Washington was like a great village in the days of President Pierce and
President Buchanan. My own pride in the federal city was such that my
heart would swell within me at every glimpse of the Capitol: from the
moment it rose like a white cloud above the smoke and mists, as I stood
on the deck of the steamboat (having run up from my dinner to salute
Mount Vernon), to the time when I was wont to watch from my window for
the sunset, that I might catch the moment when a point on the unfinished
dome glowed like a great blazing star after the sun had really gone
down. No matter whether suns rose or set, there was the star of our
country,—the star of our hearts and hopes.
When our friends came up from Virginia to make us visits, it was
delightful to take a carriage and give up days to sight-seeing; to visit
the White House and Capitol, the Patent Office, with its miscellaneous
treasures; to point with pride to the rich gifts from crowned heads
which our adored first President was too conscientious to accept; to
walk among the stones lying around the base of the unfinished monument
and read the inscriptions from the states presenting them; to spend a
day at the Smithsonian Institution, and to introduce our friends to its
president, Mr. Henry; and to Mr. Spenser Baird and Mr. George, who were
giving their lives to the study of birds, beasts, and fishes,—finding
them, as Mr. George still contended, "so much more interesting than
men," adding hastily, "We do not say ladies," and blushing after the
manner of cloistered scholars; to hint of interesting things about
Mr. George, who was a melancholy young man, and who had, as we know,
sustained a great sorrow.
[Illustration: WASHINGTON IN 1845.]
Then the visits to the galleries of the House and Senate Chamber,
and the honor of pointing out the great men to our friends from rural
districts; the long listening to interminable speeches, not clearly
understood, but heard with a reverent conviction that all was coming out
right in the end, that everybody was really working for the good of his
country, and that we belonged to it all and were parts of it all.
This was the thought behind all other thoughts which glorified
everything around us, enhanced every fortunate circumstance, and caused
us to ignore the real discomforts of life in Washington: the cold,
the ice-laden streets in winter; the whirlwinds of dust and driving
rains of spring; the swift-coming fierceness of summer heat; the rapid
atmospheric changes which would give us all these extremes in one week,
or even one day, until it became the part of prudence never to sally
forth on any expedition without "a fan, an overcoat, and an umbrella."
The social life in Washington was almost as variable as the climate.
At the end of every four years the kaleidoscope turned, and lo!—a new
central jewel and new colors and combinations in the setting.
But behind this "floating population," as the political circles were
termed, there was a fine society in the fifties of "old residents" who
held themselves apart from the motley crowd of office-seekers. This
society was sufficient to itself, never seeking the new, while accepting
it occasionally with discretion, reservations, and much discriminating
care. The sisters, Mrs. Gales and Mrs. Seaton, wives of the editors
of the _National Intelligencer_, led this society. Mrs. Gales's home
was outside the city, and thence every day Mr. Gales was driven in his
barouche to his office. His paper was the exponent of the Old Line Whigs
(the Republican party was formed later), and in stern opposition to
the Democrats. It was, therefore, a special and unexpected honor for a
Democrat to be permitted to drive out to "the cottage" for a glass of
wine and a bit of fruit-cake with Mrs. Gales and Mrs. Seaton. Never have
I seen these gentlewomen excelled in genial hospitality. Mrs. Gales was
a handsome woman and a fine conversationalist. She had the courteous
repose born of dignity and intelligence and a certain reticence which
makes for distinction. She was literally her husband's right hand,—he
had lost his own,—and was the only person who could decipher his
left-hand writing. So that when anything appeared from his pen it
had been copied by his wife before it reached the type-setter. A fine
education this for an intelligent woman; the very best schooling for
a social life including diplomats from foreign countries, politicians
of diverse opinions, artists, authors, musicians, women of fashion,
to entertain whom required infinite tact, cleverness, and an intimate
acquaintance with the absorbing questions of the day.
Of course the levees and state receptions, which were accessible to all,
required none of these things. The rôle of hostess on state occasions
could be filled creditably by any woman of ordinary physical strength,
patience, self-control, who knew when to be silent.
