Letter to his wife--To Mr. Tagart--Obituary notice in “Personal
Reminiscences of General Robert E. Lee”--Mrs. Lee’s account of his death
The following is the last letter that I can find written by my father
to my mother. He was back in Lexington early in September, and was never
separated from her again while he lived:
“Hot Springs, August 27, 1870.
“My Dear Mary: I have received your letter of the 22d. I should remain
here a week longer if time permitted, as I have felt in the last few
days better than I have yet, but I am obliged to be in Staunton on the
30th and therefore must leave Monday, 29th. I should not have time to
return here. The college opens on September 15th, and I wish to see that
all things are prepared. Possibly the little improvement now felt will
continue. If not, I shall have to bear my malady. I am truly sorry to
hear of Edwin Lee’s death [Colonel Edwin Grey Lee was a near cousin. He
had distinguished himself in the late war. At its commencement he
had volunteered, and was made a 2d. lieutenant in the Second Virginia
regiment, “Stonewall Brigade.” From that rank he quickly rose to be
lieutenant colonel of the 33d Virginia, in the same brigade. In 1862
his health, which was very feeble, compelled him to resign, but after a
short time he again entered the service, though he never became strong
enough to serve actively in the field. General lee’s opinion of his
abilities was very high.]. He was a true man, and, if health had
permitted, would have been an ornament as well as a benefit to his race.
He certainly was a great credit to the name. Give my sincere sympathy to
his wife and family. You have never mentioned anything of Dr. Grahame. I
have heard that he was in a critical condition. I saw Colonels Allan and
Johnston. They only stayed a day, and went on to the White. I have
heard of them on their return, and presume they will reach Lexington
to-morrow. Mr. George Taylor, who has been a month at the White, arrived
here to-day. Both he and his wife are well. The company is thinning,
though arrivals occur daily. Mr. Middleton and his daughter and son,
from Washington, whom you may recollect, also came. But I hope to see
you so soon that I will defer my narrative. I am glad that Mary is
enjoying herself and that Rob is so happy. May both long continue so. I
will endeavour to get the muslin, but fear I shall not succeed. I trust
I may not be detained in Staunton more than a day or two. In that event,
you may expect me Thursday, September 1st, but I cannot say as to
time. I hope that I shall find you all well. Give my love to Agnes and
Mildred, and Custis, if he has arrived. Colonel Turner is very well.
Tell his wife that he was exhibited to-day at the Healing as a specimen
of the health of the Hot. In my last I gave you my views about the
servants and sent you a check for ----, which I hope that you have
received. Most truly and affectionately,
“R. E. Lee.”
His last letter was written on the morning of the day he was taken ill,
September 28th. It was to Mr. Tagert, of Baltimore, at whose home he had
stayed the previous summer. Its tone was cheerful and hopeful, and he
wrote that he was much better and stronger.
“Lexington, Virginia, September 28, 1870.
“My Dear Mr. Tagart: Your note of the 26th reached me this morning, and
see how easy it is ‘to inveigle me into a correspondence.’ In fact, when
a man desires to do a thing, or when a thing gives a man pleasure, he
requires but small provocation to induce him to do it. Now I wanted to
hear how you and Mrs. Tagart were, what you were doing, and how you had
passed the summer, and I desired to tell you so. That is the reason I
write. In answer to your question, I reply that I am much better. I do
not know whether it is owing to having seen you and Doctor Buckler last
summer, or to my visit to the Hot Springs. Perhaps both. But my pains
are less, and my strength greater. In fact, I suppose I am as well as I
shall be. I am still following Doctor B----‘s directions, and in tie I
may improve still more. I expect to have to visit Baltimore this fall,
in relation to the Valley Railroad, and in that event I hope to see
you, if you will permit me. I am glad to hear that you spent a pleasant
summer. Colonel ---- and I would have had a more agreeable one had you
been with us at the Hot, and as every place agrees so well with Mrs.
