CHAPTER X

AS HIS FRIENDS AND FAMILY KNEW HIM BEFORE THE WAR

Before passing on to a consideration of Maury’s connection with the events of the Civil War, one should give some attention to him as he appeared to his friends and family during the _ante bellum_ decade when success, fame, and happiness were all his. Some idea of his personality has, perhaps, already been conveyed through the discussion of his work and achievements up to this point in his career, though only incidentally; now the aim will be to focus attention for awhile on Maury the man.

The range of his acquaintances was very extensive, and the list of his correspondents was largely the roll of the great men of his day. Among these were the following, taken at random: John Quincy Adams, John C. Calhoun, John Tyler, Leverrier and other astronomers both at home and abroad, Humboldt, the Grand Duke Constantine of Russia, the Archduke Ferdinand Maximilian of Austria, Jomard, the French Egyptologist, S. F. B. Morse, Cyrus W. Field, Professor Agassiz, Dr. Kane, Lord Wrottesley, Lord Ashburton, Bishop Otey, Bishop Leonidas Polk, Matthew Calbraith Perry, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Captain Jansen of Holland, Baron Justus von Liebig, John A. Dahlgren, William Gilmore Simms, Nathaniel Parker Willis, Michael Faraday, Benjamin Silliman, Jefferson Davis, Sam Houston, Donald McKay, and dozens of others whose names are not now so well remembered,—scientists, statesmen, and men of affairs. Maury’s personality was such as easily to turn an acquaintance into a friend, and most of his friends, whether they were illustrious men or not, showed themselves to be friends indeed for they remained his friends in time of need, as will be seen in the later events of his life.

Now, as to the kind of man they found him to be, he was in the first place one who was remarkable for his great breadth of mind. The editor of the _Southern Literary Messenger_ was of the opinion that Maury’s astronomical researches had served to “enlarge all his perceptions and give greater breadth to all his views”. That may be true, but he seemed to have had the natural capacity for taking a broad and extensive view of questions, some of which were world-wide in their scope. This is particularly noteworthy in his scientific researches, and his manifold extra-professional interests also amply exemplify the great sweep of his imaginative mind.

There was a certain charm to Maury’s conversation and presence that drew people irresistibly to him. Nathaniel Parker Willis felt this charm. “He made me subject”, wrote Willis, “to his personal magnetism, and while with him I had secretly vowed myself and my pen to the service of his interests and reputation thenceforward.... He was, unconsciously to himself, to me an exquisitely interesting study of character. I had long heard of him, and knew what the public generally knew of his pursuits; but my conviction was strengthened every day that he was greatly undervalued by common repute, and that he was of a far deeper intellect and much more of a natural philosopher than the world with all his repute gave him credit for.... Under his exceeding modesty and reserve, there seemed to be a vein of the _heroic_ and romantic so hidden that he was seemingly unconscious of it, and I was quite sure before I parted with him that he was one of the _sans peur et sans reproche_ class of men; yet willing to pass for only the industrious man of science which the world takes him for. Under the strong magnetism of his sincere and simple manner, I formed an irresistible attachment to him, and longed to set the world right as to his qualities”.[11]

Some considered that the source of this charm lay in his strong and powerful imagination, which lifted him above the man of mere intellect and often lent the charm of eloquence to his conversation and to his lectures. Others were impressed with the simplicity and naturalness of his character, which in its quiet unostentatious manner was very prepossessing. His manners were, indeed, as simple and unpretending as a child’s, and he had as keen a relish for a joke as the jolliest Jack Tar that ever shipped with him.

Maury had a very modest estimate of his own work. He did not claim to have discovered anything. “I only bring together”, he wrote, “the observations that others have made, and then leave it to the observations themselves to discover their own meaning in their own way. Sometimes, indeed, I do become the mouthpiece of these observations and proclaim to the world what they reveal to me. But in this I consider myself merely as an instrument. I am fortunate, indeed, when I succeed in rightly interpreting the meaning of the observations, and am happy always to find concurrence in the opinions expressed or entertained by older and wiser”. His investigations on every subject were directed toward some practical benefit to his fellowmen, and he often quoted with appreciation the saying that he who made two blades of grass grow where only one had grown before was a benefactor to the world.

