The year after my fifteenth birthday was destined to be an eventful
one to me. In May of that year I wrote a letter to my aunt, Mrs.
Izard Bacon Rice, who lived at "The Oaks" in Charlotte County. This
letter, the earliest extant of my girlhood, has recently been placed
in my hands, and I venture to hope I may be pardoned for inserting
the naïve production here; not for any intrinsic merit, but because
of the light it reflects upon my development and associations at the
age of fifteen,—a light not to be acquired by mere recollection, as
a photograph of the person must be more lifelike than a sketch from
memory.
"CHARLOTTESVILLE, May 25, 1845.
"MY DEAR AUNT: I think that I have fully tested the truth of
the old saying, viz. 'Hope deferred maketh the heart sick,'
for I have hoped and hoped in vain for an answer to my last
letter, and since it does not make its appearance, I write to
request an explanation.
"I received a letter from Willie (Carrington) this morning,
and was rejoiced to hear that you still intend coming to
Charlottesville 'some of these times,' and that she thinks of
coming also. I am overjoyed at the idea of seeing my _dear_
little Henry, and Tom in a few weeks. Willie says that Henry
is _beautiful_, and that Tom has become quite a famous beau,
improved wonderfully in gallantry, etc. I anticipate a great
many long, pleasant walks with him, though I am afraid he will
not like Charlottesville, as he will find no rabbits' tracks
or partridges here. I hope you will come the first of June
and stay a long while with us.
"Aunt Mary has been very unwell for a long time, but I am in
hopes that she is getting a little better. I think your visit
will improve her wonderfully. We are all as busy as we can
be: aunt and uncle in the garden and yard, and I studying
my French lessons, sewing, reading, and housekeeping for
Aunt Mary when she is sick. I am very disconsolate at the
thought of losing my most intimate friend (Lizzie Gilmer)
for a few months. She is going to Staunton, and I expect to
miss her very much. We have a very quiet time now—as most of
my acquaintances were _sent off_ at the late disturbances at
the University, and I can study, undisturbed by company. I
scarcely visit any one except Lizzy, and receive more visits
from her than any one else, as she comes _every_ day, and
frequently two or three times a day. I am going to spend my
last evening with her this evening, as she leaves to-morrow.
I am very sorry that Willie will not see her, as I know they
would like each other.
"Who do you think I have had a visit from? No less a personage
than Dr. Schéle de Vere, professor of modern languages at the
University. He has called on me _twice_, but I, unfortunately,
was not at home once when he called. He is a German (one of
the nobility), and speaks our language shockingly, and is such
an incessant _chatterer_ that he gives _me_ no possible chance
of wedging in a syllable. He walked with me from church last
Sunday, and jabbered incessantly, much to the amusement of
the congregation in general, but particularly of two little
boys who walked behind us. When he parted with us, he asked
uncle's permission to visit us, which was granted; and he
seemed _very_ grateful, and said he 'would have de pleasure
den of sharing de doctor's hospitality and hearing some of
Miss Rice's fine music.' But what mortifies me beyond measure
is that he treats me as a _little child_, and inquires _most
affectionately_ about my progress in music, etc. He is not
so much older than I am, either, as he is only twenty-one, so
_I_ think he might be more respectful in his demeanor. What do
you think of it all? He plays very well on the piano, and has
heard the best performers in Europe, so I feel very reluctant
to play for him. The first time he heard me play, he wanted to
applaud me as they do at concerts, but he was checked by one
of the company, who intimated to him that it was not customary
in this country, so he contented himself with clapping his
hands several times.
"I have neither time nor paper for much more, so good-by.
Aunt Mary joins me in love and a kiss to all grandfather's
household and to Tom, Henry, and Uncle Izard.
"Yours affectionately,
"SARA A. RICE.
"P.S. I send my best respects to Lethe, Viny, and Aunt Chany,
and my love to all the ducks, geese, chickens, turkeys, and
Tom's dogs.
