Another charming residence, not far from Oaklands,[5] which attracted
visitors from various quarters, was Buena Vista, where we passed many
happy hours of childhood.
[5] General Watts's place, Roanoke.
This residence--large and handsome--was situated on an eminence
overlooking pastures and sunny slopes, with forests and mountain views
in the distance.
The interior of the house accorded with the outside, every article
being elegant and substantial.
The owner,[6] a gentleman of polished manners, kind and generous
disposition, a sincere Christian and zealous churchman, was honored
and beloved by all who knew him.
[6] George P. Tayloe, Esq.
His daughters, a band of lovely young girls, presided over his house,
dispensing its hospitality with grace and dignity. Their mother's
death, which occurred when they were very young, had given them
household cares which would have been considerable but for the
assistance of Uncle Billy, the butler,--an all-important character
presiding with imposing dignity over domestic affairs.
His jet-black face was relieved by a head of gray hair with a small,
round, bald centerpiece; and the expression of his face was calm and
serene as he presided over the pantry, the table, and the tea-waiters.
His mission on earth seemed to be keeping the brightest silver urns,
sugar-dishes, cream-jugs, and spoons; flavoring the best ice-creams;
buttering the hottest rolls, muffins, and waffles; chopping the best
salads; folding the whitest napkins; handing the best tea and cakes in
the parlor in the evenings; and cooling the best wine for dinner.
Indeed, he was so essentially a part of the establishment that in
recalling those old days at Buena Vista the form of Uncle Billy comes
silently back from the past and takes its old place about the parlors,
the halls, and the dining-room, making the picture complete.
[Illustration: "HIS MISSION ON EARTH SEEMED TO BE KEEPING THE
BRIGHTEST SILVER URNS."--_Page 78._]
And thus upon the canvas of every old home picture come to their
accustomed places the forms of dusky friends, who once shared our
homes, our firesides, our affections,--and who will share them, as in
the past, never more.
Of all the plantation homes we loved and visited, the brightest,
sweetest memories cluster around Grove Hill,[7] a grand old place in
the midst of scenery lovely and picturesque, to reach which we made a
journey across the Blue Ridge--those giant mountains from whose
winding roads and lofty heights we had glimpses of exquisite scenery
in the valleys below.
[7] The old seat of the Breckinridges, Botetourt County.
Thus winding slowly around these mountain heights and peeping down
from our old carriage windows, we beheld nature in its wildest
luxuriance. The deep solitude; the glowing sunlight over rock, forest,
and glen; the green valleys deep down beneath, diversified by
alternate light and shadow,--all together photographed on our hearts
pictures never to fade.
Not all the towers, minarets, obelisks, palaces, gem-studded domes of
"art and man's device," can reach the soul like one of these
sun-tinted pictures in their convex frames of rock and vines!
Arrived at Grove Hill, how enthusiastic the welcome from each member
of the family assembled in the front porch to meet us! How joyous the
laugh! How deliciously cool the wide halls, the spacious parlor, the
dark polished walnut floors! How bright the flowers! How gay the
spirits of all assembled!
One was sure of meeting here pleasant people from Virginia, Baltimore,
Florida, South Carolina, and Kentucky, with whom the house was filled
from May till November.
How delightfully passed the days, the weeks! What merry excursions,
fishing-parties, riding-parties to the Indian Spring, the Cave, the
Natural Bridge! What pleasant music, and tableaux, and dancing, in the
evenings!
For the tableaux we had only to open an old chest in the garret and
help ourselves to rich embroidered white and scarlet dresses, with
other costumes worn by the grandmother of the family nearly a hundred
years before, when her husband was in public life and she one of the
queens of society.
What sprightly _conversazioni_ in our rooms at night!--young girls
_will_ become confidential and eloquent with each other at night,
however reserved and quiet during the day.
Late in the night these talks continued, with puns and laughter, until
checked by a certain young gentleman, now a minister, who was wont to
bring out his flute in the flower-garden under our windows, and give
himself up for an hour or more to the most sentimental and touching
strains, thus breaking in upon sprightly remarks and repartees, some
of which are remembered to this day. A characteristic conversation ran
thus:
"Girls!" said one, "would it not be charming if we could all take a
trip together to Niagara?"
"Well, why could we not?" was the response.
"Oh!" replied another, "the idea of us poor Virginia girls taking a
trip!"
"Indeed," said one of the Grove Hill girls, "it would be impossible.
For here are we on this immense estate,--four thousand acres, two
large, handsome residences, and three hundred negroes,--regarded as
wealthy, and yet, to save our lives, we could not raise money enough
for a trip to New York!"
"Nor get a silk-velvet cloak!" said her sister, laughing.
"Yes," replied the other. "Girls! I have been longing and longing for
a silk-velvet cloak, but never could get the money to buy one. But
last Sunday, at the village church, what should I see but one of the
Joneses sweeping in with a long velvet cloak almost touching the
floor! And you could set her father's house in our back hall! But,
then, she is so fortunate as to own no negroes."
"What a happy girl she must be!" cried a chorus of voices. "No negroes
to support! We could go to New York and Niagara, and have velvet
cloaks, too, if we only had no negroes to support! But all _our_ money
goes to provide for them as soon as the crops are sold!"