Washington society, at the time of which I write, was comparatively
free from non-official men of wealth from other cities who, weary with
the monotonous round of travel,—to the Riviera, to Egypt, to Monte
Carlo,—are attracted by the unique atmosphere of a city holding many
foreigners, and devoted not to commercial but to social and political
interests. The doors of the White House and Cabinet offices being open
on occasions to all, they have opportunities denied them in their own
homes. Society in Washington in the fifties was peculiarly interesting
in that it was composed exclusively of men whose presence argued them to
have been of importance at home. They had been elected by the people,
or chosen by the President, or selected among the very best in foreign
countries, or they belonged to the United States Army or Navy service,
or to the descendants of the select society which had gathered in the
city early in its history.[4]
As I had come to Washington from Virginia, where everybody's
great-grandfather knew my great-grandfather, where the rules of
etiquette were only those of courtesy and good breeding, I had many a
troubled moment in my early Washington life, lest I should transgress
some law of precedence, etc. I wisely took counsel with one of my
"old residents," and she gave me a few simple rules whereby the young
chaperon of a very young girl might be guided: "My dear," said this
lady, "my dear, you know you cannot always have your husband to attend
you. It will be altogether proper for you to go with your sister to
morning and afternoon receptions. When you arrive, send for the host or
the master of ceremonies, and he will take you in and present you. Of
course, your husband will take you to balls; if he is busy, you simply
cannot go! I think you would do well to make a rule _never_, under any
circumstances, to drive in men's carriages. There are so many foreigners
here, you must be careful. They never bring their own court manners to
Washington. They take their cue from the people they meet. If you are
high and haughty, they will be high and haughty. If you are genially
civil but reserved, they will be so. If you talk personalities in a free
and easy way, they will spring some audacious piece of scandal on you,
and the Lord only knows where they'll end."
Now, it so happened that I had just received a request from a Frenchman
who had brought letters to be allowed to escort Madame and Mademoiselle
to a fête in Georgetown. We were to drive through the avenue of
blossoming crab-apples, and rendezvous at a spring for a picnic. I
forget the name of our hostess, but she had arranged a gay festival,
including music and dancing on the green. I had accepted this invitation
and the escort of M. Raoul, and received a note from him asking at what
hour he should have the honor, etc., and I immediately ran home and
wrote that "Madame would be happy to see M. Raoul _à trois heures_"—and
that Madame asked the privilege of using her own horses, etc. I made
haste to engage an open carriage, and congratulated myself on my clever
management.
The afternoon was delicious. Monsieur appeared on the moment, and
we waited for my carriage. The gay equipages of other members of the
party drove up and waited for us. Presently, rattling down the street,
came an old ramshackle "night-hawk," bearing the mud-and-dust scars
of many journeys, the seats ragged and tarnished, raw-boned horses
with rat-eaten manes and tails, harness tied with rope,—the only
redeeming feature the old negro on the box, who, despite his humiliating
_entourage_, had the air of a gentleman.
What could I do? There was nothing to be done!
Monsieur handed me in without moving a muscle of his face, handed in
my sister, entered himself, and spoke no word during the drive. He
conducted us gravely to the place of rendezvous, silently and gravely
walked around the grounds with us, silently and gravely brought us home
again.
I grew hot and cold by turns, and almost shed tears of mortification. I
made no apology—what could I say? Arriving at my own door, I turned and
invited my escort to enter. He raised his hat, and with an air of the
deepest dejection, dashed with something very like sarcastic humility,
said he trusted Madame had enjoyed the afternoon,—thanked her for the
honor done himself,—and only regretted the disappointment of the French
Minister, the Count de Sartiges, at not having been allowed to serve
Madame with his own state coach, which had been placed at his disposal
for Madame's pleasure!
As he turned away, my chagrin was such I came very near forgetting to
give my coachman his little "tip."
I began, "Oh, Uncle, how _could_ you?" when he interrupted: "Now Mistis,
don't you say nothin'; I knowed dis ole fune'al hack warn't fittin' for
you, but der warn't nar another kerridge in de stable. De boss say, 'Go
'long, Jerry, an' git er dar!'—an' I done done it! An' I done fotch 'er
back, too!"
