To return from this digression. We reached Nashville two hours later, and, after a week's delay, continued on north by steamboat, stopping over in Louisville a few days. At that time and place was being held a religious council, conference, convocation, or whatever the appropriate designation may be, which was pregnant with most momentous consequences a little later on.

It was beyond my ken to grasp its import at the time. My father did, and remarked to me, when the decision was announced dividing the great Methodist Church into two bodies on sectional lines:

“That, my son, is the entering wedge which is destined to split this Union asunder and to deluge the country in blood. Yankee bigotry, impudence, and numerical count with each recurring census, have long held the hellish purpose in contemplation, and only bides the odds that cowardice demands to set about its execution. Whilst it will prove (whatever the issue) the greatest calamity that ever befell a free people, nevertheless, if they will have it, let it come, and the sooner for us the better, owing to the aforesaid census-taker of succeeding decades.”

Was he a prophet?

The question at issue on that grave occasion, as it recurs after a lapse of intervening years, involved the right of a bishop of that persuasion holding slaves, whether hereditary bondsmen or otherwise. The verdict rendered on that occasion by that oracular body was reproof, reprimand, insult, not only to that high dignitary, but to every subordinate canonical who might aspire to that high pinnacle. Nay, more; the vile insult reached out by implication and included every member of the laity who was or might be possessor of a “chattel in black,” either by ancestral devise or by purchase from New England “negro-traders,” ab initio, or later on. Every other church, except two, I believe, soon followed the pernicious example set.

Thus, these in alliance with a cackling flock of fussy old maids, some in petticoats and some in breeches, with a lot of old Congressional emasculates thrown in for seasoning, was set a-boiling this hell broth of brotherly hate, which required sulphur and saltpetre, and most plethoric supplies of the combination, to tone it down. Moral: Let the church or churches attend to legitimate duties, and let extraneous ones severely alone; let the class of nondescript sex just named forswear political meetings as above their reach and comprehension; let them stay at home and rock the cradle, not of home-production contents, which nature, with wise forethought, has denied that unfortunate class, but let them borrow of their more fortunate neighbors. The advice is well meant, and if adopted will keep that whole tribe out of political pow-wows and caterwaulings, and check their insatiate and insane craving for notoriety. Let us give gratitude that our section is not favorable to such noxious, hermaphroditic, fungus growth.

In due time—that is, about four times what it now takes— the Federal Capital was reached. Barring the public buildings, which were even then creditable to a new country, despite later-on comparisons, when they stand, as to-day, the finest in the world, the city of Washington gave little promise of its subsequent marvellous development. Muddy and unpaved streets, dwellings and stores of common structure and two or three stories in height, vacant lots almost reaching out to the dignity of corn-fields, sloshy crossings between streets! A sluggish, murky creek ran, or rather crept, through the town, euphemistically or derisively called “The Tiber.” Garbage heaps and cesspools there were on all hands. Such was a most uninviting village, as seen by me and the snob Dickens much about the same time. It was about midway between this day and the one on which President Washington and his French protege, L'Enfant, first began work on the metropolis that was to be, half a century intervening.

What a contrast between the straggling village and the city of to-day! What a contrast between then and now! Except in numbers, rivaling the proudest capitals in the world to-day in grandeur and magnificence, and suggesting those of ancient fame on the banks of the Tiber and Tigris. What it is destined to be at the middle of the dawning century baffles the imagination and “must give us pause.” For the past last half its growth and artistic development have kept pace with the material progress of the country, which, until lately, was bounded by oceans on every cardinal side save one, until in an evil hour, lust for more land and imperial sway made oceans far too contracted for our boundary lines. The “mad sons” of Macedon and Corsica were actuated by the same boundless outreach of desire. May not republics profit by the outlined warnings of tyrants and would-be all-ruling and out-reaching despots, wearers of purple and crowns though they be? Our tribe are mighty good imitators on that line, as is now being developed.

It has been said that only three men in recorded history have essayed the task of building a big city by systematic plan and method, who succeeded in the undertaking. These, I believe, are Alexander, Constantine, and Peter of Russia, each of whom left a monument behind adding to the immortality of its builder, whose name it bore. Here stands catalogued a fourth! Each was built by the pride of men, by subsidies and largess out of the public coffers.

