President Pierce was, in fact, a very harassed man, as none knew better than did Senator Clay. My husband’s friendship was unwearying toward all to whom his reserved nature yielded it, and his devotion to Mr. Pierce was unswerving. Though twelve years the President’s junior, from the first my husband was known as one of the President’s counsellors, and none of those who surrounded the Nation’s executive head more sacredly preserved his confidence. Senator Clay believed unequivocally that our President was “not in the roll of common men.”
Bold and dauntless where a principle was involved, Mr. Pierce’s message of ’5 fell like a bombshell on the Black Republican party. Its bold pro-slaveryism startled even his friends; for, never had a predecessor, while in the Executive Chair, talked so strongly or so harshly to sectionalists and fanatics. To this stand, so bravely taken, his defeat at the next Presidential election was doubtless at least partially attributable. Meantime, the South owed him much, and none of its representatives was more staunchly devoted to President Pierce than was the Senator from northern Alabama. How fully Mr. Pierce relied upon Senator Clay’s discretion may be illustrated by an incident which lives still very vividly in my memory.
My husband and I were seated one evening before a blazing fire in our parlour at the Ebbitt House, in the first enjoyment of an evening at home (a rare luxury to public folk in the capital), when we heard a low and unusual knock at the door. My trim maid, Emily, hastened to open it, when there entered hastily a tall figure, wrapped in a long storm-cloak on which the snow-flakes still lay thickly. The new-comer was muffled to the eyes. He glanced quickly about the rooms, making a motion to us, as he did so, to remain silent. My husband rose inquiringly, failing, as did I, to recognise our mysterious visitor. In a second more, however, perceiving that we were alone, he threw off his outer coat and soft hat, when, to our astonishment, our unceremonious and unexpected guest stood revealed as the President!
“Lock that door, Clay!” he said, almost pathetically, “and don’t let a soul know I’m here!” Then, turning, he handed me a small package which he had carried under his coat.
“For you, Mrs. Clay,” he said. “It is my picture. I hope you will care to take it with you to Alabama, and sometimes remember me!”
I thanked him delightedly as I untied the package and saw within a handsome photograph superbly framed. Then, as he wearily sat down before our crackling fire, I hastened to assist Emily in her preparation of a friendly egg-nog.
“Ah, my dear friends!” said Mr. Pierce, leaning forward in his arm-chair and warming his hands as he spoke; “I am so tired of the shackles of Presidential life that I can scarcely endure it! I long for quiet—for—” and he looked around our restful parlours—“for this! Oh! for relaxation and privacy once more, and a chance for home!”
His voice and every action betrayed the weary man. We were deeply moved, and my husband uttered such sympathetic words as only a wise man may. The egg-nog prepared, I soon had the pleasure of seeing the President and Mr. Clay in all the comfort of a friendly chat. Primarily, the object of his visit was to discuss an affair of national moment which was to be brought before the Senate the next day; but the outlook of the times which also fell naturally under discussion formed no small part in the topics thus intimately scanned. Both were men to whom the horrid sounds of coming combat were audible, and both were patriots seeking how they might do their part to avert it. It was midnight ere Mr. Pierce rose to go. Then, fortified by another of Emily’s incomparable egg-nogs, he was again, incognito, on his way to the White House.
FRANKLIN PIERCE
President of the United States, 1853–57