I never saw M. Raoul afterward. There's no use crying over spilt
milk, or broken eggs, or French monsieurs, or even French counts and
ministers. I soon left for Virginia, and to be relieved of the dread of
meeting M. Raoul softened my regret at leaving Washington.
I am sorry I cannot, at length, describe the brilliant society of
Washington during the few years preceding the Civil War. I have done
this elsewhere, and need not repeat it here. But for the anxieties
engendered by the exciting questions of the day, my own happiness would
have been complete. I found and made many friends. My husband was
appreciated, my children healthy and good, my home delightful. Many
of the brilliant men and women assembled in Washington were known to
me more or less intimately, and everybody was kind to me. President
Buchanan early noticed and invited me. "The President," said Mr. Dudley
Mann, "admires your husband and wonders why you were not at the levee.
He has asked me to see that you come to the next one." I once ventured
to send him a Virginia ham, with directions for cooking it. It was to
be soaked overnight, gently boiled three or four hours, suffered to get
cold in its own juices, and then toasted. This would seem simple enough,
but the executive cook disdained it, perhaps for the reason that it was
so simple. The dish, a shapeless, jelly-like mass, was placed before
the President. He took his knife and fork in hand to honor the dish by
carving it himself, looked at it helplessly, and called out, "Take it
away! Take it away! Oh, Miss Harriet! You are a poor housekeeper! Not
even a Virginia lady can teach you."
The glass dishes of the épergne contained wonderful "French
kisses"—two-inch squares of crystallized sugar wrapped in silver paper,
and elaborately decorated with lace and artificial flowers. I was
very proud at one dinner when the President said to me, "Madam, I am
sending you a souvenir for your little daughter," and a waiter handed
me one of those gorgeous affairs. He had questioned me about my boys,
and I had told him of my daughter Gordon, eight years old, who lived
with her grandmother. "You must bring her to see Miss Harriet," he had
said—which, in due season, I did; an event, with its crowning glory of a
checked silk dress, white hat and feather, which she proudly remembers
to this day. Having been duly presented at court, the little lady
was much "in society," and accompanied me to many brilliant afternoon
functions.
She was a thoughtful listener to the talk in her father's library, and
once, when an old politician spoke sadly of a possible rupture of the
United States, surprised and delighted him by slipping her hand in his
and saying, "Never mind! _United_ will spell _Untied_ just as well"—a
little _mot_ which was remembered and repeated long afterward.
An interesting time was the arrival in Washington of the first Japanese
Embassy that visited this country. All Washington was crazy over the
event. I have told elsewhere of my own childish behavior upon that
occasion—when, not having much of a head to speak of, I lost the
little I had. Having already cared for the health of my soul by honest
confession, I need not repeat it here. I was nervous lest the Japanese
dignitaries should recognize me as the effusive lady who had met them
_en route_, but I carefully avoided wearing in their presence the bonnet
and gown they had seen, and if they remembered they gave no sign.
Washington lost _its_ head! There was something ridiculous in the way
it behaved. So many fêtes were given to the Japanese, so many dinners,
so many receptions, we were worn out attending them. "I don't know what
we have come here for," said one senator to another; "there's nothing
whatever done at the House." "_I_ know," his friend replied; "we came
here to wait on the Japanese at table."
At the end of one of the balls given them I had seated myself at the
door of an anteroom, while my husband was struggling for his carriage
in the street. Across the room Miss Lane, with her party, also waited.
A young man whom I had seen in society, but whose name I had not heard,
approached me, and commenced a harangue of tender sympathy for my
neglected position,—so young, so fair, so innocent! Oh, where, where
was the miscreant who should protect me? Why, why could I not have been
given to one who could have appreciated me—whose life and soul would
have been mine, and more in the same strain. I did not, in accordance
with stage proprieties, exclaim, "Unhand me, villain!" At first I
affected not to hear, but finally rose, crossed the room, and joined
Miss Lane. She had not heard, and I did not deem the incident, although
novel and most annoying, important enough for inquiry. I did not know
him, there was no need for investigation—no call for pistols and coffee.