"Yours affectionately,
"SARA A. RICE."
This sixty-four-year-old letter was beautifully written with a quill
pen, clear and distinct without an erasure, blotted with sand from
a perforated box, without envelope, and sealed with wax. Written in
figures upon the envelope was "Uncle Sam's" receipt for prepaid postage,
12½ cents, no stamps having then been issued by him.
Fanciful seals and motto wafers were in high favor among romantic young
people. "L'amitié c'est l'amour sans ailes" was a prime favorite; also a
maiden in a shallop looking upward to a star, the legend "Si je te perds
je suis perdu." The most delicate refusal to a lover on record was the
lady's card, "With thanks," sealed with a bird in flight and "Liberty
is sweet!"
The "disturbances of late," for which my friends were "suspended for
a month," were not of a serious nature. They were only the midnight
pranks of mischievous boys, such as hyphenating the livery-stable's name
"Le Tellier" to read "Letel-Liar," drawing his "hacks" to the doors
of the citizens, placing the undertaker's sign over the physician's
office, driving Mr. Schéle's ponies, and leaving on their flanks the
painted words "So far for to-day," the phrase with which he invariably
ended his lectures. It remained later for the student in whom I was
most interested to excel them all. He drove a flock of sheep one dark
night up the rotunda stairs to the platform on the roof, and then shut
down the trap-door. A plaintive good-morning-bleating welcomed faculty
and students next day. Needless to say, the valiant shepherd was
"suspended."
Late in the summer of this year another large convention of clergymen,
Presbyterian this time, was held at Charlottesville. No good hotel
could be found anywhere in Virginia. The landlord was ruined by the
hospitality of the citizens. As soon as a pleasant stranger "put up"
at a public house, he was claimed as a guest by the first man who could
reach him.
When large religious or political or literary meetings convened in
our town, my uncle would send to the chairman asking for the number of
guests we could entertain. Until they arrived, we were as much on the
_qui vive_ as if we had bought numbers in a lottery.
On this occasion, Lizzie and I were in great grief. She had been away
from town for two months, and was now to make me a long visit. We
had made plans for a lovely week. Now the house would be filled with
clergymen,—no music, no visitors (and Lizzie was engaged), no "fun"! My
aunt sympathized with us, and fitted up a small room at the far end of
the hall, moved in the piano and guitar, and bade us make ourselves at
home.
We were seated at church behind a row of the grave and reverend seniors,
when Dr. White leaned over our pew and said to one of them, "I'm glad
to tell you I can send you to Dr. Hargrave's. He will take fine care of
you."
"But," demurred the reverend gentleman, "I have my son with me."
"Take him along! There's plenty of room," replied the doctor.
Lizzie gave me a despairing glance. Now we _are_ ruined, we thought. A
dreadful small boy to be amused and kept out of mischief.
That afternoon we were condoling with each other in our little city of
refuge, when the opening front door revealed among our guests a slender
youth, who, upon being directed to his room, sprang up the stairs two
or three steps at a time.
"Mercy!" said I. "Worse and worse! There's no hope for us! A strange
young man to be entertained in our little parlor!"
My aunt entering just then, we confided our miseries to her. "Never
mind, Lizzie," she said, "Sara shall keep him in the large room. She
must bring down all her prettiest books and pictures and arrange a table
in a corner for his amusement. He will not be here much of the time. He
has to go to church with his father, you know."
The name of this unwelcome intruder was Roger A. Pryor. He made
himself charming. I had not yet tucked up my long braids, but he
treated me beautifully. He was so alert, so witty, so amiable, that
he was unanimously voted the freedom of our sanctum. He entered with
glee into our schemes for self-defence. Running out to a shrub on the
lawn, he returned with a handful of "wax berries," gravely explained,
"ammunition," and proceeded to test the range of the missile. Just then
one of the enemy, the great Dr. Plumer, entered the hall, and the soft
berry neatly reached his dignified nose. His Reverence gave no sign of
intelligence. He had been a boy himself!
