A BELLE OF THE FIFTIES
[Illustration:
MRS. CLAY
of Alabama
]
A Belle of the Fifties
Memoirs of Mrs. Clay, of Alabama, covering Social and Political Life in
Washington and the South, 1853–66 Put into narrative form by Ada
Sterling
_Illustrated from contemporary portraits_
[Illustration]
New York
Doubleday, Page & Company
1905
Copyright, 1904, by
Doubleday, Page & Company
Published, September, 1904
To
THE DEAR MEMORY OF THE HUSBAND OF MY YOUTH
CLEMENT CLAIBORNE CLAY
VIRGINIA CLAY-CLOPTON
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PREFACE
The memoirs of “Mrs. Clay, of Alabama,” by which title Mrs. Clement C.
Clay, Jr. (now Mrs. Clay-Clopton), was known during the period comprised
by 1850–87, begin in the middle of the second decade of the nineteenth
century, the scenes being laid among the affluent plantations of North
Carolina and Alabama, and, continuing through two brilliant
administrations at the national capital, close, as she emerges from the
distresses which overtook her and her husband after the
never-to-be-forgotten tragedy that plunged a nation into mourning—the
death of Mr. Lincoln.
In the researches made in order to obviate all possible inaccuracies in
these memoirs (a precaution always necessary where one’s life has been
long and experiences so varied), I have come upon no record of any other
woman of her time who has filled so powerful a place politically, whose
belleship has been so long sustained, or whose magnetism and compelling
fascinations have swayed others so universally as have those of Mrs.
Clay-Clopton. In the unrestful days at the capital which preceded the
Civil War her winning personality was such as to cause even those whom
she esteemed the enemies of her section, in those days when “sections”
were, to be covetous of her smiles. At no period of her long career have
her unique courage, her beautiful optimism, her inspiring buoyancy been
more accentuated than during the making of the present book. The
recalling of incident after incident, step by step, of so great a
procession of memories as are here set down is a task from which many
persons of twoscore years might shrink. At the ripe age of almost eight
decades Mrs. Clay-Clopton entered into the work with a heart as light as
a girl’s and a sustained energy and enthusiasm that have been as
remarkable as they are unparalleled. While preparing these pages I
enjoyed a daily intercourse with her extending over eight months, during
which time I often found myself spellbound by the descriptive powers
which nearly a half century ago compelled the admiration of leading men
and women of that day.
“My wife was amazed at your eloquence,” wrote Attorney-General Jeremiah
Black in 1866, and in succeeding letters urged Mrs. Clay to put her
experiences with Messrs. Johnson, Holt and Stanton into book form. To
these and urgings as powerful from many quarters, reiterated during the
past forty years, until the present work was undertaken, Mrs.
Clay-Clopton has remained indifferent. Her recollections of a long life
are now gathered in response to a wide and insistently expressed desire
to see them preserved in a concrete form ere the crowding years shall
have made impossible the valuable testimony she is able to bear to
ante-bellum and bellum conditions in her dearly loved South land. To
that end many friends of Mrs. Clay-Clopton have lent an eager aid, and
it is an acknowledgment due to them that their names be linked here with
the work they have so lovingly fostered.
The inception of the work as now presented is primarily due to Mrs.
Milton Humes, of Abingdon Place, Huntsville, Alabama, a daughter of the
late Governor Chapman, of that State, and the friend from her childhood
of Mrs. Clay-Clopton. For many years Mrs. Humes has ardently urged upon
our heroine the necessity for preserving her rich memories as a legacy,
not alone to the South, but to all lovers of the romantic and eventful
in our national history, to whatsoever quarter of the country they may
claim a particular allegiance. Through Mrs. Humes Mrs. Clay-Clopton and
I met; through her unintermitting energy obstacles that at first
threatened to postpone the beginning of the work were removed, and from
these initial steps she has brought a very Minerva-like wisdom and
kindness to aid the work to its completion. At the instance of Mrs.
Humes General Joseph Wheeler lent me a valuable sympathy; through the
courtesy of General Wheeler General James H. Wilson, to whom Clement C.
Clay, Jr., surrendered in 1865, kindly gave his consideration to the
chapters of the memoirs in which he personally is mentioned, correcting
one or two minor inaccuracies, such as misapplied military titles.
Through the continued forethought of Mrs. Humes and General Wheeler
Colonel Henry Watterson’s attention was directed to the work, and he,
too, generously scanned the manuscript then ready, at a considerable
expense of time, guiding my pen, all untutored in political phrases,
from some misleading slips. I owe a large debt of gratitude to Colonel
Robert Barnwell Rhett, who, though an invalid while I was a guest of Mr.
and Mrs. Humes in Huntsville, gave his unsparing counsels to me,
enlightening me as to personages and events appertaining to the
formation of the Confederate Government, which would have been
unobtainable from any books at present known to me. For the acquaintance
with Colonel Rhett I am, on behalf of the memoirs and for my personal
pleasure, again the debtor of Mrs. Humes.
The aid of Mrs. Paul Hammond, formerly of Beech Island, South Carolina,
but now residing in Jacksonville, Florida, has been peculiarly valuable.
Possessed of a fine literary taste, a keen observer, and retaining a
vivid recollection of the personages she encountered when a _debutante_
under Mrs. Clay’s chaperonage in 1857–’58 in Washington, the six or
seven weeks over which our intercourse extended were a continual
striking of rare lodes of incident, which lay almost forgotten in the
memory of her kinswoman, Mrs. Clay-Clopton, but which have contributed
greatly to the interest of certain chapters dealing with Washington life
in ante-bellum days.
Thanks are due to Mrs. Bettie Adams for her unsparing efforts to
facilitate the getting together of the necessary manuscripts to support,
and, in some instances, to authenticate and amplify the remembrances
carried by our heroine of the crucial times of the great internecine
war; to Miss Jennie Clay, who in her editorial pursuits discovered
special dates and records and placed them at my disposal in order that
the repetition of certain commonly accepted errors might be avoided; and
to Mrs. Frederick Myers of Savannah, daughter of Mrs. Philip Phillips,
who sent for my perusal (thereby giving me valuable sidelights on the
times of ’61–62), her mother’s letters from Ship Island, together with
the latter’s journal, kept during her imprisonment by General Benjamin
F. Butler.
The letters of Judge John A. Campbell, contributed by his daughter, Mrs.
Henrietta Lay, have been so well prized that they have become part of
the structure of her friend’s memoirs; to Mrs. Lay, therefore, also to
Mrs. Myra Knox Semmes, of New Orleans, Mrs. Cora Semmes Ives, of
Alexandria, Virginia; Mrs. Corinne Goodman, of Memphis, Tennessee; Mrs.
Mary Glenn Brickell, of Huntsville, Alabama; Mrs. George Collins Levey,
of England, and Judge John V. Wright, of Washington, D.C., thanks are
hereby given for incidents recalled and for suggestive letters received
since the work on the memoirs began.
ADA STERLING.
NEW YORK CITY, September 15, 1904.
