In those days a less attractive place than the city of Washington could
hardly be imagined. It was scattered over an ill-paved and half-filled
oblong extending east and west from the Capitol to the White House, and
north and south from the line of the Maryland hills to the Potomac
River. One does not wonder that the early Britishers, led by Tom Moore,
made game of it, for it was both unpromising and unsightly.
Private carriages were not numerous. Hackney coaches had to be
especially ordered. The only public conveyance was a rickety old
omnibus which, making hourly trips, plied its lazy journey between the
Navy Yard and Georgetown. There was a livery stable—Kimball’s—having
“stalls,” as the sleeping apartments above came to be called, thus
literally serving man and beast. These stalls often lodged very
distinguished people. Kimball, the proprietor, a New Hampshire Democrat
of imposing appearance, was one of the last Washingtonians to wear knee
breeches and a ruffled shirt. He was a great admirer of my father and
his place was a resort of my childhood.
One day in the early April of 1852 I was humped in a chair upon one
side of the open entrance reading a book—Mr. Kimball seated on the
other side reading a newspaper—when there came down the street a tall,
greasy-looking person, who as he approached said: “Kimball, I have
another letter here from Frank.”
“Well, what does Frank say?”
Then the letter was produced, read and discussed.
It was all about the coming National Democratic Convention and its
prospective nominee for President of the United States, “Frank” seeming
to be a principal. To me it sounded very queer. But I took it all in,
and as soon as I reached home I put it up to my father:
“How comes it,” I asked, “that a big old loafer gets a letter from a
candidate for President and talks it over with the keeper of a livery
stable? What have such people to do with such things?”
My father said: “My son, Mr. Kimball is an estimable man. He has been
an important and popular Democrat in New Hampshire. He is not without
influence here. The Frank they talked about is Gen. Franklin Pierce, of
New Hampshire, an old friend and neighbor of Mr. Kimball. General
Pierce served in Congress with me and some of us are thinking that we
may nominate him for President. The ‘big old loafer,’ as you call him,
was Mr. John C. Rives, a most distinguished and influential Democrat
indeed.”
Three months later, when the event came to pass, I could tell all about
Gen. Franklin Pierce. His nomination was no surprise to me, though to
the country at large it was almost a shock. He had been nowhere
seriously considered.
In illustration of this a funny incident recurs to me. At Nashville the
night of the nomination a party of Whigs and Democrats had gathered in
front of the principal hotel waiting for the arrival of the news, among
the rest Sam Bugg and Chunky Towles, two local gamblers, both
undoubting Democrats. At length Chunky Towles, worn out, went off to
bed. The result was finally flashed over the wires. The crowd was
nonplused. “Who the hell is Franklin Pierce?” passed from lip to lip.
Sam Bugg knew his political catechism well. He proceeded at length to
tell all about Franklin Pierce, ending with the opinion that he was the
man wanted and would be elected hands down, and he had a thousand
dollars to bet on it.
Then he slipped away to tell his pal.
“Wake up, Chunky,” he cried. “We got a candidate—Gen. Franklin Pierce,
of New Hampshire.”
“Who the——”
“Chunky,” says Sam. “I am ashamed of your ignorance. Gen. Franklin
Pierce is the son of Gen. Benjamin Pierce, of Revolutionary fame. He
has served in both houses of Congress. He declined a seat in Polk’s
Cabinet. He won distinction in the Mexican War. He is the very
candidate we’ve been after.”
“In that case,” says Chunky, “I’ll get up.” When he reappeared Petway,
the Whig leader of the gathering, who had been deriding the convention,
the candidate and all things else Democratic, exclaimed:
“Here comes Chunky Towles. He’s a good Democrat; and I’ll bet ten to
one he never heard of Franklin Pierce in his life before.”
Chunky Towles was one of the handsomest men of his time. His strong
suit was his unruffled composure and cool self-control. “Mr. Petway,”
says he, “you would lose your money, and I won’t take advantage of any
man’s ignorance. Besides, I never gamble on a certainty. Gen. Franklin
Pierce, sir, is a son of Gen. Benjamin Pierce of Revolutionary memory.
He served in both houses of Congress, sir—refused a seat in Polk’s
Cabinet, sir—won distinction in the Mexican War, sir. He has been from
the first my choice, and I’ve money to bet on his election.”
Franklin Pierce had an only son, named Benny, after his grandfather,
the Revolutionary hero. He was of my own age. I was planning the good
time we were going to have in the White House when tidings came that he
had been killed in a railway accident. It was a grievous blow, from
which the stricken mother never recovered. One of the most vivid
memories and altogether the saddest episode of my childhood is that a
few weeks later I was carried up to the Executive Mansion, which, all
formality and marble, seemed cold enough for a mausoleum, where a lady
in black took me in her arms and convulsively held me there, weeping as
if her heart would break.
V
Sometimes a fancy, rather vague, comes to me of seeing the soldiers go
off to the Mexican War and of making flags striped with pokeberry
juice—somehow the name of the fruit was mingled with that of the
President—though a visit quite a year before to The Hermitage, which
adjoined the farm of an uncle, to see General Jackson is still
uneffaced.
I remember it vividly. The old hero dandled me in his arms, saying “So
this is Harvey’s boy,” I looking the while in vain for the “hickory,”
of which I had heard so much.
On the personal side history owes General Jackson reparation. His
personality needs indeed complete reconstruction in the popular mind,
which misconceives him a rough frontiersman having few or none of the
social graces. In point of fact he came into the world a gentleman, a
leader, a knight-errant who captivated women and dominated men.
I shared when a young man the common belief about him. But there is
ample proof of the error of this. From middle age, though he ever liked
a horse race, he was a regular if not a devout churchman. He did not
swear at all, “by the Eternal” or any other oath. When he reached New
Orleans in 1814 to take command of the army, Governor Claiborne gave
him a dinner; and after he had gone Mrs. Claiborne, who knew European
courts and society better than any other American woman, said to her
husband: “Call that man a backwoodsman? He is the finest gentleman I
ever met!”
There is another witness—Mr. Buchanan, afterward President—who tells
how he took a distinguished English lady to the White House when Old
Hickory was President; how he went up to the general’s private
apartment, where he found him in a ragged _robe-de-chambre_, smoking
his pipe; how, when he intimated that the President might before coming
down slick himself a bit, he received the half-laughing rebuke:
“Buchanan, I once knew a man in Virginia who made himself independently
rich by minding his own business”; how, when he did come down, he was
_en règle_; and finally how, after a half hour of delightful talk, the
English lady as they regained the street broke forth with enthusiasm,
using almost the selfsame words of Mrs. Claiborne: “He is the finest
gentleman I ever met in the whole course of my life.”