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Memories of Jefferson
Davis with the sky - At
the time or impression he
gas; United States secretary of war,
Wrti come from Washington with
President Pierce to review the troops
at Fortress Monroe. The night follow
ing the review the fort and the waters
beyond were such a blaze of pyro
technic wonders as few had ever seen.
Then there came a lull in the booming
of cannon, the cheering and applause,
and suddenly there flashed across the
sky in flaming letters the two names,
Jefferson Davis and Franklin Pierce.
Across the sky of my memories one
of those two names still flashes with
dazzling brilliance.
History has done its worst, and its
bcust, for Jefferson Davis, just as dur
ing his life Fate did for him her best
I have no wish or will to
A\snuS| the political issues which sent
ksefcXiuent orator, the brilliant
stev, IS , A, the noble man, out of the
ITW.S injure Destiny was calling him
ttPhigyjr—to the highest heights. I
have- f» /gotten them. His aims and
garbled perhaps and often
•« assly misrepresented, are borne
AM- Axpon the tide of history. Only
’ /Kracter, the man, live in my
something as much revered
in that lon & a so when I had
Zjßfi fortune to see much of him
pjflWw him well. And of that, of
i) 4K* e «rsonal memories of Jefferson
Lk. by am always glad to speak.
Os that first memory, only one inci
dent remains—a curious incident. I
had been told that Mr. Davis had lost
an eye, and when they took me to see
the great man, in real flesh and blood
after the letters of fire I only remem
ber looking most eagerly at his face
and experiencing a sense of surprise
at not being able to discover that an
eye was missing. The disappointment
of expectation, however, was more
than balanced by the pleasure it gave
me to see that earnest, soulful face
which won my childish trust, as it won
the admiring confidence of older
people.
When Three Were a Crowd.
When next I saw Mr. Davis, it was,
at the time, with a feeling of inex
pressible vexation. He was president
of the Confederacy then, having been
elected to the office by a single vote
over Robert Toombs. It was in July,
1862, just after the battle of Gaine’s
Mill. Gen. Pickett, to whom I was en
gaged, had been severely wounded and
was at his home in Richmond. I was
returning from school in the care nf
that noble, self sacrificing, but most
unfortunate clergyqmen, Parson
Brownlow, and was so eager to see the
general that his sympathetic heart
yielded and he took me for a brief call
on the way. I had hardly taken a seat
by the man I loved when President
Davis was announced, and I saw the
precious minutes slip away while he
occupied my chair and I sat in a cor
ner beside the general’s sister.
In spite of the very green glasses
through which I looked, I could not
help seeing the man and forming a
mental picture of him which through
life and death has grown ever bright
er, more vivid and revered. His very
entrance into the room captivated me.
He was tall and extremely thin, but
there was a dignity and grace about
him which is inexpressible. He was a
type of the old south, cultivated, re
fined, a brilliant conversationalist.
His eyes were clear and of a blue gray
color, his forehead high, nose straight,
lips thin and compressed, chin point
ed, and cheek bones high. Deep inter
3ectuig lines furrowed his mouth.
His face was thin, features long and
sharp, and an angular outline empha
sized the Intensity of his expression.
There was no pomp or strut in his
movement, neither was there anything
uncertain. His walk was wonderful.
It was poetry, music, grace. It was
just what a president’s walk ought to
be, but seldom is. Often on Sundays
after that I watched him at St. Paul’s
church, and whenever I saw him on
horseback I was fascinated by the
beautiful unaffected harmony and
grace of every motion.
He took Gen. Pickett’s left hand and
pressed it, laying it gently down on
the arm of the chair to avoid jarring
him, as he seated himself, asking,
“How soon will you be able to go
back? We need you in the field.”
“I should like to go tomorrow,” re
plied the general; at which the presi
dent shook his head.
