Daily Advocate [Baton Rouge, LA], September 5, 1860,
White Sulphur Springs, Va., Aug. 24, 1860.
Editors Advocate—I find this great Southern watering place crowded to suffocation. But few are here from the North. All the Southern States, without any exception, are fully represented here. Among the distingués are Mr. Pettigru of South Carolina, Geo. Reynolds of Texas, James Lyons and Professor Bledsoe of Virginia, together with a score or two of Congressmen, foreign ministers and distinguished strangers. The ladies assembled here are not as pretty as I have seen. It really seems as if all the ugly women of the South had by previous agreement, concluded to hold “high carnival” this summer at the White Sulphur. There are, however, many very nice and pretty girls here, who compensate in some measure for the vast amount of ugly that is daily exhibited “ad nauseum.”
The ball-room is well attended—the drawing rooms are crowded, while in every shady walk and winding path are seen the sighing maid and simpering swain. This seems to be the great commercial mart for the sale of “hands and hearts.” Here you see daily, aged and decrepid wealth captivating (in a horn) luscious, blooming, youthful poverty. Here also are dashing widows, fat and forty, with low necked and short sleeved dresses, flirting about with young moustached gentlemen, just as if they didn’t have five or six children at home. Here are the bread and butter country misses just out of boarding school, talking love for the first time, and feeling very happy.
Politicians of every stripe are also here, among whom are a good number of Bell and Everett men, who publicly say that in case Lincoln is elected he will make a very good President—that after all the Republicans are not so bad!! I heard a large slaveholder say to-day, that before he would dissolve the Union he would give up all his negroes. I told him that, as much as Louisiana loved the Union, she would break it into a thousand pieces before she would give up the smallest nigger baby.
In discussing politics with the visitors here, I find that the things are very much mixed. Old Virginia will, however, prove true to the Constitution and the Union, and give her voice in November next for Breckinridge and Lane.
It is generally conceded on all hands, by every body, that Douglas will not carry a single State. His strongest friends admit it. They are, therefore, trying to cajole Bell into the belief that he can be elected. Before the election is over, you will hear of Douglas making Bell and Everett speeches, but as the Little Giant prefers “the clams of Rhode Island to the niggers of the South,” I don’t think his speeches will take very well in our latitude. Yes, says Mr. Douglas in a public speech, “I prefer the clams of Rhode Island to the niggers of the South.” Now, if this means anything, it is a miserable piece of demagogism, pandering to the depraved appetites of Abolitionists. He prefers clams to niggers—that is, he likes clams and doesn’t like niggers. I think the Southern people will, by general consent, permit this fastidious gentleman to eat his New England clams in quiet, cheek by jole with Forney, Dean Richmond & Co., but never will he eat his clams or drink his grog in the White House. It is generally conceded here by all unprejudiced men, that Breckinridge will carry nine Southern States, giving him 64 electoral votes, certain. This will carry the election into the House, for New York will certainly go for the fusion ticket. Let us, however, do our duty in Louisiana. We are fighting on the only true constitutional platform. We are fighting the great battle of political equality, and even if we are defeated this time, “truth crushed to the earth will rise again. The eternal laws of God are hers.” Leaders may sell out, designing politicians may deceive, but the people, the honest, hard-working masses who read for themselves, and think for themselves, will rise in their might and hurl from power and from place the political judases who betray them.
It is late at night—I must close this letter. I have just escorted a dashing belle from Alabama to her room. She is decidedly the belle of the ball room, but strange to say, when the music has ceased, and the numerous train of admirers retired, she gives many a long-drawn sigh, and seems quite unhappy. Although the fairest of the fair, the loveliest of the lovely, courted, admired, besieged by scores of gallant men, still there is one sentiment, an aching heart. I read her the following verses and they touched a chord I little dreamed. With suffused cheeks and tearful eye, she said it was too true. I give you the verses, for they are really very pretty and will be read by your numerous fair readers with much interest:
The Ball Room Belle.
“The moon and all her fairy train
Were fading from the morning sky,
When home the ballroom belle again
Returned, with throbbing pulse and brain,
Flushed cheek and tearful eye.
The plume that danced above her brow,
The gem that sparkled in her zone,
The scarf of spangled leaf and bough,
Were laid aside—the mocked her now,
When desolate and alone.
That night how many hearts she won;
The reigning belle, she could not stir,
But like the planets round the sun,
Her suitors followed—all but one—
One, all the world to her!
And she had lost him! Marvel not,
That lady’s eyes with tears were wet!
Though love by man is soon forgot,
It never yet was woman’s lot
To love and to forget.”
Good bye. Yours truly,
Watkins.