A Peerless Trio of Public Men
FOR the country at large and for our Institution in particular the year 1848 was an important one. The nation was entering upon a new era of prosperity after the Mexican war; and all eyes were turning towards the South, to face the grim prospect of another dreadful conflict, this time, however, within our own borders, a struggle that was to decide once for all a number of the great questions in dispute. Already there was some talk of disunion, — but we all anxiously hoped that our statesmen might yet devise some way out of the difficulty. The discussion of important national affairs was very interesting to our pupils, and many of us were as prolific in compromise measures as was Henry Clay himself; until it seemed that we had arrived at a more satisfactory solution of the problem than any of the great senators at Washington.
At this period, when we were so much interested in public affairs, is was an added source of satisfaction for us to receive visits from a peerless trio of statesmen, all of whom were taking a prominent part in the councils of our nation. One of these men was president of the United States and the other two wanted to be. They were James K. Polk, Henry Clay and Winfield Scott. After serving a number of years in Congress, Mr. Polk had been elected governor of Tennessee; and when a compromise candidate for president had been suggested in 1844, he was nominated against Clay and triumphantly elected.
We regretted very much not being able to see Henry Clay in the Senate, but in the following spring, in March of 1848, he made a tour of the large cities, and as a specially invited guest when in New York came to our Institution. About thirteen months before this time, his beloved son and namesake had fallen while fighting at the battle of Beuna Vista; and I had written a poem in memory of Colonel Clay which Mr. Chamberlain sent to his father. The great statesman was never quite himself after his son’s death; and I purposely avoided all mention of it in the address of welcome on the day he came to visit us, lest I might wound the heart of the man whom I had learned not only to venerate but to love; for Mr. Clay was always an especial favorite among public men.
There was a strength in his character and an earnestness in his speeches that appealed to me more than I can tell. I used to liken Clay to Richard Henry Lee, and Webster to Patrick Henry; for one was as gentle as the murmur of a rippling stream, the other rushed onward with the strength of a mountain torrent, sweeping all before him by the force of his mighty intellect. I thought Clay the more winning of the two; and I would have challenged any person, whether Whig or Democrat, Northerner or Southerner, to come within range of that man’s eloquence without being moved to admiration and profound respect; for his personal magnetism was wonderful.
Mr. Clay came to the Institution at about ten o’clock in the morning, and we were prepared to welcome him in princely style. When he came in the door the band greeted him with “Hail to the Chief”; and, then, they opened their ranks and allowed him to pass between two files of musicians to the chapel upstairs where the rest of us were assembled. We sang a chorus prepared for the occasion, after which Mr. Chamberlain gave some eloquent words of greeting; and, next, came my poem of welcome.
When I had finished reciting it, Mr. Clay stepped forward and, drawing my arm in his own, led me slowly to the front of the platform. “This is not the only poem,” said he, “for which I am indebted to this lady. Six months ago she sent me some lines on the death of my dear son.” His voice trembled; he did not speak for some moments, while both of us stood there weeping. Finally, with a great effort, he controlled his emotion and delivered one of the most eloquent addresses to which I have ever listened. He had a deep rich voice that echoed with strange sweetness throughout our chapel as it rose and fell with the feeling that he sought to express, and we were charmed by his eloquence.
Not many months after his visit to New York, Mr. Clay was again elected to the United States Senate, and the old fire seemed to return to him when he arose to debate some important measure, or to propose some great compromise, like the “Omnibus Bill” which bore his own name. Still his health was impaired, and soon afterward he slept with his fathers at Ashland, Kentucky; but the laurels of his fame are blooming yet in all of their original sweetness and beauty.
“Sleep on, oh statesman, sleep,
Within thy hallowed tomb,
Where pearly streamlets glide,
And summer roses bloom.”
In the early spring of 1848 General Scott made a triumphal entry into New York which was almost as notable as that other entry into the city of the Montezumas. The events of the Mexican war were still fresh in our minds, and we were eager to meet the hero who had won the name of “Old-Rough-and-Ready.” He came, however, a little before we were prepared for him; still there was no emergency for which our superintendent, Mr. Chamberlain, was not equal. He received the distinguished guest in his usual urbane way, and then sent for me to entertain him until the time set for the afternoon exercises. From such an honor I shrank at first, but the great general had not spoken half a dozen sentences before I was at ease; his quiet and kindly manner was so reassuring.
Mr. Chamberlain’s formal address to General Scott was a model of his excellent use of the English tongue; and the closing sentences of it have a peculiar force, as I write fifty-six years later and record the fulfillment of the prophecy therein contained. I quote from a newspaper of the time; “Some of these pupils, when you have filled up the measure of your fame, and to you, the praise and censure of men will be alike indifferent, — they will survive; and when they shall recount your achievements, and tell to coming generations of Chippewa, and of Cerro Gordo, and of Contreras, and many other fields where you have covered the proud flag of your country with imperishable glory, — I would have them say, too, that once at least it was their fortune to listen to the tones of that voice, whose word of command was ever to the brave the talisman of assured victory.”
