When it was found that a refined and intelligent society was inclined
to crystallize around the court green of Albemarle County, it became
imperative to choose a fitting name for a promising young village.
In 1761 there was a charming princess of Mecklenburg-Strelitz;
intelligent, amiable, and only seventeen years of age. She had stepped
forth from the conventional ranks of the young noblewomen of her day,
and written a spirited letter to Frederick the Great, in which she
entreated him to stop the ravages of war then desolating the German
States. She had painted in vivid colors the miseries resulting from the
brutality of the Prussian soldiery.
It appears that this letter reached the eyes of the Prince of Wales.
He fell in love with the letter before he ever knew the writer. In the
same year that he, as George III, ascended the throne of England, the
lovely Charlotte, Princess of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, became his wife.
Charlottesville, then, was a name of happy omen for the pretty little
town, and in three more years a county was created, it would seem,
expressly that it might be called "Mecklenburg," and yet again a slice
taken from another county to form the county of Charlotte.
The colony of Virginia was strewn thickly with the names of royal
England: King and Queen, Charles City,—Charlestown,—King George, King
William, William and Mary, Prince Edward, Princess Anne, Caroline,
Prince George, Henrico, Prince William. No less than four rivers were
named in honor of the good Queen Anne: Rapidan, North Anna, South Anna,
Rivanna. We might almost call the roll of the House of Lords from a list
of Virginia counties.
Twenty-four years after the Princess Charlotte had become a queen, Mrs.
Abigail Adams, as our minister's wife, was presented at the Court of St.
James. Alas for time,—and perhaps for prejudice,—she found, in place
of the charming princess, an "embarrassed woman, not well-shaped nor
handsome, although bravely attired in purple and silver." The interview
was cold and stilted, but all the "embarrassment" was on the part of
royalty.
There had been a recent unpleasantness between John Bull and Brother
Jonathan; King George, however, brave Briton as he was, broke the ice,
and startled Mrs. Adams by giving her a hearty kiss! She could not
venture, however, to remind the queen that we had named counties in
her honor. She might, in her present state of mind, have deemed it an
impertinence on our part.
[Illustration: RESIDENCE OF DR. S. P. HARGRAVE.]
I am so impatient under descriptions of scenery, that I do not like
to inflict them upon others. But I wish I could stand with my reader
upon the elliptic plain formed by cutting down the apex of Monticello.
He would, I am sure, appreciate the fascination of mountain, valley,
and river which drew the first settlers, and later the Randolphs,
Gilmers, William Wirt, and Thomas Jefferson, to the region around
Charlottesville. On the east the almost level scene is bounded by the
horizon, and on the west the land seems to billow onward, wave after
wave, until it rises in the noble crests of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
A mist of green at our feet is pierced here and there by the simple
belfries of the village churches, and a little farther on, glimpses
appear of the classic Pantheon and long colonnades of the University
of Virginia. Imagination may fill in this picture, but reality will far
exceed imagination, especially if the happy moment is caught at sunset
when the mountains change color, from rose through delicate shadings
to amethyst, and finally paint themselves deep blue against the evening
sky. Then, should that sky chance to be veiled with light, fleecy clouds
all flame and gold—but I forbear!
This was the spot chosen by my aunt as the very best for my education
and my social life. The town was small in the forties, indeed, is not
yet a city. It is described at that time as having four churches, two
book-stores, several dry-goods stores, and a female seminary. The family
of Governor Gilmer lived on one of the little hills, Mr. Valentine
Southall on another, and we were fortunate enough to secure a third,
with a glorious view of the mountains and with grounds terraced to
the foot of the hill. Large gardens, grounds, and ornamental trees
surrounded all the houses. The best of these were of plain brick of
uniform unpretentious architecture, comfortable, and ample. A small
brick building at the foot of our lawn was my uncle's office, and behind
it, on my tenth birthday, he made me plant a tree.
The "Female Seminary" had been really the magnet that drew my dear aunt.
It was a famous school, presided over by an excellent and much-loved
Presbyterian clergyman. There it was supposed I should learn everything
my aunt could not teach me.
Behold me, then, on a crisp October morning wending my way to the
great brick hive for girls. I was going with my aunt to be examined
for admission. Her thoughts were, doubtless, anxious enough about
the creditable showing I should make. Mine were anxious, too. I was
conscious of a linen bretelle apron under my pelisse, and my mind was
far from clear about the propriety of so juvenile a garment. Suppose no
other girl wore bretelle aprons!
However, when we marched up the broad brick-paved walk and ascended the
steps of the great building, whose many windows seemed to stare at us
like lidless eyes, bretelle aprons sank into insignificance.
The room into which we were ushered seemed to be filled with hundreds
of girls, and the Reverend Doctor's desk on a platform towered over
them. He was most affable and kind. The examination lasted only a few
minutes, a list of books was given me, and a desk immediately in front
of the principal assigned me. Books were borrowed from some other girl,
the lessons for the next day pointed out, and my school life began.
Remember, I had not yet planted my tenth birthday tree. These were
the books deemed suitable for my age,—Abercrombie's "Intellectual
Philosophy," Watts on the "Improvement of the Mind," Goldsmith's
"History of Greece," and somebody's Natural Philosophy.
I worked hard on these subjects with the result that, as I could
not understand them, I learned by rote a few words in answer to the
questions. A bright, amiable little scrap of a girl, who always knew
her lessons, volunteered to assist me. If any collector of old books
should happen to find a volume of Watts on the Mind, much thumbed,
and blotted here and there with tears, and should see within the early
pages pencilled brackets enclosing the briefest possible answer to the
questions, that book, those tears, were mine; and the brackets are the
loving marks made by Margaret Wolfe, whose memory I ever cherish.
"What is Logic?" questions the teacher's guide at the bottom of the
pages.
"Logic," answers Dr. Watts (in conspicuous pencilled brackets), "is the
art of investigating and communicating Truth."
I had been struggling with Dr. Watts, Abercrombie, _et al._, for several
months, when my aunt reluctantly realized that, however admirable the
school might be for others, I was not improving in mind or health. As
soon as she arrived at this conclusion, she decided to experiment with
no more large female seminaries, but to educate me, as best she could,
at home.
At the same time I know that my dear aunt suffered from the overthrow
of all her plans for my education. She had, for my sake, made great
sacrifices in leaving her inherited home. These sacrifices were all for
naught. She must have felt keen disappointment, and regret at the loss,
toil, expense,—and, above all, my worse than wasted time.
Yet, after all, my time at school may not have been utterly thrown
away! The experience may have borne fruit that I know not of.
Moreover, I _had_ learned something! I learned that Logic is the art of
investigating and communicating Truth!