A few days after I saw him again at the Baron de Limbourg's
garden-party. I had joined with Lord Lyons and the Prince de Joinville
in the toast to Miss Lane, pledged in the famous thousand-dollar-a-drop
"Rose" wine, and was again in the foyer waiting for my carriage when my
would-be champion again approached me. "Mrs. Pryor," he said in calm,
measured tones, "I am Lieutenant —. I feel perfectly sure you will grant
my request. Take my arm and go with me to speak to Miss Lane."
I instantly divined his intention. Walking up to Miss Harriet, he said
penitently: "Miss Lane, you witnessed my intrusion upon Mrs. Pryor the
other evening and her exquisite forbearance. In your presence I humbly
beg her pardon." He had, poor fellow, found General Cass's wines too
potent for him. He had "lost his head"—that was all. I knew somebody
whose head had been by no means a sure fixture without the excuse of
General Cass's fine wines. Dear Miss Lane, so thoroughly equipped for
her high position by her residence at the court of St. James, had only
kindness then and ever for the wife of the young Virginia congressman.
Years afterward, when both our heads were gray, we talked together of
these amusing little events in our Washington life.
Memory lingers upon the delightful friends who made my Washington life
beautiful: Miss Lane, Mrs. Douglas, Lady Napier, Mrs. Horace Clarke
(_née_ Vanderbilt), lovely Mrs. Cyrus H. M'Cormick, Mrs. Yulee, the
Ritchies, the Masons, Secretary Cass's family, Mrs. Canfield, Mrs.
Ledyard, and my prime favorite, Lizzie Ledyard. Ah! they were charming
and kind! Even after social lines were strictly drawn between North
and South, I had the good fortune to retain my Northern friends. All
this I love to remember and would enjoy writing all over again, were
it possible _twice_ to give time to social records. Nor can I pause
to do more than hint at the spirit of the Thirty-sixth Congress, the
struggles, vituperation, intemperate speech, honest efforts of the wise
members.
The nomination of Lincoln and Hamlin on a purely sectional platform
aroused such excitement all over the land that the Senate and House
of Representatives gave themselves entirely to speeches on the state
of the country. Read at this late day, many of them appear to be the
high utterances of patriots, pleading with each other for forbearance.
Others exhausted the vocabulary of coarse vituperation. "Nigger thief,"
"slave-driver" were not uncommon words. Others still, although less
unrefined, were not less abusive. Newspapers no longer reported a speech
as calm, convincing, logical, or eloquent—these were tame expressions.
The terms now in use were: "a torrent of scathing denunciation,"
"withering sarcasm," "crushing invective," the orator's eyes the
while "blazing with scorn and indignation." Young members ignored the
salutation of old senators. Mr. Seward's smile after such a rebuff was
maddening! No opportunity for scornful allusion was lost. My husband was
probably the first congressman to wear "the gray," a suit of domestic
cloth having been presented to him by his constituents. Immediately
a Northern member said, in an address on the state of the country,
"Virginia, instead of clothing herself in sheep's wool, had better don
her appropriate garb of sackcloth and ashes." In pathetic contrast to
these scenes were the rosy, cherubic little pages, in white blouses
and cambric collars, who flitted to and fro, bearing, with smiling
faces, dynamic notes and messages from one representative to another.
They represented the future which these gentlemen were engaged in
wrecking—for many of these boys were sons of Southern widows, who even
now, under the most genial skies, led lives of anxiety and struggle.
Thoroughly alarmed, the women of Washington thronged the galleries
of the House and the Senate-chamber. From morning until the hour of
adjournment we would sit spellbound, as one after another drew the lurid
picture of disunion and war.
When my husband's time came to speak on "the state of the country," he
entreated for a pacific settlement of our controversy. "War," he urged,
"war means widows and orphans." The temper of the speech was all for
peace. He made a noble appeal to the North for concession. He prophesied
(the dreamer) that the South could never be subdued by resort to arms!
My Northern friends were prompt to congratulate me upon his speech
on "the state of the country," and to praise it with generous words
as "calm, free from vituperation, eloquent in pleading for peace and
forbearance."
