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.