Tagert, I think she could have enjoyed as good health their as at
Saratoga, and we should have done better. Give my sincere regards to
Mrs. Tagart, and remember me to all friends, particularly Mr. ----. Tell
---- his brother is well and handsome, and I hope that he will study, or
his sweethearts in Baltimore will not pine for him long. Captain ---- is
well and busy, and joins in my remembrances. Mrs. Lee and my daughters
unite with me in messages to you and Mrs. Tagart, and I am most truly
yours, R. E. Lee.
“S. H. Tagart, Esq.”
When my brother Fitzhugh and I reached Lexington, my father was no more.
He died the morning of our arrival--October 12th. He had apparently
improved after his first attack, and the summoning of my brother and
myself had been put off from day to day. After we did start we were
delayed by the floods, which at that time prevailed over the State. Of
his last illness and death I have heard from my family.
The best account of those last days was written by Colonel William
Preston Johnston for the “Personal Reminiscences of General Robert E.
Lee,” by the Rev. J. W. Jones, published in 1874. Colonel Johnston was
an intimate friend of the General and a distinguished member of the
faculty of his college. He was also one of the watchers by his dying
bedside. I, therefore, give it in full:
“The death of General Lee was not due to any sudden cause, but was the
result of agencies dating as far back as 1863. In the trying campaign of
that year he contracted a severe sore throat, that resulted in rheumatic
inflammation of the sac inclosing his heart. There is no doubt that
after this sickness his health was more or less impaired; and although
he complained little, yet rapid exercise on foot or on horseback
produced pain and difficulty breathing. In October, 1869, he was again
attacked by inflammation of the heart-sac, accompanied by muscular
rheumatism of the back, right side, and arms. The action of the heart
was weakened by this attack; the flush upon the face deepened, the
rheumatism increased, and he was troubled with weariness and depression.
“In March, 1870, General Lee, yielding to the solicitations of friends
and medical advisors, make a six-weeks’ visit to Georgia and Florida. He
returned greatly benefited by the influence of the genial climate, the
society of friends in those States, and the demonstrations of respect
and affection of the people of the South; his physical condition,
however, was not greatly improved. During this winter and spring he had
said to his son, General Custis Lee, that his attack was mortal; and had
virtually expressed the same belief to other trusted friends. And,
now, with that delicacy that pervaded all his actions, he seriously
considered the question of resigning the presidency of Washington
College, ‘fearful that he might not be equal to his duties.’ After
listening, however, to the affectionate remonstrances of the faculty
and board of trustees, who well knew the value of his wisdom in the
supervision of the college and the power of his mere presence and
example upon the students, he resumed his labours with the resolution
to remain at his post and carry forward the great work he had so
auspiciously begun.
“During the summer he spent some weeks at the Hot Springs of Virginia,
using the baths, and came home seemingly better in health and spirits.
He entered upon the duties of the opening collegiate year in September
with that quiet zeal and noiseless energy that marked all his actions,
and an unusual elation was felt by those about him at the increased
prospect that long years of usefulness and honour would yet be added to
his glorious life.
“Wednesday, September 28, 1870, found General lee at the post of duty.
In the morning he was fully occupied with the correspondence and other
tasks incident to his office of president of Washington College, and
he declined offers of assistance from members of the faculty, of whose
services he sometimes availed himself. After dinner, at four o’clock, he
attended a vestry-meeting of Grace (Episcopal) church. The afternoon was
chilly and wet, and a steady rain had set in, which did not cease until
it resulted in a great flood, the most memorable and destructive in this
region for a hundred years. The church was rather cold and damp, and
General Lee, during the meeting, sat in a pew with his military cape
cast loosely about him. In a conversation that occupied the brief
space preceding the call to order, he took part, and told with marked
cheerfulness of manner and kindliness of tone some pleasant anecdotes
of Bishop Meade and Chief-Justice Marshall. The meeting was protracted
until after seven o’clock by a discussion touching the rebuilding of
the church edifice and the increase of the rector’s salary. General Lee
acted as chairman, and, after hearing all that was said, gave his own
opinion, as was his wont, briefly and without argument. He closed
the meeting with a characteristic act. The amount required for the
minister’s salary still lacked a sum much greater than General Lee’s
proportion of the subscription, in view of his frequent and generous
contributions to the church and other charities, but just before the
adjournment, when the treasurer announced the amount of the deficit
still remaining, General Lee said in a low tone, ‘I will give that sum.’