The evening after this speech was delivered we were sitting in the
library, on the first floor of our home, when there was a ring at
the door-bell. The servants were in a distant part of the house, and
such was our excited state that I ran to the door and answered the
bell myself. It was snowing fast, a carriage stood at the door, and
out of it bundled a mass of shawls and woollen scarfs. On entering,
a man-servant commenced unwinding the bundle, which proved to be the
Secretary of State, General Cass! We knew not what to think. He was
seventy-seven years old. Every night at nine o'clock it was the custom
of his daughter, Mrs. Canfield, to wrap him in flannels and put him
to bed. What had brought him out at midnight? As soon as he entered,
before sitting down, he exclaimed: "Mr. Pryor, I have been hearing
about secession for a long time—and I would not listen. But now I am
frightened, sir, I am frightened! Your speech in the House to-day gives
me some hope. Mr. Pryor! I crossed the Ohio when I was sixteen years
old with but a pittance in my pocket, and this glorious Union has made
me what I am. I have risen from my bed, sir, to implore you to do what
you can to avert the disasters which threaten our country with ruin."
We had this solemn warning to report to our Southern friends who
assembled many an evening in our library: R. M. T. Hunter, Muscoe
Garnett, Porcher Miles, L. Q. C. Lamar, Boyce, Barksdale of Mississippi,
Keitt of South Carolina, with perhaps some visitors from the South. Then
Susan would light her fires and show us the kind of oysters that could
please her "own white folks," and James would bring in lemons and hot
water, with some choice brand of old Kentucky.
These were not convivial gatherings. These men held troubled
consultations on the state of the country,—the real meaning and intent
of the North, the half-trusted scheme of Judge Douglas to allow the
territories to settle for themselves the vexed question of slavery
within their borders, the right of peaceable secession. The dawn would
find them again and again with but one conclusion,—they would stand
together: "_Unum et commune periclum una salus!_"
But Holbein's spectre was already behind the door, and had marked his
men! In a few months the swift bullet for one enthusiast; for another
(the least considered of them all), a glorious death on the walls of
a hard-won rampart—he the first to raise his colors and the shout of
victory; for only one, or two, or three, that doubtful boon of existence
after the struggle was all over; for _all_ survivors, memories that
made the next four years seem to be the sum of life,—the only real
life,—beside which the coming years would be but a troubled dream.
The long session did not close until June, and in the preceding month
Abraham Lincoln was chosen candidate by the Republican party for the
presidency. Stephen A. Douglas was the candidate of the Democrats.
The South and the "Old Line Whigs" also named their men. The words
"irrepressible conflict" were much used during the ensuing campaign.
The authorship of these words has always been credited to Mr. Seward.
Their true origin may be found in the address of Mr. Lincoln, delivered
at Cincinnati, Ohio, in September, 1859. On page 262 of the volume
published by Follett, Foster, and Company in 1860, entitled "Political
Debates between Hon. Abraham Lincoln and Hon. Stephen A. Douglas," may
be found the following extract from Mr. Lincoln's speech:—
"I have alluded in the beginning of these remarks to the fact
that Judge Douglas has made great complaint of my having
expressed the opinion that this government 'cannot endure
permanently half slave and half free.' He has complained of
Seward for using different language, and declaring that there
is an 'irrepressible conflict' between the principles of free
and slave labor. [_A voice_, "He says it is not original with
Seward. That is original with Lincoln."] I will attend to that
immediately, sir. Since that time Hickman of Pennsylvania
expressed the same sentiment. He has never denounced Mr.
Hickman; why? There is a little chance, notwithstanding that
opinion in the mouth of Hickman, that he may yet be a Douglas
man. That is the difference! It is not unpatriotic to hold
that opinion, if a man is a Douglas man.
