In Senator Jefferson Davis's Family

The twelve hundred dollars with which I purchased the freedom of myself and son I consented to accept only as a loan. I went to work in earnest, and in a short time paid every cent that was so kindly advanced by my lady patrons of St. Louis. All this time my husband was a source of trouble to me, and a burden. Too close occupation with my needle had its effects upon my health, and feeling exhausted with work, I determined to make a change. I had a conversation with Mr. Keckley; informed him that since he persisted in dissipation we must separate; that I was going North, and that I should never live with him again, at least until I had good evidence of his reform. He was rapidly debasing himself, and although I was willing to work for him, I was not willing to share his degradation. Poor man; he had his faults, but over these faults death has drawn a veil. My husband is now sleeping in his grave, and in the silent grave I would bury all unpleasant memories of him.

I agreed to accept the twelve hundred dollars I used to buy freedom for my son and myself only as a loan. I set to work in earnest and soon paid back every cent my St. Louis women patrons had kindly lent me. All this time, my husband was a source of trouble and a burden to me. Too much work with my needle had affected my health, and I was exhausted. So I decided to make a change. I spoke with Mr. Keckley and told him we must separate because he persisted in his reckless habits. I was going North, and I would never live with him again, at least until I had good evidence that he had changed his ways. He was rapidly degrading himself. Although I was willing to work for him, I was not willing to share in his degradation. Poor man, he had his faults, but death has drawn a veil over them. My husband now sleeps in his grave, and in that silent grave I would bury all unpleasant memories of him.

I left St. Louis in the spring of 1860, taking the cars direct for Baltimore, where I stopped six weeks, attempting to realize a sum of money by forming classes of young colored women, and teaching them my system of cutting and fitting dresses. The scheme was not successful, for after six weeks of labor and vexation, I left Baltimore with scarcely money enough to pay my fare to Washington. Arriving in the capital, I sought and obtained work at two dollars and a half per day. However, as I was notified that I could only remain in the city ten days without obtaining a license to do so, such being the law, and as I did not know whom to apply to for assistance, I was sorely troubled. I also had to have some one vouch to the authorities that I was a free woman. My means were too scanty, and my profession too precarious to warrant my purchasing [a] license. In my perplexity I called on a lady for whom I was sewing, Miss Ringold, a member of Gen. Mason's family, from Virginia. I stated my case, and she kindly volunteered to render me all the assistance in her power. She called on Mayor Burritt with me, and Miss Ringold succeeded in making an arrangement for me to remain in Washington without paying the sum required for a license; moreover, I was not to be molested. I rented apartments in a good locality, and soon had a good run of custom. The summer passed, winter came, and I was still in Washington. Mrs. Davis, wife of Senator Jefferson Davis, came from the South in November of 1860, with her husband. Learning that Mrs. Davis wanted a modiste, I presented myself, and was employed by her on the recommendation of one of my patrons and her intimate friend, Mrs. Captain Hetsill. I went to the house to work, but finding that they were such late risers, and as I had to fit many dresses on Mrs. Davis, I told her that I should prefer giving half the day to her, working the other in my own room for some of my other lady patrons. Mrs. D. consented to the proposition, and it was arranged that I should come to her own house every day after 12 m. It was the winter before the breaking out of that fierce and bloody war between the two sections of the country; and as Mr. Davis occupied a leading position, his house was the resort of politicians and statesmen from the South. Almost every night, as I learned from the servants and other members of the family, secret meetings were held at the house; and some of these meetings were protracted to a very late hour. The prospects of war were freely discussed in my presence by Mr. and Mrs. Davis and their friends. The holidays were approaching, and Mrs. Davis kept me busy in manufacturing articles of dress for herself and children. She desired to present Mr. Davis on Christmas with a handsome dressing-gown. The material was purchased, and for weeks the work had been under way. Christmas eve came, and the gown had been laid aside so often that it was still unfinished. I saw that Mrs. D. was anxious to have it completed, so I volunteered to remain and work on it. Wearily the hours dragged on, but there was no rest for my busy fingers. I persevered in my task, notwithstanding my head was aching. Mrs. Davis was busy in the adjoining room, arranging the Christmas tree for the children. I looked at the clock, and the hands pointed to a quarter of twelve. I was arranging the cords on the gown when the Senator came in; he looked somewhat careworn, and his step seemed to be a little nervous. He leaned against the door, and expressed his admiration of the Christmas tree, but there was no smile on his face. Turning round, he saw me sitting in the adjoining room, and quickly exclaimed:

I left St. Louis in the spring of 1860 and took the train straight to Baltimore. I stayed there six weeks, trying to raise money by forming classes of young colored women. I taught them my method of cutting and fitting dresses. The plan failed. After six weeks of work and frustration, I left Baltimore with barely enough money for my fare to Washington. When I arrived in the capital, I looked for work and found it at two dollars and fifty cents a day. But I was told that the law allowed me to stay in the city only ten days without a license. I did not know whom to ask for help, and I was deeply troubled. I also had to have someone assure the authorities that I was a free woman. I had too little money, and my work was too uncertain, to justify buying a license. Unsure what to do, I called on Miss Ringold, a member of Gen. Mason's family from Virginia. I was sewing for her, and I explained my situation. She kindly offered to help me in any way she could. She went with me to see Mayor Burritt and arranged for me to stay in Washington without paying for a license. I was also to be left undisturbed. I rented rooms in a good neighborhood and soon had plenty of customers. Summer passed, winter came, and I was still in Washington. In November 1860, Mrs. Davis, the wife of Senator Jefferson Davis, came from the South with her husband. When I learned that Mrs. Davis wanted a dressmaker, I went to see her. She hired me on the recommendation of one of my customers, her close friend Mrs. Captain Hetsill. I went to the house to work, but I found that the family rose very late. Since I had to fit many dresses on Mrs. Davis, I told her I would prefer to give her half the day. I would spend the other half in my own room, working for some of my other lady customers. Mrs. D. agreed, and we arranged for me to come to her house every day after noon. It was the winter before the outbreak of that fierce and bloody war between the two sections of the country. Because Mr. Davis held a leading position, politicians and statesmen from the South gathered at his house. I learned from the servants and other family members that secret meetings were held there almost every night. Some of these meetings lasted until very late. Mr. and Mrs. Davis and their friends spoke freely about the prospects of war in my presence. The holidays were approaching, and Mrs. Davis kept me busy making clothes for herself and her children. She wanted to give Mr. Davis a handsome dressing gown for Christmas. The material had been bought, and work on the gown had been underway for weeks. Christmas Eve came, and the gown had been set aside so often that it was still unfinished. I saw that Mrs. D. was anxious to have it finished, so I offered to stay and work on it. The hours dragged on wearily, but my busy fingers had no rest. My head was aching, yet I kept working. Mrs. Davis was busy in the next room, arranging the Christmas tree for the children. I looked at the clock. It was a quarter to twelve. I was arranging the cords on the gown when the Senator came in. He looked somewhat careworn, and his step seemed a little nervous. He leaned against the door and admired the Christmas tree, but there was no smile on his face. Turning around, he saw me sitting in the next room and quickly exclaimed:

"That you, Lizzie! why are you here so late? Still at work; I hope that Mrs. Davis is not too exacting!"

"Is that you, Lizzie? Why are you here so late? Still working? I hope Mrs. Davis isn't too demanding!"

"No, sir," I answered. "Mrs. Davis was very anxious to have this gown finished to-night, and I volunteered to remain and complete it."

"No, sir," I answered. "Mrs. Davis was very eager to have this gown finished tonight, so I volunteered to stay and finish it."

"Well, well, the case must be urgent," and he came slowly towards me, took the gown in his hand, and asked the color of the silk, as he said the gas-light was so deceptive to his old eyes.

“Well, well, the case must be urgent.” He came slowly toward me and took the gown in his hand. He asked the color of the silk, saying that the gaslight was deceptive to his old eyes.

"It is a drab changeable silk, Mr. Davis," I answered; and might have added that it was rich and handsome, but did not, well knowing that he would make the discovery in the morning.

“It is drab changeable silk, Mr. Davis,” I answered. I could have added that it was rich and handsome. But I did not, knowing he would discover that in the morning.

He smiled curiously, but turned and walked from the room without another question. He inferred that the gown was for him, that it was to be the Christmas present from his wife, and he did not wish to destroy the pleasure that she would experience in believing that the gift would prove a surprise. In this respect, as in many others, he always appeared to me as a thoughtful, considerate man in the domestic circle. As the clock struck twelve I finished the gown, little dreaming of the future that was before it. It was worn, I have not the shadow of a doubt, by Mr. Davis during the stormy years that he was the President of the Confederate States.

He smiled with curiosity, but turned and left the room without asking another question. He guessed that the gown was for him and that his wife planned to give it to him for Christmas. He did not want to spoil her pleasure in believing the gift would be a surprise. In this way, as in many others, he always seemed to me a thoughtful, considerate man at home. As the clock struck twelve, I finished the gown, with little idea of what lay ahead for it. I have no doubt that Mr. Davis wore it during the stormy years when he was President of the Confederate States.