He seemed tired toward the close of the meeting, and, as was afterward
remarked, showed an unusual flush, but at the time no apprehensions were
felt.
“General Lee returned to his house, and, finding his family waiting tea
for him, took his place at the table, standing to say grace. The effort
was valid; the lips could not utter the prayer of the heart. Finding
himself unable to speak, he took his seat quietly and without agitation.
His face seemed to some of the anxious group about him to wear a look
of sublime resignation, and to evince a full knowledge that the hour
had come when all the cares and anxieties of his crowded life were at
an end. His physicians, Doctors H. S. Barton and R. L. Madison, arrived
promptly, applied the usual remedies, and placed him upon the couch from
which he was to rise no more.
“To him henceforth the things of this world were as nothing, and he
bowed with resignation to the command of the Master he had followed so
long with reverence. They symptoms of his attack resembled concussion
of the brain, without the attendant swoon. There was marked debility,
a slightly impaired consciousness, and a tendency to doze; but no
paralysis of motion or sensation, and no evidence of suffering or
inflammation of the brain. His physicians treated the case as one of
venous congestion, and with apparently favourable results. Yet, despite
these propitious auguries drawn from his physical symptoms, in view of
the great mental strain he had undergone, the gravest fears were felt
that the attack was mortal. He took without objection the medicines and
diet prescribed, and was strong enough to turn in bed without aid, and
to sit up to take nourishment. During the earlier days of his illness,
though inclined to doze, he was easily aroused, was quite conscious and
observant, evidently understood whatever was said to him, and answered
questions briefly but intelligently; he was, however, averse to much
speaking, generally using monosyllables, as had always been his habit
when sick.
“When first attacked, he said to those who were removing his clothes,
pointing at the same time to his rheumatic shoulder, ‘You hurt my arm.’
Although he seemed to be gradually improving until October 10th, he
apparently knew from the first that the appointed hour had come when he
must enter those dark gates that, closing, open no more on the earth.
In the words of his physician, ‘he neither expected nor desired to
recover.’ When General Custis Lee made some allusion to his recover,
he shook his head and pointed upward. On the Monday morning before his
death, Doctor Madison, finding him looking better, tried to cheer
him. ‘How do you feel to-day, General?’ General Lee replied slowly and
distinctly: ‘I feel better.’ The doctor then said: ‘You must make haste
and get well; Traveller has been standing so long in the stable that he
needs exercise.’ The General made no reply, but slowly shook his head
and closed his eyes. Several times during his illness he put aside his
medicine, saying, ‘It is of no use,’ but yielded patiently to the wishes
of his physicians or children, as if the slackened chords of being still
responded to the touch of duty or affection.
“On October 10th, during the afternoon, his pulse became feeble
and rapid, and his breathing hurried, with other evidences of great
exhaustion. About midnight he was seized with a shivering from extreme
debility, and Doctor Barton was obliged to announce the danger to the
family. On October 11th, he was evidently sinking; his respiration was
hurried, his pulse feeble and rapid. Though less observant, he still
recognised whoever approached him, but refused to take anything unless
prescribed by his physicians. It now became certain that the case
was hopeless. His decline was rapid, yet gentle; and soon after nine
o’clock, on the morning of October 12th, he closed his eyes, and his
soul passed peacefully from earth.
