Many of the best types of purely American society could have been found
in the forties in the towns of the country. Now everybody, high and low,
rich and poor, seeks a home in the cities. It is not without reason that
all classes should flock to the metropolis. There wealth can be enjoyed,
poverty aided, talent appreciated; but there individual influence is
almost lost. The temptation to self-assertion, repugnant as it is to
refined feeling, is almost irresistible. Men and women must assert
themselves or sink into oblivion. Nobody has time to climb the rickety
stairs to find the genius in the attic. Nobody looks for the statesman
among the serene adherents to the "Simple Life." Had Cincinnatus lived
at this day, he would have ploughed to the end of his furrow. Nobody
would have interrupted him.
The absence of all the hurry and fever of life made the little town
of Charlottesville an ideal home before the cataclysm of 1861. The
professors at the University could live, in the moderate age, upon
their modest salaries, and have something to spare for entertaining.
The village contingent was refined, amiable, and intelligent. Staunton
sent us, every winter, her young ladies, the daughters of Judge Lucas
Thompson, all of whom were finally absorbed by the descendants of
Charles Carroll, of Carrollton, Maryland. From the neighborhood on the
Buck-mountain Road came the family of William C. Rives, twice our envoy
to the Court of Versailles, and many times sent to the Senate of the
United States. The "gallant Gordons, many a one," the Randolphs and
Pages, and Mr. Stevenson, late Minister to England,—all these lived
near enough to be neighbors and visitors. Across Moore's Creek, at the
foot of Monticello, was the house of Mr. Alexander Rives. There lived
my sweet friend and bridesmaid, Eliza Rives, and there I could call for
a glass of lemonade when on my way to Monticello, guiding, as I often
did, some stranger-guest to visit the home of Thomas Jefferson. We would
pass through the straggling bushes of Scottish broom which bordered the
road—planted originally by Mr. Jefferson himself—pause at the modest
monument over his ashes, and reverently ponder the inscription thereon.
In his own handwriting, among his papers, had been found the record he
desired—not that he had been Minister to France and Secretary of State,
not that he had been twice President of the United States, but simply,—
"Here lies buried Thomas Jefferson, Author of the Declaration
of American Independence, of the Statute of Virginia for
Religious Freedom, and Father of the University of Virginia."
A few steps through the woods would bring us to the plateau commanding
the noble view I have tried to describe. I loved the spot, the glorious
mountains, the glimpse at our feet of the Greek temple in its sacred
grove, the atmosphere of mystery and romance. Once I saw a solitary
_fleur-de-lis_ unfurling its imperial banner on the site of the
abandoned garden. Once I was permitted, in the absence of the owner,
to explore an upper floor in the villa, and was startled by a white,
strained face gleaming out from a dim alcove. This was the bust of
Voltaire. A happy, happy young girl was I on these rides, mounted on my
own horse, Phil Duval, and not unconscious of my becoming green cloth
habit, green velvet turban, and long green feather, fastened with a
diamond buckle—as I believed it to be!
[Illustration: UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA.]
Young girls reared in a university town and admitted to the friendship
of the professors' families must be dull indeed if they absorb nothing
from the literary atmosphere. My dear aunt was an accomplished English
scholar. Her father had been the friend and neighbor of Patrick
Henry, her husband had been one of John Randolph's physicians. My
close friends, the Gilmers, Southalls, and the daughters of Professor
Harrison, all had brothers who were students, and we strove to keep pace
with these fine young fellows and meet them on English ground at least.
We had no circulating library in Charlottesville, and depended upon
the mails for our current literature. We saw _Graham's Magazine_ from
Philadelphia, the _Home Journal_ from New York, the _Southern Literary
Messenger_ from Richmond. Dickens's novels reached us from London,
issued then in monthly sections, and we impatiently awaited them. "Oh,
Sara, have you been introduced to Mr. Toots?" wrote Maria Gordon; "he
is so much in love with Florence Dombey, he 'feels as if somebody was
a-settin' on him!'"
We liked Dickens better than Walter Scott. We found the remarks of
Captain Clutterbuck and the Rev. Dryasdust hard to bear, barring the
door to the enchanted palace until they had their say. To be sure,
Dickens could be tiresome too, pausing in the middle of an exciting
story while somebody—the "stroller" or the "bagman"—related something
wholly irrelevant. To my mind, a story within a story was a nuisance.
It was like a patch on a garment. The garment might be homespun and the
patch satin, but it was a blemish, nevertheless, something put on to
help a weak place. I skipped these stories then and skip them now!
