plain English." In Ireland she talked the brogue with the peasants so
well that she might have passed for one of them. She was equally at home
with Scotch, German and Italian dialects, and when in the North had been
noted for recitations in negro speech, which she thought the most
beautiful of all. But on coming to Richmond she found that she did not
know anything about the lingo of the darkies. Being anxious to learn it,
she used to talk with old Wash and Julia, two historical characters at
the Ballard and Exchange Hotel, repeating their expressions over and
over. Later she would try to say them, finding that she was no more
expert than in the beginning. Thus she learned that to know plantation
talk one must be born to it; it cannot be acquired.
She was at that time victim to a painful and wasting disease. Seeing her
suffering one day from the treatment for the malady, I said:
"Oh, I am so sorry! You can't play to-night."
"Yes, my dear," she replied gently, "I shall play to-night, and, it may
be, all the better for the pain."
Watching her wonderful performance that evening I thought it might be
that pain is the gateway to the highest realm of art.
The last time I saw Charlotte Cushman was in Philadelphia. A great
sorrow had shrouded me from the sunlight, and she tried to shelter me in
the warmth of her own heart.
"You ought to have been an actress," she said, "and then you would have
regained happiness by simulating it."
Another of our friends from the mimic world was Joe Jefferson, whom we
saw now for the first time since meeting him in Canada. On coming to
Richmond he found that his old friend, Mr. Caskie, who had helped him to
a foothold upon life, had lost his fortune by the war, and was in even
greater need than the unknown boy had formerly been. The famous comedian
was not one to forget a kindness. "Let's give him a benefit," he said to
my Soldier. It was characteristic of Joe Jefferson that he never said "I
will do" thus and so. He said "Let's do it," as if the success of the
project depended upon the one to whom he was talking rather than on his
own ability. The benefit was given and the man of ruined fortunes had
reason to be glad that in the days of the full larder he had "cast his
bread upon the waters."
XXXV
EASTER FLOWERS
The old Ballard and Exchange Hotel in Richmond, Virginia, celebrated for
having entertained more distinguished visitors than any other hostelry
in this country, consisted of two houses on opposite sides of the
street, connected by one of the most picturesque bridges, where the
guests found a pleasant meeting place as they passed from one building
to the other.
Colonel Carrington, the proprietor, was a courtly, gallant and
hospitable old Virginia gentleman, a peer of peers, yielding to no
superiority of position, as was evidenced in his reception of the Prince
of Wales on his visit to Richmond. After cordially shaking hands with
the royal visitor he slapped him on the back and said:
"Make yourself at home, Prince, make yourself at home, sir. I extend to
you my heartiest welcome, sir. Old Wash will look after you and if I
can be of any service, Prince, just call on me."
I never heard whether the Prince returned the Colonel's slap but I know
that he accepted the cordiality in the same spirit in which it was
offered. He visited the Colonel's stables and discussed the pedigree of
his fine thoroughbred, drove with him behind his fastest trotter, and so
liked the old Virginia mint juleps which he drank with his host, that he
asked for and received the recipe for making them and took it back with
him to the motherland, with some mint roots to plant in his palace
garden.
The Colonel was our life-long friend and devoted to our children who,
while they returned his affection, stood in awe of him from the time
that he gave them a graphic illustration, by pulling his wig awry and
turning his eyelids wrong side out, of what had happened to "peeping,
prying, inquisitive Jerry."
On our return from Salt Sulphur Springs the summer our little Corbell
was in his eighth year, as we drove up to the Exchange Hotel the dear
old Colonel came out to the carriage and said:
"Your rooms are all ready, General. We received your telegram and
prepared for your coming, but we have two cases of measles here, so I
have arranged to have you taken care of at the Monumental Hotel till the
danger is over."
We thought it best not to run any risk, and went to the Monumental. The
rooms were large and comfortable. Dr. and Mrs. Barksdale were the first
to greet us. They, too, with several others of our friends who had
little children, had been obliged to leave the Exchange for the same
reason.
Our precautions proved in vain, for my sister, a young lady just
entering society, who was staying with us, was stricken with the
disease, and my schoolboy brother and my two children caught the
contagion. At the end of three months, however, all were well except our
beautiful, gifted, wonderful boy, our little Corbell, always a delicate
child, who now became weaker day by day.