St. George Tucker took an immense fancy to our new ally. He found a
great deal to say to me. How glad was I that my aunt had given me a new
rose-colored silk bonnet from Mme. Viglini's.
The week passed like a dream. When the stage drew up at midnight to
take our guest to the railroad, seven miles distant, we were both very
_triste_ at parting.
He was sixteen years old, was to graduate next summer at Hampden Sidney
College, and come the session afterward to our University. I hoped all
would go well with him; and after the winding horn of the stage was
quite out of hearing, I,—well, I had been taught early to entreat the
Father of all to take care of my friends. There could be no great harm
in including him by name, nor yet in adding to my petition the words
"_for me!_"
I suppose I may have seemed a bit _distrait_ after this incident, for
my uncle, who was always devising occupation for me, insisted upon my
writing a story. I liked to please him, and I surprised him by producing
a love story. I think I called it "The Birthnight Ball." I remember this
quotation, which I considered quite delicate and suggestive:—
"The stars, with vain ambition, emulate her eyes." That is all I
remember of my story. My uncle sent it to the _Saturday Evening Post_
in Philadelphia and it was accepted, the editor proposing, as I was a
young writer, to waive the _honorarium_! I was only too glad to accept
the honor.
In the autumn my uncle took us on a long journey to Niagara Falls
and the Northern Lakes. In New York we stopped at the Astor House on
Broadway, and my room looked into the park then opposite, where scarlet
flamingoes gathered around a fountain. We walked in the beautiful
Bowling Green Park, then the fashionable promenade, took tea with
the Miss Bleeckers on Bleecker Street, and bought a lovely set of
turquoises, a jewelled comb, and a white topaz brooch from Tiffany's.
Moreover, my seat at table was near that of John Quincy Adams, now an
aged man, paralytic, and almost incapable of conveying his food to his
lips. He was charmingly cheerful, and courteous to a sweet-faced lady
who attended him.
I think we took the canal-boat in Schenectady which was to convey us
across the state of New York.
My uncle had been beguiled in New York by a flaming pictorial
advertisement of palatial packet-boats, drawn by spirited horses
galloping at full speed. When we entered our little craft, we found
it so crowded that we were wretchedly uncomfortable. Possibly, in our
ignorance, we had not taken the fine packet of the advertisement. Our
own boat crawled along at a snail's pace, making three or four miles
an hour. Many of the passengers left it every morning, preferring to
walk ahead and wait for us until night. We made the journey in five or
six days. The heat, the discomfort, the mosquitoes! Who can imagine the
misery of that journey? Fresh from the mountains and gorgeous sunsets
of Albemarle, we found little to admire in the scenery.
As to the Falls, which we had come so far to see—they and their
_entourage_ made me ill. It was all so weird and strange; the dark
forests of evergreen, pine, and spruce; the sullen Indians, squatted
around blankets, embroidering with beads and porcupine quills; the
hapless little Indian babies strapped to boards and swinging in the
trees, and over all, the heavy roar of the waters. The immensity of
their power filled me with terror. I longed to get away from the awful
spectacle.
The best part of a journey is the home-coming. The dear familiar
house,—we never knew how good it was,—the welcome of affectionate,
cheerful servants; the dogs beside themselves with joy, the perfect
peace, leisure, relaxation! Flowers, fruit, and much accumulated
mail awaited us. My keen eye detected a large-enveloped paper from
Philadelphia, and my nimble fingers quickly abstracted it, unperceived,
from the miscellaneous heap, and consigned it to a bureau drawer in my
room, the key of which went into my pocket.
In the privacy of my bedtime hour—having bolted the door—I drew it
forth. Oh, what inane foolishness! What sad trash! Tearing it into
strips, I lighted each one at my candle and saw the whole burned—burned
to impalpable smoke and degraded dust and ashes; consigned then and
there to utter oblivion!
