A bit of paper, yellow and crumbling from age, has recently been sent
to me by the son of an old Charlottesville friend. The tiny scrap has
survived the vicissitudes of fifty-one years, and because of the changes
it has seen and the dangers it has passed, if for nothing more, it
deserves preservation. It marks an important era in our life, although
it contains only this:—
"CHARLOTTESVILLE, July 1, 1858.
"DEAR MRS. COCHRAN:—
"May I have your receipt for brandy-peaches? You know Roger
is speaking all over the country, trying to win votes for a
seat in Congress. I'm not sure he will be elected—but I _am_
sure he will like some brandy-peaches! If he is successful,
they will enhance the glory of victory—if he is defeated, they
will help to console him.
"Affectionately,
"S. A. PRYOR."
In this campaign my husband established his reputation as an orator. He
was canvassing the district of his kinsman, John Randolph of Roanoke,
and old men who heard his speeches did not hesitate to declare him the
equal of the eccentric but eloquent Randolph. I always like to quote
directly from the journals of the day,—I like my countrymen to tell my
story,—and happily, although I lost all memoranda, some old men have
written since the war of the noted Virginians whom they knew in the
fifties. One from a North Carolina paper I have preserved, but lost the
precise date.
"The late Rev. Thos. G. Lowe, of Halifax, was the greatest natural
orator North Carolina ever produced. He was silver-tongued and
golden-mouthed, a cross between Chrysostom and Fénelon. He was, besides,
a very earnest Whig in his politics. On one occasion, in 1860, we knew
him to go from Halifax to Henderson, a distance of some sixty miles,
to hear Pryor speak. We asked him what he thought of the Virginian.
His reply was, 'You think I didn't stand up in a hot sun three mortal
hours just to hear him abuse my party? He is wonderful, with the finest
vocabulary I have ever known.' Charles Bruce, Esq., of Charlotte,
Virginia, told us, in 1870, that when Pryor spoke at Charlotte Court
House, he saw elderly gentlemen who had ridden forty miles in their
carriages to hear him, and who said to each other, after the great
orator had concluded his masterly effort, 'We have had no such speaking
in Virginia since John Randolph's day.'"
Another from the old district writes, July 9, 1891:—
"Of all the men I ever heard speak, Pryor made the strongest
impression on me. Young, enthusiastic, brilliant; with a
not unbecoming faith in a capacity of high order, he might
reasonably have aspired to the loftiest dignities. He was a
born orator; thorough master of those rare persuasive powers
that captivate and lead multitudes. His figure was erect
and finely proportioned, his gestures easy and graceful, his
features mobile and expressive of every shade of emotion. But
the charm of his oratory lay in his wonderfully organized
vocal apparatus, which he played upon with the skill of a
musical expert. No speaker of the present time can claim to
rival him in the easy flow of rhetoric that sparkled through
his harmoniously balanced periods, except, probably, Senator
Daniel. While listening to him, the Richard Henry Lee of
Wirt's graphic portraiture seemed to move and speak in every
tone and gesture."
Another for the _Richmond Times-Democrat_ of November 2, 1902, writes:—
"A famous orator of the antebellum period was Roger A. Pryor,
who still survives. He had a poetic imagination, which is the
basis of all true oratory. His vocabulary, though florid,
was superb, and kept company with the airy creatures of
his exuberant imagination. He rarely spoke but to evolve a
beautiful figure, and in his political campaigns for Congress,
in the now Fourth Virginia district, he frequently soared
above the comprehension of his audience, whose reading was
limited. He combined a logical mind with his poetic fancy,
and the effect and product of his thought were striking and
impressive, illustrating the aphorism that the poet always
sees most deeply into human nature. Pryor had the face, the
figure, the dramatic air, the attitude, and the vocabulary.
When we saw him last summer at the White Sulphur, he looked
the grave and dignified jurist, in contrast with the typical
politician and editor of the fire-eating school of fifty years
ago."
While all these fine speeches were delighting our Democratic friends, I
was very happy with my dear aunt at her country place, Rock Hill, near
Charlottesville. There my dear son Roger was born—now my only son. The
house, like a small Swiss chalet, was perched lightly on the side of an
elevation that well deserved its name. From the crest of the hill there
was a noble view of the Blue Mountains, and of sunsets indescribable.
