XVII. HIS LIFE AFTER THE WAR. A large volume might easily be written on the "Life of President Davis after the war"-his stay in Canada, his several visits to Europe, his life in Memphis, and especially his life at Beauvoir-giving the letters he wrote, and the speeches he made on public occasions. We venture to express the earnest hope that Mrs. Davis in her proposed Memoir will treat fully this part of his life, and that her facile, graceful pen will give us a picture of his domestic life such as she alone is competent to draw. But we are able to barely touch on this most interesting part of his noble life, although we have interesting material which would fill a volume. We pass over the other periods-not even dwelling on his great sorrow in losing his only son, Jefferson Davis, Jr., who died of yellow fever when the plague smote that city with its fearful ravages-and speak briefly of his life at his home beside the Gulf. BEAUVOIR. "Catherine Cole" wrote in the New Orleans Picayune so beau tiful a description of Beauvoir, and a visit she paid there, that we quote a part of her letter, as follows: "Beauvoir house looks to be just what it is, the home of a quiet country gentleman, who would not exchange its roses and peace, its books and sunshine and treasures, for the gayest Queen Anne cottage that ever poked its parrot-like head and gaudy colors up above its neighbors in town or city, or seaside village. The house is set down in the centre of a great yard, that in city parlance would comprise several squares of ground. It is a brown, sandy yard, in which the grass persistently declines to grow, but where, instead, are hundreds of magnolia, cedar, and oak trees, the latter hung, as a cave with stalactites, with the draperies of Spanish moss. It is a big white house with green shutters that sets up in the air on pillars of brick that has deep, cool galleries, reaching across the front and back, a great wide hall through the centre, and double rooms on either side. There is a wing on one side, and behind this the kitchen, trailing off covered with vines, and its sprawling pent roof hidden by a snow of roses. On either side the big house are detached cottages-little green and white and gray islands of wood entirely surrounded by galleries. In one of these, secure from intrusion, Mr. Davis wrote his history. All about under the trees, but respectfully retiring from the public view, are comfortable country-like out-buildings, barns and tool-houses, a sheep-shed and a corn-bin, a carpenter-shop for the peformance of rainy-day farm chores. Behind the house is a sweet, old-fashioned flower-garden, and beyond that a smart kitchen garden, with its black soil and thrifty rows of bright green vegetables. "Beauvoir house is one of those fine old houses set out with quaint and stately olden-timed furniture, rich in pictures and books and treasures that have been gathered from all parts of the world; a home that has grown mellow and beautiful with time, and which neither money nor desire can obtain. Old-fashioned lounges and round divans, and big rockingchairs, and odd cabinets fill the wide hall. A grandfather's clock stands like a carved oak coffin on end, and the brass face looks out through the glass case upon a life with which it has nothing more to do. There are pictures on the tables and walls, and books and papers everywhere. A Turkish curtain as well as folding doors separate the front parlor from the back. The last is lined from the floor almost to the ceiling with bookshelves, and the over-profuse books overflow into every room in the house. Rare paintings and portraits, including several of Rossetti's and a spirited pen-and-ink sketch of his wife pouring 5-clock tea, cover the walls and door-frames. Wild flowers crammed into beautiful vases, photographs lying loosely on the tables, a dainty modern chair or two strung with ribbons, an open piano, tell their own pretty story of the gracious, womanly presence that pervades this lovely old-fashioned home. "The home of Jefferson Davis is not less dear and interesting to the people to whom he is dear than it is full of suggestions and a fine example to the world at large. As I sat in that cool, sweet drawing-room with my gentle hosts and their winsome young daughter, who will not be affronted, I trust, if I thus declare her to be the brightest, gentlest, sprightliest young woman I ever lost my heart to, I could not but wish for half a minute that the mossy old roof above us might melt away and all the world look in on the singularly pure life that goes on at Beauvoir. Tall and thin and shrunken, with a high-bred, kindly face, and a wintry smile in his kind eyeswith silver white hair and beard, distinguished and remarkable in appearance, Mr. Davis sat leaning back in his armchair, his thin white hands clasped over his knee, and he conversing with a gentle interest with his guests. With what a courtly gesture he turned to me as he spoke, how pretty was the way he stooped to kiss Flo? Shall I ever forget the picture he made, leaning back in his big chair, in that quaint and beautiful old room? He looked all he had been and all he is the soldier, the statesman, the scholar, and the gentleman of the old school. By his side sat his wife-a gracious, genial, white-haired woman, large-statured, large-minded, large-hearted, and no less