General Sheridan.
When Mrs. Grant presented me, the little general—he was shorter than I—was at first too much astonished for speech. He had hardly supposed when he parted from me in the house where, in order that he might escape annoyance, I had been kept by him literally in durance vile, that our next meeting would be in the drawing-rooms of the wife of his commander. I gave him time to realize all this, and then I asked him gently, "Do you remember me, General Sheridan?"
In a moment both hands grasped mine. "Indeed, indeed I do, dear lady—and I am grateful to Mrs. Grant for giving me this opportunity to tell you that no man in this country more cordially rejoices at General Pryor's success than I do." He then recalled Lucy, and bantered her on having grown "taller than General Sheridan." But the crowd pressed in, and there was no time for more reminiscences of those terrible ten days in Petersburg. Mrs. Grant called to W. W. Story and bade him take care of me. "She has never seen Ulysse!" she exclaimed. "Keep her until six o'clock. He promised me to come then." Mr. Story, with his beautiful classic face,—nobody could be as charming,—found a great many delightful things to say to us, and when our hostess claimed us, General Grant having arrived, he gallantly laid his hand upon his heart and said: "I shall not forget you! You and your daughter are photographed here."
Although I had visited Mrs. Grant, I had never seen the general. True, I had received many emphatic messages from him, but he had then required no answer. I began to wonder what I should find to say to him—to plan something very gentle and pleasing in return for his fire and brimstone. I remembered that he had once told one of my friends that he often regretted he had never studied medicine instead of military tactics. Clearly, if it could be brought about by a little skilful management, no more fitting response to the sulphurous remarks he had made to me at Petersburg could be imagined than something akin to the healing art.
"This is Ulysse, Mrs. Pryor," said Mrs. Grant, and my hour had come. He stood silent, throwing, after the manner of men, the burden of conversation upon the woman before him. Every idea forsook me! I did not, like Heine in the presence of Goethe, remark upon the excellent flavor of the plums at Jena, but I found nothing better to say than "How is it, General, that you permit Mrs. Grant to call you Ulysse?"
"Perhaps from imitation," he replied; "I know a general whose wife calls him Roger."
He was so simple, so kind, that everything went easily after this. I could not stifle the recollection of all I had suffered at his hands, but I had something for which to thank him. We had been invited to accompany him in his private car when he went to Hartford to attend the second marriage of Mr. John Russell Young. All my life I have been so malapropos as to welcome with tears the bride coming to take the place of a wife whom I had loved, and this time the tears had been on the wedding day so abundant I was in no condition to go with General Grant. My youngest school-girl daughter took my place. At every stop on the road crowds collected to see General Grant, and, with my Fanny on his arm, he went out on the platform to return the greeting. Now I could tell him of her pride in the occasion. "The pride was all mine," he said; "an old fellow with such a beautiful girl on his arm had something to be proud of."
"There's a very beautiful girl near us," I said to Mrs. Grant, "the dark-eyed lady in rose moire."
"Why, that's Fred's wife," she answered. "Yes, she is beautiful, and we are all proud of her;" adding, with a humorous expression, "It has always been hard for me—this admiration of beauty."