This practical attitude toward his work and toward life in general led Maury to have very definite ideas about education. These appeared to some extent in his scheme for a Naval School, but they were more fully revealed in his letters. Latin and Greek, he thought, should not be given the place of first importance as compared with mathematics and chemistry, and he declared that West Point was the only tolerable institution in the United States because of the absence there of the humbuggery of the Learned Languages. Female seminaries he considered to be “downright cheats” because of the superficiality of the knowledge imparted there. He was opposed to the neglect of the study of English, so prevalent in the schools and colleges of his day, and thought that Spanish, French, and German were languages well worthy of study. Naturally, he laid great stress on the value of mathematical, geographical, and other scientific studies. “As for the sciences”, he declared, “more is now annually developed in every department thereof than was ever known, dreamed, or thought of, by the ancients”.

Maury himself had been largely self-educated, but his speeches as well as his writings show that he had read widely and discriminatingly. He was well read not only in science and naval history and biography, but also in the classics, and often quoted passages from Shakespeare, Byron, Dante, and the Bible; in the course of a single speech he referred intelligently to Plato, Plutarch, Seneca, Goethe, Bacon, Newton, and other authors. He is said to have been fond of reading aloud to his family from Scott’s novels and poems, Shakespeare’s plays, and the works of many other British poets, particularly Wordsworth and Mrs. Hemans.

The Civil War interfered materially with the education of Maury’s sons. His eldest son Richard spent some time at the University of Virginia, while John Herndon was placed in the Virginia Military Institute. This interference was a source of great disappointment to their father who had shown the keenest interest in their education, or, as he expressed it, “putting on their armor for the battle of life”. This same cordial interest in young men is manifest in his addresses before college students, and appears frequently in his correspondence. One letter in particular is of great interest, in this connection, because of the light it throws on Maury’s character as well as for its revelation of his ideas on education. The last portion of the letter, which was written to young Hamilton Lieber at the time he was on the point of entering the United States Naval Academy as a midshipman, is as follows: “Your future position in life and your standing in the navy depend upon the degree of energy with which you shall acquit yourself of the duties required of you as a Midshipman. If you be idle and inattentive now, you cannot hereafter recover the ground that you will lose. Letting the opportunities now afforded you pass unimproved, you cannot expect hereafter to contend, except at great odds, with your comrades for the honors of the profession.

“Make it a rule to make everything while you are young bend to your profession. The books that you read for amusement, let them be professional books instead of novels—which I hope you will _never_ read—read the lives of eminent naval men. I commend to your particular attention Mackenzie’s ‘Life of Decatur’ and the ‘Life of Admiral Collingwood’. Take these two characters as your examples, and always have them in your eye; make them in all things, except the duel and the course toward Barron, your models.

“I say never read novels, but eschew them while you are young as I hope you will strong drink—because they are as destructive to the wholesome habits of the mind as mint-juleps are to those of the body—they both enervate and unfit one for hard study or hard labor—and as a beverage both are very pleasant. But hate them both, I pray you, my young friend, for they are poisons.

“Make it a rule to ask yourself at night what you have learned during the day, and do not be content until you get a reply, and always learn something if it be only the meaning of a word from the dictionary.

“Make it a rule to obey all orders promptly and cheerfully. It is immaterial how disagreeable the officer giving the order may be, or how unpleasant the duty; go about it cheerfully, never sullenly nor carelessly. Sometimes you will find the Midshipmen disposed to turn on one of their fellows and ‘run him’ as it is called. Make it a rule never to join with them in this, for it not infrequently ends, particularly in the navy, in downright persecution.