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER I. CHILDHOOD, GIRLHOOD, MARRIAGE.
A Bit of Family History—Plantation Scenes in North Carolina and
Alabama—A Caravan of the Early Thirties—“De Year de Stars
Fell”—I Partially “Scalp” My Cousin—The Strange Experience of an
Early Alabama Instructress—Miss Brooks, a Distinguished
Educator—My Uncle Takes My Training in Hand—A First Flight into
the Beautiful World—Charles Kean and Ellen Tree—I Meet a Famous
Belle—Mme. Le Vert Instructs Me in the Dance—An Intense Love
Affair—My Knight Fails Me—A Gallant Lover Appears—Social Doings
at a Primitive Capital—Poetswains in the Early Forties—A Dance
with William L. Yancey—My Premonitions Are Realised and “My Own
Comes to Me”—Marriage in the Morn of Life—The Homecoming of the
Bride 3
CHAPTER II. WASHINGTON PERSONAGES IN THE FIFTIES.
Journey to the Capital—An Early “Congressional Limited”—A Stump
Orator of Alabama, the “Maker of Senators”—Arrival at the
Capital—The Night Clerk Refuses Us Accommodations at the
National Hotel—Undercurrents of Strife in Society—Mrs.
Pierce—Pennsylvania Avenue in the Fifties—Survey of Washington’s
Hostesses—Mme. de Bodisco and the Glacées—Her Second Marriage at
Old St. John’s—Foreign Legations—Reminiscence of Octavia Walton
in Washington—Mrs. Riggs Gives a Midnight Supper to Patti—Heller
Appears; Likewise the Grand Elephant Hannibal 19
CHAPTER III. A HISTORIC CONGRESSIONAL “MESS.”
Our Mess at Historic Brown’s Hotel and at the Ebbitt House—Mrs.
Pugh and the Baron Hulseman—The Boy Henry Watterson—Congressmen
Clopton, Curry, Dowdell, L. Q. C. Lamar, and Shorter, Senator
Fitzpatrick, and Their Wives—Mr. Dowdell Goes to Hear
Gottschalk—Circumstances of the Sudden Death of Preston
Brooks—The Stockton Mansion and Its Romances—Our “Mess”
Considers the Prudence of Calling on a Certain Lady—Retribution
Overtakes Us—Master Benny, the Hotel Terror 42
CHAPTER IV. THE CABINET CIRCLES OF PRESIDENTS PIERCE AND BUCHANAN.
Washington in 1856—Secret Visit of President Pierce—Personal
Recollections of Him—Secretaries Marcy, Cushing, and
Dobbin—Incidents of the Latter’s Kindness of Heart—Secretary of
War Jefferson Davis—Postmaster-General Brown—Secretary of State
Guthrie—Story of the Conquest of Chevalier Bertinatti 58
CHAPTER V. SOLONS OF THE CAPITAL.
Society of Supreme Court Circles—Chief Justice Taney—Judge
Campbell—Professors Henry and Maury—A Visit to the Latter’s
Observatory—Thomas Hart Benton—George Wallace Tones: His
Romantic History as Surveyor-General of the Great Northwest. At
the Age of Ninety-one He Recalls a Day When He Meant to Kill
Seward—Meeting with Myra Clarke Gaines—Senator and Mrs.
Crittenden, a “Perfectly Happy Woman” 73
CHAPTER VI. FASHIONS OF THE FIFTIES.
Aspect of Fashionable Society of the Pierce and Buchanan
Administrations—Perditas of the Period—Low Necks and Lace
Berthas—Kind Offices of American Consuls—Mr. Thomson and Miss
Lane’s Toy Terrier—He Reports Upon the Petticoats at
Brighton—Washington Dressmakers as Miracle-Workers—Mrs. Rich, a
True Reconstructionist—Belles and Beaux of the Period—Barton
Key—His Murder—Mrs. Sickles at Home—Revival of
Moustaches—General Sam Houston; His Strange Attire—A Glimpse of
This Hero in the Senate and in Society 86
CHAPTER VII. THE RELAXATIONS OF CONGRESSIONAL FOLK.
Public Recreation—Flights to New York—Jenny Lind—Charlotte
Cushman—Mrs. Gilbert and the Comedian Brougham in
“Pocahontas”—Mr. Thackeray—Dr. Maynard—Blind Tom at the White
House—Marine Band Concerts on the White House Lawn—President
Pierce and the Countryman—President Buchanan and the
Indians—Apothleohola, a Cherokee Patriarch—Dr. Morrow and the
Expedition to Japan—Return of Same—Ruse of the Oriental
Potentate to Prevent Our Securing Germinating Rice—A Plague of
Japanese Handkerchiefs 101
CHAPTER VIII. THE BRILLIANT BUCHANAN ADMINISTRATION.
Miss Lane Becomes Lady of the White House—Her Influence on
Washington Life—The Coming of Lord and Lady Napier—Their
Hospitality—They Give a Ball to Lords Cavendish and Ashley—Mrs.
Crittenden Puts to Rout a Younger Belle—Lord Napier Proposes a
Toast to the Chevalier Bayard—Washington Citizens Give a Ball to
the Napiers, at Which James Gordon Bennett Is Seen in the
Dance—Some Prominent Citizen Hostesses—Lilly Price, the Future
Duchess of Marlborough—Mr. W. W. Corcoran—His Lavish
Entertainments—Howell Cobb’s Appreciation—A Stranger’s Lack of
It—I Take the Daughter of a Constituent to See the Capitol 114
CHAPTER IX. A CELEBRATED SOCIAL EVENT.
Mrs. Gwin’s Fancy Ball—To the White House for Inspection—Aunt
Ruthy Partington Presents Herself to Mrs. Gwin—Mrs. Pendleton is
Mystified—Senator Gwin and “My Boy Ike”—Lord and Lady Napier and
Others of “Our Furrin Relations”—The Squelching of a Brave
Baltimorean—Senator Seward Gives Welcome to the Stranger from
Beanville—Mr. Shillaber Offers “to Immortalise” Me 126
CHAPTER X. EXODUS OF SOUTHERN SOCIETY FROM THE FEDERAL CITY.
Gayety Begins to Wane in the Capital—A Wedding in Old St.
John’s—Lord Lyons Replaces the Napiers—Anson Burlingame Rescues
Me from a Dilemma—Political Climax—Scenes in the Senate—Admiral
Semmes Declares His Intentions—Mr. Ruffin’s Menacing
Arsenal—Ex-President Tyler’s Grief—We Hear News from Morris
Island—Senators Clay, Davis, Fitzpatrick, Mallory, and Yulee
Withdraw from the Senate—Visits of Representatives Pendleton and
Vallandigham, and Senator Pugh, of Ohio—Joseph Holt Writes
Deploring the Possible Loss to Our Country of Senator Clay’s
“Genius and Patriotism” “A Plain New Hampshire Minister” Writes
of the Times—We Leave the Federal City—Mrs. Philip Phillips
Describes It a Few Weeks Later—Blair’s Alarm at Loss of Lee,
Magruder, and Other “Good Officers” 138
CHAPTER XI. WAR IS PROCLAIMED.
