IN the North one hears the war mentioned,in social conversation,once a month;sometimes as often as once a week;but as a distinct subject for talk,it has long ago been relieved of duty.There are sufficient reasons for this.Given a dinner company of six gentlemen to-day,it can easily happen that four of them--and possibly five--were not in the field at all.So the chances are four to two,or five to one,that the war will at no time during the evening become the topic of conversation;and the chances are still greater that if it become the topic it will remain so but a little while.
If you add six ladies to the company,you have added six people who saw so little of the dread realities of the war that they ran out of talk concerning them years ago,and now would soon weary of the war topic if you brought it up.
The case is very different in the South.There,every man you meet was in the war;and every lady you meet saw the war.
The war is the great chief topic of conversation.The interest in it is vivid and constant;the interest in other topics is fleeting.
Mention of the war will wake up a dull company and set their tongues going,when nearly any other topic would fail.
In the South,the war is what A.D.is elsewhere:they date from it.
All day long you hear things 'placed'as having happened since the waw;or du'in'the waw;or befo'the waw;or right aftah the waw;or 'bout two yeahs or five yeahs or ten yeahs befo'the waw or aftah the waw.It shows how intimately every individual was visited,in his own person,by that tremendous episode.
It gives the inexperienced stranger a better idea of what a vast and comprehensive calamity invasion is than he can ever get by reading books at the fireside.
At a club one evening,a gentleman turned to me and said,in an aside--'You notice,of course,that we are nearly always talking about the war.
It isn't because we haven't anything else to talk about,but because nothing else has so strong an interest for us.And there is another reason:
In the war,each of us,in his own person,seems to have sampled all the different varieties of human experience;as a consequence,you can't mention an outside matter of any sort but it will certainly remind some listener of something that happened during the war--and out he comes with it.Of course that brings the talk back to the war.
You may try all you want to,to keep other subjects before the house,and we may all join in and help,but there can be but one result:the most random topic would load every man up with war reminiscences,and shut him up,too;and talk would be likely to stop presently,because you can't talk pale inconsequentialities when you've got a crimson fact or fancy in your head that you are burning to fetch out.'
The poet was sitting some little distance away;and presently he began to speak--about the moon.
The gentleman who had been talking to me remarked in an 'aside:'
'There,the moon is far enough from the seat of war,but you will see that it will suggest something to somebody about the war;in ten minutes from now the moon,as a topic,will be shelved.'
The poet was saying he had noticed something which was a surprise to him;had had the impression that down here,toward the equator,the moonlight was much stronger and brighter than up North;had had the impression that when he visited New Orleans,many years ago,the moon--Interruption from the other end of the room--'Let me explain that.Reminds me of an anecdote.
Everything is changed since the war,for better or for worse;but you'll find people down here born grumblers,who see no change except the change for the worse.There was an old negro woman of this sort.A young New-Yorker said in her presence,"What a wonderful moon you have down here!"She sighed and said,"Ah,bless yo'heart,honey,you ought to seen dat moon befo' de waw!"'
The new topic was dead already.But the poet resurrected it,and gave it a new start.
A brief dispute followed,as to whether the difference between Northern and Southern moonlight really existed or was only imagined.
Moonlight talk drifted easily into talk about artificial methods of dispelling darkness.Then somebody remembered that when Farragut advanced upon Port Hudson on a dark night--and did not wish to assist the aim of the Confederate gunners--he carried no battle-lanterns,but painted the decks of his ships white,and thus created a dim but valuable light,which enabled his own men to grope their way around with considerable facility.
At this point the war got the floor again--the ten minutes not quite up yet.
I was not sorry,for war talk by men who have been in a war is always interesting;whereas moon talk by a poet who has not been in the moon is likely to be dull.
We went to a cockpit in New Orleans on a Saturday afternoon.
I had never seen a cock-fight before.There were men and boys there of all ages and all colors,and of many languages and nationalities.
But I noticed one quite conspicuous and surprising absence:the traditional brutal faces.There were no brutal faces.
With no cock-fighting going on,you could have played the gathering on a stranger for a prayer-meeting;and after it began,for a revival--provided you blindfolded your stranger--for the shouting was something prodigious.
A negro and a white man were in the ring;everybody else outside.
The cocks were brought in in sacks;and when time was called,they were taken out by the two bottle-holders,stroked,caressed,poked toward each other,and finally liberated.
The big black cock plunged instantly at the little gray one and struck him on the head with his spur.The gray responded with spirit.
Then the Babel of many-tongued shoutings broke out,and ceased not thenceforth.When the cocks had been fighting some little time,I was expecting them momently to drop dead,for both were blind,red with blood,and so exhausted that they frequently fell down.
Yet they would not give up,neither would they die.