"But neither I, nor Seward, nor Hickman is entitled to the
enviable or unenviable distinction of having first expressed
that idea. That same idea was expressed by the _Richmond
Enquirer_ in Virginia, in 1856, quite two years before it was
expressed by the first of us. And while Douglas was pluming
himself that in his conflict with my humble self, last year,
he had 'squelched out' that fatal heresy, as he delighted to
call it, and had suggested that if he only had had a chance
to be in New York and meet Seward he would have 'squelched' it
there also, it never occurred to him to breathe a word against
Pryor. I don't think that you can discover that Douglas ever
talked of going to Virginia to 'squelch' out that idea there.
No. More than that. That same Roger A. Pryor was brought to
Washington City and made the editor of the _par excellence_
Douglas paper, after making use of that expression, which in
us is so unpatriotic and heretical."
On November 6, 1860, Mr. Lincoln was elected President of the United
States. On the following December 20 we heard that South Carolina had
seceded from the Union. We were all, at the time the news arrived,
attending the wedding of Mr. Bouligny and Miss Parker. The ceremony
had taken place, and I was standing behind the President's chair when a
commotion in the hall arrested his attention. He looked at me over his
shoulder and asked if I supposed the house was on fire.
"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.
Apprehension was felt lest the new President's inaugural might be the
occasion of rioting, if not of violence. We Southerners were advised to
send 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.
We bade adieu to the bright days,—the balls (sometimes three in one
evening), 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."
The fate of Virginia was decided April 15, when President Lincoln
demanded troops for the subjugation of the seceding states of the South.
The temper of Governor Letcher of Virginia was precisely in accord with
the spirit that prompted the answer of Governor Magoffin of Kentucky
to a similar call for state militia, "Kentucky will furnish no troops
for the wicked purpose of subduing her sister Southern states!" Until
this call of the President, Virginia had been extremely averse from
secession, and even though she deemed it within her rights to leave the
Union, she did not wish to pledge herself to join the Confederate States
of the South. Virginia was the Virginian's country. The common people
were wont to speak of her as "The Old Mother,"—"the mother of us all,"
a mother so honored and loved that her brood of children must be noble
and true.
Her sons had never forgotten her! She had fought nobly in the Revolution
and had afterward surrendered, for the common good, her magnificent
territory. Had she retained this vast dominion, she could now have
dictated to all the other states. She gave it up from a pure spirit of
patriotism,—that there might be the fraternity which could not exist
without equality,—and in surrendering it she had reserved for herself
the right to withdraw from the confederation whenever she should deem it
expedient for her own welfare. There were leading spirits who thought
the hour had come when she might demand her right. She was not on a
plane with the other states of the Union. "Virginia, New York, and
Massachusetts had expressly reserved the right to withdraw from the
Union, and explicitly disclaimed the right or power to bind the hands
of posterity by any form of government whatever."[5]
A strong party was the "Union Party," sternly resolved against
secession, willing to run the risks of fighting within the Union for
the rights of the state. This spirit was so strong that any hint of
secession had been met with angry defiance. A Presbyterian clergyman
had ventured, in his morning sermon, a hint that Virginia might need
her sons for defence, when a gray-haired elder left the church, and
turning at the door, shouted, "Traitor!" This was in Petersburg, near
the birthplace of General Winfield Scott.
And still another party was the enthusiastic secession party, resolved
upon resistance to coercion; the men who could believe nothing good of
the North, should interests of that section conflict with those of the
South; who cherished the bitterest resentments for all the sneers and
insults in Congress; who, like the others, adored their own state and
were ready and willing to die in her defence. Strange to say, this was
the predominating spirit all through the country, in rural districts as
well as in the small towns and the larger cities. It seemed to be born
all at once in every breast as soon as Lincoln demanded the soldiers.