I Go with Senator Clay to Minnesota—“Let’s Mob the
Fire-eater”—We See Our First Federal Soldiers at Cairo—Echoes of
Sumter—Once More in the Blossomy South—In Picturesque
Huntsville—We Hear from Montgomery of President Davis’s
Unceasing Industry—A Survey of Huntsville—The “Plebs” and
Aristocrats Compete for the Naming of the Town, and the
Descendants of a Poet Give Way before Its Discoverer—A Nursing
Mother of Alabama’s Great Men—The Fascinations of the Fair
Vixens of the Early Nineteenth Century—A Baptism at the Big
Spring—The Make-up of Our Army in ’61—We Hear from a Hero at
Harper’s Ferry—Letters from Washington—We Prepare to Go to
Richmond 153
CHAPTER XII. RICHMOND AS A NATIONAL CAPITAL.
We Arrive in Richmond, Where We Meet Many Old Friends—An Evening
at the Mallorys’—We Establish Our Mess at Mrs. Du Val’s—Some of
Our Heroes—We Feast on Oysters and Terrapin—Greenbacks,
Canvas-backs, and Drawbacks—We Hear of the Fall of Nashville,
and General Buell’s Designs Upon Huntsville—Some of Richmond’s
Hostesses—Mrs. Stannard entertains; and the Famous Private
Theatrical Performance of “The Rivals”—Mrs. Burton Harrison
Recalls Her Triumph as Lydia Languish—The Caste—Mrs. Drew Acts
as “Coach”—Mrs. Ives, Our Hostess, Is Saved from Stage Fright by
a Bonnet Which Has Run the Blockade 168
CHAPTER XIII. GLIMPSES OF OUR BELEAGUERED SOUTH LAND.
Richmond in ’62—John A. Campbell Gives an Opinion on Confederate
Money—An Exodus from the Capital—Mrs. Roger A. Pryor Rebukes a
Contemptuous Lady—Our Mail a Pandora’s Box—News of New
Orleans—William L. Yancey Returns from a Fruitless Trip to
England—And Mr. Lamar from Russia—An Astronomer Turns Martinet—A
Careful Search Is Made for General Pope Walker—Our Pastor’s
Prayers Curtailed—The Federals Are Worried by General Roddy—Miss
Mitchell “Confiscates” Some of My Property—“Hey! Git off ’Ginie
Clay’s Mare!”—General Logan, a Case of Mistaken Identity—My
Refugee Days Begin—A Glimpse of North Carolinian Hospitality—And
of the Battle of Seven Pines—The Seed-corn of Our Race Is
Taken—Return to Huntsville 178
CHAPTER XIV. REFUGEE DAYS IN GEORGIA.
Detained in Macon—General Tracy Tells of Conditions at
Vicksburg—Senator Clay Writes of Grave Conditions in Richmond—A
War-time Dinner with President Davis—My Sister and I Turn
Seamstresses—Looking for Big Battles—Travel in ’63—Cliff and Sid
Lanier Write from “Tented Field”—News from “Homosassa” 193
CHAPTER XV. CLEMENT C. CLAY, JR., DEPARTS FOR CANADA.
A Memory of Dahlgren’s Raid—Mr. Clay Accepts a Mission to
Canada—Mr. Lamar’s Ideas on National Friendships—My Husband
Takes His Departure—Troubled Petersburg and Still More Troubled
Richmond—Hospital Experiences—My Sister Accuses Me of “Running
from Yankees,” and Overtakes Me—We Nurse a Sick Soldier—I Get a
Passport, but Fail to Use It—A Distinguished Watermelon Man 203
CHAPTER XVI. THE SOUTH’S DEPARTED GLORIES.
A Typical Plantation—Senator Hammond’s Little Republic on Beech
Island—Its General Influence—The Mill and the Miller—My Cousin,
Mrs. Paul Hammond, Writes a Description of “Redcliffe”—The
Hammond Negro as I Have Found Him—She Wins Them by
Subterfuge—Senator Clay Dances a Highland Fling and Startles
Some Gentle Methodists—St. Catharine’s; a Solemn Service There—A
Sight for Abolitionists—Choristers of the Field—A Comparison 211
CHAPTER XVII. CONDITIONS IN ’63 AND ’64.
Cost of Clothing—Scarcity of Necessities—Memphis in Yankee
Hands—Revival of Spinning and Weaving—A Salt Famine—Senator
Hammond’s Sagacity—Potato Coffee and Peanut Chocolate—Mrs. Redd
Weaves Me a Notable Dress—London Takes Note of Richmond
Fashions—I Send a List of “Desirables” to Mr. Clay in
Canada—Novelties for the Toilette and Writing-Table—Difficulties
of Getting News—The President Writes Me of My Absent One, and
Secretary Mallory Rejoices at His Conduct of Canadian
Interest—Postal Deficiencies—Adventures of an Editor—Price of
Candles Rises—Telegrams Become Costly and My Sister
Protests—“Redcliffe” Mourns Her Master—Gloom and Apprehension at
News of Sherman’s March—We Are Visited by Two of Wheeler’s
Brigade—They Give Us Warning and the Family Silver Is Solemnly
Sunk in the Ground—I Hear a Story of Sherman and Wheeler 222
CHAPTER XVIII. THE DEATH OF MR. LINCOLN.
Conflicting Advice Reaches Me from the Capital—Also Sad News
from Huntsville—Our Brother Tells of Political Opposition to the
President—Soldiers and Citizens Desire the Presence of General
Johnston in the Tennessee—Mr. Clay Communicates with Me by
“Personals”—I Beg to Be Sent to Canada, but am Met by
Opposition—The President Bids Me Take Refuge in the Capital—But
Another Urges Me to Leave the Line of Sherman’s Army—I Place
Myself Under General Howell Cobb’s Protection and Go to Macon—My
Husband Runs the Blockade, but Is Shipwrecked Off Fort
Moultrie—After Some Adventures He Reaches Macon—At the Home of
General Toombs—We Hear News from Richmond—Mr. Clay Makes for the
Capital and Reaches It—He Returns to Georgia—The Death of Mr.
Lincoln: “The Worst Blow Yet Struck at the South!” 235
CHAPTER XIX. C. C. CLAY, JR., SURRENDERS TO GENERAL WILSON.
We Go to Lagrange—A Nest of “Rebels”—We Hear of President
Johnson’s Proclamation Concerning Mr. Clay—My Husband Resolves
to Surrender—He Telegraphs to General Wilson—We Proceed to
Atlanta—Courtesy of Colonel Eggleston—He Gives Us a Guard—On to
Macon—“Madam, Your Chief Is Taken”—Arrival at Macon—General
Wilson Relieves Us of Our Guard—The Generosity of Women
Friends—We Drive to Station—And See a Pathetic Cortege—“Say,
Johnny Reb, We’ve Got Your President!” 246
CHAPTER XX. PRISONERS OF THE UNITED STATES.