He gave the general a brief account
of the fighting which had followed the
battle of Gaine’s Mill, praising his
brother, Capt. Charles Pickett, who
had been wounded by carrying the
flag on foot after his horse had been
shot under him. I remember how his
eyes flashed as he said: “I am too
much a soldier to keep out of it in this
way. I wanted to be in the fray. I
would much have preferred to fight in
the fields rather than in the council
chambers. I had gone out to consult
with the generals, when the artillery
duel between Jackson and Franklin
began. I barely missed being acci
dentally killed, and they carried me
off, I may say, by force.”
Then they began to talk of years
before when they fought together in
Mexico.
Meeting Him “Officially.”
I never met Mr. Davis “officially”
till the evening of September 16, 1863,
the night of my wedding reception. Os
all who came to greet the child bride
of the beloved general, Mr. Davis and
his cabinet were almost the only ones
who wore civilian's evening dress. In
those days the men were all soldiers,
and the women were all sacrificing
everything to help. Very little, in
deed, was to be had even for money,
to eat, drink, or wear. Through the
kindness of friends at the north, my
wedding dress had been smuggled
through the lines for me, and it was
something so unusual that after greet
ing me Mrs. Davis remarked:
“Dear me! Where did you get those
clothes?”
Turning to the general, smiling, Mr.
Davis said:
.“Where did you get the little lady
who is in the clothes?”
The editor of The Richmond Exami
ner was standing across the room. He
had been mercilessly assailing the
president and the administration.
Mrs. Davis called her husband’s atten
tion to his presence there, but Mr.
Davis instantly replied:
“Let us not look that way, my dear.
We have come tonight to look at
beautiful things and think pleasant
thoughts.”
The general’s sister suggested tak
ing the president and his wife to the
dining room.
“Have you really something to eat
there?” Mr. Davis asked; for in truth
it was no longer expected. “Cold water
balls” had become the rule. When she
told him that everyone in the neigh
borhood of Gen. Pickett’s home, Tur
key Island, had sent in sora (little
reed birds) for the occasion, he smiled
and said:
“What a time you must have had
picking them!”
“No, a part of the gift was the pick
ing of the birds.”
I have spent tee much space upon
./HE WEEKLY jf-.'s-RSONIAN.
By LA SALLE CORBELL PlC re o f.
I f
this evenin, 'haps, but it lingers
with me in oughts of Mr. Davis,
not because . as my night, but be
cause it was the last time that I ever
saw real happiness in the thin, earnest
face. I had a good look at it, too, for
Mr. Davis and his wife were presented
imediately after the general’s family.
He was just a free, gallant gentleman
that night. As he said, he had come
to enjoy. But clouds, public and pri
vate, were gathering, and soon enough
there was no longer the possibility to
forget. I saw him often in sadness
and suffering after that, but never
again with a look of real happiness
lighting his face.
The power of Mr. Davis’ sympathy
was perhaps his greatest charm. All
who knew him in those days saw and
felt a great deal of that. On March
24, 1864, the park at the Capitol
grounds was filled wtih emaciated, hol
lowed eyed, restless men, our returned
prisoners, and the friends who had
come to meet them. Mr. Davis spoke
to them, not as a president addressing
his people, or a commander in chief
his soldiers, but precisely as a father
welcoming back his children who had
reached home again out of great peril.
Never had the tones of his wonderful
voice been more tender and heart
moving than that day. But his voice
was always, like himself, something
unique; possessed of a charm that
would be difficult to put into words.
Years later my little boy, after listen
ing to Mr. Davis during a call, asked:
“Mamma, what has Mr. Davis got
in his throat that makes his talk
sound so musiky?”
His Penetrating Voice.
It was so soft that it could hold
noting that would jar on the most
sensitive ear, yet he found no diffi
culty in filling spacious halls, as some
who still remember his burning elo
quence in the United States senate can
testify. But those who realized that
music best were the friends to whom
he came in the great crises of life.
We can never forget the music that
thrilled us in those moments.
On May 10, during the heavy bur
dens of the last year of the war, the
saddest company gathered in the pres
ident’s mansion, attending the funeral
of little Joe, the father’s favorite, who,
in perfect health, had fallen from a ve
randa to the brick pavement and been
killed. It was Sunday morning, and the
president was called from the church
in time of service to receive the sad
news.
