I was peacefully enjoying a cup of tea with Mrs. Arnold Harris, when her
father, old General Armstrong, entered, and brought me the astounding
news that my husband had resigned his position as editor of the
_Washington Union_.
"Oh, that boy! He thinks he knows more about foreign politics than I do."
I was very fond of the General, who had always treated me in a fatherly
and most kind manner. But of course I could not hear my husband
discussed, even by him, so I expressed polite regrets and hastened
home. It was too true! The junior partner had published in the _Union_
a very strong article, taking the part of Russia in the Crimean War,
and General Armstrong had wished him to disavow it "upon further
consideration." He had refused, and declared he must write according
to his convictions or not at all. The matter might possibly have
been adjusted, had not the General, with more zeal than discretion,
remonstrated with him upon the ground that he should "think twice before
giving up a large salary."
There is a very ugly word in the English language of which I, as a
child, stood in mortal fear. I had then never read that word anywhere
except in the Bible or my Catechism. I had never heard it except in the
pulpit. I had an idea that the devil, in whose personality I believed,
but of whom I had never thought enough to be afraid, might appear at any
moment in connection with that inviting word, if uttered out of church.
Only lately has it been shorn of its terrors by being left out root and
branch in the revision of the Bible. Now, although offensive to ears
polite, it is no longer supposed to imperil the safety of the soul.
Unless refined taste forbids, it may in seasons of peculiar vexation of
spirit—_à lâcher la vapeur_—be applied to things inanimate: to a "spot"
that will not "out," to tiresome "iteration," to "faint praise," or,
on general principles, suitably preface the pronoun "it," but never to
living individuals! That would be uncivil to a degree—highly imprudent,
and likely to result unpleasantly. There can be no doubt of the fact
that it contains certain mysterious elements of relief and comfort, else
why its frequent use by men and not infrequent use by some women?
At the time of which I am writing it was to me still a desperate word of
evil source and evil omen. Even now the cells of my brain respond with
a shudder when I hear it.
You can then imagine the shock I sustained when I learned my husband's
reply to the good old General's overture.
"What did you say?" I had sternly demanded.
"Well, if you _will_ have it—I said, '_damn_ the money!'"
We did not leave Washington immediately. My editor knew he could make
good his position in regard to Russia in her quarrel with England, and
Mr. Gales offered him the columns of the _National Intelligencer_ for
that purpose. He wrote a long and able defence of Russia. Caleb Cushing
met him afterward and congratulated him on an article which was, he
said, "unanswered and unanswerable."
He was fascinated with editorial life, immediately bought an interest in
the _Richmond Enquirer_, and became co-editor with William F. Ritchie.
We had inaugurated President Pierce, whose friendship promised much. I
had made charming friends in Washington,—Mrs. Gales and Mrs. Seaton,
Mrs. Crittenden, beautiful Adele Cutts (afterward Mrs. Douglas),
Mrs. "Clem" Clay, and other charming wives of the representatives in
Congress. But I was not sorry to leave the city. My dear Blue Mountains
were awaiting me. For years I could never return to them without a
swelling heart. I was going back for a long visit to my aunt and the
baby girl I had lent her (to keep her own dear heart from breaking
when I left her), and I had a splendid boy to show my friends in
Charlottesville—the old people only—for all my confrères had married
and taken wing.
It was not long before Mr. Pierce sent my husband on a special mission
to Greece. I could not accompany him. I could not travel with my
babies—there were now three—nor could I leave them with my delicate
aunt. I went with him as far as Washington, where we spent one day and
night. A dinner had been arranged to witness the unfolding of a superb
specimen of the _Agave Americana_, supposed to be over fifty years
old, and which now, for the first time in the memory of the present
generation, had suddenly thrown up a great stalk crowned with a bud
nearly a foot long.
We did not attend the dinner, but at midnight, upon answering a knock
at the door, there stood a man bearing in his arms the splendid flower.
