No house in Virginia was more noted for hospitality than my uncle's.
I remember an ever coming and going procession of Taylors, Pendletons,
Flemings, Fontaines, Pleasants, etc. These made small impression upon
me. Men might come and men might go, but my lessons went on forever;
writing, geography, and much reading. I had Mrs. Sherwood's books. I
wonder if any present-day child reads "Little Henry and his Bearer,"
or Miss Edgeworth's "Rosamond," or "Peter Parley's Four Quarters of
the Globe"! Hannah More was the great influence with my aunt and her
friends. "Thee will be a second Hannah More" was the highest praise the
literary family at Shrubbery Hill could possibly give me. Mr. Augustine
Birrell could never have written his sarcastic review of her in my day.
It would not have been tolerated. From Miss Edgeworth, Cowper, Burns,
St. Pierre, my aunt read aloud to me. On every centre table, along with
the astral lamp, lay a sumptuous volume in cream and gold. This was
the elegant annual "Friendship's Offering," containing the much-admired
poems of one Alfred Tennyson, collaborating with his brother Charles.
Miss Martineau was much discussed and was distinctly unpopular. Stories
were told of her peculiarities, her ignorance of the etiquette of polite
society at the North. When she was in Washington in 1835, was invited
by Mrs. Samuel Harrison Smith to an informal dinner at five o'clock.
Mrs. Smith had requested three friends to meet her, and had arranged
for "a small, genteel dinner." She had descended to the parlor at an
early hour to arrange some flowers, when her daughter informed her that
Miss Martineau and her companion, Miss Jeffrey, had arrived, and were
upstairs in her bedroom, having requested to be shown to a chamber. Mrs.
Smith wrote to Mrs. Kirkpatrick: "I hastened upstairs and found them
combing their hair! They had taken off their bonnets and large capes.
'You see,' said Miss Martineau, 'we have complied with your request
and come sociably to spend the day with you. We have been walking all
the morning; our lodgings were too distant to return, so we have done
as those who have no carriages do in England when they go to pass a
social day.' I offered her combs, brushes, etc., but showing me the
enormous pockets in her French dress she said that they were provided
with all that was necessary, and pulled out nice little silk shoes, silk
stockings, a scarf for her neck, little lace mits, a gold chain, and
some other jewellery, and soon, without changing her dress, was prettily
equipped for dinner or evening company. It was a rich treat to hear her
talk when the candles were lit and the curtains drawn. Her words flow
in a continuous stream, her voice is pleasing, her manners quiet and
ladylike." She was thought to be unfriendly to the South—which I have
the best of reasons for believing was true.
All this I heard with unheeding ears, but a delicious, memorable hour
awaited me. Some guest had brought her maid, and from her I heard a
wonderful fairy-godmother story,—of one Cinderella, whose light footstep
would not break a glass slipper.
Uncle Remus had not yet dawned upon a waiting world of children, but
Cowper had written charmingly about hares and how to domesticate them.
I had a flourishing colony of "Little Rabs." Some of my humble friends
were domiciled in the small playhouse built for me in the garden. Into
this sacred refuge, ascended by a flight of tiny steps, even Gabriella
was forbidden to enter. I could just manage to stand under the low
ceiling. There I entertained a strange company. I had no toys of any
description, and only one doll, which was much too fine for every day.
Flowers and forked sticks served for the _dramatist personæ_ of my
plays.
I had never heard of Æsop or of Aristophanes, but it was early given to
me to discern the excellent points of frogs. I caught a number of them
on the sandy margin of a little brook which ran at the bottom of the
garden, and Milly helped me to dress them in bits of muslin and lace.
Their ungraceful figures forbade their masquerading as ladies,—a frog
has "no more waist than the continent of Africa,"—but with caps and
long skirts they made admirable infants, creeping in the most orthodox
fashion. Of course their prominent eyes and wide mouths left something
to be desired; but these were very dear children, over whose mysterious
disappearance their adoptive mother grieved exceedingly. Could it be
that snakes—but no! The suggestion is too awful!
My aunt had a warm affection for a kinswoman who lived seven or eight
miles from us. This lady's gentleness and sweetness made her a welcome
visitor, and I never tired of hearing her talk, albeit her manner was
tinged with sadness. She grieved over the disappearance, years before,
of a dear young brother. He had simply dropped out of sight—her "poor
Brother Ben!" This was a great mystery which she often discussed with
my aunt, and which delightfully stirred my imagination.
