Marse Henry | Page 5

wide swath; his
principal yokemate in the pleasures and dissipations of those times
being Franklin Pierce, at first a representative and then a senator from
New Hampshire. Fortunately for both of them, they were whisked out
of Washington by their families in 1843; my father into the diplomatic
service and Mr. Pierce to the seclusion of his New England home. They
kept in close touch, however, the one with the other, and ten years later,
in 1853, were back again upon the scene of their rather conspicuous
frivolity, Pierce as President of the United States, my father, who had
preceded him a year or two, as editor of the Washnigton Union, the
organ of the Administration.
When I was a boy the national capital was still rife with stories of their
escapades. One that I recall had it that on a certain occasion returning
from an excursion late at night my father missed his footing and fell

into the canal that then divided the city, and that Pierce, after many
fruitless efforts, unable to assist him to dry land, exclaimed, "Well,
Harvey, I can't get you out, but I'll get in with you," suiting the action
to the word. And there they were found and rescued by a party of
passers, very well pleased with themselves.
My father's absence in South America extended over two years. My
mother's health, maybe her aversion to a long overseas journey, kept
her at home, and very soon he tired of life abroad without her and came
back. A committee of citizens went on a steamer down the river to meet
him, the wife and child along, of course, and the story was told that,
seated on the paternal knee curiously observant of every detail, the brat
suddenly exclaimed, "Ah ha, pa! Now you've got on your store clothes.
But when ma gets you up at Beech Grove you'll have to lay off your
broadcloth and put on your jeans, like I do."
Being an only child and often an invalid, I was a pet in the family and
many tales were told of my infantile precocity. On one occasion I had a
fight with a little colored boy of my own age and I need not say got the
worst of it. My grandfather, who came up betimes and separated us,
said, "he has blackened your eye and he shall black your boots,"
thereafter making me a deed to the lad. We grew up together in the
greatest amity and in due time I gave him his freedom, and again to
drop into the vernacular--"that was the only nigger I ever owned." I
should add that in the "War of Sections" he fell in battle bravely
fighting for the freedom of his race.
It is truth to say that I cannot recall the time when I was not
passionately opposed to slavery, a crank on the subject of personal
liberty, if I am a crank about anything.

IV
In those days a less attractive place than the city of Washington could
hardly be imagined. It was scattered over an ill-paved and half-filled
oblong extending east and west from the Capitol to the White House,

and north and south from the line of the Maryland hills to the Potomac
River. One does not wonder that the early Britishers, led by Tom
Moore, made game of it, for it was both unpromising and unsightly.
Private carriages were not numerous. Hackney coaches had to be
especially ordered. The only public conveyance was a rickety old
omnibus which, making hourly trips, plied its lazy journey between the
Navy Yard and Georgetown. There was a livery
stable--Kimball's--having "stalls," as the sleeping apartments above
came to be called, thus literally serving man and beast. These stalls
often lodged very distinguished people. Kimball, the proprietor, a New
Hampshire Democrat of imposing appearance, was one of the last
Washingtonians to wear knee breeches and a ruffled shirt. He was a
great admirer of my father and his place was a resort of my childhood.
One day in the early April of 1852 I was humped in a chair upon one
side of the open entrance reading a book--Mr. Kimball seated on the
other side reading a newspaper--when there came down the street a tall,
greasy-looking person, who as he approached said: "Kimball, I have
another letter here from Frank."
"Well, what does Frank say?"
Then the letter was produced, read and discussed.
It was all about the coming National Democratic Convention and its
prospective nominee for President of the United States, "Frank"
seeming to be a principal. To me it sounded very queer. But I took it all
in, and as soon as I reached home I put it up to my father:
"How comes it," I asked, "that a big old