From the sorrows of Miss Burney in the palace--a striking contrast
with the menials described in our own country homes--I will return to
another charming place on James river--Powhatan Seat--a mile below
Richmond, which had descended in the Mayo family two hundred years.
Here, it was said, the Indian chief Powhatan had lived, and here was
shown the veritable stone supposed to have been the one upon which
Captain Smith's head was laid, when the Indian princess Pocahontas
rescued him.
This historic stone, near the parlor window, was only an ugly, dark,
broad, flat stone, but imagination pictured ever around it the Indian
group; Smith's head upon it; the infuriated chief with uplifted club in
the act of dealing the death blow; the grief and shriek of Pocahontas,
as she threw herself upon Smith imploring her father to spare him--a
piercing cry to have penetrated the heart of the savage king!
Looking out from the parlor window and imagining this savage scene, how
strange a contrast with the picture which met the eye within! Around
the fireside assembled the loveliest family group, where kindness and
affection beamed in every eye, and father, mother, brothers and sisters
were linked together by tenderest devotion and sympathy.
If natural scenery reflects itself upon the heart no wonder a "holy
calm" rested upon this family, for far down the river the prospect was
peace and tranquility; and many an evening in the summer house on the
river bank, we drank in the beauty of soft blue skies, green isles and
white sails floating in the distance.
Many in Richmond remember the delightful weddings and parties at
Powhatan Seat, where assembled the elite from Richmond, with an
innumerable throng of cousins, aunts and uncles from Orange and
Culpeper counties.
On these occasions the house was illuminated by wax-lights issuing from
bouquets of magnolia leaves placed around the walls near the ceiling,
and looking prettier than any glass chandelier.
We, from a distance, generally stayed a week after the wedding,
becoming, as it were, a part of the family circle; and the bride did
not rush off on a tour as is the fashion now-a-days, but remained
quietly enjoying family, home and friends.
Another feature I have omitted in describing our weddings and
parties--invariably a part of the picture--was the sea of black faces
surrounding the doors and windows to look on the dancing, hear the
music and afterwards get a good share of the supper.
Tourists often went to walk around the beautiful grounds at Powhatan--so
neatly kept with sea shells around the flowers, and pleasant seats
under the lindens and magnolias--and to see the historic stone; but
I often thought they knew not what was missed in not knowing--as we
did--the lovely family within.
But, for us, those rare, beautiful days at Powhatan are gone forever;
for since the war the property has passed into stranger hands, and the
family who once owned it will own it no more.
During the late war heavy guns were placed in the family burying
ground on this plantation,--a point commanding the river--and here
was interred the child of a distinguished General[6] in the Northern
army--a Virginian, formerly in the United States army--who had married
a member of the Powhatan family. He was expected to make an attack upon
Richmond, and over his child's grave was placed a gun to fire upon
him. Such are the unnatural incidents of civil war.
About two miles from Powhatan Seat was another beautiful old
place--Mount Erin--the plantation formerly of a family all of whom,
except two sisters had died. The estate becoming involved had to be
sold, which so grieved and distressed these sisters that they passed
hours weeping, if accidentally the name of their old home was mentioned
in their presence.
Once when we were at Powhatan--and these ladies were among the
guests--a member of the Powhatan family ordered the carriage, and took
my sister and myself to Mount Erin, telling us to keep it a secret when
we returned, for "the sisters," said she, "would neither eat nor sleep
if reminded of their old home."
A pleasant drive brought us to Mount Erin, and when we saw the box
hedges, gravel-walks and linden trees we were no longer surprised at
the grief of the sisters whose hearts entwined around their old home.
The house was in charge of an old negro woman--the purchaser not
having moved in--who showed us over the grounds; and every shrub and
flower seemed to speak of days gone by. Even the ivy on the old bricks
looked gloomy as if mourning the light, mirth and song departed from
the house forever; and the walks gave back a deadened echo, as if they
wished not to be disturbed by stranger tread. All seemed in a reverie,
dreaming a long sweet dream of the past--and entering into the grief of
the sisters, who lived afterwards many years in a pleasant home, on a
pleasant street in Richmond, with warm friends to serve them, yet their
tears never ceased to flow at mention of Mount Erin.
* * * * *
One more plantation picture, and enough will have been described to
show the character of the homes and people on our plantations.
The last place visited by my sister and myself before the war of 1861,
was "Elkwood," a fine estate in Culpeper county, four miles from the
railroad station.
It was the last of June. The country was a scene of enchantment, as the
carriage rolled us through dark, cool forests, green meadows, fields of
waving grain; out of the forest into acres of broad leaved corn; across
pebbly-bottomed streams, and along the margin of the Rapidan which
flowed at the base of the hill leading up to the house.