One night late in summer a cold storm of rain and wind howled without
and beat against the window-panes. A fire was kindled on the hearth, and
around it the family gathered for a cosey evening. Suddenly some one
saw a face pressed against the window, and hastened to open the door
to the benighted visitor. There, dripping upon the threshold, stood a
wretched-looking man. It was Brother Ben!
He carried a bundle of blankets on his back which he proceeded to
unwind, revealing at last two tiny Indian girls! The frightened little
creatures clung to him closely, and only after being brought to the
fire and fed on warm milk were sufficiently reassured to permit him to
explain himself. With one on each knee, "Brother Ben" told his story. He
had run away to escape the restraints of home and had found his way to
the wild Western country beyond the Ohio. Friendly Indians had sheltered
and succored him, and he had finally married a young daughter of their
chief. When his children were born, he "came to himself." He could not
endure the prospect of rearing them among savages, and so had stolen
them from their mother's wigwam during her temporary absence, and was
well on his way before his theft was discovered. For days and nights
he was in the wilderness, fording rivers, climbing mountains, hiding
under the bushes at night. Finally he overtook a party of homeward-bound
huntsmen, and in their company succeeded in reaching his sister's door.
I never knew what became of him, but the children were adopted by their
aunt as her own. They were queer little round creatures, knowing no
word of English, but affectionate and docile. I was much with them,
delighting to teach them. I cared no more for Gabriella nor my rabbits
and frogs. I thought no more of fairies and midnight apparitions. Here
was food enough for imagination, different from anything I had ever
dreamed of,—romance brought to my very door.
Without doubt the Indian mother, far away towards the setting sun, wept
for her babes, but nobody, excepting myself, seemed to think of her.
Could I write to her? Could I, some day, find a huntsman going westward
and send her a message? She might even come to them! Some dark night I
might see her dusky face pressed against the window-pane, peering in!
As time wore on, the children grew to be great girls, and their Indian
peculiarities of feature and coloring became so pronounced that they
were constantly wounded by being mistaken for mulattoes. There was no
school in Virginia where they could be happy. No lady would willingly
allow her little girls to associate with them. Evidently there was no
future for them in Virginia. Finally their aunt found through our Quaker
friends an excellent school, I think in Ohio, and thither the little
wanderers were sent, were kindly treated, were educated, and grew up to
be good women who married well.
My aunt made many long journeys—across the state to the White Sulphur
Springs of which I remember nothing but crowds and discomfort—to
Amherst, where my father lived, to Charlotte to visit my grandfather,
and to Albemarle to visit friends among the mountains. She joined
house-parties for a few weeks every summer; and one of these I, then a
very little child, can perfectly recollect.
The country house, like all Virginia houses, was built of elastic
material capable of sheltering any number of guests, many of whom
remained all summer. Indeed, this was expected when a visit was
promised. "My dear sir," said the master of Westover to a departing
guest who had sought shelter from a rain-storm, "My dear sir, do stay
and pay us a visit."
The guest pleaded business that forbade his compliance. "Well, well,"
said Major Drewry, "if you can't pay us a visit, come for two or three
weeks at least."
"Week ends" were unknown in Virginia, and equally out of the question an
invitation limited by the host to prescribed days and hours. Sometimes
a happy guest would ignore time altogether and stay along from season
to season. I cannot remember a parallel case to that of Isaac Watts,
who, invited by Sir Thomas Abney to spend a night at Stoke Newington,
accepted with great cheerfulness and staid twenty years, but I do
remember that an invitation for one night brought to a member of our
family a pleasant couple who remained four years. Virginia was excelled,
it seems, by the mother country.
At this my first house-party there were many young people—among them
the famous beauty, Anne Carmichael, and the then famous poet and
novelist, Jane Lomax. These, with a number of bright young men, made a
gay party. Every moonlight night it was the custom to bring the horses
to the door-steps, and all would mount and go off for a visit to some
neighbor. I was told, however, that the object of these nocturnal rides
was to enable Miss Lomax to write poetry on the moon, and I was sorely
perplexed as to the possibility, without the longest kind of a pen, of
accomplishing such a feat. I spent hours reasoning out the problem,
and had finally almost brought myself to the point of consulting the
young lady herself,—although I distinctly thought there was something
mysterious and uncanny about her,—when something occurred which strained
relations between her and myself.
An uninteresting bachelor from town had appeared on the scene, to the
chagrin of the young people, whose circle was complete without him. He
belonged to the class representing in that day the present-day "little
brothers of the rich," often the most agreeable relations the rich can
boast, but in this case decidedly the reverse.
