MEMORABLE DAYS IN THE HISTORY OF THE COUNTRY
A momentous day in the history of this country was November 6, 1860—on
that day the extreme party of the North elected its candidate, with a
Vice-President, making the Executive purely sectional. But few people
expected the fulfilment of the evils so insistently threatened as a
consequence of this election.
Not for one moment had we seriously entertained the thought of
secession. The question of slavery in the territories was still
unsettled, and the stormy scenes in the House might possibly be
reënacted. Like General Cass, we had heard all our lives rumors of
possible secession, possible war. Nobody believed these rumors—any
more than we believed that every threatening cloud would burst in a
devastating tempest. It was part of the routine, "the order of the day,"
to enliven things by warm discussions and spicy personalities.
My husband had been unanimously reëlected, and our delightful Washington
life was assured to us—certainly for three winters—probably for all
time.
We were so deeply concerned about the state of the country at large,
that his election excited us but little. When the polls closed at
sunset, one of his political friends came to me and said there would
be a torch-light procession in his honor, that the crowd would call
at his residence, and the house must be illuminated. "Illuminated!" I
exclaimed. "Impossible! There are not half a dozen candles in the house,
and the stores are all closed. Besides, the babies will be asleep. It
is bad for babies to be roused from their first sleep."
My friend seemed to appreciate this reasoning; but later in the evening
I received a bushel of small white turnips and a box of candles, with
a pencilled note saying that I must cut holes in the vegetables, and
I would find them admirable candlesticks. The little boys and servants
went to work with a will, and when the drum announced the near approach
of the procession, every window was blazing with a double row of lights,
one row on the window-sill, the other midway, on the top of the lower
sash.
My young Congressman was considered a brilliant speaker, and his talents
were sometimes called into use in Washington. Some matter of municipal
interest was supported by him, and another torch-light procession
gathered late one night around the door of the house on New York Avenue.
"You are not to listen," he said to me, as he descended to the front
door to speak to the crowd; "I shall say a few words only." I threw a
shawl over my night-dress and crouched down in a little balcony just
over his head. To my prejudiced mind, his speech was the most graceful
and charming thing I had ever heard. I was in a delightful trance of
happiness when he closed, and was rudely awakened when, in response to
shouts of "Go on, go on, we could listen all night," the daring young
orator deliberately turned and pointed to the balcony above him: "Go on,
my friends? Go on, exposed to the criticism of one from whose criticism
I am always trying to escape?"
I fell back out of sight on the floor. I never listened afterward!
And among the pleasant happenings of these golden days, so soon to
be shut in by darkness and sorrow, was the presentation to my young
Congressman of a beautiful service of silver from his Democratic friends
of Virginia in recognition of "brilliant talents, eminent worth, and
distinguished services."
Mr. Galt made this splendid service, and I record it here because
it became part of the history of the next years of trouble. I should
have lost it once (in a dark hour), but Mr. Galt bade me keep it—that
brighter days were in store for me and mine, a prophecy which he lived
to see fulfilled.
We were all in our places in November, setting our houses in order,
several weeks before the assembling of Congress. We were warmly welcomed
into our pleasant home by Susan, whose authority, now fully established
and recognized, kept us in perfect order. Everything promised a season
of unusual interest. We now knew everybody—and what is more I, for one,
liked everybody. It takes so little to make a woman happy!
In Washington our social life did not begin before New Year's Day. Among
our first cards this winter was an invitation to the marriage of Mr.
Bouligny, member from Louisiana, and Miss Parker, daughter of a wealthy
Washington grocer. Rumors reached us of unusual plans for this wedding.
Mr. Parker's large house was to be converted into a conservatory filled
with blossoming roses and lilies. Fountains were to be introduced, new
effects in lighting. The presents were to be magnificent, the bridal
dress gorgeous.
Upon arriving at the house (I think it was an afternoon wedding) I found
the President seated in an arm-chair at one end of the drawing-room, and
the guests ranging themselves on either side. A crimson velvet curtain
was stretched across the other end of the room. Presently the curtain
parted, and the bridal tableau appeared in position behind it. After the
ceremony the crowd waited until the President went forward to wish the
bride and her husband "a great deal of happiness." Everybody remained
standing until Mr. Buchanan returned to his seat. I stood behind his
chair and observed that he had aged much since the summer.
He had had much to bear. Unable to please either party, he had been
accused of cowardice, imbecility, and even insanity, by both parties.
"The President is pale with fear," said General Cass. "He divides his
time equally between praying and crying. Such an imbecile was never
seen before," said another. A double-leaded editorial in the _New York
Tribune_ of December 17 suggested that he might be insane. On the day
of the wedding, December 20, he stoutly denied that he was ill. "I never
enjoyed better health nor a more tranquil spirit," said the hard-pressed
President. "I have not lost an hour's sleep nor a single meal. I weigh
well and prayerfully what course I ought to adopt," he had written on
that day.
The crowd in the Parker drawing-room soon thinned as the guests found
their way to the rooms in which the presents were displayed. The
President kept his seat, and I stood behind him as one and another came
forward to greet him. Presently he looked over his shoulder and said,
"Madam, do you suppose the house is on fire? I hear an unusual commotion
in the hall."
