From the sorrows of Miss Burney in the palace--a striking contrast
with the menials described in our own country homes--I will turn to
another charming place on the James River--Powhatan Seat, a mile below
Richmond, which had descended in the Mayo family two hundred years.
Here, it was said, the Indian chief Powhatan had lived, and here was
shown the veritable stone supposed to have been the one upon which
Captain Smith's head was laid, when the Indian princess Pocahontas
rescued him.
This historic stone, near the parlor window, was only an ugly, dark,
broad, flat stone, but imagination pictured ever around it the Indian
group, Smith's head upon it, the infuriated chief with uplifted club
in the act of dealing the death-blow, the grief and shriek of
Pocahontas as she threw herself upon Smith, imploring her father to
spare him,--a piercing cry to have penetrated the heart of the savage
chief!
Looking out from the parlor window and imagining this savage scene,
how strange a contrast met the eye within! Around the fireside
assembled the loveliest family group, where kindness and affection
beamed in every eye, and father, mother, brothers, and sisters were
linked together by tenderest devotion and sympathy.
If natural scenery reflects itself upon the heart, no wonder a "holy
calm" rested upon this family, for far down the river the prospect was
peace and tranquillity; and many an evening in the summer-house on the
river bank we drank in the beauty of soft blue skies, green isles, and
white sails floating in the distance.
Many in Richmond remember the delightful weddings and parties at
Powhatan Seat, where assembled the _élite_ from Richmond, with an
innumerable throng of cousins, aunts, and uncles from Orange and
Culpeper counties.
On these occasions the house was illuminated by wax lights issuing
from bouquets of magnolia leaves placed around the walls near the
ceiling, and looking prettier than any glass chandelier.
We, from a distance, generally stayed a week after the wedding,
becoming, as it were, a part of the family circle; and the bride did
not rush off on a tour as is the fashion nowadays, but remained
quietly at home, enjoying the society of her family and friends.
One feature I have omitted in describing our weddings and
parties--invariably a part of the picture--was the sea of black faces
surrounding the doors and windows to look on the dancing, hear the
music, and afterward get a good share of the supper.
Tourists often went to walk around the beautiful grounds at
Powhatan--so neatly kept with sea-shells around the flowers, and
pleasant seats under the lindens and magnolias--and to see the
historic stone; but I often thought they knew not what was missed in
not knowing, as we did, the lovely family within.
But, for us, those rare, beautiful days at Powhatan are gone forever;
for since the war the property has passed into strange hands, and the
family who once owned it will own it no more.
During the late war heavy guns were placed in the family
burying-ground on this plantation--a point commanding the river; and
here was interred the child of a distinguished general[16] in the
Northern army--a Virginian, formerly in the United States army--who
had married a member of the Powhatan family. He was expected to make
an attack upon Richmond, and over his child's grave was placed a gun
to fire upon him. Such are the unnatural incidents of civil war.
[16] General Scott.
About two miles from Powhatan Seat was another beautiful old
place--Mount Erin--the plantation formerly of a family all of whom,
except two sisters, had died. The estate, becoming involved, had to be
sold, which so grieved and distressed these sisters that they passed
hours weeping if accidentally the name of their old home was mentioned
in their presence.
Once when we were at Powhatan, and these ladies were among the guests,
a member of the Powhatan family ordered the carriage, and took my
sister and myself to Mount Erin, telling us to keep it a secret when
we returned, for "the sisters," said she, "would neither eat nor sleep
if reminded of their old home."
A pleasant drive brought us to Mount Erin, and when we saw the box
hedges, gravel walks, and linden trees we were no longer surprised at
the grief of the sisters whose hearts entwined around their old home.
The house was in charge of an old negro woman--the purchaser not
having moved in--who showed us over the grounds; and every shrub and
flower seemed to speak of days gone by. Even the ivy on the old bricks
looked gloomy, as if mourning the light, mirth, and song departed from
the house forever; and the walks gave back a deadened echo, as if they
wished not to be disturbed by stranger tread. All seemed in a reverie,
dreaming a long sweet dream of the past, and entering into the grief
of the sisters, who lived afterward for many years in a pleasant home
on a pleasant street in Richmond, with warm friends to serve them, yet
their tears never ceased to flow at the mention of Mount Erin.
One more plantation picture, and enough will have been described to
show the character of the homes and people on our plantations.
The last place visited by my sister and myself before the war of 1861
was Elkwood, a fine estate in Culpeper County, four miles from the
railroad station, the residence of Richard Cunningham.