It was thought that the present intruder was "looking for a wife,"—he
had been known to descend upon other house-parties without an
invitation,—and it was deliberately determined to give him the most
frigid of cold shoulders. Our amiable hostess, however, emphatically
put a stop to this. I learned the state of things and resented it.
"Old True," as he was irreverently nicknamed, was a friend of mine. I
resolved to devote myself to him, and to espouse his cause against his
enemies.
One day when the young ladies were together in my aunt's room there was
great merriment over the situation in regard to "old True," and many
jests to his disadvantage related and laughed over. To my great delight
Miss Lomax presently announced: "Now, girls, this is all nonsense! Mr.
Trueheart is a favorite of mine. I shall certainly accept him if he asks
me."
I believed her literally. I saw daylight for my injured friend, and
immediately set forth to find him. He was sitting alone under the trees,
on the lawn, and welcomed the little girl tripping over the grass to
keep him company. On his knee I eagerly gave him my delightful news, and
saw his face illumined by it. I was perfectly happy—and so, he assured
me, was he!
That evening my aunt observed an unwonted excitement in my face and
manner—and after feeling my pulse and hot cheeks decided I was better
off in bed, and sent me to my room, which happened to be in a distant
part of the house. To reach it I had to go through a long, narrow,
dark hall. I always traversed this hall at night with bated breath.
Tiny doors were let into the wall near the floor, opening into small
apertures then known by the obsolescent name of "cuddies." I was
afraid to pass them. So far from the family, nobody would hear me if I
screamed. Suppose something were to jump out at me from those cuddies!
In the middle of this fearsome place I heard quick steps behind. Before
I could run or scream, strong fingers gripped my shoulders and shook
me, and a fierce whisper hissed in my ear—"_You little devil!_"
It was the poetess—the lady who wrote verses on the moon! "Old True"
had suffered no grass to grow under his feet!
He left early next morning and so did we—my aunt perceiving that the
excitement of the gay house-party was not good for me.
I learned there were other things besides hot roast apples to be
avoided. Fingers might be burned by meddling with people's love affairs.
We were not the only guests who left the hospitable, gay, noisy,
sleep-forbidding house. Our host had an eccentric sister whom we all
addressed as "Cousin Betsey Michie," and who had left her own home
expressly to spend a few weeks here with my aunt, to whom she was much
attached. When "Cousin Betsey" discovered our intended departure, she
ordered her maid "Liddy" to pack her trunk,—a little nail-studded box
covered with goatskin,—and insisted upon claiming us as her guests for
the rest of the season.
"Cousin Betsey" was to me a terrible old lady,—large, masculine,
"hard-favored," and with a wart on her chin. I wondered what I should
do, were she ever to kiss me,—which she never did,—and had made up my
mind to keep away from her as far as possible. I owed her nothing, I
reasoned, as she was not really my cousin. She used strong language,
and was intolerant of all the singing, dancing, and midnight rides of
the young people. Her room was immediately beneath mine. But the night
before, lying awake after my startling interview with the poetess, I
had heard the galloping horses of the party returning from a midnight
visit to "Edgeworth," and the harsh voice of Cousin Betsey calling to
her sister: "Maria, Maria! Don't you dare get out of bed to give those
scamps supper—a passel of ramfisticated villains, cavorting all over
the country like wild Indians."
A peal of musical laughter, and "Oh, Cousin Betsey!" was the answer of
a merry horsewoman below.
As we heard much about Johnsonian English from Cousin Betsey, it was
reasonable to suppose, my aunt thought, that the startling word was
classic.
One evening while we were her guests she suddenly asked if I could
write. I was about to give her an indignant affirmative, when my aunt
interrupted, "Not very well." She knew I should be pressed into service
as a secretary.
"She ought to learn," said Cousin Betsey. "My own writing is more like
Greek than English since my eyes fail me. Maria Gordon has been copying
for me, but such fantastic flourishes! It will be Greek copied into
Sanskrit if _she_ does it. Well, what can the child do? Come here, miss.
Are your hands clean? Ah! Wash them again, honey; you must help Liddy
make the Fuller's pies for my dinner-party to-morrow."
I was aghast! But I found the "Fuller's pies" were quite within my
powers. "Pie" was not the American institution, but the bird supposed to
hide itself in its nest. "_Je m'en vais chercher un grand peut-estre. Il
est au nid de la pie_," says Rabelais. As to my hands—I feel persuaded
that Cousin Betsey's guests would have been reassured could they have
known to a certainty the old lady had not prepared them with her own!