There was never anything like the goodness of the people of Richmond in
those trying months. Relatives, friends and strangers came daily with
toys, books, good things, carriages, as long as we could take our
darling to ride, for his beautiful angel face, his wonderful mind and
his glorious voice had won a place in every heart.
While Corbell was ill Mr. Davis called on us for the last time, as he
was never again in Richmond. When he came in I drew up a chair for him,
but he said:
"May I not sit on the bed beside our sick boy?"
When Corbell's lunch was brought in he asked that luncheon be brought
for Mr. Davis, to which Mr. Davis added his voice.
"Shall I say grace, Mr. Davis, or will you?" asked the child.
"You, if you please," Mr. Davis replied, "for I should like to hear your
grace."
Closing his beautiful eyes Corbell said the grace his father had taught
him:
"Dear Jesus, be our Guest to-day,"
adding, "and never mind, Jesus, about Mr. Davis being here for he would
like to have you."
I do not think that the child took his eyes from Mr. Davis's face,
except to say grace, during the whole time the visitor was there. Oh,
but that face was so awfully, so pathetically changed! Every expression,
the sound of his voice, the look in his eyes, all betokened a broken
heart. Only the harmony of motion and the melody of tone remained.
On Good Friday night, seven months afterward, in sorrowful tones one and
then another of my friends as they left me for the night whispered
resignation to the will of God. Our Corbell was dying. All through the
long weary night my Soldier, Mary and I breathlessly watched and
listened beside him. As we were moving softly about the room he said:
"I'm not asleep, our mama. 'Tisement thought I was dreaming 'cause I was
laughing, but I wasn't. I was laughing about the funny thoughts I had
when I was young. I just couldn't make my eyes open wide and when she
caught me laughing I could see the first time I found out that God was
ahead. It was that time in the bathroom when I wanted you to turn on the
snow and 'Tisement said you couldn't do it, and couldn't any of you do
it; neither our mama nor our papa nor Thomas could turn on the snow. You
said you could all of you turn on the water. Well, I couldn't see why
you couldn't just as well turn on the snow as the water. Then all of a
sudden the thought came into my head that God was ahead of you all and
that only He could turn on the flaky, flying, zig-zag snow, and I began
wondering what more He could do that nobody else, not even our mama and
our papa, could do. Do you remember how Thomas laughed at me the next
day when I told him about it? How funny I was when I was young, wasn't
I? I reckon all the little children are just as funny, though, and all
of them think there isn't anything in the world that their father and
mother can't do. I know I thought so until that very morning and then I
knew that God was ahead even of them. Once I asked our papa which was
the oldest, he or God, and oh, my, but I was so hurt and disappointed
when he said God was the oldest."
Little streaks of light were just beginning to scramble in through the
slatted blinds. My Soldier smiling, stooped and kissed our darling's
little wasted hands and said, "Yes, my boy; God is ahead," and then he
walked over to the double windows and opened wide the blinds so that all
the dawn-colors might stream in untrammeled and light the room, that our
little one could see the eastern sky and watch for the sun he loved so
well. The sky became a deeper red and moving across it was a black
specky cloud.
"What are those dark specks, Soldier; are they crows?" I asked as I
walked through the window onto the veranda to take a better look at the
long queer line and to breathe in the morning air.
"No, little one," replied my Soldier, "they are wild geese; the cold
weather is all gone."
"Then summer has come, our papa," said the child. "I was watching those
little moving black flakes, too, when our mama asked you what they
were."
A wrangling of voices from below grated upon our ears.
"Some unfortunate fellow has been overcome and is in the hands of the
police," explained my Soldier.
The sacredness of our watch, the loneliness of the hour and the hollow
silence of the deserted streets made the harsh voices seem more
discordant. I looked over the rail.
"Oh, what a pitiable sight!" I exclaimed. "The poor man looks like a
gentleman, too, refined and distinguished looking. Poor fellow! He seems
so angry and--so sick. Please, my darling, go to his rescue. Who knows
but perhaps somewhere there are belonging to him little ones like ours?"
"Yes, please go, our papa, please, sir," echoed the pleading tones from
the bed, "go and bring him in. He may have little ones of _our_ kind and
maybe he has a little one of _our mama's kind_, too, waiting for him
somewhere."