“Make it a rule never to offend, nor to seek cause of offense in the conduct of others. Be polite to all, familiar with but few. Do not be quick to take offense; you will never find a gentleman who will willfully and without any cause, real or imaginary, offend another. Therefore whenever you imagine yourself aggrieved either by an equal or a superior officer—when you are in doubt as to whether the offense were intended or not, go straight up to him, state the case, and ask the meaning of the intention. Never let imaginary offenses, slights, or cuts find a place in your breast—they sour the disposition. Ask to have them explained at once, and in asking be always polite—never show temper.

“The rule in the navy is to treat everybody as a gentleman until he proves himself otherwise. It is a good rule—observe it well. You will sometimes hear the opinion expressed that it is necessary for a young officer to establish his courage by fighting. Now believe me, my young friend, that the courage to stand up and be shot at is the poorest sort of courage. He only is truly brave who has the courage to do right. This is the highest quality of bravery that a military, or any other man can possess.

“The doing right, the acting up to the principle, may sometimes seem to you to be inexpedient, or it may have the appearance of making you unpopular—but this principle of conduct will build up a character founded on the rock which nothing can shake; and let me assure you that it is unwise and always wrong for a man to have enmity in his breast between himself and his conscience. When principle is involved, be deaf to expediency. It is a dangerous word to all classes of men. I would, if I could, teach you almost to hate it.”

Now, a man who could attract and hold friends as Maury did would naturally be one whose family life was a happy one. This, indeed, was true in his case. He was a faithful son who made his home that of his parents in their old age, a thoughtful and considerate brother to his sisters and brothers, even sharing his home for a time with his brother’s widow and her children and often having other relatives under his roof. To his wife and children, Maury was their perfect ideal of a husband and father; while to him the happiest of all places was his home, and when he was away from it his mind was constantly filled with thoughts of his family. Many of his letters to friends contain references to his children, whose childish sayings he never tired of repeating.

His family, of course, knew Maury most intimately of all, and the following account of his appearance, personality, and home life is of particular interest and value: “Maury was a stout man, and about five feet six inches in height; he had a fresh, ruddy complexion, with curling brown hair, and clear, tender blue eyes. His massive head and strong neck surmounted broad and square shoulders, and a chest deep and full. His arms were long and strong, with hands small, soft, and beautifully formed—he was apt to use them in graceful gestures while conversing.

“Every feature and lineament of his bright countenance bespoke intellect, kindliness, and force of character. His fine blue eyes beamed from under his broad forehead with thought and emotion, while his flexible mouth smiled with the pleasure of imparting to others the ideas which were ever welling up in his active brain. In early manhood his head was well covered with fine soft, wavy brown hair, which became thin before he reached middle age. Latterly, he was quite bald, as is shown in Valentine’s fine bust, taken when he was sixty years old.

“His conversation was enjoyed by all who ever met him; he listened and learned while he conversed, and adapted himself to every capacity. He especially delighted in the company of young people, to whom his playful humor and gentle consideration made him very winning.

“In his early youth he was careless in his dress, and expressed contempt for those who judged of a man by his outward appearance. ‘But’, he said, ‘I soon perceived the folly of this carelessness’; and in later years he became scrupulously neat in his attire. His enjoyment of the pleasures of the table was refined; he liked good wine; he carved well, and entertained generously; and he was never more genial, humorous, or interesting than when surrounded by friends about a well-served board”.[12]

The account of his home life continues as follows: “Whether writing or thinking, no noise of the children, no invasion of visitors, was ever an interruption. In the midst of his most interesting pursuits, on which he was concentrating his powers, he would lay down his pen and join in the laugh at a good joke, and encourage the mirth to go on. He had an ever-active sense of humor; but scandal and gossip he would not allow in his presence, and he would never pass over any violation of high principle. He made loving companions and friends of his children—in his walks, in his talks, in his work, in his recreation, he was always one of them. He invited their confidence, and freely gave them his; in that household there were no secrets—any step that was about to be taken, any journey made, or any work projected, was fully and freely talked over and discussed in family conclave. And yet his word was law; that no one ever dreamt of disputing: so he was always the last to speak in these family councils, and gave the ‘casting vote’, as he used to say; the youngest voting or giving their opinion first on the matter under discussion.

