In a beautiful old home on lower Main Street, surrounded by a wall,
mellowed by time, and ivy-crowned, lived Washington's dear friend and
physician, Dr. Charles Mortimer. He could often be seen, in the days gone
by, seated on his comfortable "verandah," smoking a long pipe, covered
with curious devices, and discussing the affairs of the moment with those
rare intellects who were drawn there by the interesting atmosphere of
blended beauty and mentality. There was, as a background, a garden,
sloping to the river, and sturdy trees checquered the sunlight.
Old-fashioned flowers nodded in the breeze which blew up from the
Rappahannock, and the Doctor's own tobacco ships, with their returned
English cargoes, swung on their anchors at the foot of the terraces.
If one entered the house at the dinner hour, every delicacy of land and
water would conspire against a refusal to dine with the host of this
hospitable mansion. Highly polished and massive pewter dishes, disputed
possession of the long mahogany table, with a mammoth bowl of
roses--arrogantly secure of an advantageous position in the center.
There was often the sound of revelry by night, and the rafters echoed gay
laughter and the music of violins--high, and sweet and clear.
An historic dinner, following the famous Peace Ball at the old Market
House in November, 1784, was given here, and the hostess, little Maria
Mortimer, sixteen years old, the Doctor's only daughter, with her hair
"cruped high" for the first time, presided, and her bon mots won the
applause of the company, which was quite a social triumph for a
sixteen-year-old girl, trying to hold her own with Lafayette, Count
d'Estang and the famous Rochambeau. They clicked glasses and drank to her
health standing, and little Maria danced with "Betty Lewis' Uncle George
himself," for Washington did not disdain the stately measures of the
minuet.
But there is an obverse here. The old Doctor did not fail in his duty. On
horseback, with his saddlebag loaded with medicines, he rode down dark
forest paths to the homes of pioneers, traveled the streets of
Fredericksburg and came silently along lone trails in the country in the
dead of night, when hail or snow or driving rains cut at him bitterly
through the trees. He refused no call, and claimed small fees. He was Mary
Washington's physician for years, called on her almost daily, and stood by
her bedside mute, when, the struggle over, she quietly passed on to the
God in whom she had put her deepest faith.
Of the many people who walk in Hurkamp Park, in the center of the old
town, there are few who know that they are passing daily over the grave of
the genial and popular Doctor, who was Fredericksburg's first mayor, and
Washington's dearest friend.
[Sidenote: _Maury--a Master Genius_]