The society of Charlottesville in the forties was composed of a few
families of early residents and of the professors at the University.
Governor Gilmer, Secretary of the Navy in Tyler's time, Mr. Valentine
Southall of an old Virginia family, and himself eminent in his
profession of the law, Dr. Charles Carter, Professor Tucker, William B.
Rogers, Dr. McGuffey, Dr. Cabell, Professor Harrison,—all these names
are well known and esteemed to this day. There were young people in
these families, and all them were my friends. Along the road I have
travelled for so many years I have met none superior to them and very
few their equals.
My special coterie was a choice one. It included, among others, Lizzie
Gilmer (the lovely) and her sisters; beautiful Lucy Southall; Maria
Harrison and her sweet sister Mary, both accomplished in music and
literature; Eliza Rives and Mary McGuffey. James Southall, William C.
Rives, Jr., George Wythe Randolph, Jack Seddon, Kinsey Johns, Professor
Schéle de Vere, John Randolph Tucker, St. George Tucker—these were
habitués of my home, and all apparently interested in me and in my
music. To each name I might append a list of honors won, at the bar,
in literature, and in the army. I have survived them all—and I kept the
friendship of each one as long as he lived.
The customs in entertaining differed from those in vogue at the
present day. Afternoon teas, which had been fashionable during the
Revolution—tea then being a rare luxury—had not survived until the
forties. Choice Madeira in small glasses, and fruit-cake were offered
to afternoon callers. The cake must always be _au naturel_ if served
in the daytime. Cake iced—in evening dress—was only permissible at the
evening hour.
Dinner-parties demanded a large variety of dishes. They were not served
_à la Russe_. Two table-cloths were _de rigueur_ for a dinner company.
One was removed with the dishes of meat, vegetables, celery, and many
pickles, all of which had been placed at once upon the table. The
cut-glass and silver dessert dishes rested on the finest damask the
housewife could provide. This cloth removed, left the mahogany for the
final walnuts and wine.
Three o'clock was a late hour for a dinner-party—the ordinary family
dinner was at two. The large silver tureen, which is now enjoying a
dignified old age on our sideboards, had then place at the foot of the
table. After soup, boiled fish appeared at the head.
An interview has been preserved between a Washington hostess of the
time and Henry, an "experienced and fashionable" caterer. Upon being
required to furnish the smallest list of dishes possible for a "genteel"
dinner-party of twelve persons, he reluctantly reduced his menu to
soup, fish, eight dishes of meat, stewed celery, spinach, salsify,
and cauliflower. "Potatoes and beets would not be genteel." The meats
were turkey, ham, partridges, mutton chops, sweetbreads, oyster pie,
pheasants, and canvas-back ducks. "Plum-pudding," suggested the hostess.
"La, no, ma'am! All kinds of puddings and pies are out of fashion."
"What, then, can I have at the head and foot of the table?" asked the
hostess. "Forms of ice-cream at the head, and at the foot a handsome
pyramid of fruit. Side dishes, jellies, custards, blanc-mange, cakes,
sweetmeats, and sugar-plums." "No nuts, raisins, figs?" "Oh, _no, no_,
ma'am, they are _quite_ vulgar!"
For the informal supper-parties, to which my aunt was wont to invite
the governor and Mrs. Gilmer, Mr. and Mrs. Southall, Professor and Mrs.
Tucker, the table was amply furnished with cold tongue, ham, broiled
chickens or partridges, and pickled oysters, hot waffles, rolls and
muffins, very thin wheaten wafers, green sweetmeats, preserved peaches,
brandied peaches, cake, tea, and coffee; and in summer the fruits
of the season. These suppers made a brave showing with the Sheffield
candelabra and bowls of roses. Ten years later these "high teas" were
quite out of fashion, and would, by a modern "fashionable caterer," be
condemned as "vulgar." There was a crusade against all card-playing and
dancing. The pendulum was swinging far back from an earlier time when
the punchbowl and cards ruled the evening, and the dancing master held
long sessions, travelling from house to house. To have a regular dancing
party, with violins and cotillon, was like "driving a coach-and-six
straight through the Ten Commandments!" My aunt, however, had the
courage of her convictions, and allowed me small and early dances in
our parlor, with only piano music. Old Jesse Scott lived at the foot of
the hill—but to the length of introducing him and his violin we dared
not go. As it was, after our first offence, a sermon was preached in
the Presbyterian church against the vulgarity and sin of dancing. My
aunt listened respectfully but continued the dance she deemed good for
my health and spirits.
The noblest of men, and one of my uncle's dearest friends, was Thomas
Walker Gilmer, Secretary of the Navy during Tyler's administration.
He was killed on the Potomac by the bursting of a gun on trial for the
first time. My uncle and aunt went immediately to Washington to bring
him home. No man had ever been so loved and esteemed by all who knew
him. I have never seen such grief, as the sorrow of his wife. She had
been a brilliant member of the Washington society, noted for ready wit
and repartee. Never, as long as she lived, did she reënter social life.
With her orphaned children she lived on "The Hill" very near us. These
children were a part of our family always.
As time went on, and we grew tall,—Lizzie and I,—students from the
University found us out, and had permission to visit us. Lizzie,
three years my senior, became engaged to St. George Tucker, one of our
choice circle. When more visitors called on Lizzie than she could well
entertain in an evening, it was her custom to send Susan, a little
pet negress whom she had taught to read, running down the hill with,
"Please, Miss Hargrave, please, ma'am, Miss Lizzie say she certn'ly will
be glad if you let Miss Sara come up an' help 'er with her comp'ny." My
aunt could never deny her anything. I was too young, much too young,
but we took our lives very naturally and unconsciously, accepting a
guest and doing our best for him, whether he was old or young. We were
never announced as débutantes. No Rubicon flowed across our path,—on
one side pinafores and long braids, on the other purple-and-fine-linen
and elaborate coiffure,—the which if stepped across at an entertainment
ushered us into society.