"I will inquire the cause, Mr. President," I said. I went out at the
nearest door, and there in the entrance hall I found Mr. Lawrence Keitt,
member from South Carolina, leaping in the air, shaking a paper over his
head, and exclaiming, "Thank God! Oh, thank God!" I took hold of him and
said: "Mr. Keitt, are you crazy? The President hears you, and wants to
know what's the matter."
"Oh!" he cried, "South Carolina has seceded! Here's the telegram. I feel
like a boy let out from school."
I returned and, bending over Mr. Buchanan's chair, said in a low voice:
"It appears, Mr. President, that South Carolina has seceded from the
Union. Mr. Keitt has a telegram." He looked at me, stunned for a moment.
Falling back and grasping the arms of his chair, he whispered, "Madam,
might I beg you to have my carriage called?" I met his secretary and
sent him in without explanation, and myself saw that his carriage was
at the door before I reëntered the room. I then found my husband, who
was already cornered with Mr. Keitt, and we called our own carriage
and drove to Judge Douglas's. There was no more thought of bride,
bridegroom, wedding cake, or wedding breakfast.
This was the tremendous event which was to change all our lives—to
give us poverty for riches, mutilation and wounds for strength and
health, obscurity and degradation for honor and distinction, exile and
loneliness for inherited homes and friends, pain and death for happiness
and life.
The news was not known, except in official circles, until the evening.
The night was dark. A drizzling rain was falling; the streets were
almost impassable from mud.
At the house of a prominent South Carolina gentleman a crowd soon
collected. The street was full of carriages, the house brilliantly
lighted.
Admiral Porter, then a lieutenant, had heard the startling news,
and called at this house to tell it. He found the mistress of the
mansion descending in cloak and bonnet, and as soon as she saw him she
exclaimed: "Oh, Captain, you are just the man I want. I'm going to the
White House to tell the President some good news. The horses are sick
and I'm going to walk over."[10]
"It is impossible for you to walk through the rain and mud," said the
Lieutenant. "There are ten or twelve hacks at the door, and I will press
one into your service." So saying, he called a carriage and helped her
to enter it, getting in after her.
"I was under the impression," he said, as they started, "that you were
having a party at your house, it was so brilliantly lighted up, and I
thought I would venture in uninvited."
"No, indeed," she replied; "but we have received glorious news from
the South, and my husband's friends are calling to congratulate him.
South Carolina has seceded, and, oh, Captain, we will have a glorious
monarchy, and you must join us."
"And be made Duke of Benedict Arnold?"
"Nonsense!" she exclaimed, "we will make you an admiral."
"Certainly," said Lieutenant Porter, "Admiral of the Blue. For I should
feel blue enough to see everything turned upside down, and our boasted
liberty and civilization whistled down the wind."
"What would you have?" she inquired. "Would you have us tamely submit
to all the indignities the North puts upon us, and place our necks under
their feet? Why, this very day my blood boiled while I was in Congress,
and I could scarcely contain myself. An old black Republican was
berating the Southern people as if they were a pack of naughty children.
However, Mr. Rhett took the floor and gave the man such a castigation
that he slunk away and was no more heard from."
Just then they reached the White House. "Come in," said the lady, "and
hear me tell the President the good news."
Lieutenant Porter preferred returning to her house. There he found
a crowd around a generous bowl of punch. When he had an opportunity,
he asked the host if he thought it possible the Southern states would
secede. "What more do they want?" he inquired. "They have a majority
in the Senate and the House, and, with the Supreme Court on their side,
they could make laws to suit themselves."
"True," his host replied, "most people would be satisfied with that.
'Better to bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not
of.' But _you_ will join us? _You must!_ We will have a navy to be proud
of, and we'll make you admiral."
"There's one comfort," said an old society dame who now joined the
party. "South Carolina is a fickle young thing and may change her mind!
She declared herself ready once before to walk out,—you all remember
it,—and changed her mind. She took off her things and concluded to stay
a little longer."
"She has gone for good and all this time, depend upon it," said the
host. "She was only giving warning then! Her time is up now and she is
off."
Meanwhile the lady of the house was telling the President news that was
no news to him. He was fully prepared to receive it calmly and gravely.
I had preceded her by some hours.
Lieutenant Porter little dreamed of the good fortune the secession of
South Carolina would bring to him. From a poor lieutenant with anxious
cares about a large family, he was speedily raised by Mr. Lincoln to
the proud position of rear-admiral of the United States.
His own comment upon the enthusiasm of his Southern friends is amusing.
He declared that if the capital and its surroundings had been less
stupid, that if those vivacious Southerners could have had a court,
theatres, and opera-houses, the catastrophe which overwhelmed North and
South might have been prevented. "The Romans understood these things
better than we. They omitted nothing to keep the people amused; they
even had the street fountains at times run with wine, and the investment
was worth the money spent." "But what," said Admiral Porter, "could
one expect at a court presided over by an old bachelor whose heart was
dead to poetry and love; who sat at dinner with no flowers to grace the
festive board, and never even had a _boutonnière_ on his coat lapel?"
which was one way, at least, of accounting for things.