We Have an All-Night Ride to Augusta—Our Party of Prisoners
Augments—I am Made Responsible for My Husband’s Appearance and
We Go Visiting—We Return to Captivity—I Board the Boat Somewhat
Hastily—And Unexpectedly Find Myself in the Arms of General
Wheeler—He Gives Me a Lesson in Forbearance—A Dismal Voyage—We
Reach Savannah and Are Transferred to the _Clyde_—Extracts from
My Diary—Mr. Davis’s Stoicism—We Anchor Off Fortress Monroe—Mr.
Clay Is Invited “to Take a Ride in a Tug”—Pathetic Separation of
the Davis Family—Little Jeff Becomes Our Champion—We See a Gay
Shallop Approaching—Two Ladies Appear and Search Us in the Name
of the United States Government—A Serio-comic Encounter—And
Still Another in Which “Mrs. Clay Lost Her Temper and Counselled
Resistance!”—We Undertake to Deceive Lieutenant Hudson, but
“Laugh on the Other Side” of Our Faces! 258
CHAPTER XXI. RETURN FROM FORTRESS MONROE.
On Board the _Clyde_—I Find a Guard at My Door—An Unknown Hands
Me the Daily Papers—The News—I Write to Thirteen Distinguished
Men—To Joseph Holt—A Friendly Soldier Posts My Letters—We Arrive
in Savannah and Make Our Way to the Pulaski House—Savannah’s
Generous People—Soldiers, Black and White—The Chaining of Mr.
Davis—I Write to General Miles—Little Jeff Makes a Friend—“Bully
for Jeff”—“Mordecai and Haman” 269
CHAPTER XXII. RECONSTRUCTION DAYS BEGIN.
I Arrive in Macon After Various Discomforts—My Baggage Is
“Examined” by General Baker—A Curious Oversight of the
Government’s Agents—I Am Rescued from a Dilemma by John A.
Wyeth, Knight-Errant—I Recover My Letters from the War
Department, but with Difficulty—A Stricken Patriarch and a
Spartan Mother—Huntsville Metamorphosed—“Reconstruction” Signs
Appear—A Slave Emulates His New Masters—He, too, in Time, Is
Metamorphosed—The Freedman’s Bureau versus “Ole
Missus’s”—Southern Ladies and Camomile Flowers 278
CHAPTER XXIII. NEWS FROM FORTRESS MONROE.
We Hear Discouraging News of the Nation’s Prisoners—Denunciation
of Joseph Holt and His Witnesses by the Reverend Stuart
Robinson—He Exposes the “Infamous Perjuries of the Bureau of
Military Justice”—Their Confession and Flight from the
Country—Charles O’Conor Writes Me; Also Ben Wood, Who Offers to
Advance the Cost of Mr. Clay’s Defense; Also Judge Black Writes
Cheeringly—I Hear Through R. J. Haldeman of the Friendliness of
Thaddeus Stevens; and from General Miles; Also, in Time, from
Mr. Clay—His Letter Prophesies Future Racial Conditions, and
Advises Me How to Escape the Evils to Come—Freed from Espionage,
He Describes the “Comforts” of Life in Fortress Monroe—One of
the Tortures of the Inquisition Revived 286
CHAPTER XXIV. ONCE MORE IN THE FEDERAL CAPITAL.
Communications Are Reopened with Washington—Duff Green Makes
Application to the President on My Behalf—I Hear from Mrs. Davis
of Her Misfortunes—I Borrow $100 and Start for the
Capital—Scenes on Cars and Boat—I Meet Many Sympathisers—And
Arrive at Last at Cincinnati—Yankee Ideas and Yankee
Notions—Mrs. Pugh Visits Me—Also Senator and Mrs. Pendleton, Who
Take Me Home—Once More en Route for Washington—Within Its
Precincts 300
CHAPTER XXV. SECRETARY STANTON DENIES RESPONSIBILITY.
Arrival at Willard’s—Expecting Enemies, I Find Many Old
Friends—General Ihrie, of Grant’s Staff, Calls On Me—Also a
Nameless Lady—Judge Hughes and Judge Black Counsel Me—I Visit
the White House to Plead with Mr. Johnson—Mrs. Douglas Is My
Companion—Mr. Johnson “Lives up to His Reputation” and Tells Me
to See Mr. Stanton—Which I Do—The Secretary’s Manner—“I am Not
Your Husband’s Judge, Neither am I His Accuser”—I Call Upon
General Grant, Who Writes to President Johnson on Behalf of Mr.
Clay 307
CHAPTER XXVI. MR. HOLT REPORTS UPON THE CASE OF C. C. CLAY, JR.
I Send General Grant’s Letter to Mr. Johnson—And Beg to Be
Allowed to Visit Fortress Monroe—I Begin to Feel the Strength of
a Concealed Enemy—I Refuse to Go to Mr. Stanton, and Have a
First Pass-at-Arms with the President—Mr. Holt Presents His
“Report on the Case of C. C. Clay, Jr.”—His Several Opinions of
Mr. Clay in Parallel—Denied an Examination of the Infamous
Document by the War Department, the President’s “Official Copy”
Is Placed at My Disposal—Some of Its Remarkable Features—The
President Promises Me He Will Not Deliver My Husband and Mr.
Davis up to the Military Court, and Agrees to Issue on His Own
Responsibility a Permit to Visit Fortress Monroe—I Go to New
York and Hobnob with “An Old Abolitionist” 317
CHAPTER XXVII. PRESIDENT JOHNSON INTERPOSES.
President Johnson Issues a Permit on His Own Responsibility—I
Leave Washington for Fortress Monroe—And Meet with Kindness on
the Way—Dr. Craven Admonishes Me to Look for No Favours from His
Successor—I Meet General Miles in His Headquarters, Which Have
Been Furnished by General Butler—I Experience a Weary Delay—Am
Refused Explanation or Use of Telegraph Wires—Dr. Vogell
Intercedes—At Nightfall I Am Taken to My Husband’s Cell—I Return
to the Capital—Death of Mrs. C. C. Clay, Sr.—I Report to the
President the Incidents of My Visit to the Fortress—He Assures
Me They Shall Not Be Repeated—He Issues Another Permit and
Promises to Read a Letter in His Cabinet 331
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE PRISON.
Again at the Fortress—My Husband’s Cell and Room in Carroll
Hall—Some of the Comforts of Fortress Monroe and of Mr. Clay’s
Position—I am Told of Some of His Experiences—A Statement of
Others—Mr. Davis at the Fortress—An Exchange of Notes—My Husband
Turns Caretaker—With a Soft Answer He Turns Away a Soldier’s
Wrath—I Have a Curious Adventure in Which I Meet a Lamb in
Wolf’s Clothing 345
CHAPTER XXIX. PRESIDENT JOHNSON HEARS WHAT “THE PEOPLE SAY.”