It was the last of June. The country was a scene of enchantment as the
carriage rolled us through dark, cool forests, green meadows, fields
of waving grain; out of the forests into acres of broad-leaved corn;
across pebble-bottomed streams, and along the margin of the Rapidan,
which flowed at the base of the hill leading up to the house.
The house was square and white, and the blinds green as the grass lawn
and trees in the yard. Inside the house the polished "dry-rubbed"
floors, clean and cool, refreshed one on entering like a glass of iced
lemonade on a midsummer's day. The old-fashioned furniture against the
walls looked as if it thought too much of itself to be set about
promiscuously over the floor, like modern fauteuils and divans.
About everything was an air of dignity and repose corresponding with
the manners and appearance of the proprietors, who were called "Uncle
Dick" and "Aunt Jenny"--the _a_ in "Aunt" pronounced very broad.
Aunt Jenny and Uncle Dick had no children, but took care of numerous
nieces and nephews, kept their house filled to overflowing with
friends, relatives, and strangers, and were revered and beloved by
all. They had no pleasure so great as taking care of other people.
They lived for other people, and made everybody comfortable and happy
around them. From the time Uncle Dick had prayers in the morning until
family prayers at bedtime they were busy bestowing some kindness.
Uncle Dick's character and manners were of a type so high that one
felt elevated in his presence; and a desire to reach his standard
animated those who knew him. His precept and example were such that
all who followed them might arrive at the highest perfection of
Christian character.
Uncle Dick had requested Aunt Jenny, when they were married, forty
years before, to have on his table every day dinner enough for six
more persons than were already in the house, "in case," he said, "he
should meet friends or acquaintances, while riding over his plantation
or in the neighborhood, whom he wished to ask home with him to
dinner." This having been always a rule, Aunt Jenny never sat at her
table without dinner enough for six more,--and hers were no
commonplace dinners; no hasty-puddings, no saleratus bread, no soda
cakes, no frozen-starch ice-cream, no modern shorthand recipes, but
genuine old Virginia cooking. And all who want to know what that was
can find out all about it in Aunt Jenny's book of copied recipes--if
it is extant--or in that of Mrs. Harrison, of Brandon. But as neither
of these books may ever be known to the public, their "sum and
substance" may be given in a few words:
"Have no shams. Procure an abundance of the freshest, richest _real_
cream, milk, eggs, butter, lard, best old Madeira wine, all the way
from Madeira, and never use a particle of soda or saleratus about
anything or under any pressure."
These were the ingredients Aunt Jenny used, for Uncle Dick had rare
old wine in his cellar which he had brought from Europe thirty years
before, and every day was a feast-day at Elkwood. And the wedding
breakfasts Aunt Jenny used to get up when one of her nieces married at
her house--as they sometimes did--were beyond description.
While at Elkwood, observing every day that the carriage went to the
depot empty and returned empty, we inquired the reason, and were
informed that Uncle Dick, ever since the cars had been passing near
his plantation, ordered his coachman to have the carriage every day at
the station, "in case some of his friends might be on the train, and
might like to stop and see him"!
Another hospitable rule in Uncle Dick's house was that company must
never be kept waiting in his parlor, and so anxious was his young
niece to meet his approbation in this as in every particular that she
had a habit of dressing herself carefully, arranging her hair
beautifully--it was in the days, too, when smooth hair was
fashionable--before lying down for the afternoon siesta, "in case,"
she said, "someone might call, and Uncle Dick had a horror of visitors
waiting." This process of reposing in a fresh muslin dress and
fashionably arranged hair required a particular and uncomfortable
position, which she seemed not to mind, but dozed in the most precise
manner without rumpling her hair or her dress.
Elkwood was a favorite place of resort for Episcopal ministers, whom
Aunt Jenny and Uncle Dick loved to entertain. And here we met the Rev.
Philip Slaughter, the learned divine, eloquent preacher, and charming
companion. He had just returned from a visit to England, where he had
been entertained in palaces. Telling us the incidents of his visit, "I
was much embarrassed at first," said he, "at the thought of attending
a dinner-party given in a palace to me, a simple Virginian, but, on
being announced at the drawing-room door and entering the company, I
felt at once at ease, for they were all ladies and gentlemen, such as
I had known at home--polite, pleasant, and without pretense."
This gentleman's conversational powers were not only bright and
delightful, but also the means of turning many to righteousness--for
religion was one of his chief themes.
A proof of his genius and eloquence was given in the beautiful poem
recited--without ever having been written--at the centennial
anniversary of old Christ Church in Alexandria. This was the church in
which General Washington and his family had worshiped, and around it
clustered many memories. Mr. Slaughter, with several others, had been
invited to make an address on the occasion, and one night, while
thinking about it, an exquisite poem passed through his mind,
picturing scene after scene in the old church--General Washington,
with his head bowed in silent prayer; infants at the baptismal font;
young men and maidens in bridal array at the altar; and funeral trains
passing through the open gate.
