Not long after General Grant became President he sent an order to my Soldier and Mrs. Grant extended an invitation to me and our little ones to visit them at the White House. The Southern train, usually late, was on time for once, and we came out of the station just as the President's carriage appeared.

"Hello, Pickett!" he called out. "Up to your old war tricks, coming in ahead of the train!"

The President referred to an incident of the war; my Soldier, wishing to go from Hanover Junction to Richmond, applied to General Lee for a pass. At that time the cars were so crowded that travel by rail was not permitted except on official business or by special permission. General Lee, just boarding the train from Richmond on military duty, referred him to the Adjutant-General. As there was not time to visit the Adjutant and be in Richmond at the desired hour, my Soldier mounted his horse, Lucy, and rode into the city, waiting at the station to salute General Lee as he stepped from the train.

ULYSSES S. GRANT

My first view of Washington was from the President's carriage, though it could scarcely be called a view of the city, as the carriage contained all my world and my attention was more particularly centered therein.

We were received with warm hospitality by Mrs. Grant, who proved to be a charming hostess, and all went well until night came, when I was so afraid my baby would cry that I could hardly sleep. The next day when my Soldier spoke of my uneasiness the President, putting his hat on the boy's head and his stick between his legs, said:

"There, ride your horse and tell them you'll cry as much as you please; that you own this house."

One evening when we were reminiscing I told Mrs. Grant of the first time I had seen her, and my Soldier, who loved to tease me, repeated, much to my dismay, my belligerent remarks on that occasion and the argument he had used to curb my hostile demonstrations.

"And do you know, Pickett," the President replied, relieving my embarrassment, "that once we were foolish enough to think seriously of having an operation performed on her dear eyes? We had consulted the best surgeons and had been assured that it was a very simple thing and not at all dangerous, so we decided to have it done. As the time grew near I got to worrying over it, and the more I thought of it the more I did not want my wife's eyes changed even the least little bit from what they had always been. Arrangements had been made; the hour for the operation was almost at hand. We were alone. I stood watching her collecting the last little odds and ends and stealing my pictures and the children's and putting them into her handbag under her shawl. Everything was ready and we started from the room. My hand was on the knob of the door, when I stopped and said:

"'My dear, I am very selfish and ought not to say this; but I don't want your eyes changed. They look just as they did the first time I ever saw them—the same eyes I looked into when I fell in love with you—the same that looked up into mine and told me that my love was returned. I have seen that expression in them through all the years and I don't want it to be lost. You might look better to other people, but to me you are prettier as you are. So, if you don't mind, please let's keep your dear eyes just as they always have been.'

"She looked up in joyful surprise and replied:

"'Why, it was only for your sake that I was even thinking of having anything done, and if you feel in that way about it I—I——'

"Well, Pickett, I was glad and she was glad. I untied the bonnet-strings, threw the bonnet onto the floor, I think, and took her by the hand and we turned and walked back into the room as light-hearted as a pair of children on their first picnic."

"Untied the bonnet-strings!" exclaimed Mrs. Grant. "You just pulled them into a hard knot, then broke them and threw the bonnet onto the floor."

He reached over and patted her hand, and the President of the United States gazed upon the same eyes that had looked their love into those of the young captain in the years agone and had become more precious to him with the passing of time.

Mrs. Grant's morning receptions in the blue room, in which she was assisted by the President, were very popular, chiefly because of her unfailing good nature, which had the effect of putting others in a good humor with themselves and the world. It may be that you have met people whose apparently permanent condition of mind led you to think that they were averse to being put into a good humor and would prefer to avoid the society of those who could effect such a revolution. That is a delusion. There is no one who does not like to be in a good temper or fails to experience a pleasant glow in the society of those who can produce that novel condition.

The weakness of Mrs. Grant's eyes compelled her to carry on her correspondence with the aid of a secretary, one of the soldiers usually being sent to her aid when she desired clerical assistance. It was before the day of the White House "social secretary," writing to the first Lady of the Land not being at that time so popular a diversion as it has since become.

