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 74by 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 75in 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!
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?" 76wrote 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 77us,—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 78my 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 gow............