The holidays passed, and before the close of January the war was discussed in Mr. Davis's family as an event certain to happen in the future. Mrs. Davis was warmly attached to Washington, and I often heard her say that she disliked the idea of breaking up old associations, and going South to suffer from trouble and deprivation. One day, while discussing the question in my presence with one of her intimate friends, she exclaimed: "I would rather remain in Washington and be kicked about, than go South and be Mrs. President." Her friend expressed surprise at the remark, and Mrs. Davis insisted that the opinion was an honest one.

The holidays passed, and before the end of January, Mr. Davis's family spoke of war as certain to come. Mrs. Davis was very attached to Washington. I often heard her say she disliked the thought of leaving old friends and going South to face trouble and hardship. One day, she was discussing the matter with a close friend while I was present. She exclaimed, "I would rather stay in Washington and be kicked around than go South and be Mrs. President." Her friend was surprised, but Mrs. Davis insisted that she meant what she said.

While dressing her one day, she said to me: "Lizzie, you are so very handy that I should like to take you South with me."

One day, while I was dressing her, she said to me: "Lizzie, you are so handy that I would like to take you South with me."

"When do you go South, Mrs. Davis?" I inquired.

"When are you going South, Mrs. Davis?" I asked.

"Oh, I cannot tell just now, but it will be soon. You know there is going to be war, Lizzie?"

“Oh, I can't say right now, but it will be soon. You know there's going to be a war, Lizzie?”

"No!"

"No!"

"But I tell you yes."

"But I'm telling you, yes."

"Who will go to war?" I asked.

"Who will go to war?" I asked.

"The North and South," was her ready reply. "The Southern people will not submit to the humiliating demands of the Abolition party; they will fight first."

"The North and South," she quickly replied. "The Southern people will not accept the humiliating demands of the Abolition party. They will fight first."

"And which do you think will whip?"

"And which do you think will win?"

"The South, of course. The South is impulsive, is in earnest, and the Southern soldiers will fight to conquer. The North will yield, when it sees the South is in earnest, rather than engage in a long and bloody war."

"The South, of course. The South is impulsive and serious, and Southern soldiers will fight to win. When the North sees how serious the South is, it will give in rather than fight a long, bloody war."

"But, Mrs. Davis, are you certain that there will be war?"

"But, Mrs. Davis, are you sure there will be a war?"

"Certain!—I know it. You had better go South with me; I will take good care of you. Besides, when the war breaks out, the colored people will suffer in the North. The Northern people will look upon them as the cause of the war, and I fear, in their exasperation, will be inclined to treat you harshly. Then, I may come back to Washington in a few months, and live in the White House. The Southern people talk of choosing Mr. Davis for their President. In fact, it may be considered settled that he will be their President. As soon as we go South and secede from the other States, we will raise an army and march on Washington, and then I shall live in the White House."

“Certainly! I know it. You should go South with me. I will take good care of you. Besides, when the war breaks out, colored people will suffer in the North. Northern people will see them as the cause of the war. I fear their anger will make them inclined to treat you harshly. Then, I may return to Washington in a few months and live in the White House. Southern people are talking about choosing Mr. Davis as their President. In fact, it is all but settled that he will be their President. As soon as we go South and secede from the other States, we will raise an army and march on Washington. Then I will live in the White House.”

I was bewildered with what I heard. I had served Mrs. Davis faithfully, and she had learned to place the greatest confidence in me. At first I was almost tempted to go South with her, for her reasoning seemed plausible. At the time the conversation was closed, with my promise to consider the question.

I was bewildered by what I heard. I had served Mrs. Davis faithfully, and she had come to trust me completely. At first, I was almost tempted to go South with her because her reasoning seemed convincing. For the time being, our conversation ended with my promise to consider the question.

I thought over the question much, and the more I thought the less inclined I felt to accept the proposition so kindly made by Mrs. Davis. I knew the North to be strong, and believed that the people would fight for the flag that they pretended to venerate so highly. The Republican party had just emerged from a heated campaign, flushed with victory, and I could not think that the hosts composing the party would quietly yield all they had gained in the Presidential canvass. A show of war from the South, I felt, would lead to actual war in the North; and with the two sections bitterly arrayed against each other, I preferred to cast my lot among the people of the North.

