and of our nearest and dearest. A general’s wife thinks
it bad form to call her husband anything but “Mr.” When she gives
him his title, she simply “drops” into it by accident. If I am “mixed”
on titles in this diary, let no one blame me.
Telegrams come from Richmond ordering troops from Charleston.
Can not be sent, for the Yankees are attacking Charleston, doubtless
with the purpose to prevent Lee’s receiving reenforcements from
there.
Sat down at my window in the beautiful moonlight, and tried hard
for pleasant thoughts. A man began to play on the flute, with piano
accompaniment, first, “Ever of thee I am fondly dreaming,” and
then, “The long, long, weary day.” At first, I found this but a
complement to the beautiful scene, and it was soothing to my
wrought-up nerves. But Von Weber’s “Last Waltz” was too much; I
broke down. Heavens, what a bitter cry came forth, with such floods
of tears! the wonder is there was any of me left.
I learn that Richmond women go in their carriages for the
wounded, carry them home and nurse them. One saw a man too
weak to hold his musket. She took it from him, put it on her
shoulder, and helped the poor fellow along.
If ever there was a man who could control every expression of
emotion, who could play stoic, or an Indian chief, it is James
Chesnut. But one day when he came in from the Council he had to
own to a break-down. He was awfully ashamed of his weakness.
There was a letter from Mrs. Gaillard asking him to help her, and he
tried to read it to the Council. She wanted a permit to go on to her
53. son, who lies wounded in Virginia. Colonel Chesnut could not control
his voice. There was not a dry eye there, when suddenly one man
called out, “God bless the woman.”
Johnston Pettigrew’s aide says he left his chief mortally wounded
on the battle-field. Just before Johnston Pettigrew went to Italy to
take a hand in the war there for freedom, I met him one day at Mrs.
Frank Hampton’s. A number of people were present. Some one
spoke of the engagement of the beautiful Miss —— to Hugh Rose.
Some one else asked: “How do you know they are engaged?” “Well,
I never heard it, but I saw it. In London, a month or so ago, I
entered Mrs. ——’s drawing-room, and I saw these two young
people seated on a sofa opposite the door.” “Well, that amounted to
nothing.” “No, not in itself. But they looked so foolish and so happy. I
have noticed newly engaged people always look that way.” And so
on. Johnston Pettigrew was white and red in quick succession during
this turn of the conversation; he was in a rage of indignation and
disgust. “I think this kind of talk is taking a liberty with the young
lady’s name,” he exclaimed finally, “and that it is an impertinence in
us.” I fancy him left dying alone! I wonder what they feel—those
who are left to die of their wounds—alone—on the battle-field.
Free schools are not everything, as witness this spelling. Yankee
epistles found in camp show how illiterate they can be, with all their
boasted schools. Fredericksburg is spelled “Fredrexbirg,” medicine,
“metison,” and we read, “To my sweat brother,” etc. For the first time
in my life no books can interest me. Life is so real, so utterly
earnest, that fiction is flat. Nothing but what is going on in this
distracted world of ours can arrest my attention for ten minutes at a
time.
June 4th.—Battles occur near Richmond, with bombardment of
Charleston. Beauregard is said to be fighting his way out or in.
Mrs. Gibson is here, at Doctor Gibbes’s. Tears are always in her
eyes. Her eldest son is Willie Preston’s lieutenant. They are down on
the coast. She owns that she has no hope at all. She was a Miss
Ayer, of Philadelphia, and says, “We may look for Burnside now, our
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