A glass bowl was placed before me forthwith,—a bowl of boiling water,
some almonds and raisins. "Liddy" blanched the almonds in the hot
water and instructed me to press each one neatly into a large raisin,
which, puffing out around the nut, made it resemble an acorn, or,
to the instructed, a nest. These were the "pies" (birds in a nest),
and very attractive they were, piled in the quaint old bowl with its
fine diamond cutting. As to the "Fuller" thus immortalized, I looked
him up, furtively, in the great Johnson's Dictionary which lay in
solitary grandeur upon a table in the old lady's bedroom. Finding him
unsatisfactory, I concluded Dr. Johnson was not, after all, the great
man Cousin Betsey would have me believe. She quoted him on all occasions
as authority upon all subjects. Boswell's Life of him, "Rasselas," "The
Journey to the Hebrides," and "The Rambler" held places of honor upon
the shelves of her small bookcase. "Read these, child," she reiterated,
"and you need read nothing else. They will teach you to speak and write
_English_,—you need no other language,—and everything else you need know
except sewing and cooking." I soon became interested in her own literary
work. She was, at the moment, engaged in writing a novel, "Some Fact and
Some Fiction," which was to appear serially in the _Southern Literary
Messenger_. I listened "with all my ears" to her talk concerning
it with my aunt. It was to be a satire upon the affectations of the
day—especially upon certain innovations in dress and custom brought
by her cousin "Judy," the accomplished wife of our late Minister to
France, Mr. Rives, and transplanted upon the soil of Albemarle County;
also the introduction of Italian words to music in place of good old
English. The heroine was exquisitely simple, her muslin gown clasped
with a modest pearl brooch and a rose-geranium leaf. Her language was
fine Johnsonian English—a sort of vitalized "Lucilla," like the heroine
in Miss Hannah More's "Cœlebs." As to the Italian words for music, I
blithely committed to memory this sarcastic travesty, sung for me in
Cousin Betsey's sonorous contralto:—
The Frog he did a'courting ride,
Rigdum bulamitty kimo—
With sword and buckler by his side—
Rigdum bulamitty kimo.
(_Chorus_)
Kimo naro, delta karo!
Kimo naro, kimo!
Strim stram promedidle larabob rig
Rigdum bulamitty kimo!
This was deemed a clever satire on the unintelligible Italian words of
recent songs, and ran through several verses, describing the Frog's
courtship of Mistress Mouse, who seems to have been a fair lady with
domestic habits who lived in a mill and was occupied with her spinning.
I was full of anticipation on the great day of the dinner-party. Mrs.
Rives, Ella Page her niece, and little Amélie Rives—named for her
godmother the queen of France—were the only invited guests. The house
was spick and span. I filled a bowl with damask roses from the garden,
sparing the microphylla clusters that hung so prettily over the front
porch. The dinner was to be at two o'clock.
A few minutes before two a sable horseman galloped up to the door,
dismounted, and, scraping his foot backward as he bared a head covered
with gray wool, presented a note which my aunt read aloud:—
"CASTLE HILL, Wednesday noon.
"DEAR COUSIN BETSEY:—I know you will be amiable enough to
pardon me when I tell you how _désolée_ I am to find the hours
have flown unheeded by, and we are too late for your dinner!
The young ladies and I were reading Byron together, and you
know how
"'Noiseless falls the foot of time
That only treads on flowers.'
I am sure you forgive us, and hope you will prove it by asking
us again.
"Your affectionate cousin,
"JUDITH RIVES."
There was an ominous pause—and then the old dame said, in her sternest
magisterial manner:—
"Tell Judy Rives to read Byron less—and Lord Chesterfield more." Turning
to my aunt after the dignified old servitor had bowed himself out, she
said, with fine scorn: "There's no use in telling _her_ to read Dr.
Samuel Johnson! '_Désolée_,' forsooth!—and 'the foot of time'! That
sounds like that idiot, Tom Moore."
I had a very good time at Cousin Betsey's. I helped to pick the berries
and gather the eggs from the nests in the privet hedge. Also for several
days I had a steady diet of "Fuller's pies."
As to the novel, if it appeared at all it fell upon the public ear with
a dull thud. Still, Cousin Betsey must have been, in her way, a great
woman, for it was of her that Thomas Jefferson exclaimed, "God send she
were a man, that I might make her Professor in my University."