The house was square and white, and the blinds green as the grass lawn
and trees in the yard. Inside the house, the polished "dry rubbed"
floors clean and cool, refreshed one on entering like a glass of
ice-lemonade on a midsummer's day. The old fashioned furniture against
the walls looked as if it thought too much of itself to be set about
promiscuously over the floor, like modern fauteuils and divans.
About everything was an air of dignity and repose corresponding with
the manners and appearance of the proprietors, who were called "Uncle
Dick" and "Aunt Jenny"--the _a_ in aunt pronounced very broad.
"Aunt Jenny" and "Uncle Dick" had no children, but took care of
numerous nieces and nephews; kept their house filled to overflowing
with friends, relatives and strangers, and were revered and beloved by
all. They had no pleasure so great as taking care of other people. They
lived for other people, and made everybody comfortable and happy around
them. From the time "Uncle Dick" had prayers in the morning until
family prayers at bed time they were busy bestowing some kindness.
"Uncle Dick's" character and manners were of a type so high that one
felt elevated in his presence; and a desire to reach his standard
animated those who knew him. His precept and example were such that all
who followed them might arrive at the highest perfection of Christian
character.
"Uncle Dick" had requested "Aunt Jenny" when they were married--forty
years before--to have on his table every day, dinner enough for six
more persons than were already in the house, "in case," he said, "he
should meet friends or acquaintances while riding over his plantation
or in the neighborhood, whom he wished to ask home with him to dinner."
This having been always a rule, "Aunt Jenny" never sat at her table
without dinner enough for six more, and her's were no commonplace
dinners; no hasty puddings; no salaratus bread; no soda cakes; no
frozen-starch-ice-cream; no modern shorthand recipes--but genuine old
Virginia cooking. And all who want to know what that was, can find
out all about it in "Aunt Jenny's" book of copied recipes--if it is
extant--or in Mrs. Harrison's, of Brandon. But as neither of these
books may ever be known to the public, their "sum and substance" may be
given in a few words:
"Have no shams. Procure an abundance of the freshest, richest, _real_
cream, milk, eggs, butter, lard, best old Madeira wine, all the way
from Madeira, and never use a particle of soda or salaratus about
anything or under any pressure."
These were the ingredients "Aunt Jenny" used--for "Uncle Dick" had
rare old wine in his cellar which he had brought from Europe, thirty
years before--and every day was a feast day at Elkwood. And the wedding
breakfasts "Aunt Jenny" used to "get up" when one of her nieces married
at her house--as they sometimes did--were beyond description.
While at Elkwood, observing every day, that the carriage went to the
depot empty, and returned empty, we enquired the reason, and were
informed that "Uncle Dick," ever since the cars had been passing near
his plantation, ordered his coachman to have the carriage every day at
the station, "in case some of his friends might be on the train, and
might like to stop and see him!"
Another hospitable rule in "Uncle Dick's" house was, that company
must never be kept "waiting" in his parlor, and so anxious was his
young niece to meet his approbation in this as in every particular,
that she had a habit of dressing herself carefully, arranging her
hair beautifully--it was in the days too when smooth hair was
fashionable--before laying down for the afternoon siesta, "in case,"
she said, "some one might call, and 'Uncle Dick' had a horror of
visitors waiting." This process of reposing in a fresh muslin dress
and fashionably arranged hair, required a particular and uncomfortable
position, which she seemed not to mind, but dozed in the most precise
manner without rumpling her hair or her dress.
Elkwood was a favorite place of resort for Episcopal ministers, whom
"Aunt Jenny" and "Uncle Dick" loved to entertain. And here we met the
Rev. Mr. S----, the learned divine, eloquent preacher and charming
companion. He had just returned from a visit to England, where he had
been entertained in palaces. Telling us the incidents of his visit, "I
was much embarrassed at first," said he, "at the thought of attending
a dinner party given in a palace to me,--a simple Virginian,--but on
being announced at the drawing-room door, and entering the company I
felt at once at ease, for they were all ladies and gentlemen--such as I
had known at home, polite, pleasant and without pretence."
This gentleman's conversational powers were not only bright and
delightful, but also the means of turning many to righteousness; for
religion was one of his chief themes.
A proof of his genius and eloquence was given in the beautiful
poem recited--without ever having been written--at the centennial
anniversary of old Christ church in Alexandria. This was the church in
which General Washington and his family had worshiped, and around it
clustered many memories. Mr. S., with several others, had been invited
to make an address on the occasion, and one night while thinking about
it an exquisite poem passed through his mind, picturing scene after
scene in the old church. General Washington with his head bowed in
silent prayer; infants at the baptismal font; young men and maidens in
bridal array at the altar, and funeral trains passing through the open
gate.