When it was disclosed that a majority of the Virginia Convention opposed
taking the state out of the Union, the secessionists became greatly
alarmed; for they knew that without the border states, of which Virginia
was the leader, the cotton states would be speedily crushed. They were
positively certain, however, that in the event of actual hostilities
Virginia would unite with her Southern associates. Accordingly, it was
determined to bring a popular pressure to bear upon the government at
Montgomery to make an assault on Fort Sumter. To that end my husband
went to Charleston, and delivered to an immense and enthusiastic
audience a most impassioned and vehement speech, urging the Southern
troops to "strike a blow," and assuring them that in case of conflict,
Virginia would secede "within an hour by Shrewsbury clock." The blow
was struck; Mr. Lincoln called upon Virginia for a quota of troops to
subdue the rebellion, and the state immediately passed an ordinance of
secession. Here, in substance, is my husband's Charleston speech, as
reported at the time by the _New York Tribune_:—
"Mr. Roger A. Pryor, called by South Carolina papers the
'eloquent young tribune of the South,' was on Wednesday
evening serenaded at Charleston. In response to the compliment
he made some remarks, among which were the following:
'Gentlemen, for my part, if Abraham Lincoln and Hannibal
Hamlin were to abdicate their office to-morrow, and were
to give to me a blank sheet of paper whereupon to write the
conditions of reannexation to the Union, I would scorn the
privilege of putting the terms upon paper. [_Cheers._] And
why? Because our grievance has not been with reference to the
insufficiency of the guarantees, but the unutterable perfidy
of the guarantors; and inasmuch as they would not fulfil the
stipulations of the old Constitution, much less will they
carry out the guarantees of a better Constitution looking to
the interests of the South. Therefore, I invoke you to give
no countenance to any idea of reconstruction. [_A voice_, "We
don't intend to do anything of the kind."] It is the fear of
that which is embarrassing us in Virginia, for all there say
if we are reduced to the dilemma of an alternative, they will
espouse the cause of the South against the interests of the
Northern Confederacy. If you have any ideas of reconstruction,
I pray you annihilate them. Give forth to the world that
under no circumstances whatever will South Carolina stay in
political association with the Northern states. I understand
since I have been in Charleston that there is some little
apprehension of Virginia in this great exigency. Now I
am not speaking for Virginia officially; I wish to God I
were, for I would put her out of the Union before twelve
o'clock to-night. [_Laughter._] But I bid you dismiss your
apprehensions as to the old Mother of Presidents. Give the
old lady time. [_Laughter._] She cannot move with the agility
of some of the younger daughters. She is a little rheumatic.
Remember she must be pardoned for deferring somewhat to
the exigencies of opposition in the Pan Handle of Virginia.
Remember the personnel of the convention to whom she intrusted
her destinies. But making these reservations, I assure you
that just so certain as to-morrow's sun will rise upon us,
just so certain will Virginia be a member of the Southern
Confederation. We will put her in _if you but strike a blow_.
[_Cheers._] I do not say anything to produce an effect upon
the military operations of your authorities, for I know no
more about them than a spinster. I only repeat, if you wish
Virginia to be with you, _strike a blow_!'"
The effect, however, of the speech was not merely the adoption of the
ordinance of secession by Virginia. In precipitating the assault upon
Sumter the speech had another and now little known consequence.
It must be borne in mind that when only South Carolina had seceded, the
Republican party, with the assent of the President-elect, had proffered
to the South a compromise in these terms: "The Constitution shall
never be altered so as to authorize Congress to abolish or interfere
with slavery in the states."[6] Of course, no Southern state would
oppose a proposition which for the first time made slavery _eo nomine_
an institution under federal protection, and guaranteed it perpetual
existence in the slave-holding states. Equally evident was it that
a measure supported by Lincoln and the entire Republican party would
prevail in every Northern state. The mere pendency, then, of such an
overture, if not intercepted in its passage by an act of hostility
between the seceded states and the federal government, would have
certainly bound the border states to the Union, and have insured the
miscarriage of the secession movement.
Had not the attack on Sumter been made at the critical moment, the
Republican compromise, as already intimated, would have prevailed,
and slavery have been imbedded in the Constitution and fastened upon
the country beyond the chance of removal,—except by revolution, or the
voluntary renunciation of its cherished interests by the slave-holding
South. The latter alternative is an inconceivable possibility; and
hence, but for the "blow" which prompted hostilities and prevented a
pacific solution, slavery would exist to-day as a recognized institution
of the republic.
I do not pretend that this consummation was desired or anticipated by
the Virginia secessionist, but affirm only that he "builded better than
he knew," and that but for his act the nation would not now be free from
the reproach of human slavery.