A thick fringe of narrow, pure white petals formed a rosette, and from
the centre rose a plume of golden stamens. I was resolved this midnight
beauty should not discover the dawn which signals the closing of its
petals, so I placed it in the ample fireplace, made a framework of
canes, parasols, and umbrellas around it and covered the whole with a
blanket. In the morning I peeped in. It presented a tightly twisted
spike, having entered upon another long sleep of fifty years, more
or less. It was this flower that my husband, with outrageous American
boasting, described to Queen Mathilde of Greece as an ordinary floral
production of this country, not to be confounded with the commonplace
night-blooming Cereus, and fired an ambition in her soul that could
hardly have been gratified.
While my husband was absent on his mission, President Pierce spent one
day in Charlottesville to visit the tomb and home of Jefferson, the
father of his political party. We were then at my aunt's country place,
and the President wrote to me regretting he could not go out to see me,
and inviting me to spend the one evening of his stay with him and a few
friends at his hotel.
I had a delightful evening. He expressed the warmest friendship for
the young ambassador to Greece, and presented me with two beautiful
books, bound sumptuously in green morocco and inscribed in his own fine
handwriting, from my "friend Franklin Pierce." Those valued books were
taken from me when our house was sacked in 1865. They possibly exist
somewhere! certainly in the grateful memory of their first owner.
The President had the courtesy to express pleasure in my piano playing.
I made him listen to Thalberg's "La Stranièra," Henselt's "Gondola,"
and "L'Elisir d'Amour"; and I left him with an impression that has never
been lost, of his kindness of heart, his captivating voice and manner.
My husband's letters from Greece and from Egypt were extremely
interesting, and I preserved them for publication in book form. Alas!
they, too, were lost in 1865. Unable to encumber myself when I fled
before the bullets in 1865, I sent my little son back under cover of
night to draw the box containing them to some safe place away from the
buildings and burn them. Thus I lost all records of our active life
in Virginia before the eve of surrender, except those preserved in the
files of Northern papers.
Passage was taken in the _Pacific_ for my husband's return, and I went
down to Petersburg that I might be with his family to meet him. The
_Pacific_ was long overdue before we would acknowledge to each other
that we were anxious,—I can hear now, as then, cries of the newsboys,
"Here's the _New York Herald_, and no news of the _Pacific_,"—repeating
like a knell of despair, as they ran down the streets, "_No news of the
Pacific! No news of the Pacific!_" At last, when the strain was almost
unbearable, my father, Dr. Pryor, ran home with the paper in his hand:
"A printed list of the passengers, my dear! Roger's name is not among
them!"
It had pleased God to deliver him. He had taken passage on the _Pacific_
and sent his baggage ahead of him. When he reached Marseilles, he
found his trunks and packages had been opened,—a discourtesy to an
ambassador,—and he remained a few days to obtain redress, allowing the
_Pacific_ to sail without him. That ill-starred steamer never reached
home. The story of her fate is held where so many secrets, so many
treasures lie—in the bosom of the great deep.
I have told elsewhere something of my husband's residence at Athens. It
suffices to state here that he accomplished the object of his mission to
the satisfaction of his government, and to his own pleasure and profit.
He brought me many beautiful pictures and carvings for the home we now
made in Richmond, to say nothing of corals, amber, mosaics, curios, and
antiques, silks, laces, velvets, perfumes, etc., to my great content.
Soon after his return, the President offered him the mission to Persia,
which he declined. We found a pleasant house in Richmond, with ample
grounds on either side for the flowers I adored. There we set up our
Lares and Penates—happy housekeepers, intent on hospitality.
