The circle that finally gathered around the fireside in the little library at 157 Willow Street was long remembered by some of the men who made it brilliant. John G. Saxe, whom we had known in Washington, was one of these men. Thither also came the Southern author, William Gilmore Simms. I remember one evening spent in our tiny library with Mr. Simms, John R. Thompson, and General Charles Jones, when the trio of literary men told stories,—not war stories,—ghost stories. Mr. Thompson recalled a ghost I had known of myself and feared when a child,—the ghost of the University of Virginia that announced its coming by a sudden wind bursting open the doors, passed through the room, and walked off across the lawn to the mountains. His deep foot-tracks could be discerned in the soft sod, and with snow on the ground these deep tracks could be seen to grow under his invisible feet as he strode onward. Well do I remember nights when this ghost "walked." But General Jones had a better story. His was a visible ghost, an old lady, whose contested will he was reading one night, who appeared at the challenged point, looked at him solemnly, and then vanished! Mr. Simms positively declined to mention his own private ghost after these two thrilling visitations.
We had an interesting visit from Percy Greg, son of the English author. Mr. Greg brought as a present to my general the proof-sheets of his father's "Warnings of Cassandra," in which my husband discovered an error; and according to his lifelong belief that all errors in the English language are crimes which must be corrected, he proceeded to enlighten Mr. Greg. "Your father has made a mistake—a slight one—which he can correct in the next edition. He uses the word 'internecine' where he clearly means 'intestine.'" Our guest dropped his under jaw, stared, and reddened. An American correcting an Englishman's English! He had, I know, respect for my husband's courage, but he had not expected rebel guns to be turned on him in this manner.
"This was a length, I trow, A rebel's daring could not go,"
if I may paraphrase Gilbert in the Bab Ballads!
But we had more eminent guests than these,—the divines of the City of Churches, and her learned judges. Foremost and most cordial of all were the old generals of the Grand Army of the Republic: General Hancock, General James Fry, General Slocum, General Grant, General Tracy—a sometime foe in field and forum; and later General Sherman, General Fitz-John Porter, General Butterfield, and General McClellan were added to our list of friends.