My Soldier went out just as the round red rim of the sun burst into
sight out of the east. There was a greater joy than a smile on his face
when he came back. He had brought the stranger in and registered him in
the hotel as our guest. Our lives frequently came in touch with this
stranger's in the years that followed, and he told me that often and
again when he was attacked by that same terrible, almost incurable,
malady, the memory of the spirit of the child in the dawn of Good
Friday had saved him.
A year later, when my Soldier went home and little Corbell was placed
beside him, the children of this man came to me and said, "We are sorry
Corbell is taken away, for we have been putting flowers on his grave
every day, as our papa told us. But we can just as well put them here
and on the General's grave, too."
The long Saturday passed and Easter Sunday came over the hills in the
whiteness of its lilies and with melodious chimes rang out the blessed
tidings that a Saviour had risen to bring Heaven to the world. But the
golden light brought no dawn of hope to the hearts of those who watched
sorrowfully over the little life that was drifting out upon that sea of
glorious music into the Heaven of which it gave glad promise. Lulled to
rest while the children sang their Easter carols, our boy went to join
his brother angels. Through the open window the voices were sounding
"Christ is risen" as he turned his head and laid his face against mine
and reached out his little hand to my Soldier and Mary. I felt his
spirit flutter and go. With a shivering sigh for me his soul slipped
through the gate that Christ had risen to unlock.
During his long illness thoughtful friends from everywhere had been
untiring in kindness. All their gifts he had willed to the poor
children. His books he had left to his little brother, his ring to Mary,
his "Confederate Orphan" fund to his father and me, saying, "Next
quarter you will both be Confederate Orphans, for I shall be with the
soldiers in the Lord's Army--maybe I'll be His little drummer boy, so I
want you both to have that money."
His "Uncle Bev," as he called Judge Beverly Tucker, had given him a
little enameled democratic rooster and on the Saturday evening before
the Easter dawn he asked his father to give the rooster to the "poor
handsome man who had come in the early morning when the sun was biggest
and reddest and Good Friday was getting out of the way for Easter."
Weeks before he had selected his pall-bearers from among his little
playfellows and had asked them all to wear white. To Dr. Minnegerode he
said:
"Please, sir, Doctor, don't make the boys or any of my friends or
relations cry but, please, sir, tell them something pretty, as you do at
Sunday-school sometimes, and make them as happy as you can and have them
all sing bright songs; and I want everybody to bring me red and blue and
yellow and pink flowers, as well as white ones, and when you all get
through and start back home I want the boys and girls to carry all the
flowers with them because the flowers would be so lonesome out there
that they'd fade and die. Birds don't care for flowers and children do."
He often asked me, "Don't you think flowers can feel?"
The Easter blossoms were still fresh and fragrant in St. Paul's Church
when fourteen of Corbell's little boy friends all in white, singing
their Easter anthem, carried the little white casket that held the
flower just budding into blossom in our Father's garden, across the
street and up the aisle, followed by all the children of the
Sunday-school and the many sympathizing friends.
We left him under the shade of the young green leaves, among the
blooming flowers of the early spring, where the music of the waters of
the winding stream as it rippled over the pebbles could be heard
mingling with the sweet song of the birds.
The morning that he went to sleep George had come in with a waiter of
white cape jasmine from General and Mrs. Maury, who had taken him to
their home during these last days of his little brother's perfect life.
In his loving haste to bring them to his brother some of the delicate
white blossoms had fallen and been crushed. Corbell looked down at the
hurt leaves, then up into George's eyes, saying, "Little brother, be
gentle with the flowers; they die so soon." These, almost his last
words, my Soldier had engraved on one side of the gold dollar, the
"Confederate Orphan" money which he had willed to us, and wore it always
on his watch-chain. After he went to our boy I wore it and always have
tried to obey its voice and "be gentle with the flowers, they die so
soon."
[Illustration: "LITTLE BROTHER, BE GENTLE WITH THE FLOWERS; THEY DIE SO
SOON"]
My Soldier longed to take me away at once from the scenes where so much
suffering had come to me and the next morning I summoned all my strength
for the trial awaiting me. I went to Mary's room and found her dressed,
with the exception of her gloves, ready to go out. Her trunks, marked
and strapped, were being taken down-stairs. Upon the bed were my dress
and wrap, bonnet and veil and gloves of mourning, all laid out by her
careful hand.