I thought about the question a great deal. The more I thought, the less inclined I was to accept Mrs. Davis’s kind offer. I knew the North was strong. I also believed its people would fight for the flag they claimed to honor so highly. The Republican party had just emerged victorious from a heated campaign. I could not believe that its many members would quietly give up all they had gained in the presidential election. I felt that a threat of war from the South would lead to actual war in the North. With the two sections bitterly opposed to each other, I preferred to cast my lot with the people of the North.

I parted with Mrs. Davis kindly, half promising to join her in the South if further deliberation should induce me to change my views. A few weeks before she left Washington I made two chintz wrappers for her. She said that she must give up expensive dressing for a while; and that she, with the Southern people, now that war was imminent, must learn to practise lessons of economy. She left some fine needle-work in my hands, which I finished, and forwarded to her at Montgomery, Alabama, in the month of June, through the assistance of Mrs. Emory, one of her oldest and best friends.

I parted with Mrs. Davis on friendly terms, half promising to join her in the South if further thought changed my views. A few weeks before she left Washington, I made two chintz robes for her. She said she would have to give up dressing expensively for a while. With war approaching, she and the Southern people would have to learn to economize. She left some fine needlework with me to finish. In June, I sent it to her in Montgomery, Alabama, with the help of Mrs. Emory, one of her oldest and best friends.

Since bidding them good-by at Washington, early in the year 1860, I have never met any of the Davis family. Years of excitement, years of bloodshed, and hundreds of thousands of graves intervene between the months I spent in the family and now. The years have brought many changes; and in view of these terrible changes even I, who was once a slave, who have been punished with the cruel lash, who have experienced the heart and soul tortures of a slave's life, can say to Mr. Jefferson Davis, "Peace! you have suffered! Go in peace."

Since I said goodbye to the Davis family in Washington early in 1860, I have never seen any of them again. Years of turmoil, years of bloodshed, and hundreds of thousands of graves stand between my time with the family and now. Those years have brought many changes. In light of these terrible changes, even I can say to Mr. Jefferson Davis, "Peace! you have suffered! Go in peace." I was once a slave. I was punished with the cruel lash and suffered the torture of a slave's life in my heart and soul.

In the winter of 1865 I was in Chicago, and one day visited the great charity fair held for the benefit of the families of those soldiers who were killed or wounded during the war. In one part of the building was a wax figure of Jefferson Davis, wearing over his other garments the dress in which it was reported that he was captured. There was always a great crowd around this figure, and I was naturally attracted towards it. I worked my way to the figure, and in examining the dress made the pleasing discovery that it was one of the chintz wrappers that I had made for Mrs. Davis, a short time before she departed from Washington for the South. When it was announced that I recognized the dress as one that I had made for the wife of the late Confederate President there was great cheering and excitement, and I at once became the object of the deepest curiosity. Great crowds followed me, and in order to escape from the embarrassing situation I left the building.

In the winter of 1865, I was in Chicago. One day, I visited the great charity fair held to benefit the families of soldiers killed or wounded during the war. In one part of the building stood a wax figure of Jefferson Davis. Over his other clothes, the figure wore the dress he was reportedly wearing when he was captured. A large crowd was always gathered around the figure, so I was naturally drawn to it. I made my way through the crowd and examined the dress. To my delight, I recognized it as one of the chintz wrappers I had made for Mrs. Davis shortly before she left Washington for the South. When it was announced that I had recognized the dress as one I had made for the wife of the former Confederate President, there was great cheering and excitement. I immediately became an object of intense curiosity. Large crowds followed me, and I left the building to escape the embarrassing situation.

I believe it now is pretty well established that Mr. Davis had on a water-proof cloak instead of a dress, as first reported, when he was captured. This does not invalidate any portion of my story. The dress on the wax figure at the fair in Chicago unquestionably was one of the chintz wrappers that I made for Mrs. Davis in January, 1860, in Washington; and I infer, since it was not found on the body of the fugitive President of the South, it was taken from the trunks of Mrs. Davis, captured at the same time. Be this as it may, the coincidence is none the less striking and curious.

I believe it is now pretty well established that Mr. Davis was wearing a waterproof cloak, not a dress, when he was captured. Early reports said he was wearing a dress. This does not invalidate any part of my story. The dress on the wax figure at the Chicago fair was unquestionably one of the chintz wrappers I made for Mrs. Davis in Washington in January 1860. Since the dress was not found on the fugitive President of the South, I infer that it was taken from Mrs. Davis's trunks, which were captured at the same time. Whatever the case, the coincidence is no less striking and curious.