"Yes," said one of the Grove Hill girls; "here is our large house
without an article of modern furniture. The parlor curtains are one
hundred years old, the old-fashioned mirrors and recess tables one
hundred years old, and we long in vain for money to buy something
new."
"Well!" said one of the sprightliest girls, "we can get up some of our
old diamond rings or breastpins which some of us have inherited, and
travel on appearances! We have no modern clothes, but the old rings
will make us look rich! And a party of _poor, rich Virginians_ will
attract the commiseration and consideration of the world when it is
known that for generations we have not been able to leave our
plantations!"
After these conversations we would fall asleep, and sleep profoundly,
until aroused next morning by an army of servants polishing the hall
floors, waxing and rubbing them with a long-handled brush weighted by
an oven lid. This made the floor like a "sea of glass," and dangerous
to walk upon immediately after the polishing process, being especially
disastrous to small children, who were continually slipping and
falling before breakfast.
The lady[8] presiding over this establishment possessed a cultivated
mind, bright conversational powers, and gentle temper, with a force of
character which enabled her judiciously to direct the affairs of her
household, as well as the training and education of her children.
[8] Mrs. Cary Breckinridge.
She always employed an accomplished tutor, who added to the
attractiveness of her home circle.
She helped the boys with their Latin, and the girls with their
compositions. In her quiet way she governed, controlled, suggested
everything; so that her presence was required everywhere at once.
While in the parlor entertaining her guests with bright, agreeable
conversation, she was sure to be wanted by the cooks (there were six!)
to "taste or flavor" something in the kitchen; or by the gardener, to
direct the planting of certain seeds or roots,--and so with every
department. Even the minister--there was always one living in her
house--would call her out to consult over his text and sermon for the
next Sunday, saying he could rely upon her judgment and
discrimination.
Never thinking of herself, her heart overflowing with sympathy and
interest for others, she entered into the pleasures of the young as
well as the sorrows of the old.
If the boys came in from a fox or deer chase, their pleasure was
incomplete until it had been described to her and enjoyed with her
again.
The flower-vases were never entirely beautiful until her hand had
helped to arrange the flowers.
The girls' laces were never perfect until she had gathered and crimped
them.
Her sons were never so happy as when holding her hand and caressing
her. And the summer twilight found her always in the vine-covered
porch, seated by her husband,--a dear, kind old gentleman,--her hand
resting in his, while he quietly and happily smoked his pipe after the
day's riding over his plantation, interviewing overseers, millers, and
blacksmiths, and settling up accounts.
One more reminiscence, and the Grove Hill picture will be done. No
Virginia home being complete without some prominent negro character,
the picture lacking this would be untrue to nature, and without the
finishing touch. And not to have "stepped in" to pay our respects to
old Aunt Betsy during a visit to Grove Hill would have been looked
upon--as it should be to omit it here--a great breach of civility; for
the old woman always received us at her door with a cordial welcome
and a hearty shake of the hand.
"Lor' bless de child'en!" she would say. "How dey does grow! Done
grown up young ladies! Set down, honey. I mighty glad to see you. An'
why didn't your ma[9] come? I would love to see Miss Fanny. She always
was so good an' so pretty. Seems to me it aint been no time sence she
and Miss Emma"--her own mistress--"use' to play dolls togedder, an' I
use' to bake sweet cakes for dem, an' cut dem out wid de pepper-box
top for dar doll parties; an' dey loved each other like sisters."
[9] "Miss Fanny."
[Illustration: "HOW DEY DOES GROW!"--_Page 86._]
"Well, Aunt Betsy," we would ask, "how is your rheumatism now?"
"Lor', honey, I nuver spec's to git over dat. But some days I can
hobble out an' feed de chickens; an' I can set at my window an' make
the black child'en feed 'em, an' I love to think I'm some 'count to
Miss Emma. An' Miss Emma's child'en can't do 'thout old 'Mammy
Betsy,' for I takes care of all dar pet chickens. Me an' my ole man
gittin' mighty ole now; but Miss Emma an' all her child'en so good to
us we has pleasure in livin' yet."
At last the shadows began to fall dark and chill upon this once bright
and happy home.
Old Aunt Betsy lived to see the four boys--her mistress's brave and
noble sons--buckle their armor on and go forth to battle for the home
they loved so well,--the youngest still so young that he loved his pet
chickens, which were left to "Mammy Betsy's" special care; and when
the sad news at length came that this favorite young master was
killed, amid all the agony of grief no heart felt the great sorrow
more sincerely than hers.
Another and still another of these noble youths fell after deeds of
heroic valor, their graves the battlefield, a place of burial fit for
men so brave. Only one--the youngest--was brought home to find a
resting-place beside the graves of his ancestors.
The old man, their father, his mind shattered by grief, continued day
after day, for several years, to sit in the vine-covered porch, gazing
wistfully out, imagining sometimes that he saw in the distance the
manly forms of his sons, returning home, mounted on their favorite
horses, in the gray uniforms worn the day they went off.
Then he, too, followed, where the "din of war, the clash of arms," is
heard no more.
To recall these scenes so blinds my eyes with tears that I cannot
write of them. Some griefs leave the heart dumb. They have no language
and are given no language, because no other heart could understand,
nor could they be alleviated if shared.