The charities and generous deeds of Mrs. Grant were so quietly effected that the world never knew of the good she accomplished. A friend who was very close to her said that her work ought to be made known to the public after she was gone, that it might live in memory without wounding her modesty.

A home-like atmosphere pervaded the White House, due to the President's habit of keeping his official existence and his home life separate and to the determination of Mrs. Grant to provide him with a place where official duties might fall from his brain and pleasure and content fill his heart. Here he was "Ulys" to "Mrs. G.," as he called his heart-companion of many years. Here he listened to the confidences of his children, happy that they brought to him even their inmost thoughts. At that time Fred was a cadet at West Point and the younger children were attending Washington schools.

Colonel Dent did his part toward keeping the White House cheerful with the original of that smile which has since been utilized for commercial purposes. General Babcock could more easily have passed for a politician than a soldier. General Porter's funereal face covered a fountain of wit that was constantly bubbling up, to the surprise and delight of those who had been deceived by the preternatural gravity of his expression. The President was criticized by his opponents for keeping officers about the White House, but when their martial phase was so slightly in evidence I could not see why anyone should object.

Though General Grant was the soul of geniality with his intimate friends, to the public generally his reticence had made him known as "The Sphynx," or "the Great Unspeakable." If one chanced to appeal to "the Sphynx" on a subject in which he was interested he became as fluent as the most loquacious of men. When he was Commander of the United States Army a gentleman who called upon him with a letter of introduction from a friend of both, tried him upon two apparently interesting subjects without leading anywhere. As the visitor was about to retire in despair it occurred to him to mention a fine horse owned by their friend. The "Great Unspeakable" immediately became a fountain of eloquence and an animated conversation followed, to the delight equally of the General and his caller.

The President told me in a gleeful way the story of his first purchase of a horse. Speaking of his early dislike of military life and his horror of war:

"I did not want to be a soldier. When my father came home from town one day and surprised me with the information that I had received an appointment to West Point I said, 'I am not going.' He looked at me and replied, 'I think you are.' Then I thought so, too. I don't know what else I could have been. I should probably not have succeeded in trade. My first purchase was made when I was seven. A neighbor had a horse which he was willing to sell for twenty-five dollars. My longing for that horse was so great that my father, though knowing the price was too high, told me that I might offer twenty dollars for it, and if the neighbor would not take that I could offer twenty-two and if that did not suffice I might pay the twenty-five. So I went to the man and told him what my father had said. It would not be difficult to solve the problem of the cost of that horse. The boys got wind of the story and you can imagine that for awhile life was not worth much to me.

"It may be that I lost money on that horse, but the first dollar I ever earned was on a mule; a circus mule. The ringmaster offered a dollar to anyone who should succeed in riding the mule once around the ring. My mind was made up to win that dollar. I promptly mounted the animal and was as promptly deposited upon the sawdust. Asking if I might have another trial I was told that I might have as many as I wanted. This time I mounted with my face toward the mule's tail, which so disconcerted him that he ambled peacefully around the ring and I got the dollar."

At West Point Cadet Grant took the highest leap recorded in the history of the Academy. One who witnessed the feat described the scene,—the clean-cut, blue-eyed young man who at the call of the riding-master dashed out from the ranks on a powerfully built chestnut sorrel horse and rode to the end of the hall. Turning he galloped down the center toward a bar placed higher than the head of a tall man standing. Within a short distance of the bar the horse paused and gathering all his strength for the mighty effort vaulted over. Forty years later Grant remembered the steed that had served him so well and said, "York was a wonderful horse." After the war, learning that his old riding-master was poor and helpless, General Grant sent him a cheque.

The old soldier never claimed to have distinguished himself in scholarship at West Point, but he must have made an impression of strength upon those around him, for one of his classmates, James A. Hardie, said, "If a great emergency arises in this country during our lifetime Sam Grant will be the man to meet it."