The great day arrived for our first large dinner-party. Although only
men were present, they were friends and neighbors, and I presided;
with my courtly uncle, Dr. Thomas Atkinson, at my right hand. We
furnished our dinners from our own kitchens in Richmond. In every
respect—so my uncle assured me—my first venture was a success. Soup,
fish, roast, game, and salad with the perfection of chill demanded by
a self-respecting salad. Presently I saw one of the waiters whisper
to the host, and an expression of alarm pass over his face. The bread
had "given out"! I had not imagined the enormous consumption of bread
of which a wine-bibber could be capable. Passing around to the head of
the table, the dire story was repeated to me, and it was well I had a
physician at my right hand! Utter collapse threatened his young hostess.
As to the young host, he rose nobly to the occasion. "Ah! no bread! Then
we must eat cake!" Thenceforth at all our dinners a skeleton entered
our closet—if an empty bread-tray might be dignified into a skeleton.
At every dinner and supper we gave, my husband stood in mortal terror
lest the bread should give out—as it really did in very truth not many
years later.
I was very fond of a little factotum of my cook, whom I promoted from
the kitchen to my personal service. As no bell or knocker could reach
the ear in the regions allotted the servants, George was invested in
white linen, and with a primer for his entertainment and culture was
stationed at the door during visiting hours. He found it difficult to
keep awake. My French teacher would throw up his hands when he passed
out, "_Mon Dieu! Comme il dorme!_" If you have ever seen Valentine's
bust of the Nation's Ward, you have seen George; asleep, with his head
on his bosom and his spelling-book on the floor. He was of a blackness
not to be illustrated by the ace of spades, a crow's wing, or any other
sable bird or object, and this circumstance, enhancing the purity of
his white linen, made him an attractive and interesting object. George
had no imagination. He was nothing if not literal. At one time ice
was scarce in Richmond. The water of the James was a rich old-gold
color from the mud of the red-clay regions through which some of its
tributaries ran, but it was considered wholesome. We filtered it for
drinking and for tea through a great Vesuvius stone. Some of the old
residents were wont to declare they preferred it to the clear water of
the springs,—several of which were in the parks of the city,—complaining
that the spring water "lacked body." At the time of the ice famine we
filled tubs with this cool, muddy water, and in it kept our bottles of
milk. George once brought for my admiration some fine lettuce the cook
had bought from a cart.
"Put it in water!" I ordered. Soon afterwards, he entered with several
bottles of milk—which I also told him to "put in water." What was my
dismay when the cook rushed to my room in great heat:—
"I knowed that fool nigger would give you trouble!"
"Why, what's the poor child done?"
"Po' chile! Little devil, _I_ call him! He's done po'ed out all the
baby's milk in that yaller water, and seasoned it with lettuce leaves!"
We found the society of Richmond delightful. Southern society has often
been described, its members praised or blamed, criticised or admired,
according to the point of view; sometimes commended as "stately but
condescending, haughty but jovial," possessing high self-appreciation,
not often indulging in distasteful egotism; fast friends, generous,
hospitable; considering conversation an art to be studied, and fitting
themselves with just so much knowledge of literature, science, and
art, as might be indispensable for conversation; but withal "cultured,
educated men of the world who would meet any visitor on his own favorite
ground."
Richmond society has always claimed a certain seclusiveness for
itself—not _ex_clusiveness—for nobody properly introduced could visit
Richmond without having a dinner or evening party given in his honor.
"Taken in?"—of course the entertainers were sometimes "taken in"! That
did not signify once in a while.
I remember a portly dame with two showy daughters, always handsomely
attired, who managed, at some watering-place, to find favor in the
eyes of one of our citizens and obtained an invitation, which was
eagerly accepted, to make him a visit. An evening party was given
to introduce them. I had my doubts after a conversation with Madame
Mère—and expressed them, to the disgust of one of my friends.
"Impossible," she said, coolly. After they left, Mr. Price, our leading
merchant, presented a large bill for female fineries with which he had
unhesitatingly credited Madame, who had departed with her daughters to
parts unknown. It was promptly, and without a grimace, paid by their
deluded host. I could remember the sweetly apologetic way in which
Madame had told me she feared her "girls were a bit overdressed for
the small functions in Richmond. In New York, now! But here, of course,
there need be no such display as in New York!"
