In 1877 the leading citizens of Brooklyn invited General Pryor to
deliver an address at the Academy of Music on Decoration Day. This
was an opportunity he had long desired, and the invitation was eagerly
accepted. With great zeal and bitterness some of the veterans of the
Grand Army resented the invitation, upon which my husband promptly
declined the honor. I do not give the names of the old soldiers—they
have long ago been forgiven and are fully understood. A heated
correspondence followed—one side generous, fraternal feeling, on
the other the bleeding afresh of old, unhealed wounds. Finally, the
general,—although the charm, the grace, of the compliment was all
gone,—perceiving it would be childish and ungrateful to persist in
declining to speak, consented.
The interesting nature of the occasion, and the conflict it had aroused,
drew a very great audience to the Academy of Music. My husband never
needed notes in speaking, but this time Gordon, in a very large, clear
hand, wrote out his address that he might refresh, if necessary, his
memory.
It was not necessary. He was full of fire and enthusiasm, and nobly gave
the noble sentiments eagerly quoted next day by the _New York Tribune_.
The closing paragraph strikes no uncertain note. It must have surprised
his audience:—
"From the vantage ground of a larger observation, with a
more calm and considerable meditation on the causes and
conditions of national prosperity, I, for one, cannot resist
the conclusion that, after all, Providence wisely ordered
the event, and that it is well for the South itself that it
was disappointed in its endeavor to establish a separate
government. Plain is it that, if once established, such
a government could not have long endured. It was founded
on principles that must have proved its downfall. It must
soon have fallen a victim to foreign aggression or domestic
anarchy. Nor to the reëstablishment of the Union is the
Confederate soldier any the less reconciled by the destruction
of slavery. People of the North, history will record that
slavery fell, not by any efforts of man's will, but by the
immediate intervention and act of the Almighty Himself.
And in the anthem of praise ascending to heaven for the
emancipation of four million human beings, the voice of the
Confederate soldier mingles its note of devout gratulation.
And now in the unconquerable strength of freedom we may hope
that the existence of our blessed Union is limited only
by the mortality that measures the duration of all human
institutions. [_Prolonged applause._]"—_Tribune_, May 31.
"General Roger A. Pryor's Decoration Day address wins golden
opinions. It was brave, patriotic, and statesman-like. He
grasps the situation. He does not take much stock in bygones,
thinks gravestones are made to leave behind and not to tie to,
and would rather have a live man with average common sense
than the biggest obituary that was ever written. General
Pryor is one of the few men who have a to-morrow."—_Evening
Express_, June 12.
The _Springfield Republican_, May 31, says:—
"The Grand Army fellows who opposed inviting Roger A. Pryor to
deliver the address at Brooklyn yesterday probably feel pretty
well ashamed of themselves by this time. Certainly they would
have deprived the country of a very desirable speech if they
had succeeded in preventing his speaking."
Broad as were the views of the ex-rebel at this time, the Southern
papers indorsed him:—
"General Roger A. Pryor's address on Decoration Day, at
Brooklyn, New York, is quite remarkable. It is very brilliant
and very eloquent. There is logic, but it is 'logic on fire,'
as Macaulay said of Lord Chatham. There is a magnificent sweep
in the sentences, and high and patriotic thought throughout.
It reminds us in its glow and passion, in its rich and flowing
rhetoric, and in its exquisite diction of Edmund Burke's
tremendous speech on the 'Nabob of Arcot's Debts.' We do not
think any man can accompany the orator, with his kindling,
intense periods and sonorous, ornate style, with his lofty
thought and impassioned eloquence, without a responsive thrill
of emotion and a feeling of pride that this master of speech
is a Southron."
—_Wilmington_ (N. C.) _Star_.
"The address of General Roger A. Pryor delivered on Decoration
Day at Brooklyn, N. Y., is a brilliant production. Like
everything emanating from him, it is full of fine thought and
fine sentiment, with a sweeping array of glowing genius, all
clothed in a diction simple, pure, and as opposite as if the
idea and language had been born together from a brain entirely
original and independent in its conceptions. The spirit of the
address, too, is national, catholic, patriotic, and grandly
American from beginning to end.
"Pryor is a man of splendid parts, and Virginia has reason to
be proud of him."—(Richmond, Va.)