As to Thackeray, I blush to say we did not appreciate him when he
appeared as "Michael Angelo Titmarsh." But we all knew Becky! She was
only a sublimated little Miss Betsy Stevens, a ragged mountain woman
who sold peaches on a small commission, and who, like Becky, having "no
mamma" or other asset, lived by her wits.
Perhaps in our estimation of Thackeray we were guided somewhat by his
own countrymen. An English paper fell in our hands which was not at all
respectful to "Chawls-Yellowplush-Angelo-Titmarsh-Jeames-William-
Makepeace-Thackeray, Esquire of London Town in old England." Such
ridicule would soon settle him! No man could survive it.
None of the visiting authors deigned to call on us,—Thackeray, Dickens,
Miss Martineau,—all passed us by. True, Frederika Bremer condescended
to spend a night with her compatriot, Mr. Schéle de Vere, _en route_ to
the South, where she was to find little to admire except bananas. Mr.
Schéle invited a choice company to spend the one evening Miss Bremer
granted him. Her novels were extremely popular with us. Every one was
on tiptoe of pleased anticipation. While the waiting company eagerly
expected her, the door opened—not for Miss Bremer, but her companion,
who announced:—
"Miss Bremer, she beg excuse. She _ver_ tired and must sleep! If she
come, she gape in your noses!"
Alas for tourist's help in the translating books! "Face" and "nose,"
"gape" and "yawn," although not synonymic, bear at least a cousinly
relation to each other.
The beautiful Christian custom of lighting a Christmas tree—bringing
"the glory of Lebanon, the fir tree, the pine tree, and the box," to
hallow our festival—had not yet obtained in Virginia. We had heard much
of the German Christmas tree, but had never seen one. Lizzie Gilmer, who
was to marry a younger son of the house, was intimate with the Tuckers,
and brought great reports of the preparation of the first Christmas tree
ever seen in Virginia.
I had not yet been allowed to attend the parties of "grown-up" people,
but our young friend John Randolph Tucker was coming of age on Christmas
Eve, and great pressure was brought to bear upon my aunt to permit
me to attend the birthday celebration. This was a memorable occasion.
"Rare Ran Tucker" was a prime favorite with the older set, handsome,
distingué, and already marked for the high place he attained later on
the honor roll of his country.
My aunt could not persist in her rules for me, and I was permitted,
provided I went as "a little girl in a high-necked dress," to accompany
Lizzie. My much-discussed gown was of blue silk, opening over white, and
laced from throat to hem with narrow black velvet! Never, never was girl
as happy! The tree loaded with tiny baskets of bonbons, each enriched
with an original rhyming jest or sentiment, was magnificent, the supper
delicious, the speeches and poems from the two old judges (Tucker) were
apt and witty. I went as a little girl—a close bud—but no "high-necked"
gown ever prisoned a happier heart.
It seems to me, as I look back, that my University friends, Mr. Schéle
de Vere, James Southall, William C. Rives, Jr., George Wythe Randolph,
Roger Pryor, _et al._, felt all at once a very kind interest in my
education. They sent me no end of books. The last presented me with
a gorgeous Shakespeare, also Macaulay's "Essays," Hazlitt's "Age of
Elizabeth" and Leigh Hunt's "Fancy and Imagination," and came himself
to read them to me, along with Shelley, Keats, Byron, and Coleridge.
Mr. Schéle sent me much music and French literature, he also coming to
read the latter with me. William C. Rives loved my music, to which he
could listen by the hour. I kept the friendship of these brilliant men
as long as they lived. Only two lived to be old.
The Tuckers were a family of literary distinction—One of the happiest
and wittiest of them was my dear Lizzie's husband, St. George Tucker.
Anything, everything, would provoke a pun, a parody, or a graceful
rhyme.
When it was proposed to change the name of "Competition"—a court-house
village in the county of Pittsylvania—to "Chatham," he produced a pencil
and paper, and in a moment gave:—
"Illustrious Pitt, how glorious is thy fame,
When Competition dies in Chatham's name."
He was a friend of G. P. R. James, whom he once surprised eating a very
"ripe" cheese.
"You see, Tucker, I am, like Samson, slaying my thousands."
"And with the same weapon?" inquired St. George.
