There are many living now who remember him. The strong, stolid figure, the
fine old face traced with the lineage of gentility, the cane that pounded
down the sidewalks as he went where he willed. There are some left who
knew the power and poetry and kindliness of the man.
Major Lacy was a graduate of Washington and Lee and an attorney at law,
though he seldom practiced. He was married in 1848 at Chatham, when he was
twenty-four years of age, to Miss Betty Churchill Jones, and later became
the owner of "Chatham" and of the "Lacy House," about each of which clings
grim traditions of war; both the Wilderness place and Chatham became known
in those two battles as "The Lacy House."
Washington Irving was his guest while spending some time in Virginia;
General Robert E. Lee was his guest, and many other widely known men.
His service in war was well done. He was made a lieutenant at the
beginning and promoted to major on the field of battle at Seven Pines. He
served under General Joseph E. Johnston until the latter surrendered, some
time after Appomattox.
When the war was ended he went North to do a brave thing. He spoke through
Pennsylvania and Maryland, pleading for funds to bury and put grave
stones over the Confederate dead. He had experiences there. But his
splendid oratory and the courage of his presence usually kept order.
[Sidenote: _Winning a Hostile Audience_]
He spoke once at Baltimore, and among his audience was an Irish Federal
regiment, clad half in uniform, half in civilians, as forgotten
ex-privates usually are. Major Lacy was told that most of the audience was
hostile and threatening.
He walked on the platform and spoke a few words about the unknown men he
came to get funds to decently bury, of the women away where the starlight
was twinkling over cabin and home, of those who waited, listening for a
step; of those who were never again to see the men they loved.
Shuffling feet and laughter dulled the simple pathos of his words. Then
turning half away from his audience he recited a poem called "The Irish
Immigrant's Lament":
"I am sitting on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat, side by side,
On that bright May morning long ago,
When first you were my bride."
He began it thus, and into his voice, filled with the sorrows of the
"Mary's" who wept down in his Southland, he put the full strength of his
expression. The hostile audience was silent as he finished.
"And often in the far-off world,
I'll sit and close my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again
To where my Mary lies.
And I'll think I see the little stile
Where we sat, side by side,
Mid the young corn on that bright May morn
When you were first my bride."
The Irishmen who had fought against the cause which Lacy loved were quiet
now, and when he said, "Wouldn't you want a bit of a stone for 'Mary' to
remember you," they yelled and rushed to grasp his hand. From his
"hostile" audience he collected $14,000.00 that night. In the whole tour
he gathered a great sum for Confederate cemeteries.
During his later years, with his wife, who represented the ladies of
another era, as he did its men, he lived on Washington Avenue, in
Fredericksburg. To few did he ever show the deeper side of his character,
but those who knew him until he died in 1906, knew how much kindly
manliness dwelt therein.