While I was in Washington I was introduced by my father to President Polk and most of his cabinet, as well as to numerous prominent gentlemen in both houses of Congress, amongst them being Hon. Robert J. Walker, Secretary of the Treasury, who, by common consent of most competent judges, is held to be the ablest financier who has ever held that high position. Ten years later he did me the honor to take me in his law office as junior associate with himself and Mr. Louis Janin in the capital city, having just been admitted to practice before the Supreme Court of the United States.

From Washington the journey was continued to Ridgeway, North Carolina, to make the acquaintance of my paternal grandmother, then eighty years of age. This venerable lady impressed one from the start as one born to command, and such was the reputation that tradition gave her, after raising a dozen full-grown boys and girls. Her right to command was recognized of all, and most of all by the old campaigner who had just returned after a ten-years runaway. I am persuaded that in the even tenor of her way she instilled a wholesome respect for petticoat government on all of her immediate offspring, omitting not a progenitor of the masculine gender, who enjoyed the singular felicity of being my grandfather. And yet she was a very little woman.

Here I remained for the next few months, studying Spanish under my father's old prison-mate, Captain Dan Henrie, and indulging my fondness for miscellaneous reading, besides getting acquainted with my paternal kindred, none of whom were previously known. As a rule, they turned out to be, like those on the maternal side of the house, a very creditable connection. Then returned to Washington and passed the winter at the old “United States Hotel,” at the time one of the best caravansaries in the city, but in the march of subsequent progress now difficult to find. It stood on Pennsylvania avenue, near Four-and-a-half street.

During that time I had for room-mate one of the most remarkable men of his age, Dr. Branch T. Archer, to whom allusion has already been made. He was the admitted first instigator to revolt against Mexican tyranny in the newly fledged commonwealth (Texas), and that in a town garrisoned by a thousand Mexican soldiery. He had sent out circulars to every American settler, within a radius of thirty miles, to be on hand at appointed time with rifle and bowie knife. Some three or four dozen of the sturdy fellows were there to meet him. In burning words he told of the wrongs and outrages to which the young colony had been subjected by irresponsible satraps and their minions, and appealed to their Anglo-Saxon manhood to rise on the spot and put an end to the crying shame of white men longer submitting to the sway of mongrels and mulattoes.

His words went home, the little band rose to a man, and killed, captured or expelled the entire garrison, and Texas thence on was to all intents a free, sovereign and independent State. Never was more daring experiment tried by a single man for grander purpose. It might aptly be termed a single handed hero lynching a Regiment, or rather, as results prove, an Empire, and for the only cause that justifies lynching. Let Horatius take a back seat. Fearless as he was by nature, he could but realize the apparent foolhardiness of the venture, and had a fine thoroughbred saddled and ready at hand in case his appeal failed to strike fire. Strike it did, and won for him the proud title which he ever wore, and wears, of “Father of the Texan Revolution.” Gentle and kind-hearted he was to a degree; but proud, haughty, and punctilious to a fine point, in the face of unwarranted and arrogant assumption. He was, on the whole, a sort of living embodiment of Lever's inimitable character, Count Considine, barring his superior culture and refinement. He and my father had been for long like twin brothers, living under the same roof, and the love he bore the father was naturally continued to the son. His society was ever more congenial to me than that of younger persons of more suitable years. Although he could have had the entree to any society at the capital, I was vain enough to think that he preferred mine, as I did his.

In one of the evening chats over the fire, conversation leading thereto, he remarked with much feeling:

“Jackson, never step on any man's toes; but be equally careful, my boy, that no man steps on yours. It has been my rule of conduct through life, and I have never regretted it.”

The remark is given for a purpose. In earlier manhood he had a close kinsman and bosom-friend, though differing in politics. In an evil hour a deadly insult was passed, which only blood could atone. With high attainments, keen sense of honor, and blood the bluest of the blue, it was well understood that one or the other had to die. Dr. Archer, as was well known, made every possible effort to avert the inevitable, even apologizing on “the field” and imploring his kinsman to pause and consider. The first shot settled all difficulties, and some there were who felt inclined to envy the man who had caught the bullet, for thence on the other was rarely known to smile; and yet it is hard to believe that the conscience of the survivor reproached him for what was done. The remark given above is in support of that conviction. The necessity of the act, doubtless, embittered his subsequent life, “grand, gloomy, and peculiar” as it was.

