ding an
evening in company with Daniel Webster, Henry Clay, John J. Crittenden,
and the celebrated actress, Mrs. Drake. I enjoyed the hospitality, the
wit, and a game of whist with him. He soon became weary of Lexington.
His heart was in Mississippi, and thither he returned, old and worn. He
took up his residence at Jackson, where in a short time he died, and is
buried in the beautiful cemetery at that place. While paying a
pilgrimage to the grave of a dear boy who died in defence of Jackson in
1866, I saw and paused at the modest stone which marks the grave of
Governor Poindexter. Memory was busy with the past. My heart was sad. I
had just looked upon the sod which covered my boy, and, thinking of the
hours passed, long years ago, with him who was sleeping at my feet, I
could not repress the tear due and dear to memory.

Few men have served more faithfully and more efficiently a people than
did George Poindexter the people of Mississippi. His talents were
indisputably of the first order, and, whatever may have been his short
comings morally, none can say his political life was stained with
selfishness or corruption. Every trust reposed in him was faithfully
and ably discharged, and to him, more than to any of her public
servants, is she indebted for the proud position she occupied before
the tyrants' heel was upon her neck.

Few men can rise superior to the crushing effects of domestic
infelicity: man's hopes, man's happiness, all centred in her whom he
has chosen as the companion of his life. His love selects, and his love
centres in her. The struggle for fortune, for happiness, for fame, is
for her; she shares every success, every misfortune; and when she is
kind and affectionate, there he meets with the true manliness of an
honest and devoted heart. She smooths the brow of disappointment and
sorrow, rejoices in his success, and, in the fulness of her confidence
and affection, aids and encourages his exertions and enterprises. This
reconciles him to life, and life's cares, troubles, and joys. His
spirit is buoyant, come what may; for there is an angel at home, and
there is happiness with her: she is the mother of his children; she
unites with him in love and exertions for the benefit of these. They
are one in these, and with every birth there is a new link to bind and
gladden two hearts. Without the virtuous love of woman, man is a
miserable being, worthless to himself and useless to his kind. But when
the heart's