distinguished looking than her husband a woman born to a commanding position and one certain to wield a great and good influence. Mrs. Davis is a deeply-learned woman; all the culture, polish, and brilliancy of her time is expressed in her thoughts and speech. To her almost more than to any other woman in the South may be applied that fine, old-fashioned compliment, 'to know her is a liberal education.' There, in this charming old house, hidden under the pine trees, its faded face looking out to sea, this husband and this wife are spending the last half of their lives. What books they could write if they would. What rich reminiscences are theirs of the Old World and the New, of the great and distinguished men and women of both hemispheres. But they do not write books. They simply live a happy and peaceful life in the 'Beauvoir house,' entertaining many friends, reading much, doing all the good that comes their way; their home a place where hospitality might have had its birth; their lives full of beautiful cares and work. "And after a time the young daughter of the house led us out into the sunny, old-fashionod garden, trailing off forestward under the oaks. It was like the gardens we read about, with its odd little flower-beds and long, wandering walks, all set with mignonette. The wind that stirred the flowers was full of cinnamon odors and sweet with the breath of the unfashionable damask roses that grew in the far corners. "The tall, slim young lady in the dove-gray gown, her gentle, serious, yet happy face shaded by a broad-brimmed hat, went down the dewy walks with Flo, and they talked together as Twenty-Two does not often condescend to talk to Ten, and as they walked she snipped a bit here and a sprig there, fashioning a poesy for her small guest. How charming she looked bending over the bushes of blue-eyed periwinkles! I wonder could she have been more charming, even when she went North and captured it? A girl who can entertain a room full of learned men, who is brilliant and thorough, bending her pretty brown head down to the level of the yellow one of the little child, and entertaining and charming her small visitor with the same grace and tact, was a pretty spectacle, a fit companion-piece to the quaint pictures of the book and picture-lined drawing-room, with its silver-haired host and hostess. How slim and graceful and bonny she looked as 'With lightsome heart she pulled a rose, "Somehow the flowers were like the gentle girl-giver; they were the flowers that one loves to write of, to think on, to remember, and to treasure. There was a bit of lavender with its spiky leaves, rosemary more sweet than the breath of the incense that remains forever about the altars in old and longused Catholic churches, a bit of yellow-blossomed rue, and some sweet-smelling, magenta-colored pinks. They were the flowers of nature, not those forced in conservatories. In her manners and simple, unaffected gentleness and kindness this young lady is as old-fashioned as her flowers. It is easy to understand her charm when it is also remembered that her mind has been most carefully trained, that all the advantages of foreign travel and education have been hers. "I know how wise she is, how many are her accomplishments, and, withal, how unaffected and honest and loyal she is. I am minded to say, too, that, in my opinion, if she and that other fair and brilliant young lady whose home is in the White House had been allowed to meet, as both probably wished to, they would have flown into each other's arms, and neither would have remembered that one was born north and the other south of Mason and Dixon's line. "I am proud to think how our bonny, brilliant Southern girl went North and captured it. I like to recall how prettily she was received, with a hospitality that could not be excelled even at Beauvoir. I can think of her doing well, and acting wisely and honorably and nobly, and with a heart loyal to her home, her people, and her country in all places and at all times. I like to think of her in her tulle party dresses, or being led out to dinner by some great man whom it is an honor to know. But, somehow, I love best to think of her standing in her gray gown, knee-deep among her roses, gathering a nosegay of lavender and rue and rosemary in the sunny, sweet-scented garden that trails off with many a tangle of vine and bramble under the trees at the back of Beauvoir house." The following letter written by the author gives, perhaps, a inore vivid account of a visit he made to Beauvoir in the summer of 1886 than he could recall now, and it is inserted, therefore, just as it was written at the time: A VISIT TO BEAUVOIR-PRESIDENT DAVIS AND FAMILY AT HOME. BY J. WM. JONES. "RICHMOND, VA., August 1st, 1886. "A trip from Richmond to Beauvoir, by the Richmond and Danville route to Atlanta, the Atlanta, West Point and Montgomery to Montgomery, and thence by the Louisville and Nashville railway, is quick and comparatively comfortable, even at this season. Leaving here at 2 A. M. on Thursday we reached Beauvoir-a flag-station on the Louisville and Nashville, half-way between Mobile and New Orleans—at 4:40 P. M. Friday. "The first questions asked are, 'Where is Mr. Davis's house?' 'Is Mr. Davis at home?' The grounds are pointed out as running down to the station, the large vineyard of scuppernong |