My uncle often wondered why the story had not appeared. There was a
perilous moment when he threatened to write to the publishers, but I
persuaded him to be patient and dignified about it, and the matter,
after a while, was forgotten. Never was an uncle so managed by a young
girl!
I think my great card with him was my interest in his office work.
Physicians compounded and prepared their own prescriptions sixty-five
years ago. He delighted in me when I donned my ample apron and, armed
with scales and spatula, gravely assumed the airs of a physician's
assistant. I knew all his professional manœuvres to satisfy
hypochondriac old gentlemen and nervous old ladies. I learned to make
the innocuous pills which "helped" them "so much," and the carminative
for the aching little stomachs of the babies. Great have been the
strides since then in the noblest of all professions!
[Illustration: MRS. FANNY BLAND RANDOLPH.]
Just here I venture to illustrate some of the radical changes in the
practice of medicine by extracts from a letter written by Dr. Theodorick
Bland to his sister, Fanny Bland Randolph. The letter is copied from
the original in the possession of the late Joseph Bryan of Richmond,
Virginia.
The treatment in 1840 differed in no material particular from that of
1771, when Dr. Bland prescribed—regretting the necessity of "absent
treatment"—to his sister's husband, John Randolph, as follows:—
"I take Mr. Randolph's case to be a bilious intermittent,
something of the inflammatory kind, which, had he been bled
pretty plentifully in the beginning, would have intermitted
perfectly; but unless his pulse is hard and, as it were,
laboring and strong, I would not advise that he should now be
bled; but if they are strong and his head-ache violent, and
the weight of the stomach great, let him lose about six ounces
of blood from the arm, and if he is much relieved from that,
and his pulse rises and is full and strong after it, a little
more may be taken. Let his body be kept open by Glysters, made
with chicken water, molasses, decoction of marsh-mallows and
manna, given once, twice or three times,—nay, even four times
a day if occasion requires, and let him have manna and cream
of tartar dissolved in Barley Water,—one ounce of manna and a
half ounce of Cream of Tartar to every pint. Of this let him
drink plentifully, but prior to this, after bleeding (should
bleeding be necessary) let him take a vomit of Ipecac, four
grains every half hour until he has four or five plentiful
vomits, drinking plentifully of Camomile Tea (to three or four
pints at intervals) to work it off. Should the pain in the
head be violent and the eyes red and heavy, let his temples
be cupped or leeches applied to his temples, which operation
may be repeated every day, if he find relief from it, for
two or three days. If the manna, Cream of Tartar and Glysters
be not effectual, let him take fifteen grains of rhubarb and
as many of Vitriolated Tartar, repeating the dose, twice or
three times at six or eight hours intervals. Should he have
any catching of the nerves, let one of the powders be given
every four hours in a spoonful of jalop or pennyroyal water.
Should he be delirious, sleepy, or dozing in a half kind of
a sleep, his pulse small and quick, put blisters to his back,
arms and legs, and leeches and cupping to his temples. If his
skin should be hot, dry and parched after he has taken his
vomit or before, let him be put in a tub of warm water with
vinegar in it, up to his arm-pits and continue in it as long
as he can bear it, first wetting his head therein. He may,
now and then, drink a little claret-whey and have his tongue
sponged with sage-tea, honey and vinegar. Dear Fanny, with
sincere wishes for his safe and speedy recovery, and love to
him and your dear little ones,
"Your affectionate brother,
"T. BLAND."
It is difficult to imagine that one of the "dear little ones" was John
Randolph of Roanoke—that incarnation of genius and outrageous temper.
His father survived Dr. Bland's treatment only a few years. Still,
fidelity to historic truth impels me to state that we have no evidence
that the doctor was in league with Henry St. George Tucker, who almost
immediately married the widow!