On the night of the celebration, when his turn came, finding the hour
too late and the audience too sleepy for his prose address, he
suddenly determined to "dash off" the poem, every word of which came
back to him, although he had never written it. The audience roused up
electrified, and, as the recitation proceeded, their enthusiasm
reached the highest pitch. Never had there been such a sensation in
the old church before. And, next morning, the house at which he was
stopping was besieged by reporters begging "copies" and offering good
prices, but the poem remains unwritten to this day.
Elkwood, like many other old homes, was burned by the Northern army in
1862, and not a tree or flower remains to mark the spot that for so
many years was the abode of hospitality and good cheer.
In connection with Culpeper County, it is due here to state that it
excelled all others in ancient and dilapidated buggies and carriages,
seeming to be a regular infirmary for all the disabled vehicles of the
Old Dominion. Here their age and infirmities received every care and
consideration, being propped up, tied up, and bandaged up in every
conceivable manner; and, strangest of all, rarely depositing their
occupants in the road, which was prevented by cautious old gentlemen
riding alongside, who, watching for and discovering the weakest
points, stopped and securely tied up fractured parts with bits of
twine, rope, or chain always carried in buggy-or carriage-boxes for
that purpose. These surgical operations, although not ornamental,
strengthened and sustained these venerable vehicles, and produced a
miraculous longevity.
Many more sketches might be given of pleasant country homes--themes
worthy a better pen than mine; for Brandon, Westover, Shirley, Carter
Hall, Lauderdale, Vaucluse, and others, linger in the memory of
hundreds who once knew and loved them--especially Vaucluse, which,
although far removed from railroads, stage-coaches, and public
conveyances, was overflowing with company throughout the year. For the
Vaucluse girls were so bright, so fascinating, and so bewitchingly
pretty, that they attracted a concourse of visitors, and were sure to
be belles wherever they went.
And many remember the owner of Vaucluse, Mr. Blair Dabney, that
pure-hearted Christian and cultivated gentleman who, late in life,
devoted himself to the Episcopal ministry, and labored faithfully in
the Master's cause, preaching in country churches, "without money and
without price." Surely his reward is in heaven.
Besides these well-ordered establishments, there were some others
owned by inactive men, who smoked their pipes, read their books, left
everything very much to the management of their negroes, and seemed
content to let things tumble down around them.
One of these places we used to call "Topsy-Turvy Castle," and another
"Haphazard."
At such places the negro quarters--instead of being neat rows of white
cabins in the rear of the house, as on other plantations--occupied a
conspicuous place near the front, and consisted of a solid, long, ugly
brick structure, with swarms of negroes around the windows and doors,
appearing to have nothing in the world to do and never to have done
anything.
Everything had a "shackling," lazy appearance. The master was always,
it appeared to us, reading a newspaper in the front porch, and never
observing anything that was going on. The house was so full of idle
negroes standing about the halls and stairways that one could scarcely
make one's way up or down stairs. Everything needed repair, from the
bed upon which you slept to the family coach which took you to church.
Few of the chairs had all their rounds and legs, and, when completely
disabled, were sent to the garret, where they accumulated in great
numbers, and remained until pressing necessity induced the master to
raise his eyes from his paper long enough to order "Dick" to "take the
four-horse wagon and carry the chairs to be mended."
A multitude of kinsfolk and acquaintance usually congregated here. And
at one place, in order to accommodate so many, there were four beds in
a chamber. These high bedsteads presented a remarkable appearance,--the
head of one going into the side of another, the foot of one into
the head of another, and so on, looking as if they had never been
"placed," but as if their curious juxtaposition had been the result
of an earthquake.
One of these houses is said to have been greatly improved in
appearance during the war by the passage of a cannon-ball through the
upper story, where a window had been needed for many years.
But the owners of these places were so genuinely good, one could not
complain of them, even for such carelessness. For everybody was
welcome to everything. You might stop the plows if you wanted a horse,
or take the carriage and drive for a week's journey, and, in short,
impose upon these good people in every conceivable way.
Yet, in spite of this topsy-turvy management--a strange fact connected
with such places--they invariably had good light-bread, good mutton,
and the usual abundance on their tables.
We suppose it must have been a recollection of such plantations which
induced the negro to exclaim, on hearing another sing "Ole Virginny
Nubber Tire": "Umph! ole Virginny nubber tire, kase she nubber done
nuthin' fur to furtigue herself!"