We had a delightful addition to our society in Powhatan Starke, who
came from the Eastern Shore, and spent a year first as a guest of
the Southalls, and later of all of us. He seemed to have been created
for the express purpose of making people happy. He would have us all
convulsed with laughter while he held the woollen skeins for my aunt's
knitting. He taught me on the piano waltzes not to be found in the
books; and the polka, a new dance with picturesque figures just then
introduced. He joined in and enhanced every scheme for pleasure, and
would finally spend half the night serenading us. "The serenade,"
according to a recent definition, "is a cherished courtship custom of
primitive societies." Courtship had nothing to do with it in 1847.
It was only a delicate compliment to ladies who had entertained the
serenaders. Four or five voices in unison would sing such songs as "Oft
in the Stilly Night," "The Last Rose of Summer," "Eileen Aroon," "Flow
Gently, Sweet Afton," and one voice render Rizzio's lovely song:—
"Queen of my soul whose starlit eyes
Are all the light I seek,
Whose voice in sweetest melodies
Can love or pardon speak;
I yield me to thy soft control
Mary—Mary—Queen of my soul!
(_Chorus_) Mary! Mary! Queen of my soul!"
With the first twang of the guitar strings we would slip from our beds,
find our shawls and slippers, and creep downstairs. Crouched close to
the door, we would listen for _Vive l'amour_, the song always concluding
the serenade:—
"Let every bachelor fill up his glass,
Vive la Compagnie!
And drink to the health of his favorite lass,
Vive la Compagnie!"
And just here, rising as it were to a question of privilege concerning
individual rights, let me solemnly assure my reader that I do not
plagiarize from "Trilby." The low-hanging fruit of Mr. Du Maurier's
bountiful orchard is to be desired to make wise the daughters of Eve,
but this Eve has no occasion to rob it. _Au contraire!_ Powhatan Starke
had brought this song from Paris in the forties and sung it for us
twenty years before, according to Du Maurier, the "genteel Carnegie"
had given it in his hiccupy voice to the Laird, Taffy, Little Billie,
Dodor, Zouzou, and the rest.
Personally, I should like to help myself with both hands to the clever
things the young authors are writing. But I am "proud, tho' poor!"
Besides, I should be found out!" Mon verre n'est pas grand, mais je bois
dans mon verre."
I know, I have heard, but one verse of this immortal song. All the
rest were freshly made, whether at dinner, evening party, or moonlight
serenade, to suit the company and the occasion. The chorus, as rendered
by Carnegie the genteel, was:—
"Veeverler, Veeverler, veverler vee
Veverler Companyee."
But my friend twenty years before respected it enough to be accurate:—
"Vive! Vive! Vive l'amour
Vive la compagnie!"
Only he, like _les autres_, sometimes dropped his "_r_'s." They were all
nice in their pronunciation. They gave to the broad "_a_" its fullest
due.
"E'en the slight hahbell raised its head
Elahstic from her ahry tread!"
exclaimed George Gordon, as one of the maidens tripped across the lawn.
But even he was sometimes indifferent to the rights, as a terminal,
of the letter "_r_"; for only as a terminal does the Southern tongue
utterly scorn it. When but a lisping infant, a possible orator was
drilled in the test words:—
"Around the rugged rocks
The ragged rascal ran,"
and taught to roll the elusive consonant to the utmost limit.
But I must linger no longer in this enchanted valley among the
mountains. A long road lies before me. I must pass swiftly on. With just
such trifling events I might fill my book. Dear to every heart are the
annals of its youth; before we enter the vast world of—
"Effort, and expectation and desire—
And something evermore about to be."
We cherish the sweet nothings of a happy time as we preserve dried
rose-leaves. Mayhap through their faint fragrance we may dream the rose!
It was a busy time as well as a happy time. I was helping Mrs. William
C. Rives build a church; I was hemstitching all the ruffles for Thomasia
Woodson's trousseau; I was playing waltzes, _ad infinitum_, at the
house-parties in Charlotte—the Henrys and Carringtons—and singing
campaign songs, to the great delight of my dear grandfather, in honor
of my old friend, Henry Clay, whom we were once more trying to make our
President:—
"Get out o' the way, you're all unlucky;
Clear the track for old Kentucky!"
(And just here I wish to record the fact that only once in all my life
did my old grandfather ever reprove me. I had committed a flagrant act
of _lèse majestie_. I had put a nightcap on the bust of Patrick Henry!)
But my dear aunt's invitations, written on paper embossed with an
orange-blossom and tied with white satin ribbon, were now issued for my
wedding.
I had begun my acquaintance with the young man known now as "the
General," or "the Judge," by beseeching God to take care of him.
According to my Presbyterian training, I was taught that every prayer
must be followed by efforts for its fulfilment. It was clearly my duty
"to take care of him." He needed it.