No amusement, except an occasional song from an obliging guest, was
provided for our evening parties. Conversation and a good supper, with
the one-and-only Pizzini to the fore—this was inducement enough. Not
quite as spirituelle as Lady Morgan, we required something more than a
lump of sugar to clear the voice. And Pizzini's suppers! His pyramids
of glacé oranges, "_non pareil_," and spun sugar; his ices, his wine
jellies, his blanc manges and, ye gods! his terrapin, pickled oysters,
and chicken salad! We assembled not much later than nine, and remained
as long as it pleased us. Sometimes we acted—"The Honeymoon," or some
other little play; Anna Cora Mowatt (Mrs. Ritchie) gave charming
tableaux, with recitations; but usually we talked and talked and
talked! "Art of conversation?" I suspect art has nothing to do with
conversation. When it becomes art, it ceases to be conversation. We did
not gossip, either. Personalities were quite, quite out of the question.
Our hosts knew to perfection the art of entertaining.
Sometime in the fifties, Charles Astor Bristed wrote his book, entitled,
"The Upper Ten Thousand of New York." It appears the world was waiting
for some such work. The theme rippled from shore to shore, until within
the past few years it seems to have expired with the myth of the Four
Hundred. N. P. Willis (wasn't he a bit of a snob himself?) caught with
avidity the new departure in Mr. Bristed's book, and eternally harped
upon it. From 1852 until the war, and afterward, until the subsidence
of the Four Hundred ripple, we have heard a great deal about classes,
society; and finally, American manners came to the fore as a subject of
journalistic interest. "American manners! Are they improving in grace
or dignity?" The question was put to a number of men and women whose
experience and frankness could be relied upon. The answers, except for
one, were vague and cautious. Nobody likes to appear as a satirist or
cynic—and yet nobody is willing to acknowledge that he knows nothing
better than what appears at present to be the standard of good breeding,
by comparison with the standard twenty or more years ago.
The one honest man revealed by the lamp-light of the inquiring editor
remembered the chapter allotted to a contributor in the preparation of
"a history of Ireland." The subject of the chapter was dictated—"The
Snakes of Ireland"—and it appeared with that heading. It was brief and
to the point—"There are no Snakes in Ireland."
"American manners?" answered the one honest man; "there aren't any."
"American manners," said George William Curtis, "where do you find them?
If high society be the general intercourse of the highest intelligence
with which we converse,—the festival of Wit and Beauty and Wisdom,—we
do not find it at Newport. Fine society is a fruit that ripens slowly.
We Americans fancy we can buy it."
Foreigners have never ceased to comment upon American manners. The
subject in the fifties seems to have been of inexhaustible interest.
"There's no use," said Max O'Rell, "in forever gazing at the Upper Ten
Thousand. They are alike all over the world. It is the million that
differ and are interesting." Marion Crawford said: "The Upper Ten can
never fraternize with artists, poets, and inventors. These take no
account of wealth or of any position not won by absolute genius or
merit, treating such position, indeed, with ill-concealed contempt."
Thackeray liked to be agreeable to the people who made his lectures
profitable, but he complains of the "uncommon splendatiousness" of
Americans. "But I haven't been in Society yet," he wrote, in 1852; "I
haven't met the Upper Ten." Another English writer went farther—much
farther—but we forbear. Now these harsh judgments were exclusively of
manners in New York, Newport, and Washington. No Curtis, Bristed, or
Willis ever, to my knowledge, visited Richmond. Thackeray, Max O'Rell,
and Ampère never thought us worth while—so our delightful small society,
which had ripened slowly and took no account of wealth, and which
could really have furnished a modicum of "Wit, beauty, and Wisdom"
for Curtis's "festival," was unrepresented. As to the criticisms of
our elder brother across the water, as long as he sends his sons to
America to find the mothers of the future peers of his realm, the edge
is blunted of his strictures upon American society and manners.