Of course, we all paid our respects to the President on the next New
Year's Day, and joined the motley crowd of men and women of every degree
who were admitted after the starred and beribboned dignitaries from
foreign lands had been received. "Here I am, Mr. President," said one
of the witty Southern women, "and my cook will be here in a few minutes!
I left her dressing to come."
The day that ushered in the eventful year 1861 was gloomy out of doors,
but within the Executive Mansion flowers, music, gay attire, and bright
smiles ruled the hour. "I wish you a happy New Year, Mr. President,"
fell from every lip, but in every heart there was a gloomy foreboding of
impending disaster. What would the year bring to the "wayward sister,"
whose sons had all gone home? How we missed them!—Mr. Porcher Miles, Mr.
Boyce, Mr. and Mrs. Keitt, always so delightful a part of our Washington
social life. Some of us might expect to return; but this was adieu, not
_au revoir_, to our President. This was his last New Year's Day in the
White House, not his last day of perplexity and trouble. Very soon more
wayward sisters would depart, and the hour he had dreaded would "come
in his time."
There is no time at the President's New Year's reception to gather in
corners for private talk. We must hurry on our rounds to the houses of
the Cabinet and of the foreign Ministers. Sending the gentlemen of our
party forward to visit the Senators' wives, we hastened home to our own
punch-bowl.
I brewed a mighty bowl that last New Year's Day. Dr. Garnett and Judge
Scarborough presided over the mixing, to be sure that the arrack was
proportioned rightly, and that there were just as many and no more
toasted crab-apples than there should be. I was assisted by my friend
Agnes, whom I love to quote, and whose full name I should like to give,
except for the reason that she is now living, and, being a respectable
lady of the old school, is averse from seeing her name in print. In
the society journal occasionally, apropos of the opera or reception,
perhaps, but in a book! I should never be forgiven.
Late in the afternoon my rooms were thronged—with Virginians and
Southerners mainly, but with some Northern friends as well, for Virginia
was not yet classed. Like Touchstone, I was "in a parlous state," lest
some of my guests who had already honored many punch-bowls should
venture on forbidden subjects. More than one came in on the arm of
James, but it took a better man than James to conduct him out again and
into his carriage. My friend who had distinguished himself at my first
President's dinner was in high feather, as were some grave judges I
knew.
There was but one thought in every mind, gay or sober. "Is this a
meeting of the Girondists?" queried one.
"When shall we three meet again?"
quoted another.
"When the hurly-burly's done—
When the battle's lost and won,"
was the prompt answer. "Sh-h-h!" said an old army officer. "It is not
lucky to talk of lost battles on New Year's Day, nor of Girondists'
feasts on the eve of a revolution."
The season which was always ushered in on New Year's Day resolved itself
literally this year into a residence in the galleries of the Senate
Chamber and the House of Representatives.
Before the 2d of February, Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, Georgia,
Louisiana, and Texas had dissolved their bonds with the Federal Union.
The farewell addresses of the Representatives of the seceded states
became the regular order of the day. Jefferson Davis's final farewell
closed with these solemn words: "May God have us in His holy keeping,
and grant that, before it is too late, peaceful counsels may prevail."
Virginia, had she retained her original colonial bounds, could
have dictated to the rest. Now, should she elect to join the
Southern Confederacy, the states she had given to the Union—her own
children—would be arrayed against her.
Virginia now essayed to arbitrate. Her Peace Commission met in
Washington, but without result, except that it was for her a fleeting
moment of enthusiasm.
Mr. Kellogg of Illinois said: "She has thrown herself into the breach
to turn aside the tide of disunion and revolution, and she says to the
nation, 'Be united and be brothers again.' God bless the Old Dominion!"
Said Mr. Bigler of Pennsylvania, January 21: "Pennsylvania will _never_
become the enemy of Virginia! Pennsylvania will never draw the sword on
Virginia."
Apprehension was felt lest the new President's inaugural might be the
occasion of rioting, if not of violence. We were advised to send our
women and children out of the city. Hastily packing my personal and
household belongings to be sent after me, I took my little boys, with
their faithful nurse, Eliza Page, on board the steamer to Acquia Creek,
and, standing on deck as long as I could see the dome of the Capitol,
commenced my journey homeward. My husband remained behind, and kept his
seat in Congress until Mr. Lincoln's inauguration. He described that
mournful day to me—differing so widely from the happy installation of
Mr. Pierce. "O'er all there hung a shadow and a fear." Every one was
oppressed by it, and no one more than the doomed President himself.
We were reunited a few weeks afterward at our father's house in
Petersburg; and in a short time my young Congressman had become my
young colonel—and Congressman as well, for as soon as Virginia seceded
he was elected to the Provisional Congress of the Confederate States of
America, and was commissioned colonel by Governor Letcher.
I am afraid the evening is at hand, when we must bid adieu to the bright
days—the balls, the merry hair-dresser, the round of visits, the levees,
the charming "at homes." The setting sun of such a day should pillow
itself on golden clouds, bright harbingers of a morning of beauty and
happiness. Alas, alas! "whom the gods destroy they first infatuate."