The _Richmond Whig_ paid a handsome tribute:—
"Roger A. Pryor is a man of resplendent genius. He has
high culture, too, and he is far from being only an orator
to excite the passions, to win applause, and to elicit
admiration. He has comprehensiveness of brain, coupled with an
extraordinary capacity for the nicest dialectics. As a writer
or speaker, he should be invited to no second seat anywhere.
He is more like William Wirt, perhaps, than any other of the
gifted men of this country. And the day is not distant when,
if he goes into politics again, he will have a national name
as familiar to the North as, when he was a much younger man,
it was to the Southern people.
"We have no doubt he will deliver a speech of unsurpassed
beauty and eloquence on Decoration Day in Brooklyn."
These are but representative quotations. The whole country was ready to
applaud the speech. It was a fitting close to the first twelve years of
our life of trial and probation. The sweetest praise of all came in a
letter from America's great preacher, Richard S. Storrs:—
"80 PIERPONT STREET,
"BROOKLYN, N. Y.,
"May 31, 1877.
"MY DEAR GENERAL PRYOR:—
"I have read with the very greatest satisfaction and pleasure
your admirable address of last evening. I sympathize, in
fullest measure, with the delighted enthusiasm with which
my wife and daughter spoke of the address after hearing it
last evening, and am only more sorry than before that my
unlucky and imperative engagement with the Historical Society
Committee and Board forbade me to enjoy the splendid eloquence
of utterance which they described to me. I do not see how
you could possibly have treated the theme which the occasion
presented more delicately or more grandly—with a finer touch,
or a more complete mastery of all its proper relations and
suggestions.
"It is a great address, and must have a wide and great effect.
I only wish that all the papers would give it in its full
extent.
"I am faithfully and with great regard,
"Yours,
"R. S. STORRS."
This address, which has been handsomely bound by the Brooklyn committee,
was followed by invitations all over the country to speak—even from
the Gospel Tent. But, unhappily, honor does not fill the basket, nor
warm the body, nor pay the rent, nor satisfy the tax-gatherer. It is a
nice, nice thing to have,—there's no use denying it,—but I think my dear
general would have given it all, every bit, for one good, remunerative
law case.
[Illustration: GENERAL HANCOCK.]
Firmly fortified, as he persuaded himself, against ever again indulging
in the fascinations of politics, his admiration for his old foe at
Sharpsburg drew him into the Hancock campaign.
General Hancock, the hero of Gettysburg and Antietam, was worth every
effort of every Democrat in the country. He was a superb man in every
respect, and we soon became his ardent friends. His wife was a most
dear, beautiful woman, whom I learned to love. So charming was their
simple home on Governors Island, I could have brought myself to the
point of begging the government—that had taken so much from me—to grant
me a little corner to live near them and their two delightful friends,
General James Fry and his wife.
At General Hancock's I spent much time, and while my general consulted
with him on political matters, Mrs. Hancock and I would, when we could
escape from the crowd, sympathize with each other as only stricken
mothers can sympathize. She had just lost her beautiful Ada—and small
indeed seemed the honors of this world to her.
My general made a fine speech for General Hancock, which was praised by
the press as generously as the Decoration Day speech. It was understood
that he would be Attorney-General in case of Hancock's election. We
know the result; and I must confess that as the election returns were
reported to us, I quite abandoned myself to disappointment. From my
window next morning I could see another Democratic mourner, and in
order to signal to her my state of mind, I hung a black shawl which
I had on at the moment out of the window. Early on the day after the
election I went with my daughter Gordon across the ferry to Governor's
Island to assure myself of the welfare of my friends. It was a raw
day in November, and snow was falling. We were the only passengers on
the boat, with the exception of two serious-looking women who carried
a large paper box between them. "Funeral flowers," suggested Gordon.