On the night of the celebration when his turn came, finding the hour
too late, and the audience too sleepy for his prose address, he
suddenly determined to "dash off" the poem, every word of which came
back to him, although he had never written it. The audience roused up
electrified, and as the recitation proceeded, their enthusiasm reached
the highest pitch. Never had there been such a sensation in the old
church before. And next morning the house at which he was stopping was
besieged by reporters begging "copies" and offering good prices, but
the poem remains unwritten to this day.
Elkwood--like many other old homes--was burned by the Northern army in
1862, and not a tree or flower remains to mark the spot, for so many
years the abode of hospitality and good cheer.
In connection with Culpeper it is due here to state that this
county excelled all others in ancient and dilapidated buggies and
carriages--seeming a regular infirmary for all the disabled vehicles
of the Old Dominion. Here their age and infirmities received every
care and consideration, being propped up, tied up and bandaged up in
every conceivable manner; and strangest of all, rarely depositing their
occupants in the road, which was prevented by cautious old gentlemen
riding alongside, who watching out, and discovering the weakest points,
stopped and securely tied up fractured parts with bits of twine, rope
or chain, always carried in buggy or carriage boxes for that purpose.
These surgical operations, although not ornamental, strengthened and
sustained these venerable vehicles, and produced a longevity miraculous.
Many more sketches might be given of pleasant country homes--worthy
a better pen than mine--for Brandon, Westover, Shirley, Carter Hall,
Lauderdale, Vaucluse, and others, linger in the memory of hundreds
who once knew and loved them. Especially Vaucluse, which although
far removed from railroads, stage coaches and public conveyances was
overflowing with company throughout the year. For the Vaucluse girls
were so bright, so fascinating, so bewitchingly pretty, they attracted
a concourse of visitors, and were sure to be belles wherever they went.
And many remember the owner of Vaucluse--that pure hearted Christian
and cultivated gentleman, who, late in life, devoted himself to the
Episcopal ministry, and labored faithfully in the Master's cause
preaching in country churches, "without money, and without price."
Surely his reward is in heaven.
* * * * *
Besides these well ordered establishments, there were some others
owned by inactive men, who smoked their pipes, read their books, left
everything very much to the management of their negroes and seemed
content to let things tumble down around them.
One of these places we used to call "Topsy-Turvy Castle," and another
"Haphazard."
At such places the negro quarters--instead of neat rows of white
cabins in rear of the house, as on other plantations--occupied a
conspicuous place near the front, and consisted of a solid, long, ugly
brick structure, with swarms of negroes around the windows and doors,
appearing to have nothing in the world to do, and never to have done
anything.
Everything had a "shackling," lazy appearance. The master was
always--it appeared to us--reading a newspaper in the front porch, and
never observing anything that was going on. The house was so full of
idle negroes standing about the halls and stairways, one could scarcely
make one's way up or down stairs. Everything needed repair, from the
bed you slept upon, to the family coach which took you to church.
Few of the chairs had all their rounds and legs; and when completely
disabled were sent to the garret, where they accumulated in great
numbers, and remained until pressing necessity induced the master to
raise his eyes from his paper long enough to order "Dick" to, "take the
four-horse-wagon and carry the chairs to be mended."
A multitude of "kinsfolk and acquaintance" usually congregated
here. And at one place, in order to accommodate so many, there were
four beds in a chamber. These high bedsteads presented a remarkable
appearance--the head of one going into the side of another, the foot of
one into the head of another, and so on, looking as if they had never
been "placed," but their curious juxtaposition had been the result of
some earthquake.
[One of these houses is said to have been greatly improved in
appearance during the war by the passage of a cannon ball through the
upper story, where a window had been needed for many years.]
But the owners of these places were so genuinely good, one could not
complain of them even for such carelessness. For everybody was welcome
to everything. You might stop the plows if you wanted a horse, or take
the carriage and drive for a week's journey, and, in short, impose upon
these good people in every conceivable way.
Yet in spite of this topsy-turvy management--a strange fact connected
with such places--they invariably had good light bread, good mutton,
and the usual abundance on their tables.
We suppose it must have been a recollection of such plantations which
induced the negro to exclaim, on hearing another sing, "Ole Virginny
nubber tire." "Umph! ole _Virginny_ nubber tire, kase she nubber done
nuthin' fur to furtigue herself!"