University of Virginia Library

1. I.

I FOUND in an old portfolio, the other day, the following slip
from a Norfolk paper of the year 1862:

“The Confederate steamer Arrow arrived here this morning,
from Currituck, having communicated with a steamer sent down
to Roanoke Island under a flag of truce. She brought up the
bodies of Captain O. J. Wise, Lieutenant William Selden, and
Captain Coles. Captain Wise was pierced by three balls, and
Lieutenant Selden was shot through the head. The Yankees
who saw Captain Wise during the fierce and unequal contest,
declare that he displayed a gallantry and valour never surpassed.
Alas, that he has fallen in a contest so unequal! But who has
fallen more honourably, more nobly? Young Selden, too, died
at his gun, while gallantly fighting the enemy that had gathered
in so superior numbers upon our shores.

“Last night, when the steamer arrived at Currituck, General
Wise directed that the coffin containing the remains of his son
be opened. Then, I learn from those who were present, a scene
transpired that words cannot describe. The old hero bent over
the body of his son, on whose pale face the full moon threw its
light, kissed the cold brow many times, and exclaimed, in an
agony of emotion: `Oh, my brave boy, you have died for me,
you have died for me.”'

What an epitaph!

The gray-haired father, forgetting the past and the future, losing
sight, for the moment, of the war and all other things—
bending and weeping over the dead body of the son who “had
displayed a gallantry and valour never surpassed”—giving his
heart's blood to the cause he loved—the annals of tragedy contain
no spectacle more touching!

Of the remarkable young man who thus poured forth his
blood, and passed away, before the age of thiry, in defence of
his native soil, I propose to give a few personal recollections.
It is hard that a noble soul should go from the haunts of the
living, to be remembered only by the small circle of loving
friends who knew and appreciated him. And though I shall
not attempt anything in the shape of a memoir of young Jennings
Wise, my few words may not prove uninteresting to those
who watched, from a distance, his meteoric career, and perhaps
admired his brave spirit, while ignorance of his real character
led them to misunderstand him.

Jennings Wise!

How many memories that name recalls!—memories of gentleness
and chivalry, and lofty honour, to those who knew him
truly—of fancied arrogance and haughty pride, and bloody instinets,
to those who accepted common rumour for their estimate
of him. For there were many rumours of this description
afloat—and it must be acknowledged that there was some excuse
for the misconception. He had little of the spirit of conciliation
if he believed a man to be his foe; managed early to arouse bitter
enmities; and continued to defy his opponents without
deigning to explain his character or his motives. Before he was
better understood—when the mists were only beginning to clear
away, and show his virtues of devotion, and patriotism, and
kindness—death called him.

Born in Virginia, and going in his early manhood to Europe,
as Secretary of Legation, he there perfected himself in riding,
fencing, and all manly exercises; studying political science, and
training himself, consciously or unconsciously, for the arena upon
which he was to enter soon after his return. He came to Virginia
at a time when the atmosphere was stifling with the heat

of contending factions in politics, and becoming the chief editor
of the Richmond Enquirer, plunged into the struggle with all
the ardour of a young and ambitious soldier who essays to test
the use of those arms he has been long burnishing for battle.
He did not laek for opponents, for a great contest was raging,
and the minds of men were red-hot with the mighty issues of
the time. He had scarce thrown down the glove when many
hands were extended to take it up. Then commenced a strife
on the political arena, in which the opponents fought each other
with bitter and passionate vehemence. What the pen wrote, the
pistol, unhappily, was too often called upon to support; and the
young politician was ere long engaged in more than one duel,
which achieved for him a widely-extended notoriety and a venomous
party hatred. Of these quarrels I do not design to speak.
It is no part of my purpose to inquire who was to blame or who
was faultless; and I would not move the ashes resting now upon
the details of those unhappy affairs, under which the fire perhaps
still smoulders, full of old enmities. That he was carried
away by passion often, is unfortunately too true; but he had no
love for conflict, and publicly declared his aversion to “private
war.” Unhappily the minds of his political opponents were too
profoundly swayed by the passions of the epoch to give him
credit for these declarations. They were not listened to, and the
young politician became the mark of extreme political hatred.
The sins of passion and the heated arena were regarded as the
coolly planned and deliberately designed crimes of a moral monster,
who had never felt the emotion of pity or love for his
brother man. Intelligent and honourable persons believed that
all the young man's instincts were cruel; that his hatreds were
capricious and implacable; that his nature was that of the tiger,
thirsting for blood; his conscience paralysed or warped by a
terrible moral disease. His splendid oratory, his trenchant;
pen, the dash and courage of his nature, were allowed; but
these were his only “good gifts;” he was, they said, the Ishmael
of the modern world.