President Johnson Is Kind but Vacillating—Straws That Show a
Veering of the Wind—Colonel Rhett Talks with Mr. Bennett, and
the _Herald_ Grows Curious as to the Mysteriously Detained
Prisoners—Thaddeus Stevens Writes to Mr. Johnson on Behalf of
Mr. Clay—I Have a Nicodemus-like Visitor—Mr. Wilson,
Vice-President of the United States, Writes to the President on
Mr. Clay’s Behalf—Signs of Political Disquiet—Parties and
Partisans—I Receive Some Political Advice and Determine to Act
Upon It—I Have a _rencontre_ in the Corridors of the White
House—And Tell Mr. Johnson What “the People Say” 354
CHAPTER XXX. THE GOVERNMENT YIELDS ITS PRISONER.
Old Friends and New—Mme. Le Vert and Other Famous Personages
Return to the Capital—General Lee is Lionised—I Secure the
Liberty of the Fort for My Husband, and Indulge in a Little
Recreation—I Visit the Studio of Vinnie Reames and the
Confederate Fair at Baltimore—I Return to Washington and Resume
My Pleadings with the President—Mr. Mallory, Admiral Semmes, and
Alexander Stephens Are Released—Mr. Mallory and Judge Black
Counsel Me to Take Out the Writ of Habeas Corpus—The Release
Papers Are Promised—I Visit the Executive Mansion to Claim Them
and at Last Receive Them—“You Are Released!”—Congratulations Are
Offered—The Context of Some of These—“God Has Decreed That No
Lie Shall Live Forever”—We Turn Our Faces Once More to the
Purple Mountains of Alabama 367
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
MRS. CLAY, of Alabama _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
MRS. BENJAMIN FITZPATRICK, of Alabama 26
ADELINA PATTI, aged sixteen 38
MRS. ROGER A. PRYOR, of Virginia 44
MRS. GEORGE E. PUGH (THÉRÈSE CHALFANT), of Ohio. “The
most beautiful woman in Washington” 46
FRANKLIN PIERCE, President of the United States,
1853–’57 60
MRS. WILLIAM L. MARCY, of New York 62
MRS. J. J. CRITTENDEN, of Kentucky 84
MRS. CHESTNUT, of South Carolina 94
JENNY LIND 102
JAMES BUCHANAN, President of the United States, 1857–’61 108
MISS HARRIET LANE, mistress of the White House, 1857–’61 114
LADY NAPIER AND HER SONS 116
MRS. JEFFERSON DAVIS, of Mississippi 134
LORD LYONS, British Ambassador to the United States 140
CLEMENT C. CLAY, JR., United States Senator, 1853–’61 148
L. Q. C. LAMAR, 1862 164
MRS. PHILIP PHILLIPS, of Washington, D. C. 166
SENATOR JAMES H. HAMMOND, of South Carolina 212
GENERAL JOSEPH WHEELER, of Alabama 232
DR. HENRY C. VOGELL, Fortress Monroe, 1866 334
DR. GEORGE COOPER, Fortress Monroe, 1866 350
MRS. A. S. PARKER, of Washington, D. C. 368
JEFFERSON DAVIS and CLEMENT C. CLAY, JR. (after release
from Fortress Monroe) 374
A BELLE OF THE FIFTIES
CHAPTER I
CHILDHOOD, GIRLHOOD, MARRIAGE
My infant days were spent in North Carolina among the kinsmen of my
mother. I do not remember her, save that she was young and fair, being
but twenty when she died. She was the twenty-fifth child of the family
united under her father’s roof, which remarkable circumstance may be
explained as follows:
My grandfather, General William Arrington, who won his title in the
Revolutionary War, having been left a widower with twelve children,
wearying of his solitude, mounted his horse and rode over to visit the
comely widow Battle, whose children also numbered twelve. The two
plantations lay near together in the old “Tar Heel” State. My gallant
ancestor was a successful wooer, and Mrs. Battle, _née_ Williams, soon
became Mrs. Arrington. Thus it happened that the little Anne—my
mother—the one daughter of this union, entered the world and
simultaneously into the affections of one dozen half-brothers and
sisters Arrington, and as many of the Battle blood. This was a fortunate
prevision for me, for, though orphaned at the outset of my earthly
pilgrimage—I was but three years old when my girl-mother passed away—I
found myself by no means alone, though my dear father, Dr. Peyton
Randolph Tunstall, grief-stricken and sorrowful, left my native State at
the death of his wife, and I was a half-grown girl ere we met again and
learned to know each other.
My recollections of those early days are necessarily few; yet, were I a
painter, I might limn one awful figure that lingers in my memory. She
was a mulatto, to whose care for some time I was nightly confided. This
crafty maid, Pleasant by name, though ’twas a misnomer, anxious to join
in the diversions of the other domestics among the outlying cabins on
the plantation, would no sooner tuck me into bed than she would begin to
unfold to me blood-curdling stories of “sperrits an’ ghoses,” and of
“old blue eyes an’ bloody bones” who would be sure to come out of the
plum orchard and carry me to the graveyard if I did not go quickly to
sleep. Fortunately, old Major Drake, of whose family I was then a
member, chanced one evening to overhear this soothing lullaby, and put
an end to her stories ere serious harm had been done; yet so wonderful
is the retentive power of the human mind that though seventy and more
momentous years have passed since I, a little fearsome child, huddled
under the coverings breathless in my dread of the “bogie man,” I still
recall my heartless, or perhaps my thoughtless, nurse vividly.
At the age of six I was carried to Tuscaloosa, then the capital of the
young State of Alabama, where I was placed in the care of my aunt, whose
husband, Henry W. Collier, then a young lawyer, afterward became Chief
Justice of the Supreme Court of his State, and its Governor. That first
journey stretches out in my memory as an interminable pilgrimage. Mr.
Fort, of Mississippi, his wife, my mother’s sister, and their two
children, Mary and Martha, accompanied by a large following of Negroes,
being en route for their plantation in Mississippi territory, I was
given into their care for delivery to my kin in Tuscaloosa. No
palace-car of later days has ever eclipsed the wonders of the cavalcade
our company made as we passed along through towns and villages and the
occasional Indian settlements that here and there dotted the untilled
lands of those early nineteenth-century days!
My uncle drove in his gig at the head of the procession, while my aunt
and the children made the journey in a big pudding-shaped carriage in
charge of a trusty driver, beside whom my aunt’s maid sat. The carriage
was built with windows at the sides, and adjustable steps, which were
let down when we halted and secured in place by our Negro attendants.
These followed behind the vehicles and were at hand to serve us when
need arose.
Our cortege included several “Dearborns,” similar in shape to the
ambulances of the present, in which the old and ailing Negroes were
carried, and numerous wagons containing our household goods and
provisions followed behind. At night, tents were pitched, in which my
aunt and the children slept, unless by chance a storm arose, when the
shelter of some hostelry or farmhouse was sought. The preparations for
camping were altogether exciting, the erection of tents, the kindling of
fires, the unharnessing and watering and feeding of the stock, and the
eager industry of the cooks and their assistants in the midst of the
array of shining utensils all combining to stamp the scene upon the mind
of an impressionable child.
However, in the course of time the slow rolling of our carriage became
monotonous to the restive children of the caravan, and the novelty of
standing at the windows and gazing over the lifting hills soon wore off.