Such was the man whom my father selected for my mentor at a most impressionable period of young life, while he was in New York superintending the publication of his book, “The Mier Expedition.” I honored him then, and honor him now, for one of the bravest, straightest and brainiest gentlemen whom it has been my good fortune to know. Perhaps he was not a shining light, according to the modern acceptation of the term. He could not have made his million or millions, for the simple reason that he despised superfluous wealth and its possessors, and was essentially a high type of God's noblest handiwork— an honest man. It was not in him to attain high political preferment, because he would have scorned policy as too near akin to falsehood or subterfuge. “He would not flatter Neptune for his trident, or Jove for his power to thunder”; far be it from pot-house politicians and self-constituted village Warwicks. His was a plane far above the reach of such things as these.

Upon Dr. Archer's departure I was transferred to a boarding-house nearly opposite (a Mrs. Porter, unless mistaken), mainly taken up by members of Congress without their families. One of these kept a sort of supervisory outlook over me, at my father's request. He was then in the prime of life, about thirty-seven years of age, and a widower—a new member, and comparatively unknown. Before two decades had rolled around, his name and fame were resounding around the world. He was my friend then, as he was ever after. More of him further on. Suffice it now that his name was Davis.

It should have been said that before quitting the United States Hotel I had been brought to know one of the most remarkable men—it is needless to add greatest, when his name is called—of this or any preceding century. Mr. and Mrs. Calhoun had rooms on the same floor, and only two or three doors from ours. With loving womanly impulse, the good lady took me in hand and would have me in her parlor every evening or two, whilst her grand husband would be looking over his papers. Notwithstanding the weighty matters with which he was always burthened, he usually found time during the course of my stay to address a few kindly remarks to me, and yet he was, as I have since learned, the biggest man in the world. Intercourse with others of high kindred nature has led up to the conclusion that simplicity is ever one of the predominant attributes of the loftiest natures. Reading and reflection confirm the conclusion.

In the galaxy of immortals with whom it has been my proud privilege to be brought into casual contact, and the friendship of some of whom I have enjoyed, I place unhesitatingly the last two, Calhoun and Davis, as easily first in profundity of political thought and lucidity of expression and inculcation. Their great preceptor, Jefferson, was, of course, the equal of either, as he was the superior of all their predecessors in these high attributes. Patriotism, purity of life, and self-abnegation at the mandate of principle, were the other crowning life jewels in the two I knew. Of course, the estimate formed of these illustrious men is derived from subsequent reading and reflection. Their teachings and monitions have been the political vade mecum of my life. Jackson and Calhoun constituted, beyond a doubt, as long as it lasted, the strongest and most marked presidential combination that the country has ever known, each conspicuous for strong, unbending will-power and native intellect of the highest order, the last but partially cultivated in the first, but carried to a pitch of refinement and absolute governmental brain culture in the other. It is not strange that it proved an incongruous and ill-assorted team, in spite of the superlatives ascribed to each. Paramount intellect and lofty patriotism were neutralized by unyielding self-will in both, greatly to the cost of constitutional government ever since. Calhoun was superseded and set aside - tell it not in Gath, publish it not in Askelon—by Martin Van Buren, as successor.

Such is my deliberate estimate of those last two great moulders of political thought, John C. Calhoun and Jefferson Davis (omitting Thomas Jefferson), whom over-cultured and dogmatic New England would fain consign to the lumber-room of political failures. Possibly, in the thousand years to follow, that complacent section may be able by strenuous effort to evolve one such. So far, she and her congeners have not approximated in production either of the immortal triumvirate of political thinkers and teachers. Nay, more: it is doubtful whether Old England, in her palmiest period, the closing half of the eighteenth and first half of the nineteenth century, can furnish such a historical parallel of transcendent genius in the most exalted field of intellectual development. This marvelous outcrop, of itself, should forever shame and silence the scoffs and sneers of witlings and fools as to the demoralizing effects of African slavery on the moral and intellectual outcome of the ruling race—stereotyped absurdity of assinine assumption and self-satisfied stupidity.

In Mr. Davis the world recognizes the efficient actor, as well as the profound thinker—the grandest Revolutionist of all time, according to the Honorable Mr. Roebuck in the House of Commons.

It was no mean privilege to have had this grand man for friend in my boyhood days, and to have that friendship continue to the end of his life. As proof of this, he bequeathed me his ink-stand as memento in the closing hours of his well-rounded life. From its sable contents were transmitted to paper the emanations of his glorious soul. It is a priceless heirloom to me, as I trust it will be to my grandson and his. The best wish that can go with it is that he and they, in succession, may take the donor for model and exemplar, and make their lives conform as near to his in aim and lofty aspiration as may be. Let it be a stimulus ever to noble effort.