To the little boy and girl who spent their childhood at this place it
soon became enchanted ground. A quarry, from which stone had been taken
for building the house, was the cave of Bunyan's giants, Pope and Pagan,
who "hailed the Christians as they passed, saying, 'Turn in hither'";
two crayfish that lived in the great spring under the Druidical oaks
were the genii of the fountain; the corn-field was a mighty forest to
be entered with fear because of the Indians and wild beasts therein.
These two children, Gordon and her brother, Theodorick, fourteen months
younger, were blessed in having my own dear aunt's care and teaching
from their infancy until they were aged respectively nine and ten years.
They were not at first "remarkable" children. They were not infant
phenomena, subjected to the perilous applause of admiring friends and
kindred. They were normal in every respect—clean-blooded, sturdy, and
wholesome; with good appetites, cool heads, and quick perceptions. They
became, under the care of their wise preceptor, unusually interesting
and intelligent children. My aunt adored the children, firmly believing
that, however degeneracy might have impaired the human race in its
progress of evolution,—these two at least had been made in God's
image. In the words of their nurse, she "tuned them as if they were
little harps—just to see how sweet the music could be!" They studied
together—Gordon understanding that she must encourage the little
brother, and read to him until he could read himself. In summer the
schoolroom was sometimes _al fresco_, even drawing upon the knotted
branches of the cherry tree for desks!
Gordon read very well at the age of three. She was also taught, before
she could read, to point out rivers and cities on a map. Before he was
four, Theodorick could read also. The children never had a distasteful
task. I heard a great scholar say that _all_ learning could be made
charming to a young mind. The aunt of these children made their lessons
a reward. "Now be good when you dress, and you may have a lesson,"
or "if Gordon and Theo don't ask for anything, I will give them a
lesson right after dinner." The lessons, through the teacher's skill
and patience, were made delightful. At once they were given paper and
pencils, colored and plain, and both wrote before they were five. Their
teacher disapproved of gory tales of giants and hobgoblins. Instead of
these, they had histories quite as thrilling, and stories of the animal
kingdom, with which they lived in perfect amity and kinship. They never
had caged birds, but ducks and chickens, dogs small and great, cats and
kittens, were all regarded as part of the family, and bore historic
names. Theo once picked up (he was three) a small chicken, whereupon
the mother hen rose to his shoulders and administered a good spanking
with her wings. A servant, with great heat, belabored the hen; and Theo
checked his sobs to entreat for her, explaining, "she didn't like for
me to love her little white chicken." The hen, forsooth, was jealous!
He once caught a bee in his hand and received a stinging rebuke. "How
could you be so silly?" exclaimed his little sister. "Not at all," said
Theo; "I have often done the same thing—but this little fellow," he
added affectionately, "this little fellow had a brier in _his_ tail!"
Their aunt hesitated whether she should tell them harrowing stories
from history, but experiment proved, however, that the heroic held for
them such fascination that they lost sight completely of the pain or
suffering attending it. They adored the men and women who died bravely,
but had their favorites. Lady Jane Grey was not one, nor Mary Queen
of Scots (perhaps because of their ruffs), but they worshipped Marie
Antoinette and Charles I. They had a very high regard for honor and fair
dealing. Theo was a little over three years when he complained to me of
his little sister, "I just laid my head on the stool and let her chop it
off—because I am Charles I—and now _she_ is Marie Antoinette, and when
I am ready to cut off her head, she screams and runs away." His sense
of justice was outraged, but the little sister's vivid imagination made
her nervous, notwithstanding the fact that a cushion was the guillotine!
Having observed that a large knotted stick was treated with respect,
and travelled, to my inconvenience, with Theo on several journeys, I
essayed to throw it away. With great dignity he gravely informed me,
"This is Rameses III." Not only was it one of the Egyptian kings, but
the richest of them all. I wish I could follow these two fascinating
children beyond their babyhood, but I cannot venture! I dare not!
Late in the autumn I left Rock Hill to visit my uncle at the Oaks in
Charlotte. I had travelled alone from Richmond to Mossingford, ten or
twelve miles from my uncle's house, and there old Uncle Peter met me
with the great high-swung chariot and a hamper well filled with broiled
partridges, biscuits, cakes, and fruit. The rain had poured a steady
flood for several days, but to my joy the clouds were now rolling away
in heavy masses, and the sun shining hotly on the water-soaked earth.