“Most of his voluminous writings were thus freely submitted to the family council, or copied by them, and each one invited and encouraged to criticise; and thus, not only were they made familiar with the workings of his mind but were taught to express their own thoughts. He wrote or composed and dictated his greatest books in his parlor, surrounded by his family, and it seemed sometimes as if he possessed a dual consciousness, so quickly could he abstract or concentrate his mind upon his writing.

“Like few great men, he was the greater the closer one got to him. Little children approached him confidingly, and never left him without bearing away some good lesson, so gently and simply taught as to be forever planted in their young minds. His especial pleasure was to say a kind word and lend a helping hand to young men beginning the battle of life. Above all men, he knew the value of praise as an incentive to high endeavor, and when he had occasion to censure or criticise, he did it with such obvious reluctance that it never failed to do the good intended. While at home, he had been taught to respect women, to love the truth, and to reverence God; and these teachings he never forgot.

“One of his daughters writes as follows: ‘He never had a study or anything like a sanctum, where his wife and children could not come, preferring to work in the midst of them wherever they congregated. He would sit at the round marble-topped center table, with his papers spread out, the bright light falling on his bald head and shining on his brown curls, while he sat unconscious of what was going on around him; whether it was music, or dancing, or reading aloud, or romping, he would write away, or read what he had written, or talk to himself and shake his head’.

“His daughters often served as his amanuenses, and sometimes he dictated to two at once, while one of the little ones would balance herself on the rounds of his chair, and curl his back hair over the red-and-blue pencil he always used. Sometimes he would walk up and down the two parlors wrapped in a light blue silk Japanese dressing-gown, quilted with eider down, which was a present from Captain Jansen, the long ribbons, which should have been fastened around his waist, trailing behind him, or gathered up like reins in the hands of one of the little ones, who trotted after him, backwards and forwards, calling out ‘Gee, woa!’ or ‘Back, sir!’—he paying not the slightest attention, but dictating gravely.

“He used to say he was the youngest of the family except the baby, and it was his habit, when dressing in the morning, to seat the youngest (the little two-year-old) upon the bureau, to hold the soap while he was shaving; while the rest would stand around, one to hold or receive the razor, one the brush, one the towel, and one or two the papers on which to wipe the razor; and we all would eagerly watch the pile of lather which he made with the soap and hot water in his shaving-can. He brushed his bald head with two immense brushes at the same time, one in each hand. ‘For’, he assured us gravely, ‘you see, if I only use one at a time, it will turn me round and round like one oar in a boat’. And we believed that that was the only way to brush hair. Then he would tell us stories and anecdotes about his brothers and himself—what they did and what they said in Tennessee, and of his home life there. These stories he would tell over and over again, fitting them to the comprehension of the ‘two-year-old’, as she or he would come on, until we knew them by heart, and, with a clamor of tongues, would set him right if he omitted any incident or related it in the wrong order. And we knew exactly when to laugh and applaud, and enjoyed it all the more because it was so familiar.

“Often he would take the whole tribe out for long walks, or to gather fruit or nuts, or bright-colored leaves; and to reach the high ones he would make what he called a ‘Tennessee arm’, which was a long pole with a crutch at the end, with which he could twist them off, directing us where to stand and hold up our little pinafores to catch the coveted prize; and then what laughter and hurrahs and congratulations would be bestowed upon the fortunate catcher! He had pet names for all except the eldest; he said she grew up too fast for him to fit a name to her. There were ‘Nannie Curly’, ‘Goggen’, ‘Davy Jones’, ‘Totts’, ‘Glum’, ‘Brave’, and ‘Sat Sing’. By these names he always called us, and we knew we had displeased him, and hung our heads with shame, if he gave us our baptismal ones.