Upon arriving, we walked up to General Hancock's house, and at the
door perceived our fellow-passengers had followed us. They entered
with us, and in order to give them the right of way in case they were
come on appointment, Gordon and I passed on to the back parlor, leaving
them in the front room. Presently we heard General Hancock accost them
courteously, whereupon they arose and explained, with much solemnity,
their errand. "General, for some time past we have been engaged in
preparing a testimonial for you, with the assistance of your many
admirers. Here, sir, is an autograph quilt,"—unfolding an ample and
fearful object,—"and upon it there are autographs of our celebrated men:
General Grant is here, Mr. Hayes is here, Mr. Garfield is here!"—General
Hancock interrupted, "But—ladies! Thanking you for your kindness, let
me inform you I have been defeated—your offering was probably designed
for the elected President." With warm vehemence they both protested:
"Oh, _no, no_, General! We are Democrats! No, _sir!_ No Republican is
ever going to sleep under _this_ quilt if we can help it!" "Ah, well,
then," said the general, "I suppose I can do nothing more than thank
you. Yes, I can call Mrs. Hancock. She will say how much we appreciate
your kindness."
Passing through the back parlor, he espied us. "Oh, Mrs. Pryor! _Hang it
all!_" he ruefully exclaimed, as he went aloft. When Mrs. Hancock took
charge of the situation, he returned to us.
"And so the general has sent you over to represent him at the funeral!
Tell him I am all right; but by the bye, how many people came over with
you?"
"Those two," indicating the party now descanting to Mrs. Hancock upon
the fine collection of autographs.
"Had the result been different, a fleet could not have brought them all!
However, the canes are coming in as well as the quilts. We shall not
lack for fire-wood this winter, nor for covering."
Mrs. Hancock was soon relieved of her kind friends, and both she and
the general accompanied us on a "little walk" proposed by him. "I shall
not be lonely here," he told us; "a new ship comes in sight every day;
and I've plenty to do. I must have all these leaves swept up, too. I'm
a happier man than Garfield this day. Only," he added sadly, "I cannot
reward my friends."
Mrs. Hancock opened the gate of her little garden and gathered a
souvenir posy for Gordon, and so we parted from the two—so great, so
dignified in the hour of defeat.
When I reached home, it was well I had a _douceur_ for my general.
He held in his hand the _New York Tribune_ of the day, and pointed
an indignant finger to a communication in which the public was warned
against the incendiary principles of "persons in the family of a noted
Southern lawyer, now resident on Brooklyn Heights, who had, in the
moment of the nation's rejoicing, displayed in a window a piratical
flag, deep-bordered and ominous." My poor little jest with my neighbor!
My humble black shawl!
Having had an invitation to lunch with Mrs. Grant at the Fifth Avenue
Hotel next day, I thought it wise, as well as agreeable, to accept,
seeing I had been published as a suspicious character. I needed
Republican support.
I told Mrs. Grant of my interview with General Hancock. "Nice fellow!
Nice fellow!" she exclaimed with feeling. "You know I'm a Democrat,"
she said. "What's more, I'm _Secesh_, particularly as the Republicans
wouldn't nominate Ulysses for a third term."
"Oh, but," said I, "you mustn't forget the story of the Fisherman and
the Flounder."
She had never heard the story of Dame Isabel, the fisherman's ambitious
wife, and laughed heartily over the application to herself. "All the
same," she protested, "I was not unreasonable—I didn't wish to be Lord
of the spheres—only wife of the President of one country."
A short time before this the (Massachusetts) _Springfield Republican_
was kind enough to lend a helping hand, in the guise of a kind word to
my dear general, which was quoted by the _New York Times_, January 22,
1878. That I should have preserved it so many years, fully asserts my
appreciation of the paper's kindness.
"The New York correspondent of the _Springfield_
(Massachusetts) _Republican_ writes: 'Roger Pryor is pegging
away very quietly in his law office, with increasing business,
though it is not of a very conspicuous character nor very
remunerative, I imagine, for he does a great deal of work
for poor people; but he sticks so closely to his business
that comparatively few people know that he is here, and one
of the most characteristic representatives of the Southern
statesman. He is in constant communication with leading
Southern men, and knows the true inwardness of the Southern
feeling and policy in regard to "scaling" the state debts. He
is an intense anti-repudiationist, and the very thought of a
thing so dishonorable makes him shiver with rage. But he is
fully persuaded that the Southern people are determined to
cut down their obligations materially, and throw overboard
the carpet-bag debts altogether, if possible. He thinks that
when the federal government required the Southern people to
repudiate their Confederate war debts, it taught them a lesson
in repudiation which they are now disposed to better. The
public men of the South have not done their duty in frowning
down this feeling and teaching the people a better policy,
to say nothing of honesty. Pryor is the soul of honor, is
chock full of the old-fashioned Virginia chivalric sentiment,
and altogether too high-minded and large-thoughted to mix
himself with our local politics. And all the democrats who
know him and are not politicians agree that he ought to be in
Congress.'"
