Daily Advocate [Baton Rouge, LA], September 11, 1860
Bristol, Va., Sept. 2, 1860.
Editors Advocate—We broke down this morning, and failed to make the connection, consequently here we are in this mountain border town for twelve mortal hours. The passengers, from all parts of the Union, are amusing themselves with discussing politics and taking the vote for President. The vote just taken stands 90 for Breckinridge, 50 for Bell, 3 for Douglas, and 1 (a Frenchman,) for Napoleon. It was difficult to make the Frenchman understand, for he was just from France. After explaining to him that we were not going to elect a President for France, but for the United States, he was asked again which of the American candidates he preferred. He replied “Napoleon, Napoleon, toujours Napoleon!” . . .
I stopped in Lynchburg and spent one night. It is a very remarkable place, remarkable for its rugged streets, its fine tobacco and pretty girls. The day I arrived there they were hanging a man for some youthful indiscretion—murder, I believe. The whole town, little and big, old and young, judge and jury, male and female, white, black and mulatto, were all there, that is at the hanging, “enjoying of themselves.” A hanging in Virginia is a perfect God send. It draws better than anything else. It beats Douglas or any other traveling show. Imagine beautiful young ladies seated in windows and on the tops of houses to see a poor wretch strangled to death. Human nature is the same in all ages. The ancient Roman ladies delighted in visiting the Coliseum and witnessing the bloody gladiatorial combats. Fierce as were their pleasures, and bloody as were their pastimes, a germ of that same feeling seems to be implanted in the human breast. Religion may in a great manner subdue it. Long lessons of morality may frown it down, but it will creep out in spite of all the teachings of the Christian world. . . .
September is upon us—the leaves begin to show a purple tinge—the mountain air is “keen and nipping” and reminds one of shawls and blankets. The immense tide of Southern travel is setting in homewards. In one short week, the watering places will be deserted. The festive halls that during the live-long summer have resounded to the music and the dance—will be as silent as the house of death. The crowded cabins and stuffed cottages will be disgorged of their human tenants, and bats and owls—rats and mice and “such small deer” will take their places for a season. . . .
September 3.—I close this letter at the Grand Junction. This road is wretchedly managed. On yesterday a terrible accident happened—cars ran off, and a young man named Turnbull from Jackson, Miss., was killed and many others badly wounded, cause, an iron rail, called “snake’s head,” ran up through the cars.
In taking the vote on the cars to-day, one man voted for Lincoln. So great was the excitement that many wanted to duck him in the first bayou, others proposed to hang him. The poor fellow agreed at last to give three cheers for Breckinridge, Bell and Douglas, and three groans for Lincoln!! This quieted the excited mob and relieved the Lincoln man very much.
Yours, Watkins.