“General Lee’s physicians attributed his death in great measure to moral
causes. The strain of his campaigns, the bitterness of defeat aggravated
by the bad faith an insolence of the victor, sympathy with the
subsequent sufferings of the Southern people, and the effort at calmness
under these accumulated sorrows, seemed the sufficient and real causes
that slowly but steadily undermined his health and led to his death, yet
to those who saw his composure under the greater and lesser trials
of life, ad his justice and forbearance with the most unjust and
uncharitable, it seemed scarcely credible that his serene soul was
shaken by the evil that raged around him.
“General Lee’s closing hours were consonant with his noble and
disciplined life. Never was more beautifully displayed how a long and
severe education of mind and character enables the soul to pass with
equal step through this supreme ordeal; never did the habits and
qualities of a lifetime, solemnly gathered into a few last sad
hours, more grandly maintain themselves amid the gloom and shadow of
approaching death. The reticence, the self-contained composure, the
obedience to proper authority, the magnanimity, and the Christian
meekness, that marked all his actions, still preserved their sway, in
spite of the inroads of disease and the creeping lethargy that weighted
down his faculties.
“As the old hero lay in the darkened room, or with the lamp and
hearth-fire casting shadows upon his calm, noble front, all the missing
grandeur of his form, and face and brow remained; and death seemed to
lose its terrors and to borrow a grace and dignity in sublime keeping
with the life that was ebbing away. The great mind sank to its last
repose, almost with the equal poise of health. The few broken utterances
that evinced at times a wandering intellect were spoken under the
influence of the remedies administered; but as long as consciousness
lasted there was evidence that all the high, controlling influences of
his whole life still ruled; and even when stupor was laying its cold
hand on the intellectual perceptions, the moral nature, with its
complete orb of duties and affections, still asserted itself. A southern
poet has celebrated in song these last significant words, ‘Strike
the tent’: and a thousand voices were raised to give meaning to the
uncertain sound, when the dying man said, with emphasis, ‘Tell Hill he
must come up!’ These sentences serve to show most touchingly through
what fields the imagination was passing; but generally his words, though
few, were coherent; but for the most part, indeed, his silence was
unbroken.
“This self-contained reticence had an awful grandeur, in solemn
accord with a life that needed no defense. Deeds which required no
justification must speak for him. His voiceless lips, like the shut
gates of some majestic temple, were closed, not for concealment, but
because that within was holy. Could the eye of the mourning watcher have
pierced the gloom that gathered about the recesses of that great soul
it would have perceived a presence there full of an ineffable glory.
Leaning trustfully upon the all-sustaining Arm, the man whose stature,
measured by mortal standards, seemed so great, passed from this world of
shadows to the realities of the hereafter.”
A letter from my mother to a dear friend tells the same sad story:
“...My husband came in. We had been waiting tea for him, and I remarked:
‘You have kept us waiting a long time. Where have you been?’ He did not
reply, but stood up as if to say grace. Yet no word proceeded from his
lips, and he sat down in his chair perfectly upright and with a sublime
air of resignation on his countenance, and did not attempt to a reply
to our inquiries. That look was never forgotten, and I have no doubt he
felt that his hour had come; for though he submitted to the doctors, who
were immediately summoned, and who had not even reached their homes
from the same vestry-meeting, yet his whole demeanour during his illness
showed one who had taken leave of earth. He never smiled, and rarely
attempted to speak, except in dreams, and then he wandered to those
dreadful battle-fields. Once, when Agnes urged him to take some
medicine, which he always did with reluctance, he looked at her and
said, ‘It is no use.’ But afterward he took it. When he became so much
better the doctor said, ‘You must soon get out and ride your favorite
gray!’ He shook his head most emphatically and looked upward. He slept
a great deal, but knew us all, greeted us with a kindly pressure of the
hand, and loved to have us around him. For the last forty-eight hours he
seemed quite insensible of our presence. He breathed more heavily, and
at last sank to rest with one deep-drawn sigh. And oh, what a glorious
rest was in store for him!”