"Come," she said, "let me help you off with your wrapper. You have not
much time; I was just coming for you. You are to leave on the ten-thirty
train. George has gone with his father while he makes the final
arrangements. I have said good-bye to them."
"Good-bye? Mary!" I said. "Good-bye? What do you mean? You would never
leave me now when I need you so?"
Her beautiful face was as white as marble as she said:
"Weeks ago, my lady, when I saw that our little darling could not live
I made all my arrangements to take the veil. God has again taken from me
_all_ I had on earth. When you, too, like me, are bereft of _everything_
come to me."
"Passengers for the New York express, time's up!" rang through the hall.
For one minute we were clasped in each other's arms; her cold lips
pressed mine for the first time. No word was spoken--she was gone--I was
alone. I looked about me, dazed, confused. There was my hand satchel
packed, a book and a letter, Mary's writing, on the bureau. Mechanically
I picked them up, shuddering as I caught a glimpse of myself in the
mirror. Was that pale, pinched face shrouded in crêpe mine?
"Dear Mother, where are you?" George's little arms were clasping my
knees. "Dear Father sent me to take care of you till he comes back. He
says he will be up in a minute for you and I must help you to get
ready."
Always before our precious boy had called me "Our Mama" and his father
"Our Papa," as he had been taught by his father. I sat down, taking him
in my lap.
"'Our Mama' is ready, my precious boy," I said.
"Dear Mother, you've got me and Dear Father; don't cry--please, Dear
Mother. I saw Mammy-Mary again but she shook her head at us and pointed
up here to you and so Dear Father wouldn't stop her. Oh, she looked most
as dead as you do, Dear Mother."
"Why do you call me differently, dear?" I asked.
"I don't know," he replied, "but the words 'Dear Mother' just came to me
and choked up in my throat and so I said them out."
From that time to him I was always "Dear Mother."
From the walls of a convent in France for many years came at Easter time
a message of love, a book, an embroidered flower, a letter or a prayer.
Then, when all had been taken from me and I needed her most, only
silence came, and I knew that she, too, had passed beyond.
XXXVI
HIS LAST BATTLE
In the early summer of 1875, as we were on the eve of going to Green
Brier White Sulphur Springs for the rest that my Soldier so much needed
after a winter of hard work, a telegram came from the Insurance Company
he represented notifying him that an important matter in their Norfolk
Agency had arisen, requiring his immediate personal attention.
"Little one," he said to me, "you must go on to the Springs with our boy
and I will join you just as soon as this business is settled."
"Go without you? Not for the whole world!" I replied. "No, indeed, my
Soldier. I am going with you. Why, I would not leave you even if you
were perfectly well. I am going with you."
He, with his usual unselfishness, urged my going to the Springs,
pleading that he was not at all seriously ill and would be all right in
a day or two.
"I am going to Norfolk," I said, "and that settles it."
"But think, little one, think," he replied. "You are packed and ready to
start, your rooms are engaged and your tickets bought. Now, don't be a
foolish little wife. Go on to the White where it is cool and
pleasant--please, now, my Lily, please, dear. This business may not
detain me over a day or two. Be good and go, and please me by escaping
the heat and mosquitoes."
"I want to be foolish," I replied, "and I don't want to be good, nor
stay in a cool and pleasant place when you are where it is uncomfortable
and sweltering; I want to be scorched with heat and bitten by
mosquitoes, so I am going with you if it is not longer than a minute."
I went. The day following our arrival in Norfolk my Soldier returned to
the hotel suffering with a chill. The duties had proved more complicated
than were anticipated and his illness had been aggravated by hard work
in the intense heat. Feeling better the next morning, he insisted upon
going out again, but within the hour came back with another chill.
Thus began the long battle with death, in which no impatient word
escaped his lips. With the endurance born to the brave, trained in long
marches and agonizing campaigns and steeled in the fires of battle, his
soul rose triumphant above the shocks of physical torture. When intense
pain forced a moan from his lips he would look up pathetically and
apologize, saying:
"You must not mind my moaning, little one. I'm afraid husband is getting
into bad habits; forgive him."