He had the simplicity characteristic of all really great minds, and the directness of a soldier, going straight to his aim; he never either overshot or undershot the mark. He spent a part of every day walking unattended along the streets enjoying exercise and open air unhampered by guards, and his daily rides were also usually solitary, for in his racing buggy behind his magnificent trotter, leaning over the dashboard to encourage his horse by a friendly word, there was scarcely anything in Washington that could have kept him in view. Only once was he passed in a race. His friend and clerk, Lieutenant Culver C. Sniffen, now a General on the retired list, owned a fine horse and the President challenged him to a race. The Lieutenant declined, not wishing either to beat the President or be beaten by him. The President, with the true sporting instinct, persisted until the Lieutenant, fired with like emulation, yielded and rode to win. He did win and the President was very fond of telling the story of the only time he had ever lost a race.

General Grant had one sad memory connected with a horse, dating back to the time when he was a young officer in Mexico. He rode a beautiful fierce untamable animal that in years past had killed a number of would-be riders. A Mexican officer who was a skilled and daring horseman had an ambition to mount the horse. Lieutenant Grant, fearing for the safety of his Mexican friend, would not consent to his riding so dangerous a beast. The Mexican would not let himself be dissuaded and the Lieutenant, fearing that the friend might think that he did not want him to ride his horse, ceased his opposition. The Mexican mounted and was thrown and killed.

Occasionally when it could not be avoided the President would curb his wild spirit sufficiently to take a leisurely drive in Mrs. Grant's easy carriage behind the tall and dignified black coachman, Hawkins, attended by the almost equally imposing footman, Jerry. Usually this stately equipage was left to the unshared enjoyment of Mrs. Grant and her guests. A number of pleasant drives I took with my hostess, sometimes into the country around Washington, and sometimes to the Soldiers' Home where the veterans bivouacked peacefully until they should be mustered out of the earthly army. The long rows of white wooden slabs with black lettered names upon them brought back vividly memories so new that they lay near the surface of my heart.

It may be that to one familiar with the Washington of to-day the views of the city at that time would have been marred by primitive architectural features, but Nature had so far done her best in the beginning that one might well accept the opinion of Humboldt who, after visiting all the cities of the known world, said that for a site the entire globe does not hold its equal. The youthful surveyor, long before he became the "Father of his Country," wrought well in fancy when gazing across the Potomac he viewed the fair prospect with prophetic eye and foresaw a stately capitol of a great nation rising from one of its green hills. So well had the capital city weathered the storm that had almost wrecked the Ship of State that one who had known it in war days might have found it beautiful in comparison.

Inside the White House the deft fingers of Martha Johnson Patterson had wrought miracles of adornment out of the web of her imagination, aided by a few simple materials which in less skillful hands would have been ineffective. Within its walls life went on to the time kept by Madison's clock that had ticked away all the decades since the "Father of the Constitution" held guardianship over that complicated child of many variegated phases.

General Grant, as head of the United States Army, regarded his staff as his military family and chose its members according to his desire. As President he took a similar view of his Cabinet, looking upon it as his civic family, and did not cast a favorable eye upon recommendations made by politicians who wished to draw upon him for the payment of their campaign debts. Having no such debts of his own, being tied to no party and bound by no pledges, he felt free to select his associates as he thought best, thereby incurring the ill-will of party leaders who held their positions by heavy mortgages to office-seekers. I suppose soldiers have an instinctive aversion to politicians, not only because they make war but because they insist upon managing it throughout its whole existence. Thus Grant sought his advisers in non-political fields.

The President was severely criticized for his appointment of Mr. A. T. Stewart as Secretary of the Treasury, in contradiction to the "nine statutes" which Mr. Conkling afterward found to bar the way, but the wise statesmen of the Senate confirmed the appointment with eager promptness, and it could scarcely be demanded that a soldier with more opportunity of knowing the regulations of battlefields than the statutes that govern political administration should be better informed as to civic laws than those who have devoted a large part of their lives to the study and framing of such laws. Failing this appointment Governor Boutwell, a good friend of the President, was made Secretary of the Treasury, and it was as one of the most trusted advisers in the Cabinet that I met him.