My aunt felt the fatigue less, we thought, for she was a famous
soliloquist, and often talked to herself as we rode, sometimes laughing
aloud at her own good company. I think we children regarded her as
deranged, if harmless, until one day she proved her sanity to our
complete satisfaction. In a moment of insupportable tedium we conceived
the idea of dropping the little tin cups, with which each was provided,
in order to see if the wheels would run over them. One after another the
vessels were lowered, and each, to our intense delight, was smashed flat
as the proverbial pancake. When my aunt discovered our mischief, being a
gentle soul, she merely reprimanded us, and at the next settlement
purchased others; but when these and yet others followed the fate of the
first, she became less indulgent. Switches were cut from the forest
trees, three pairs of pink palms tingled with the punishment then and
there administered, and the remembrance thereof restrained my cousins’
and my own destructiveness for the remainder of the journey.
Arrived at Tuscaloosa, I spent four years in the shelter of the motherly
affection of my aunt, Mrs. Collier, when, her health failing, I was
placed in the home of my mother’s brother, Alfred Battle, a wealthy
planter, residing a day’s journey from the little capital. My
recollections of that early Alabama life centre themselves about a great
white house set in widening grounds, in the midst of which was a
wondrous sloe-tree, white with blooms. Many times I and my cousins
played under it by moonlight, watching the shadows of the branches as
they trembled on the white-sanded earth below, wondering at them, and
not sure whether they were fairies’ or angels’ or witches’ shapes.
Around that tree, too, we played “Chickamy, Chickamy, Craney Crow,” and,
at the climax, “What o’clock, Old Witch?” would scamper wildly to elude
the pursuit of the imaginary old witch. Here, a healthy and happy child,
I pursued my studies. My uncle’s wife, a woman of marked domestic
tastes, taught me to sew and knit and to make a buttonhole, and I made
progress in books under the guidance of a visiting teacher; but, my task
ended, I flew to the meadows and orchards and to the full-flowering
clover-field, or to the plantation nursery to see the old mammies feed
the babies with “clabber,” with bread well crumbed in it, or _cush_,
made of bread soaked in gravy and softly mashed.
It was during this bucolic period of my life that the stars fell. I did
not witness these celestial phenomena, being sound asleep as a child
should be; but, for years afterward, time was marked from that great
event. I remember perfectly my aunt’s description of it. People ran from
their houses weeping and falling on their knees, praying for mercy and
forgiveness. Everywhere the terrifying belief spread that the Day of
Judgment was at hand; and nights were made vocal with the exhortations
of the black preachers who now became numerous upon the plantation. To
very recent days old Negroes have dated their calendar from “de year
when de stars fell.”
Ah, me! how long ago that time of childhood’s terrors and delights in
that young open country! Of all my early playmates, but one, my cousin
William Battle, remains, a twin relic of antiquity! From the first we
were cronies; yet we had a memorable disagreement upon one occasion
which caused a slight breach between us. We were both intensely fond of
my aunt’s piano, but my cousin was compelled to satisfy his affection
for music in secret; for Uncle Battle, who heartily encouraged my
efforts, was positive in his disapproval of those of my cousin. He
thought piano-playing in a man to be little short of a crime, and was
quite resolved his son should not be guilty of it. My cousin and I,
therefore, connived to arrange our practice in such a way as would allow
him to finish his practice at the instrument before my uncle’s return
from the day’s duties.
Upon the fatal occasion of our disagreement, however, I refused, upon my
cousin’s appearance, to yield my seat, whereupon, losing his temper, he
gave me a tap on the cheek. In a moment the struggle was on! Our tussle
was at its height, I on top and pummelling with all my might, when, the
door opening suddenly, a startled cousin appeared.
“La!” she exclaimed in terror, “Cousin Will and Virginia are fighting!”
“No, we’re not!” I replied stoutly. “We’re just playing;” and I retired
with tufts of reddish hair in both hands, but leaving redder spots on
the face of my cousinly antagonist. He, thoroughly satisfied to be
released, no longer desired to play the piano, nor _with me_. His head
has long been innocent of hair, an hereditary development, but he has
always asserted that his baldness is attributable to “My cousin, Mrs.
Clay, who, in our youthful gambols, scalped me.”
During my twelfth year, my uncle removed to Tuscaloosa, where my real
school days began. It was the good fortune of the young State at that
time to have in the neighbourhood of its capital many excellent
teachers, among whom was my instructress at the school in Tuscaloosa to
which I now was sent. I cannot refrain from telling a strange incident
in her altogether remarkable life. From the beginning it was full of
unusual vicissitudes. By birth an English gentlewoman, her mother had
died while she was yet an infant. In the care of a young aunt, the child
was sent to America to be brought up by family connections residing
here. On the long sailing voyage the infant sickened and, to all
appearances, died. The ship was in midocean, and the young guardian,
blaming her own inexperience, wept bitterly as preparations went on for
the burial. At last, all else being ready, the captain himself came
forward to sew the little body in the sack, which when weighted would
sink the hapless baby into the sea. He bent over the little form,
arranging it, when by some strange fortune a bottle of whisky, which he
carried in his pocket, was spilled and the contents began to flow upon
the child’s face. Before an exclamation could be made the little one
opened its eyes and gave so many evidences of life that restoratives
were applied promptly. The infant recovered and grew to womanhood. She
became, when widowed, the mistress of a school in our little capital,
and her descendants, in many instances, have risen to places of
distinction in public life.
An instructress of that period to whom the women of early Alabama owed
much was Maria Brewster Brooks, who, as Mrs. Stafford, the wife of
Professor Samuel M. Stafford, became celebrated, and fills a page of
conspicuous value in the educational history of the State. She was born
on the banks of the Merrimac and came to Tuscaloosa in her freshest
womanhood. First her pupil, and afterward her friend, our mutual
affection, begun in the early thirties, continued until her demise in
the eighties. Many of her wards became in after years notable figures in
the social life of the national capital, among them Mrs. Hilary Herbert.
In Tuscaloosa there resided, besides my Aunt Collier, few of my father’s
and mother’s kin, and by a natural affinity I fell under the
guardianship of my father’s brother, Thomas B. Tunstall, Secretary of
State of Alabama. He was a bachelor; but all that I lacked in my
separation from my father my uncle supplied, feeding the finer sides of
my nature, and inspiring in me a love of things literary even at an age
when I had scarce handled a book. My uncle’s influence began with my
earliest days in Alabama. My aunt, Mrs. Collier, was delicate, Mrs.
Battle domestic; Uncle Battle was a famous business man; and Uncle
Collier was immersed in law and increasing political interests; but my
memory crowds with pictures of my Uncle Tom, walking slowly up and down,
playing his violin, and interspersing his numbers with some wise counsel
to the child beside him. He taught me orally of poetry, and music, of
letters and philosophy, and of the great world’s great interests. He
early instilled in me a pride of family, while reading to me Scott’s
fine tribute to Brian Tunstall, “the stainless knight,” or, as he
rehearsed stories of Sir Cuthbert Tunstall, Knight of the Garter, and
Bishop of London in the time of gentle Queen Anne; and it was in good
Uncle Tom’s and my father’s company that the fascinations of the drama
were first revealed to me.