There were four children. Three of
them were as unmanageable as chil
dren could well be, but little Joe work
ed like a hero to be a balance wheel.
One evening when the president was
holding a cabinet meeting in the li
brary and Mrs. Davis was giving a re
ception, the children were romping up
stairs in away that proved wholly be
yond both Joe and the nurse and Joe did
what many a hero in difficulty has
done before. He knelt down and
prayed:
“Dear Lord, do take hold and help
me manage the children! Father and
mother have got the Confederacy and
society on their hands and they
haven’t any time, and I can’t do it by
myself.”
Another evening when it was bed
time and his father, who was receiving
in the drawing room, was not on hand to
hear him say his prayer, little Joe trot
ted down in his nightgown and before
all the guests knelt down at his
father’s knee and said his prayers.
We went to the house before the fun
eral, but did not see the president. His
grief was too deep then. We heard
his step upstairs, walking, walking,
Interesting Incid jpdured in jhe Stren- r
uous Life of Grea. rafter ofthe Confederacy. X.
walking.
In another room Catharine, the
nurse, after the manner of her kind,
was wailing and moaning, and Mrs.
Davis, knowing her husband’s nervous
nature, tried to quiet her, that she
might not add to his suffering.
“Catharine, you must stop that
screaming! You must stop that
screaming!” she said.
Mr. Davis opened the door and said,
“Let her scream!” Then he turned
back to his solitary walking, wishing,
perhaps, that he, too, could vent his
sorrow and lighten his burdens in
some human way.
We stood near him at the grave.
Mrs. Davis’ Madonna face was white
and drawn with all a mother’s suffer
ing, but Mr. Davis seemed to me the
very personification of grief, agony,
and pain, without one outward sign, a
tear, the quivering of a muscle even.
All about him mourners were sob
bing for his grief, and the sound of the
James river dashing over the rocks
came up to us in the golden flashing
of the setting sun. There were a great
many children, all bringing flowers,
and each with a bunch of evergreen.
There was one little girl with an
apronful of white violets. She went
directly to the gray haired man stand
ing so still and erect by the grave and
said to him:
“Joe and I were watching these
violets coming out all last week, and
I’ve picked them, every one, for him.”
Mr. Davis bent over, lifted her in '
his arms, held her over the grave and
whispered to her. She opened the
apron and let the white violets fall up
on all that remained of little Joe. As
he set her down and stepped back, Mr.
Davis drew his hands slowly across
his eyes. His burdens were almost
greater than he could bear.
Less than a year later we were sit
ting in St. Paul’s in the midst of com
munion service, when a letter from the
secretary of war was handed to the
president. I think we were all watch
ing him. How could we help it in
that terrible hour? We saw him read
the letter, then calmly rise and leave
the church with all the dignity that
was always his. But we knew. Dr.
Minnergerode instantly began a fer
vent prayer, and our sobs and cries
went up with it We knew that some
great calamity had thrown a black
veil across the sunlight of that beauti
ful morning, and were not surprised
when we learned later that the letter
from the secretary of war had an
nounced the impending fall of the
capital.
Civil war brings with it conflicting
entanglements. One of the men
whom Davis most highly esteemed
was President Lincoln. They were
born the same year and within a few
miles of each other in the same state.
In childhood one was taken north, the
other south, leaving the world to won
der what the result would have been
in history had they each taken an op
posite direction—so much depends up
on the accident of environment. But
their whole lives were interwoven.
At the opening of the Black Hawk
War General Scott sent Lieutenant
Davis to Dixon, Illinois, to muster the
state troops into the service of the
nation, and the young lieutenant ad
ministered to Captain Abraham Lin
coln the oath of allegiance to the
United States, a fact to which Lincoln
often called attention in later years.
After his arrest, Davis was being
driven to the railway station in an
old barouche drawn by miserable, bony
horses, surrounded by a guard of cav
alry. An old Confederate soldier ran
beside the bareuche, determined to