The sympathies of President Grant were deep and broad and sometimes presented humorous phases. At a Cabinet meeting one day he brought up the case of a lawyer whom he thought of appointing Chief Justice of one of the territories, expressing pity for him because he had lost a leg in battle. After an extended silence the Attorney-General, Judge Rockwood Hoar, quietly remarked, "Mr. President, it seems to me that mere absence of legs is not a sufficient qualification for judicial office." The other members looked apprehensive, but the President laughed and said that he would think of it further. The result of more mature reflection was that some one else was appointed, presumably with the normal equipment of legs and a fair endowment of unquestionable judicial merit.

Attorney-General Rockwood Hoar was never averse to expressing his sentiments in rugged English, but his somewhat burry aspect and speech covered a good healthy heart filled with sympathetic impulses. His wit was a shining blade that cut more deeply than he intended, sometimes to his regret, but his eloquence on the finer phases of life was a radiance of sunlight. The true depth of his nature was shown in his kindness to all who needed him.

The most impressive member of the Cabinet was, quite appropriately, the head of the State Department, Secretary Hamilton Fish. Six feet tall, of distinguished bearing, with strong face surmounted by dark curling hair, intense eyes that seemed to look through the object of their gaze, graceful and cultivated manner, he was a noted figure in any assemblage. His tact and statesmanship kept the country off the diplomatic reefs on which it might have been wrecked by a guiding hand less firm. President Grant said, "History will write that we have had two great Secretaries of State, Governor Marcy and Governor Fish." Mr. Fish was always immaculately dressed, a distinctive mark of his attire being a diamond breastpin, which he always wore in his shirt. He succeeded the six-weeks' term of Mr. Elihu B. Washburne, who was transferred to Paris and, as Minister during the stormy period of the Franco-Prussian War, gained the admiration and confidence not only of his own country but of Europe as well for his wise and patriotic service.

The President and my Soldier often talked of the war, discussing it from their opposite view-points. Never once did General Grant refer to us as "rebels." He always mentioned us as, "You fellows on the other side."

General Grant was deeply interested in the battle of Gettysburg, of which he knew only by report. One day at the close of dinner he asked my Soldier to explain certain movements in the final charge. To make the inquiry plainer he drew some lines on the table-cloth with the handle of a spoon. My Soldier took the spoon from the President's hand and drew upon the cloth a diagram, briefly explaining as he went along:

"Here is Seminary Ridge; there Cemetery Ridge. Here is Round Top. This is Meade's left; here, Meade's right. There are the Confederate troops in the woods; here, Gettysburg. There is the Fifth Corps. Here are the batteries, and there, Hall's Brigade. Here are Cushing and Webb. Here is Clark's Brigade; there, a rail fence. Here is the Third Brigade."

Lining off a space at one corner to enlarge the vital point of the charge, he continued:

"Here is the turning point of the third day. There, the stone wall we crossed. There is Webb. Here is the Confederate assault. There is where Armistead got over; here, where he fell." Drawing his hand quickly across the corner beyond he added, "There is hell!"

"Bring me a blue pencil," said the President to a servant. When it was brought he carefully marked over the lines in the soft-laid cloth and carried it into the smoking-room.

The tenderest memory I have of President Grant, because it is the one closest to my heart, is of him and my Soldier as they stood facing each other in the President's office just before the close of our visit. I can see them now looking earnestly into each other's eyes, one of General Grant's hands on the shoulder of his old comrade and friend.

Grant, always faithful to his friends, was urging upon my Soldier, whom the war had impoverished, the marshalship of the State of Virginia, which he was gratefully but firmly declining. Later, when the devotion of the President to his old friends and his confidence in them had given his enemies an opportunity to criticize with undue severity his habit of making appointments for friendship rather than politics, I appreciated still more the generosity and wisdom of my Soldier's refusal. Knowing the demands upon the President, knowing that acceptance of the appointment, sorely as he needed it, would create for the administration a host of enemies, he said:

"You cannot afford to do this for me, and I cannot afford to let you do it."

"I can afford to do anything I choose," replied the President.

I shall never forget the gratitude in my Soldier's tear-dimmed eyes as he turned them upon the President, showing his appreciation of the friendship and sacrifice, nor General Grant's look in return, nor what those old soldiers did—never, as silently shaking hands and walking off in different directions they gazed out of separate windows, and I stole away.