While I was yet a schoolgirl, and so green that, had I not been
protected by these two loving guardians, I would have been eaten up by
the cows on the Mobile meadows, I was taken to see “The Gamester,” in
which Charles Kean and Ellen Tree were playing. It was a remarkable and
ever-remembered experience. As the play proceeded, I became so absorbed
in the story, so real and so thrillingly portrayed, that from silent
weeping I took to sniffling and from sniffling to ill-repressed sobbing.
I leaned forward in my seat tensely, keeping my eyes upon the stage, and
equally oblivious of my father and uncle and the strangers who were
gazing at me on every side. Now and then, as I sopped the briny outflow
of my grief, realising in some mechanical manner that my handkerchief
was wet, I would take it by two corners and wave it back and forth in an
effort to dry it; but all the while the tears gushed from my eyes in
rivulets. My guardians saw little of the play that night, for the
amusement I afforded these experienced theatre-goers altogether exceeded
in interest the mimic tragedy that so enthralled me.
When the curtain fell upon the death-scene I was exhausted; but another
and counteracting experience awaited me, for the after-piece was “Robert
Macaire,” and now, heartily as I had wept before, I became convulsed
with laughter as I saw the deft pickpocket (impersonated by Crisp, the
comedian), courtly as a king, bowing in the dance, while removing from
the unsuspecting ladies and gentlemen about him their brooches and
jewels! My absorption in the performance was so great that I scarce
heard the admonitions of my father and uncle, who begged me, in
whispers, to control myself. Nor did I realise there was another person
in the house but the performers on the stage and myself.
Years afterward, while travelling with my husband, he recognised in a
fellow traveller a former friend from southern Alabama, a Mr. Montague,
and brought him to me to present him. To my chagrin, he had scarcely
taken my hand when he burst into immoderate and inexplicable laughter.
“Never,” said he to Mr. Clay, “shall I forget the time when I first saw
your wife! We went to see Tree; but, sir, not half the house knew what
was going on on the stage for watching the little girl in the
auditorium! Never till then had I imagined the full power of the drama!
Her delight, her tears and laughter, I am sure, were remembered by the
Mobilians long after the ‘stars’ acting was forgotten.”
That visit to Mobile was my first flight into the beautiful world that
lay beyond the horizon of my school life. In the enjoyments devised for
me by my father in those few charmed days, I saw, if not clearly, at
least prophetically, what of beauty and joy life might hold for me. Upon
our arrival in the lovely little Bay city, my father, learning of a ball
for which preparations were on foot, determined I should attend it.
Guided perhaps in his choice of colour by the tints of health that lay
in his little daughter’s cheeks, he selected for me a gown of
peach-blossom silk, which all my life I have remembered as the most
beautiful of dresses, and one which transformed me, heretofore confined
to brown holland gowns by my prudent aunt, Mrs. Battle, as truly as
Cinderella was changed into a princess.
Upon the evening of that never-to-be-forgotten Boat Club Ball, blushing
and happy, eager, with delightful anticipations, yet timorous, too, for
my guardians, the Battles, had disapproved of dancing and had rigorously
excluded this and other worldly pleasures from their ward’s
accomplishments, I was conducted by my father to the ball. In my heart
lay the fear that I would be, after all, a mere looker-on, or appear
awkward if I should venture to dance as did the others; but neither of
these misgivings proved to have been well founded.
My father led me at once to Mme. Le Vert, then the reigning queen of
every gathering at which she appeared, and in her safe hands every fear
vanished. I had heard my elders speak frequently of her beauty, and
somehow had imagined her tall. She was less so than I had pictured, but
so winning and cordial to me, a timid child, that I at once capitulated
before the charm she cast over everyone who came into conversation with
her. I thought her face the sweetest I had ever seen. She had a grace
and frankness which made everyone with whom she talked feel that he or
she alone commanded her attention. I do not recall her making a single
_bon mot_, but she was vivacious and smiling. Her charm, it seemed to
me, lay in her lovely manners and person and her permeating
intellectuality.
I remember Mme. Le Vert’s appearance on that occasion distinctly, though
to describe it now seems garish. To see her then was bewildering, and
all her colour was harmony. She wore a gown of golden satin, and on her
hair a wreath of coral flowers, which her morocco shoes matched in hue.
In the dance she moved like a bird on the wing. I can see her now in her
shining robe, as she swayed and glided, holding the shimmering gown
aside as she floated through the “ladies’ chain.” The first dance of my
life was a quadrille, _vis-à-vis_ with this renowned beauty, who took me
under her protection and encouraged me from time to time.
“Don’t be afraid, my dear,” she would sweetly say, “Do just as I do,”
and I glided after my wonderful instructress like one enchanted, with
never a mishap.
Mme. Le Vert, who in years to come became internationally celebrated,
was a kinswoman of Clement Claiborne Clay, and in after times, when I
became his wife, I often met her, but throughout my long life I have
remembered that first meeting in Mobile, and her charm and grace have
remained a prized picture in my memory. It was of this exquisite belle
that Washington Irving remarked: “But one such woman is born in the
course of an empire.”
It was to my Uncle Tom that I owed the one love sorrow of my life. It
was an affair of the greatest intensity while it endured, and was
attended by the utmost anguish for some twelve or fourteen hours. During
that space of time I endured all the hopes and fears, the yearnings and
despairs to which the human heart is victim.
I was nearing the age of fifteen when my uncle one evening bade me put
on my prettiest frock and accompany him to the home of a friend, where a
dance was to be given. I was dressed with all the alacrity my old mammy
was capable of summoning, and was soon ensconced in the carriage and on
my way to the hospitable scene. En route we stopped at the hotel, where
my uncle alighted, reappearing in a moment with a very handsome young
man, who entered the carriage with him and drove with us to the house,
where he, too, was to be a guest.
Never had my eyes beheld so pleasing a masculine wonder! He was the
personification of manly beauty! His head was shapely as Tasso’s (in
after life I often heard the comparison made), and in his eyes there
burned a romantic fire that enslaved me from the moment their gaze
rested upon me. At their warmth all the ardour, all the ideals upon
which a romantic heart had fed rose in recognition of their realisation
in him. During the evening he paid me some pretty compliments, remarking
upon my hazel eyes and the gleam of gold in my hair, and he touched my
curls admiringly, as if they were revered by him.
My head swam! Lohengrin never dazzled Elsa more completely than did this
knight of the poet’s head charm the maiden that was I! We danced
together frequently throughout the evening, and my hero rendered me
every attention a kind man may offer to the little daughter of a valued
friend. When at last we stepped into the carriage and turned homeward,
the whole world was changed for me.
My first apprehension of approaching sorrow came as we neared the hotel.
