After some months--ceasing to think and speak of New York--our lives
glided back into the old channel, where the placid stream of life had
many isles of simple pleasures.
In those days we were not whirled over the iron track in a crowded
car, with dirty, shrieking children and repulsive-looking people. We
were not jammed against rough people, eating ill-smelling things out
of ill-looking baskets and satchels, and throwing the remains of pies
and sausages over the cushioned seats.
Oh, no! our journeys were performed in venerable carriages, and our
lunch was enjoyed by some cool, shady spring where we stopped in a
shady forest at mid-day.
[Illustration: "LUNCH BY SOME COOL, SHADY SPRING."--_Page 66._]
Our own ancient carriage my sister styled "the old ship of Zion,"
saying it had carried many thousands, and was likely to carry many
more. And our driver we called the "Ancient Mariner." He presided on
his seat--a lofty perch--in a very high hat and with great dignity.
Having been driving the same carriage for nearly forty years--no
driver being thought safe who had not been on the carriage box at
least twenty years,--he regarded himself as an oracle, and, in
consequence of his years and experience, kept us in much awe,--my
sister and myself never daring to ask him to quicken or retard his
pace or change the direction of his course, however much we desired
it. We will ever remember this thraldom, and how we often wished one
of the younger negroes could be allowed to take his place; but my
grandmother said "it would wound his feelings, and, besides, be very
unsafe" for us.
At every steep hill or bad place in the road it was an established
custom to stop the carriage, unfold the high steps, and "let us
out,"--as in pictures of the animals coming down out of the ark! This
custom had always prevailed in my mother's family, and there was a
tradition that my great-grandfather's horses, being habituated to stop
for this purpose, refused to pull up certain hills, even when the
carriage was empty, until the driver had dismounted and slammed the
door, after which they moved off without further hesitation.
This custom of walking at intervals made a pleasant variety, and gave
us an opportunity to enjoy fully the beautiful and picturesque scenery
through which we were passing.
Those were the days of leisure and pleasure for travelers; and when we
remember the charming summer jaunts annually made in this way, we
almost regret the steam horse, which takes us now to the same places
in a few hours.
We had two dear friends, Mary and Alice, who with their old carriages
and drivers--the facsimiles of our own--frequently accompanied us in
these expeditions; and no generals ever exercised more entire command
over their armies than did these three black coachmen over us. I smile
now to think of their ever being called our "slaves."
Yet, although they had this domineering spirit, they felt at the same
time a certain pride in us, too.
On one occasion, when we were traveling together, our friend Alice
concluded to dismount from her carriage and ride a few miles with a
gentleman of the party in a buggy. She had not gone far before the
alarm was given that the buggy horse was running away, whereupon our
black generalissimos instantly stopped the three carriages and
anxiously watched the result. Old Uncle Edmund, Alice's coachman,
stood up in his seat highly excited, and when his young mistress, with
admirable presence of mind, seized the reins and stopped the horse,
turning him into a by-road, he shouted at the top of his voice: "Dar,
now! I always knowed Miss Alice was a young 'oman of de mos' amiable
courage!"--and over this feat he continued to chuckle for the rest of
the day.
The end of these pleasant journeys always brought us to some old
plantation home, where we met a warm welcome not only from the white
family, but from the servants who constituted part of the
establishment.
One of the most charming places to which we made a yearly visit was
Oaklands, a lovely spot embowered in vines and shade-trees.
The attractions of this home and family brought so many visitors
every summer, it was necessary to erect cottages about the grounds,
although the house itself was quite large. And as the yard was usually
filled with persons strolling about, or reading, or playing chess
under the trees, it had every appearance, on first approach, of a
small watering-place. The mistress of this establishment was a woman
of rare attraction, possessing all the gentleness of her sex, with
attributes of greatness enough for a hero. Tall and handsome, she
looked a queen as she stood on the portico receiving her guests, and,
by the first words of greeting, from her warm, true heart, charmed
even strangers.
Without the least "variableness or shadow of turning," her excellences
were a perfect continuity, and her deeds of charity a blessing to all
in need within her reach. No undertaking seemed too great for her, and
no details--affecting the comfort of her home, family, friends, or
servants--too small for her supervision.
The church, a few miles distant, the object of her care and love,
received at her hands constant and valuable aid, and its minister
generally formed one of her family circle.
No wonder, then, that the home of such a woman should have been a
favorite resort for all who had the privilege of knowing her. And no
wonder that all who enjoyed her charming hospitality were spellbound,
and loath to leave the spot where it was extended.
In addition to the qualities I have attempted to describe, this lady
inherited from her father, General Breckinridge, an executive talent
which enabled her to order and arrange her domestic affairs perfectly;
so that from the delicious viands upon her table to the highly
polished oak of the floors, all gave evidence of her superior
management and the admirable training of her servants.
