HIS FIRST ROMANCE
Fifty years before the pleasant day in San Diego, fresh from the fields of his honors and victories in Mexico, young Major Longstreet had come home to wed the daughter of his old brigade commander, Colonel John Garland. She was Marie Louise Garland, a very charming woman, and so small of figure as to be in striking contrast to her husband of six feet two. They were engaged for some time before the breaking out of the Mexican War. With a lofty deference, which he bravely overcame in later life, he had never kissed his fiancée. In setting out for the Mexican War, he said that he thought, inasmuch as he might get killed and never see her again, it might not be improper, under all the sad circumstances, to kiss her. They had ten children, five of whom died in infancy. A word as to the living five. A son born in Virginia during the war was named Robert Lee, after the Southern Commander. This son served in the recent Spanish-American War, and was, by happy fortune, a member of the staff of General Fitzhugh Lee. He is now in the government service at Washington City. Another son, named James, after his father, was born in Virginia not long after the surrender. At the time, General Longstreet wrote to an absent relative: “This is my Union son, but he has a yell like the rebel yell when trying to reach the breastworks. I have named him James, after myself, and I know he will always be as good a Union man as I am going to be hereafter.” This son likewise saw volunteer service in the Spanish-American War. He afterwards received a commission in the regular army, and is now serving in the Philippines in the Thirteenth Cavalry. This Union officer son is a strong Democrat; his brother in Washington is an equally strong Republican. The General always taught that political alignment should be based upon conviction alone. His oldest son, John, an architect, lives in Atlanta, the youngest son, Randolph, a farmer, lives on the home place at Gainesville; the only daughter is Mrs. Whelchel, of Gainesville, Georgia. There are five grandchildren.
General Longstreet said that he started out in his married life with the purpose of preserving military discipline in the family,—managing the family as he would manage soldiers on the field. He soon found that this would not work, and turned over the chief control of his home to his wife.
General Longstreet was a great admirer of ladies, and has often said that he never saw enough of them, never knew as many as he wanted to know. Into his soldier life few ladies had come. When he got into civil life he wondered where all the ladies came from. After the Civil War he was much petted and kissed by the ladies of the South, as was the custom with the old heroes of the war. He submitted to it with something more than willingness, particularly from the younger and prettier girls. He always had for woman in the abstract the tenderest love and reverence. He considered her the human temple of all loveliness. He preserved to the end of his long life the romance and sentiment which, having but half a chance to develop in his youth, had continued to develop in his later years. The home was ever to him the holy of holies.
Last summer, at Chicago, he met the daughter of his first sweetheart, and told her, with beautiful naïveté, that her mother had been his sweetheart before going to West Point; that he had meant to marry her when he got back, though he had not told her so; and on returning, to his disgust, he found her married to another fellow.
After the Mexican War General Longstreet served extensively in the Indian campaigns out West. He considered it his duty and made it his delight, as do all good soldiers, to go willingly where he was sent. When choice was allowed him he went where the service was hardest. He did not ask to dine nicely nor to sleep warm. A storm cloud was not too rough a covering for him. He did not seek Olympian sunshine. He could gladly make the Rocky Mountains his bed, and the war-whoop of the Indian seeking to disturb the peace of his country was music to his ears. The highest word that he knew was duty. His country he loved above all things else. He served in the United States army for almost a quarter of a century, nearly always west of the Mississippi.
When the Civil War broke out he was paymaster at Albuquerque, New Mexico, with the rank of major. The country had for years been in comparative peace, and he had given up the cherished idea of military glory and high promotion. Where did his duty lie in this hour? He had loyally served in the Union army for nearly twenty-five years and through the war that gave to the nation a rich empire. His State and his people were now going to fight the Union. The Union officers with whom he was serving and the Union soldiers whom he had commanded, pleaded with him to stay with the Union; their wives and daughters entreated him and wept over him; the power of vast association appealed wonderfully to him; but he thought that duty called him to the service of the South, and no earthly power could keep him from that service. He sent in his resignation, and set out at once for Richmond. His relatives and friends along the way, only taking time to speak to him as he passed, hastened him on to Richmond. It was a gala journey that he made through the Southern country. The music of Southern songs was borne upon every breeze. The wildest enthusiasm electrified town and hamlet; from the open doors of every farm-house came salutations cheering the passengers on to Richmond. He was not allowed to pay for entertainment at any Southern hotel. Everything was free for those who were going to join “Jeff. Davis for Dixie and for Southern rights.”