So solicitous was he for me that often he would not acknowledge that
suffering had caused an expression of pain, but would say, "Oh, it was
nothing." With serene face he met the agony, fighting a braver battle
than had ever been waged upon a field of war. Oh, those dark, dark days
when hope failed and faith waned! If there was one ray of light in their
gloom as I look back through the long weary years, it was in the loving
thoughtfulness and sympathy of his people, the people of our beloved
land everywhere.
Especially do I recall, among the legion of those who came to serve, my
cousin, William Jasper Phillips, a mere boy in years but a man in mind
and spirit, who with willing hand and heart, with gentle words and
loyal, loving eyes, came to watch with me through the dark
hours--holding my hands with a child's loving fervor and a man's strong
sympathy.
Long years afterward, when I stood by the open grave of this cousin and
looked upon the many mourners whom special trains had brought from all
parts of the country to do him honor and show their love, my thoughts
went back to that dread time and I wondered not that a host of friends
were saddened by his passing.
[Illustration: "ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC"]
In vain were all our prayers--in vain our loving care. The time soon
came when I knew that my Soldier's warfare was almost ended.
Father Jansen, who had come from Richmond to see him, asked, "Do you
want to see me alone?" With his hand on the Father's knee, he replied:
"You know, Father, I never was a solitary bird. I was never alone except
sometimes in the twilight or in the woods and then I had the spirit of
my mother and my little girl with me."
"I know you are reconciled to death," said the priest.
"Ah, no; how could I be? I think God does not want me to be reconciled
to leaving my wife and little boy alone in the world. He only wants me
to obey with the courage of a soldier who receives an order that must be
carried out because he is a soldier."
The Father was silent for a time as if going back in memory to an hour
long past. Then he said:
"The first time I remember seeing you and having a talk with you was on
Shockoe Hill. Standing there alone, your little boy gathering flowers
some distance away, you seemed completely lost in the view before you.
You held a bunch of wild flowers in your hand and were singing, 'As I
view now those scenes so charming,' I listened and when you had finished
the song you began to whistle. I asked you what tune you whistled and
you said, 'I was thinking of Forsyth and of the boys and of the old
fellow who came into the camp at San Antonio and acted out "Bennie
Havens, O," and we all gave him money to go on his way and I sang that
song that night, and it came back to me, and I wondered what had become
of the boys. The next morning at breakfast a young fellow named May came
in and said, "Boys, here is your money and it is worth it. I was Bennie
Havens, O." I was wondering where May was.'"
On the last day when the physicians wanted to give my Soldier an
anodyne, he said:
"No, I would rather suffer and know. You say there is no help for me;
that I've got to cross the river. Well, I want to go over in my right
mind--to know when I'm going; and I want to see how to steer my little
craft as it pulls out from the shore and look into the dear faces of my
loved ones till I breathe my last good night. Now, please, Doctor,
excuse me, but won't you all go and leave me alone with my wife? You
have tried to save me for her and I thank you. Now, all that you can do
for me is to say good night."
Just as they were going my uncle, Colonel Phillips, and his wife came in
with our little boy, who was staying with them.
"Well, Colonel," said my Soldier, "the enemy is too strong for me again,
you see, and, Colonel--my ammunition is all out. I am glad you have both
come. Thank you, and now good night, my dear friend; you are the last
old comrade to whom I shall give an order--watch over my wife and
child."
Calling our boy he said:
"Crawl up here by 'Dear Father,' my baby," and laying his hand on our
boy's head he closed his eyes and there was silence in the room.
Presently he spoke:
"This is the month that God sent you to us, my boy, and this is the
month, I am afraid, that God is going to call me away from you. You must
take my place at the side of your Dear Mother, begin at once to be the
little husband to her, the little man for her, and I will watch over you
and help you to perform all these offices."
"What are officers?" asked the child.
"Offices. You are old enough to know offices and officers. You must
begin to learn words, because words are things and their meanings have
much to do with our lives."
He spoke of Indian words and how the Indians had chosen their words.
"Klosch nonnitsh, look out, means you must not tell anybody; it is a
secret. Tum-tum, heart. Klosch mika tum-tum, my heart speaks to yours."
He turned to me and said in Chinook:
"I am trying to make him understand the value of words and feel their
meaning as indicated in their sound."
He gave George some money and told him to treat his little friends,
saying that he had found that it brought him much more pleasure to give
than to receive, and that one of the expressions of the eyes that he
liked more than anything else was _gratitude and love_.