“I don’t think I ever went to school more than three months altogether. He was my loving and tender teacher always; and when Betty and I grew to be fifteen or thereabouts, we had to take care of one or two of the younger ones and teach them to read, write, and cipher, yet without allowing this duty to interfere with our own lessons or our regular tasks of sewing. He taught us our lessons at the breakfast table, and for an hour or so afterwards, his plan being to bid us—my sister Betty and myself—‘one at a time, tell him about the lesson’. He seldom asked us questions on it, unless we found a difficulty in expressing ourselves, and he never asked those put down in the book. After both had had our say, he would, taking the lesson for a text, deliver the most delightful lectures. He prescribed no set time for our preparation of these lessons; but we were required to master them thoroughly, and give the substance to him clothed in our own words and not in those of the book. He always expected and required that we should not prepare them at night, but should then come into the parlor to receive and entertain and be entertained by the distinguished men and women who frequently gathered round him. He considered this a most important part of our education.

“He objected to the introduction of cards in the family circle, as he said they interfered with intelligent and improving conversation, and that those who had recourse to them for amusement were apt to depend on them, and could not exert themselves to be agreeable as they should and would do, if they had not this entertainment. He himself did not know one card from another. Our Mother taught us our Bible lessons and catechism, and she and Aunt Eliza, who was a beautiful needlewoman, gave us regular tasks in mending and darning. We seldom went to church more than once on Sunday, as it was so far from the Observatory to St. John’s (Reverend Doctor Pynes); so Papa had us up regularly for the evening service, which we would read verse about, ‘the stranger that was within our gates’ generally taking part also....

“He would never allow us to read works of fiction whilst we were students, and would punish most severely any departure from the truth, or act of disobedience. These two sins, he said, were the only ones he intended to punish his children for; and he was very careful not to make unnecessary issues with them, and never to give an order unless he saw that it was obeyed and not forgotten. A punishment which he inflicted once on Betty and myself I shall never forget. Betty borrowed ‘Helen’, one of a very handsome and complete set of Miss Edgeworth’s novels, from cousin Sally Fontaine in Washington, thinking, or persuading herself, that Papa would not object, as that was so mild a type of fiction, and we both read most of it. He found us at it one Saturday. He didn’t say one word, but took the book, and one of us in each hand, marched us downstairs into Mamma’s room, and, to our horror, thrust the handsome borrowed book into the flames, and held it there with the tongs until it was entirely consumed. Oh, how we did cry! It seemed such a terrible thing to burn a book—a priceless book—of which we had so few. Then our honor was touched to the quick, for we had borrowed it. But for those very reasons the lesson cut deep, and made the impression that was intended. I for one would gladly have taken a whipping instead, to be allowed to return the book uninjured”.[13]

Whatever sternness Maury displayed toward his children, it was so tempered with gentleness and loving consideration that it did not detract at all from the ideal relationship existing between them. When his two oldest daughters were married and left their father’s home, he saw to it that the loving ties which bound them to the rest of the family were kept as strong as ever; and the letters which he wrote to them were filled with the tenderest and sincerest expressions of affection and the most tactfully worded counsel and advice. For example, he wrote to one of them, “That you are both poor is no ground of solicitude; happiness is above riches, and if you are not happy, being poor, wealth would not, I apprehend, make you happy. Poverty has its virtues, and my struggles with it are full of pleasant remembrances. I hope your experience will tally with mine. I do not say, strive to be content, for in that there is no progression; but be content to strive”. At another time he wrote, “I am writing you a very disjointed letter, my love, but I have been thinking so much of you, and missing you so sorely, and loving you so tenderly, since you went away, and my heart was so full, and my head so empty, that I hardly know what I have said. Did you plant the yellow jasmine at Farleyvale? ’Tis the grand scion of the one I courted your Mother under, and I wish it, or a slip from it, to be planted over my grave”. This request was carried out, and the flower grew over his grave for six or seven years until it was killed during an extremely cold winter. The entire story of Maury’s home life seems almost too nearly perfect to be true, but diligent search of all available records has failed to disclose anything which would detract from the portrayal of him as always the true, considerate, loving husband and father.