He was ardently opposed to repudiation, and has often expressed
indignation that the South was required to repudiate its Confederate
war debts. As to his being in Congress, he was offered a few years later
the nomination by Tammany, which would have meant sure election—but how
could he pay the assessment demanded by that organization? Because he
could not, he was compelled to decline the honor of going back to his
old seat from the state of his adoption.
Mrs. Grant did me the honor to invite me to a reception she was giving
"to meet General and Mrs. Sheridan." "Of course you'll not go," my
husband suggested. "How can you meet General Sheridan?" "Why not?" I
said. "If he can stand it, I can."
[Illustration: GENERAL SHERIDAN.]
When Mrs. Grant presented me, the little general—he was shorter than
I—was at first too much astonished for speech. He had hardly supposed
when he parted from me in the house where, in order that he might escape
annoyance, I had been kept by him literally in durance vile, that our
next meeting would be in the drawing-rooms of the wife of his commander.
I gave him time to realize all this, and then I asked him gently, "Do
you remember me, General Sheridan?"
In a moment both hands grasped mine. "Indeed, indeed I do, dear lady—and
I am grateful to Mrs. Grant for giving me this opportunity to tell you
that no man in this country more cordially rejoices at General Pryor's
success than I do." He then recalled Lucy, and bantered her on having
grown "taller than General Sheridan." But the crowd pressed in, and
there was no time for more reminiscences of those terrible ten days in
Petersburg. Mrs. Grant called to W. W. Story and bade him take care of
me. "She has never seen Ulysse!" she exclaimed. "Keep her until six
o'clock. He promised me to come then." Mr. Story, with his beautiful
classic face,—nobody could be as charming,—found a great many delightful
things to say to us, and when our hostess claimed us, General Grant
having arrived, he gallantly laid his hand upon his heart and said: "I
shall not forget you! You and your daughter are photographed here."
Although I had visited Mrs. Grant, I had never seen the general. True, I
had received many emphatic messages from him, but he had then required
no answer. I began to wonder what I should find to say to him—to plan
something very gentle and pleasing in return for his fire and brimstone.
I remembered that he had once told one of my friends that he often
regretted he had never studied medicine instead of military tactics.
Clearly, if it could be brought about by a little skilful management,
no more fitting response to the sulphurous remarks he had made to me at
Petersburg could be imagined than something akin to the healing art.
"This is Ulysse, Mrs. Pryor," said Mrs. Grant, and my hour had come.
He stood silent, throwing, after the manner of men, the burden of
conversation upon the woman before him. Every idea forsook me! I did
not, like Heine in the presence of Goethe, remark upon the excellent
flavor of the plums at Jena, but I found nothing better to say than "How
is it, General, that you permit Mrs. Grant to call you Ulysse?"
"Perhaps from imitation," he replied; "I know a general whose wife calls
him Roger."
He was so simple, so kind, that everything went easily after this. I
could not stifle the recollection of all I had suffered at his hands,
but I had something for which to thank him. We had been invited to
accompany him in his private car when he went to Hartford to attend the
second marriage of Mr. John Russell Young. All my life I have been so
malapropos as to welcome with tears the bride coming to take the place
of a wife whom I had loved, and this time the tears had been on the
wedding day so abundant I was in no condition to go with General Grant.
My youngest school-girl daughter took my place. At every stop on the
road crowds collected to see General Grant, and, with my Fanny on his
arm, he went out on the platform to return the greeting. Now I could
tell him of her pride in the occasion. "The pride was all mine," he
said; "an old fellow with such a beautiful girl on his arm had something
to be proud of."
"There's a very beautiful girl near us," I said to Mrs. Grant, "the
dark-eyed lady in rose moire."
"Why, that's Fred's wife," she answered. "Yes, she is beautiful, and
we are all proud of her;" adding, with a humorous expression, "It has
always been hard for me—this admiration of beauty."