Lizzie and I felt that we were young hostesses, and took pains to be,
according to our lights, ceremonious and conventional in our behavior.
Some one or two of our guests was sure to be George Gordon, or James
Southall, or "Jim" White, or "Sainty" Tucker, who were as brothers to
us; and very watchful and strict were these boy chaperons! The great
anxiety was lest our visitors should stay too late. So my aunt and Mrs.
Gilmer carefully timed the burning of a candle until ten o'clock, and
all candles thereafter were cut that length. When they began to flicker
in the sockets, good nights were expected.
Mrs. Gilmer's large house was divided in the middle by a hall extending
to a door in the rear. On one side were the bedrooms of the family,
on the other the parlors and dining-room. She spent her evenings in a
darkened room, just across the hall from the parlor, and although she
had not the heart to mingle with us, we knew she was near.
One night we had a number of guests, among them a stranger, Mr. Tebbs,
brought by one of our own band who had introduced him and then left, Mr.
Tebbs remarking that he too must soon leave, as a friend was down town
waiting for him. The candles burned low, and we allowed long pauses in
conversation, vainly hoping the stranger would depart. Presently the
knocker sounded an alarum, and little Susan hurried from her mistress's
room to answer it. We distinctly heard her announce, "Dish yer's a
letter, Miss Ann," and Mrs. Gilmer's languid reply, "Light a candle and
read it to me." We essayed to drown Susan's voice, for I was quite sure
it was a peremptory order for me to come home, but it rang out clearly
and deliberately, "Tebbs, you damn rascal! Are you going to stay at Mrs.
Gilmer's all night!" To make matters worse, Susan immediately appeared
with the note for the blushing Mr. Tebbs, who then and there bade us a
long farewell. We never saw him more! A delicious little story was told
with keen relish by Juliet, the fifteen-year-old daughter. She had, as
she thought, "grown up," while her mother lived in seclusion, and had
a boy-lover of her own. Sitting, after hours, one moonlight night on
the veranda under her mother's window, the anxious youth was moved to
seize the propitious moment and declare himself. Juliet wished to answer
correctly, and dismiss him without wounding him. She assured him "Mamma
would never consent." A voice from within decided the matter: "Accept
the young man, Juliet, if you want to—I've not the least objection—and
let him run along home now. Be sure to bolt the door when you come in!"
Evidently Mrs. Gilmer had small respect for boy-lovers; and wished to
go to sleep.
The Gilmer home was full of treasures of books and pictures. We turned
over the great pages of Hogarth and the illustrations of Shakespeare,
very much to the damage of these valuable books. Choice old Madeira
was kept in the cellar, to which we had free access, mixing it with
whipped cream or mingling it with ice, sugar and nutmeg whenever we so
listed. A great gilded frame rested against the wall, from which some
large painting had been removed. Over this we stretched a netting and
inaugurated _tableaux vivantes_, of which we never wearied. I was always
Rowena, to whom Lizzie, as Rebecca the Jewess, gave her jewels. One of
the Gilmer boys made an admirable Dr. Primrose, another Moses, whom we
dressed for the fair, and the other children were flower girls, nuns,
or pilgrims with staff and shell.
When one questions the possibility of this large family living
for several years without a head and moving about decorously and
systematically, we must not forget the family butler, Mandelbert, and
his wife, Mammy Grace. Both were long past middle age. They simply
assumed the care of their broken-hearted mistress and her children,
ruling the house with patient wisdom and kindness. Mammy Grace, so well
known fifty years ago in Virginia, was peculiar in her speech, retaining
the imagery of her race and nothing of its dialect. She was straight
and tall and always carefully dressed. She wore a dark, close-fitting
gown, which she called a "habit," a handkerchief of plaid madras
crossed upon her bosom, an ample checked apron, and a cap with a full
mob crown like Martha Washington's. When she dropped her respectful
"curtsey," her salutation, "Your servant, master," was less suggestive
of deference than of dignified self-respect. Her one fault was that,
like her mistress, she never knew when the children were grown. This
was sometimes embarrassing. As surely as 8 o'clock Saturday night came,
one after the other would be called from the parlor, and would obey
instantly, for fear she would add more than a hint of the thorough,
personally superintended bath which awaited each one.
Mandelbert was superb, tall, gray, and very stately. He had been born
and trained in the family, a model, _distingué_-looking servant. Mammy
Grace lived to an honored old age, but a liberal use of fine old Madeira
proved the reverse of the modern lacteal remedy for old age. In a few
years there was no more wine in the cellar—and no more Mandelbert.
The grandmother of the Gilmer children was Mrs. Ann Baker, a lovely
old lady who wore a Letitia Ramolino turban, with little curls sewn
within its brim. She had been a passenger on James Rumsey's boat in
1786 at Shepherdstown, when he was the first to succeed by steam alone
in propelling a vessel against the current of the Potomac, and "at the
rate of four or five miles an hour!" She was a lovely, cultivated old
lady, the widow of a distinguished man. I cannot be quite sure,—all
witnesses are gone,—but I have a distinct impression I was told that
General Washington was a passenger with Mrs. Baker on James Rumsey's
boat.