To my surprise, the knight was willing, nay, desired to be set down
there. A dark suspicion crept into my mind that perhaps, after all, my
hero might be less gallant than I had supposed, else why did he not seek
this opportunity of riding home with me? If this wonderful emotion that
possessed me also had actuated him—and how could I doubt it after his
devotion throughout the evening?—how could he bear to part from me in
this way without a single word or look of tenderness?
As the door closed behind him I leaned back in the darkest corner of the
carriage and thought hard, though not hardly of him. After a little my
uncle roused me by saying, “Did my little daughter enjoy this evening?”
I responded enthusiastically.
“And was I not kind to provide you with such a gallant cavalier? Isn’t
Colonel Jere Clemens a handsome man?”
Ah, was he not? My full heart sang out his praises with an unmistakable
note. My uncle listened sympathetically. Then he continued, “Yes, he’s a
fine fellow! A fine fellow, Virginia, and he has a nice little wife and
baby!”
No thunderbolt ever fell more crushingly upon the unsuspecting than did
these awful words from the lips of my uncle! I know not how I reached my
room, but once there I wept passionately throughout the night and much
of the following morning. Within my own heart I accused my erstwhile
hero of the rankest perfidy; of villainy of every imaginable quality;
and in this recoil of injured pride perished my first love dream,
vanished the heroic wrappings of my quondam knight!
Having finished the curriculum of the institute presided over by Miss
Brooks, I was sent to the “Female Academy” at Nashville, Tennessee, to
perfect my studies in music and literature, whence I returned to
Tuscaloosa all but betrothed to Alexander Keith McClung, already a
famous duellist. I met him during a visit to my Uncle Fort’s home, in
Columbus, Mississippi, and the Colonel’s devotion to me for many months
was the talk of two States. He was the gallantest lover that ever knelt
at a lady’s feet! Many a winsome girl admired him, and my sweet cousin,
Martha Fort, was wont to say she would “rather marry Colonel McClung
than any man alive”; but I—I loved him madly while with him, but feared
him when away from him; for he was a man of fitful, uncertain moods and
given to periods of the deepest melancholy. At such times he would mount
his horse “Rob Roy,” wild and untamable as himself, and dash to the
cemetery, where he would throw himself down on a convenient grave and
stare like a madman into the sky for hours. A man of reckless bravery,
in after years he was the first to mount the ramparts of Monterey
shouting victory. As he ran, carrying his country’s flag in his right
hand, a shot whizzing by took off two fingers of his left.
I was thrown much in the company of Colonel McClung while at my uncle’s
home, but resisted his pleading for a binding engagement, telling him
with a strange courage and frankness, ere I left Columbus, my reason for
this persistent indecision. Before leaving for the academy at Nashville,
I had met, at my Uncle Collier’s, in Tuscaloosa, the young legislator,
Clement C. Clay, Jr., and had then had a premonition that if we should
meet when I returned from school I would marry him. At that time I was
an unformed girl, and he, Mr. Clay, was devoted to a young lady of the
capital; but this, as I knew, was a matter of the past. I would surely
meet him again at Uncle Collier’s (I told Mr. McClung), and, if the
attraction continued, I felt sure I would marry him. If not, I would
marry him, Colonel McClung. So we parted, and, though at that time the
Colonel did not doubt but that mine was a dreaming girl’s talk, my
premonitions were promptly realised.
Upon my return to our provincial little capital, then a community of six
thousand souls, I found it thronging with gallants from every county in
the State. The belles of the town, in preparation for the gayety of the
legislative “season” of two months, were resplendent in fresh and
fashionable toilettes. Escritoires were stocked with stationery suitable
for the _billet-doux_ that were sure to be required; and there, too,
were the little boxes of glazed mottoed wafers, then all the fashion,
with which to seal the pretty missives. All the swains of that day wrote
in verse to the ladies they admired, and each tender rhyme required a
suitably presented acknowledgment. I remember, though I have preserved
none save those my husband wrote me, several creditable effusions by
Colonel McClung, one of which began:
“Fearful and green your breathless poet stands,” etc.
Shortly after my return from Columbus, I attended a ball where I danced
with William L. Yancey, even then recognised for the splendour of his
intellectual powers and his eloquence in the forum. I had heard him
speak, and thought his address superb, and I told him so.
“Ah,” he answered gayly, “if it had not been for one pair of hazel eyes
I should have been submerged in a mere sea of rhetoric!”
On the night of my dance with him I wore a white feather in my hair, and
on the morrow a messenger from Mr. Yancey bore me some charming verses,
addressed “To the lady with the snow-white plume!”
I have said my strange premonitions regarding Mr. Clay were realised.
Ten days after we met we were affianced. There was a hastily gathered
trousseau selected in part by Mme. LeVert in Mobile, and hurried on to
my aunt’s home. A month later, and our marriage was celebrated with all
the _éclat_ our little city could provide, and the congratulations of a
circle of friends that included half the inhabitants. It is sixty years
since that wonderful wedding day, and of the maidens who attended
me—there were six—and the happy company that thronged Judge Collier’s
home on that crisp February morning when I crossed the Rubicon of life,
all—even the bridegroom—have passed long since into the shadowy company
of memory and the dead.
That marriage feast in the morn of my life was beautiful; the low,
spacious house of primitive architecture was white with hyacinths, and
foliage decorated every available space. The legislature came in a body,
solons of the State, and young aspirants for fame; the president and
faculty of the State University, of which Mr. Clay was a favoured son;
Dr. Capers, afterward Bishop of South Carolina, officiated, and, in that
glorious company of old Alabamians, my identity as Virginia Tunstall was
merged forever with that of the rising young statesman, Clement C. Clay,
Jr.
A week of festivity followed the ceremony, and then my husband took me
to my future home, among his people, in the northern part of the State.
There being no railroad connection between Tuscaloosa and Huntsville in
those days (the early forties), we made the journey from the capital in
a big four-wheeled stage-coach. The stretch of country now comprised in
the active city of Birmingham, the southern Pittsburg, was then a rugged
place of rocks and boulders over which our vehicle pitched perilously.
Stone Mountain reached, we were obliged to descend and pick our way on
foot, the roughness of the road making the passage of the coach a very
dangerous one. But these difficulties only lent a charm to us, for the
whole world was enwrapped in the glamour of our youthful joys. The
sunsets, blazing crimson on the horizon, seemed gloriously to proclaim
the sunrise of our life.
We arrived in Huntsville on the evening of the second day of our
journey. Our driver, enthusiastically proud of his part in the
home-bringing of the bride, touched up the spirited horses as we crossed
the Public Square and blew a bugle blast as we wheeled round the corner;
when, fairly dashing down Clinton Street, he pulled up in masterly style
in front of “Clay Castle.” It was wide and low and spacious, as were all
the affluent homes of that day, and now was ablaze with candles to
welcome the travellers. All along the streets friendly hands and
kerchiefs had waved a welcome to us. Here, within, awaited a great
gathering of family and friends eager to see the chosen bride of a
well-loved son. This was my home-coming to Huntsville, thereafter to be
my haven for all time, though called in a few years by my husband’s
growing reputation to take my place beside him in Congressional circles
at Washington.