"Do you not care for beauty?" I asked. "Care for it? I worship it! I
used to cry when I was a little girl because I was so ugly. 'Never mind,
Julia,' my dear mother would say, 'you can be my good little girl.' I
used to wish I could ever once be called her 'pretty little girl.'"
But no face as thoroughly kind and good as hers can ever be plain. After
all, is it ever the prettiest faces that are nearest our hearts? Having
known Mrs. Grant for many years, I can truly say I have seen no woman
so free from ostentation or affectation. Kindness of heart, genuine,
sincere desire to make others happy, patience in adversity,—these are
the traits of mind, manner, and heart that won for her so many warm
friends. No other American woman has ever been so much fêted and honored
as she. Most of us have had our little hour—a part of the world we
live in has at one time or another turned upon us eyes of applauding
affection, but she stood beside her husband at every foreign court in
Europe, presiding on occasions when he held private audience with the
greatest potentates of the world. Nothing seemed to mar her perfect
simplicity—her admirable self-forgetfulness. I was engaged one day in
taking a frugal luncheon—tea, toast, a dozen oysters—in my tiny basement
dining-room, when Mrs. Grant's card was handed me.
Running upstairs and saying to my daughter, "Mrs. Grant must have a cup
of tea," I was surprised to find the general seated near the door. After
the greeting, he said gravely, "I don't see why I can't have a cup of
tea as well as Mrs. Grant."
"I will send it to you, General! The doorway on the stair is too low
for you to go down."
"It must be pretty low," he replied; "I've a mind to try it. I've
stooped my head for less."
We divided the dozen oysters among us, brewed more tea, made more
toast and enjoyed the meal—the general inquiring kindly of news from my
husband, who was in England, having been sent by the Irish-Americans to
see what could be done for O'Donnell, the Irish prisoner.
After there was no more to be expected at the lunch table, we adjourned
to the library and I produced the met bullets my boys had found at
Cottage Farm.
He laid it on the palm of his hand and looked at it long and earnestly.
"See, General," I said, "the bullets are welded together so as to form
a perfect horseshoe—a charm to keep away witches and evil spirits."
But the general was not interested in amulets, charms, or evil spirits.
After regarding it silently for a moment, he remarked:—
"Those are minie balls, shot from rifles of equal caliber. And they
met precisely equidistant to a hair. This is very interesting, but it
is not the only one in the world. I have seen one other, picked up at
Vicksburg. Where was this found, and when?" he asked, as he handed the
relic back to me. "At Petersburg, possibly."
"Yes," I answered; "but not when you were shelling the city. It was
picked up on our farm after the last fight."
He looked at me with a humorous twinkle in his eye. "Now look here," he
said, "don't you go about telling people I shelled Petersburg."
A short time before his death, just before he was taken to Mount
McGregor, he dictated a note to me, sending his kind regards to my
general, and saying he remembered with pleasure his talk with me over
a cup of tea.
There is something very touching in all this as I remember it now—his
illness so bravely borne. His death occurred not very long afterward.
No widow ever mourned more tenderly than did Mrs. Grant. I saw her
only once before she went to sleep beside him in the marble temple
on the riverside, and she touched me by her patient demeanor. I had a
friend very close to her in her later days to whom she loved to talk of
her general,—when they met, how he proposed to her. They were riding
together, crossing a rough place in the road. Her horse stumbled and
threw her. The general caught her in his arms and said he was "glad to
safeguard her then, and would be proud to do so to the end." She said
when he came on his wooing there were members of her family who looked
askance at the undersized chap. "Nothing of him but eyes and epaulets,"
Longstreet was quoted as saying of him one evening at a tea-and-toast
euchre party. This seems to have been the opinion of some of Julia
Dent's people, but not of her far-seeing mother, to whom the maiden's
dismay was confided. "Julia, you should marry that young officer, say
what they will about his clumsiness and awkward ways! He is far above
any of the young fellows who come here. He will one day be President of
the United States."
My sisters at the South would, in these early days, have resented
these words of appreciation of General and Mrs. Grant. Not one iota the
less did my allegiance fail to _my_ dear commander in his modest tomb,
guarded perpetually night and day by a son of Virginia, because I could
perceive the tender side, the heroic side, of a foeman worthy of his
steel.