General Scott’s reply was earnest but brief, and his gentle manner did not indicate a hero of so many battles; yet there was strength beneath the exterior appearance, and a heart of iron within his breast. Cut from him I learned that the warrior only it is, who can fully appreciate the blessing of peace. I recalled the newspaper reports of the triumphal entry of the Americans into the city of Mexico, and how the soldiers reveled there.
“General Scott,” I said, “when you found yourself really within the halls of the Montezumas, did you not feel like shouting?”
“No,” replied the soldier, “we felt like falling down here on our knees to thank the good Lord for cur victory.” Later in the afternoon he said, “No, we did not revel in the halls of the Montezumas; we lived on one meal a day.”
While General Scott was examining a collection of maps that were used by our pupils, one of the aldermen present, — for they always came to our receptions, — stepped to my side and whispered,
“The general’s sword is just a little out of place.”
“Let us remove it quietly,” said I. With his aid I carefully drew it out of the great sheath without attracting attention; and then suddenly held it above the head of the intrepid warrior.
“General Scott,” I exclaimed in an authoritative tone, “you are my prisoner.” Although taken completely by surprise, he was by no means at a loss for an answer.
“Oh, I surrender; I always surrender at discretion to the ladies.” He laughed good-naturedly, as did those who saw the incident; and we turned the subject. A moment later, however, he said,
“Well, Miss Crosby, the next time I come here I suppose some young man will have run off with you.” Forgetting that he was a candidate for the presidency, I exclaimed,
“Oh; no, I shall wait for the next president.” This announcement on my part was followed by a tremendous roar of laughter, and I found myself in an uncomfortable position.
But General Scott, being the candidate of the Whigs at the election of 1852, was defeated by one of his subordinate generals in the Mexican war, Franklin Pierce, of whose political party I was an adherent. Consequently, after the election I wrote a little song entided, “Carry Me On,” most of which has been forgotten, except the chorus, which goes as follows:
“O Whigs, carry me on, carry me far away, For election’s past and I’m pierced at last: The locoes gave gained the day.”
I have already mentioned James K. Polk, who was president from 1845 to x849, and also the soiree at the White House during the Washington exhibition in the winter of 1847. The following summer Mr. Polk returned our call, coming unexpectedly and unattended, for he was a very plain man and did not wish any ceremony at his reception. He said that he had simply come to our beautiful retreat to escape the turmoil of the busy city.
After dinner I asked President Polk if he would not enjoy a stroll through our grounds. Everything that day was in the height of its beauty, the trees formed a double arch over the walks in our yard, and in the lofty boughs many robins and bluebirds built their nests and entertained us with their sweet carols. The soft winds came stealing through the leafy boughs, laden with perfume from the flowers of a score of nearby gardens.
W7e had not gone many yards before I heard the familiar voice of an old domestic to whom I was indebted for many favors. The dear old woman was not at that time in the employ of the Institution, but had just returned for a few minutes to speak with some of us; and I knew that I might not see her again for months to come. This thought was uppermost in my mind at that moment; and so I turned impulsively to President Polk and said, “Will you please excuse me a minute?” “Certainly,” he replied; and so I left the chief man of the nation standing alone while I ran to greet my friend. Realizing my discourtesy on my return, I made all manner of apologies; and tried to explain the circumstance as best I might. To my surprise, however, the great and good man said,
“You have done well, and I commend you for it. Kindness, even to those in the humblest capacity of life, should be our rule of conduct; and by this act you have won not only my respect but also my esteem.” I had hitherto held a high opinion of President Polk but from that moment his kind words elevated him to my own ideal of a Christian gentleman; and that night, ere I sought my pillow, I fervently prayed that God would bless and sustain our worthy president in the arduous duty of executing the laws for more than twenty millions of people.
I have already said that I sympathized with the Democratic party. In 1844 Clay and Frelinghuyson were the Whig candidates. One afternoon during the summer I was sitting in the parlor singing snatches of Democratic songs for my own amusement; and, before I knew it, two gentlemen came into the room, one of whom advanced toward me with the request that I favor them with another song. When I had finished singing, he said,
“Then Mr. Clay is not your candidate.”
“No,” I replied, “but I have a profound respect and reverence for him, and also for Mr. Frelinghuyson, — yet they are not my candidates.” At that moment Mr. Chamberlain came up and presented me to the two strangers; and to my utter consternation I found that one of them was Mr. Frelinghuyson himself.
“Mr. Frelinghuyson,” I said, “you have heard me express my views already; and for me to say that I did not mean it would be telling a falsehood. But I would not have said what I did, had I known you were present, — so please take it for what it is worth.” He laughed heartily and replied, “I give you credit for your candor.”
My interest in public affairs has never abated. There are not many people living in this year of grace who had the privilege of meeting such statesmen as Henry Clay, General Scott, and President Polk; but the names of these heroes are recorded with indelible letters among the annals of our national history and their imperishable deeds are chronicled in characters that no person living should wish to efface. They were men of sterling worth and firm integrity, of whom the rising generation may well learn wisdom and the true principles of national honor and democracy that all of them labored so faithfully to inculcate. And that the men of this present age and of generations to come will continue to remember the dignity and honor that the past has bequeathed to our own and future times, no loyal American need have one iota of doubt.