"We got to hurry, Mistis," said the old coachman, as we prepared to
enjoy an _al fresco_ luncheon; "the cricks was risin' mighty fas' when
I come along fo' sun-up dis mornin'."
"But we don't have to cross the river, Uncle Peter?"
"Gawd A'mighty, no," exclaimed the old man. "Ef'n I had to cross
Staunton River, I'd done give clean up, fo' I see you! When we git
home, we'll fine out what ole Staunton River doin'. I lay she's jes'
a'bilin'!"
"Well, then there is some danger?"
"Who talkin' 'bout danger? De kerridge sets mighty high. No'm, der ain't
no danger, but I ain't trustin' dem cricks. I knows cricks! Dee kin
swell deeself up as big's a river in no time!"
We had not gone far before we were overtaken by a mud-splashed horseman,
who arrested our horses and spoke in a low tone to the driver. Presently
he appeared at the carriage window. "This is Mrs. Pryor? You remember
Mr. Carrington? I hope I see you well, Madam. I am on my way to vote for
your husband—or rather, help elect him. We have a fine day; the polls
need not be kept open to-morrow. But I must hasten on. We will soon have
the pleasure of congratulating our congressman."
"One moment, please, Mr. Carrington! Are the creeks too high for us to
cross?"
"I think not, Madam. The carriage hangs high, and Peter knows all about
freshets. Good morning."
There were swollen streams for us to cross. Several of them had
overflowed the meadows until they looked like lakes. At one or two the
water flowed over the floor of the carriage, and we gathered our feet
under us on the seats. My little Theo enjoyed it, but my poor nurse was
ashen from terror. Very wet, very cold, and very grateful were we when
at night we reached our haven. My dear uncle, Dr. Rice, was already
there, with cheering news from the polls.
The next morning we looked out upon a turbid yellow sea. The Staunton
had sustained her reputation, overflowed her low banks, and spread
herself generously over the face of the earth. It was a week or more
before my husband was assured of his election. He spent the intervening
days of rest sleeping—like the boy he was!
Several years later, when he was reëlected, we were in Richmond with
my little family. Gordon and the two little boys were keen politicians.
Of course I was now too busy a mother to concern myself with politics,
as was my wont in the earlier days. Moreover, I knew my congressman
would be reëlected. I was pretty sure by this time that he would always
be elected—so the day passed serenely with me. I was overwhelmed with
dismay when one of his friends called after the polls closed at sunset,
and informed me that a torch-light procession would reach our house
about eight o'clock, and would expect to find it illuminated.
"Illuminated!" I exclaimed. "And pray with what? There are not half a
dozen candles in the house, and the stores are all closed. Besides, the
baby will be asleep. It is bad for babies to be waked out of their first
sleep."
My friend did not contradict me, but in the evening he sent a bushel
of small turnips and a box of candles, with a note telling me to cut a
hole in the turnips, insert a candle, and they would answer my purpose
admirably. Everybody went to work with a will, and when the crowd,
shouting and cheering, surrounded us, every window-pane blazed a welcome
into the happy faces. My young congressman made one of his charming
speeches, and then—the lights went out on the last election he was
destined to celebrate! True, he was twice after elected to Congress—in
the Confederate States; for the South had need of him in her legislative
hall as well as in the field. In both he gave her all his heart and soul
and strength, but the days were too sad for illuminations in his honor.
* * * * *
My story has now reached the period at which my "Reminiscences of
Peace and War" begin. I shall not relate the political history of the
period—which has been better told by others than I can hope to tell
it. I shall endeavor to bring forward some things that were omitted
in my late book, but in narrating the incidents of the Civil War and
the preceding life in Washington, I may in some measure repeat myself.
For this I have a valid excuse. Apologizing for quoting himself from
a former book on Edmund Burke, John Morley remarks: "Though you may
say what you have to say well _once_, you cannot so say it _twice_."
Lord Morley strengthens his position by a quotation in Greek, which,
unhappily, remains Greek to me, and I therefore cannot avail myself of
its help, but I am glad to be sustained by his example. Besides, what
says Oliver Wendell Holmes? "It is the height of conceit for an author
to be afraid of repeating himself—because it implies that everybody has
read—and remembers—what he has said before."