A Girl's Life in Virginia before the War Part 10

"Now and then, indeed, events occurred which disturbed the wretched monotony of Frances Burney's life. The court moved from Kew to Windsor, and from Windsor back to Kew.

"A more important occurrence was the king's visit to Oxford. Then Miss Burney had the honor of entering Oxford in the last of a long string of carriages, which formed the royal procession, of walking after the queen all day through refectories and chapels, and of standing half dead with fatigue and hunger, while her august mistress was seated at an excellent cold collation. At Magdalen College Frances was left for a moment in a parlor, where she sank down on a chair. A good-natured equerry saw that she was exhausted, and shared with her some apricots and bread, which he had wisely put in his pockets. At that moment the door opened, the queen entered, the wearied attendants sprang up, the bread and fruit were hastily concealed.

"After this the king became very ill, and during more than two years after his recovery Frances dragged on a miserable existence at the palace. Mme. Schwellenberg became more and more insolent and intolerable, and now the health of poor Frances began to give way: and all who saw her pale face, her emaciated figure, and her feeble walk predicted that her sufferings would soon be over.

"The queen seems to have been utterly regardless of the _comfort_, the _health_, the _life_, of her attendants. Weak, feverish, hardly able to stand, Frances had still to rise before seven, in order to dress the sweet queen, and sit up till midnight, in order to undress the sweet queen. The indisposition of the handmaid could not and _did not escape the notice of_ her royal mistress. But the _established doctrine of the court was that all sickness_ was to be _considered as a pretense until it proved fatal_. The only way in which the invalid could clear herself from the suspicion of malingering, as it is called in the army, was to go on lacing and unlacing, _till she fell down dead at the royal feet_."

Finally Miss Burney's father pays her a visit in this palace prison, when "she told him that she was miserable; that she was worn with attendance and want of sleep; that she had no comfort in life,--nothing to love, nothing to hope; that her family and friends were to her as though they were not, and were remembered by her as men remember the dead. From daybreak to midnight the same killing labor, the same recreation, more hateful than labor itself, followed each other without variety, without any interval of liberty or repose."

Her father's veneration for royalty amounting to idolatry, he could not bear to remove her from the court--"and, between the dear father and the sweet queen, there seemed to be little doubt that some day or other Frances _would drop down a corpse_. Six months had elapsed since the interview between the parent and the daughter. The resignation was not sent in. The sufferer grew worse and worse. She took bark, but it failed to produce a beneficial effect. She was stimulated with wine; she was soothed with opium, but in vain. Her breath began to fail. The whisper that she was in a decline spread through the court. The pains in her side became so severe that she was forced to crawl from the card-table of the old fury, Mme. Schwellenberg, to whom she was tethered, three or four times in an evening, for the purpose of taking hartshorn. Had she been a negro slave, a humane planter would have excused her from work. But her Majesty showed no mercy. Thrice a day the accursed bell still rang; the queen was still to be dressed for the morning at seven, and to be dressed for the day at noon, and to be undressed at midnight."

At last Miss Burney's father was moved to compa.s.sion and allowed her to write a letter of resignation. "Still I could not," writes Miss Burney in her diary, "summon courage to present my memorial from seeing the queen's entire freedom from such an expectation. For though I was frequently so ill in her presence that I could hardly stand, I saw she concluded me, while life remained, inevitably hers.

"At last, with a trembling hand, the paper was delivered. Then came the storm. Mme. Schwellenberg raved like a maniac. The resignation was not accepted. The father's fears were aroused, and he declared, in a letter meant to be shown to the queen, that his daughter must retire.

The Schwellenberg raged like a wildcat. A scene almost horrible ensued.

"The queen then promised that, after the next birthday, Miss Burney should be set at liberty. But the promise was ill kept; and her Majesty showed displeasure at being reminded of it."

At length, however, the prison door was opened, and Frances was free once more. Her health was restored by traveling, and she returned to London in health and spirits. Macaulay tells us that she went to visit the palace, "her _old dungeon, and found her successor already far on the way to the grave, and kept to strict duty, from morning till midnight, with a sprained ankle and a nervous fever_."

An ignorant and unlettered woman would doubtless not have found this life in the palace tedious, and our sympathy would not have been aroused for her; for as long as the earth lasts there must be human beings fitted for every station, and it is supposed, till the end of all things, there must be cooks, housemaids, and dining-room servants, which will make it never possible for the whole human family to stand entirely upon the same platform socially and intellectually. And Miss Burney's wretchedness, which calls forth our sympathy, was not because she had to perform the duties of waiting-maid, but because to a gifted and educated woman these duties were uncongenial; and congeniality means _happiness_; uncongeniality, _unhappiness_.

CHAPTER XIV.

From the sorrows of Miss Burney in the palace--a striking contrast with the menials described in our own country homes--I will turn to another charming place on the 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 chief!

Looking out from the parlor window and imagining this savage scene, how strange a contrast met the eye within! Around the fireside a.s.sembled 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 tranquillity; 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 a.s.sembled 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 gla.s.s 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 nowadays, but remained quietly at home, enjoying the society of her family and friends.

One 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 afterward get a good share of the supper.

Tourists often went to walk around the beautiful grounds at Powhatan--so neatly kept with sea-sh.e.l.ls 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 pa.s.sed into strange 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[16] 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.

[16] General Scott.

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 pa.s.sed 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 afterward for 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 the 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, the residence of Richard Cunningham.

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 forests into acres of broad-leaved corn; across pebble-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 gra.s.s lawn and trees in the yard. Inside the house the polished "dry-rubbed"

floors, clean and cool, refreshed one on entering like a gla.s.s of iced 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 d.i.c.k" and "Aunt Jenny"--the _a_ in "Aunt" p.r.o.nounced very broad.

Aunt Jenny and Uncle d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k had prayers in the morning until family prayers at bedtime they were busy bestowing some kindness.

Uncle d.i.c.k'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 d.i.c.k 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 hers were no commonplace dinners; no hasty-puddings, no saleratus 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 that of Mrs. Harrison, 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, b.u.t.ter, lard, best old Madeira wine, all the way from Madeira, and never use a particle of soda or saleratus about anything or under any pressure."

These were the ingredients Aunt Jenny used, for Uncle d.i.c.k 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 inquired the reason, and were informed that Uncle d.i.c.k, ever since the cars had been pa.s.sing 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 d.i.c.k'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 lying down for the afternoon siesta, "in case,"

she said, "someone might call, and Uncle d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k loved to entertain. And here we met the Rev.

Philip Slaughter, 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 embarra.s.sed 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 pretense."

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 cl.u.s.tered many memories. Mr. Slaughter, with several others, had been invited to make an address on the occasion, and one night, while thinking about it, an exquisite poem pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sing 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.