Nor were the hospitalities of this establishment dispensed to the gay
and great alone: they were shared alike by the homeless and the
friendless, and many a weary heart found sympathy and shelter there.
Oaklands was famous for many things: its fine light-bread, its
cinnamon cakes, its beat biscuit, its fricasseed chicken, its butter
and cream, its wine-sauces, its plum-puddings, its fine horses, its
beautiful meadows, its sloping green hills, and last, but not least,
its refined and agreeable society collected from every part of our own
State, and often from others.
For an epicure no better place could have been desired. And this
reminds me of a retired army officer, a _gourmet_ of the first water,
whom we often met there. His sole occupation was visiting his friends,
and his only subjects of conversation were the best viands and the
best manner of cooking them! When asked whether he remembered certain
people at a certain place, he would reply: "Yes, I dined there ten
years ago, and the turkey was very badly cooked--not quite done
enough!" the turkey evidently having made a more lasting impression
than the people.
This gentleman lost an eye at the battle of Chapultepec, having been
among the first of our gallant men who scaled the walls. But a young
girl of his acquaintance always said she knew it was not bravery so
much as "curiosity, which led him to go peeping over the walls, first
man!" This was a heartless speech, but everybody repeated it and
laughed, for the colonel _was_ a man of considerable "curiosity."
Like all old homes, Oaklands had its bright as well as its sorrowful
days, its weddings and its funerals. Many yet remember the gay wedding
of one there whose charms brought suitors by the score and won hearts
by the dozen. The brilliant career of this young lady, her conquests
and wonderful fascinations, behold! are they not all written upon the
hearts and memories of divers rejected suitors who still survive?
And, apropos of weddings, an old-fashioned Virginia wedding was an
event to be remembered. The preparations usually commenced some time
before, with saving eggs, butter, chickens, etc.; after which ensued
the liveliest egg-beating, butter-creaming, raisin-stoning,
sugar-pounding, cake-icing, salad-chopping, cocoanut-grating,
lemon-squeezing, egg-frothing, wafer-making, pastry-baking,
jelly-straining, paper-cutting, silver-cleaning, floor-rubbing,
dress-making, hair-curling, lace-washing, ruffle-crimping,
tarlatan-smoothing, trunk-moving,--guests arriving, servants running,
girls laughing!
Imagine all this going on simultaneously for several successive days
and nights, and you have an idea of "preparations" for an
old-fashioned Virginia wedding.
The guests generally arrived in private carriages a day or two before,
and stayed often for a week after the affair, being accompanied by
quite an army of negro servants, who enjoyed the festivities as much
as their masters and mistresses.
A great many years ago, after such a wedding as I describe, a dark
shadow fell upon Oaklands.
The eldest daughter, young and beautiful, soon to marry a gentleman[4]
of high character, charming manners, and large estate, one night,
while the preparations were in progress for her nuptials, saw in a
vision vivid pictures of what would befall her if she married. The
vision showed her: a gay wedding, herself the bride; the marriage
jaunt to her husband's home in a distant county; the incidents of the
journey; her arrival at her new home; her sickness and death; the
funeral procession back to Oaklands; the open grave; the bearers of
her bier--those who a few weeks before had danced at the wedding;
herself a corpse in her bridal dress; her newly turfed grave with a
bird singing in the tree above.
[4] Colonel Tom Preston.
This vision produced such an impression that she awakened her sister
and told her of it.
For three successive nights the vision appeared, which so affected her
spirits that she determined not to marry. But after some months,
persuaded by her family to think no more of the dream which
continually haunted her, she allowed the marriage to take place.
All was a realization of the vision: the wedding, the journey to her
new home,--every incident, however small, had been presented before
her in the dream.
As the bridal party approached the house of an old lady near Abingdon,
who had made preparations for their entertainment, servants were
hurrying to and fro in great excitement, and one was galloping off for
a doctor, as the old lady had been suddenly seized with a violent
illness. Even this was another picture in the ill-omened vision of
the bride, who every day found something occurring to remind her of
it, until in six months her own death made the last sad scene of her
dream. And the funeral procession back to Oaklands, the persons
officiating, the grave,--all proved a realization of her vision.
After this her husband, a man of true Christian character, sought in
foreign lands to disperse the gloom overshadowing his life. But
whether on the summit of Mount Blanc or the lava-crusted Vesuvius;
among the classic hills of Rome or the palaces of France; in the
art-galleries of Italy or the regions of the Holy Land,--he carries
ever in his heart the image of his fair bride and the quiet grave at
Oaklands.