All this he knew, and he continued his career, trusting to
time. He fought for secession; joined the First Virginia Regiment,

and served at Charlestown, in the John Brown raid.
Then war came in due time. He was elected captain of the
Blues—the oldest volunteer company in Virginia—took the
leadership from the first, as one born to command, and fought
and fell at that bloody Roanoke fight, at the head of his company,
and cheering on his men.

His body was brought back to Richmond, laid in the capitol,
and buried, in presence of a great concourse of mourners, in
Hollywood Cemetery. That was the end of the brief young
life—death in defence of his native land, and a grave in the beloved
soil, by the side of the great river, and the ashes of Monroe,
brought thither by himself and his associates.

Then came a revulsion. His character was better understood;
his faults were forgotten; his virtues recognised. Even his old
opponents hastened to express their sympathy and admiration.
It was remembered that more than once he had refused to return
his adversary's fire; that championship of one whom he loved
more than life had inflamed his enmity—no merely selfish considerations.
His sweetness of temper and kindness were recalled
by many, and the eyes which had been bent upon him
with horror or hatred, shed tears beside the young soldier's
grave.

Oh, tardy justice of good men! Oh, laurel-wreath upon the
coffin!—soft words spoken in the dull, cold ear of death! This
soul of chivalry and honour—this gentle, kindly, simple heart—
had been branded as the enemy of his species—as a haughty,
soulless, pitiless monster!

In speaking of this young Virginia, I wish to espouse no
personal or party quarrel—to arouse none of those enmities
which sleep now—to open no old wounds, and to fan into flame
none of the heart-burnings of the past. Those who contended
with him most bitterly have long ago forgotten their feud.
Many shed tears for the noble youth when he fell, and speak of
him now as one of those great Virginians whom it is the pride
of our soil to have produced. They know him better now, and
understand that this man was no hater of his species—no Ishmael
of civilization, cold and haughty and implacable—but a

beautiful and noble nature, attuned to every honourable impulse,
and only embittered temporarily by party passion. Dying, he
has suffered change; and there is a beauty in the pale, cold face,
which it never possessed while living. Traits never suspected
come out now, when Death has stamped the countenance with
his melancholy seal; and love and pity have quite banished the
old scorn and hatred. The green grass on his grave has covered
all enmity, and the love of friends has taken the place of the
bitterness of foes.

Among those friends who knew and loved him living, I count
myself. To know him thus was speedily to love him—for his
traits and instincts were so conspicuously noble and endearing,
that he irresistibly attracted the affection of all who were thrown
in familiar contact with him. How gentle, modest, and unassuming
these inner instincts of his heart were, those who knew
him in his private life will bear witness. They will tell you of
his honest and truthful nature; his unpretending simplicity;
his chivalric impulses, and nobility of feeling. Indeed, you
would have said that the Creator had breathed into this clay the
loveliest traits of humanity, and raised up in the prosaic nineteenth
century a “good knight” of old days, to show the loveliness
of honour.

This was one side of the young man's character, only. With
these softer traits were mingled some of the hardiest endowments
of strong manhood. No man was ever braver. Indeed, his
nerve had in it something antique and splendid, as of the elder
days of chivalry, when neither monster nor magician, giant nor
winged dragon, could make the heart of the good knight quail,
or move him from his steadfast purpose. What in other men
was the courage of habit, or training, or calculation of forces, was
in him that of native endowment and birthright. To match
himself, if need be, against any odds, however overwhelming,
and breast all opposition with a stubborn, dauntless front, was to
act as his character dictated, and to follow his temperament. The
sentiment of fear, I believe, never entered his breast; if it did, it
never stayed there long enough for him to make its acquaintance.
He would have led the charge of the English cavalry at Balaklava

with the nerve and dash of Hotspur, glorying in the roar
of the enemy's artillery, and resolute to take their guns or die.
At Thermopylæ, he would have stood beside Leonidas, and fought
and died without the shudder of a nerve. In battle at the head
of his men, his coolness and resolution were invincible. The
grim front of war possessed no terrors for him, and he advanced into
the gulf of battle with the calmness of a holiday soldier on parade.