Monroe gave to America one of its greatest documents—known to history as the Monroe Doctrine. It was directed essentially against the purposes of the Holy Alliance, formed in 1815 by the principal European powers with the fundamental object of putting down democratic movements on the part of the people, whether they arose abroad or on this side of the world. After consultation with English statesmen and with Jefferson, Adams, John Quincy Adams and Calhoun, Monroe announced his new principle which declared that the United States of America would resent any attempt of the Alliance to “extend their system to this part of the Hemisphere.”
“Old Doctor Mortimer”
Dr. Charles Mortimer
In a beautiful old home on lower Main Street, surrounded by a wall, mellowed by time, and ivy-crowned, lived Washington’s dear friend and physician, Dr. Charles Mortimer. He could often be seen, in the days gone by, seated on his comfortable “verandah,” smoking a long pipe, covered with curious devices, and discussing the affairs of the moment with those rare intellects who were drawn there by the interesting atmosphere of blended beauty and mentality. There was, as a background, a garden, sloping to the river, and sturdy trees checquered the sunlight. Old-fashioned flowers nodded in the breeze which blew up from the Rappahannock, and the Doctor’s own tobacco ships, with their returned English cargoes, swung on their anchors at the foot of the terraces.
If one entered the house at the dinner hour, every delicacy of land and water would conspire against a refusal to dine with the host of this hospitable mansion. Highly polished and massive pewter dishes, disputed possession of the long mahogany table, with a mammoth bowl of roses—arrogantly secure of an advantageous position in the center.
There was often the sound of revelry by night, and the rafters echoed gay laughter and the music of violins—high, and sweet and clear.
An historic dinner, following the famous Peace Ball at the old Market House in November, 1784, was given here, and the hostess, little Maria Mortimer, sixteen years old, the Doctor’s only daughter, with her hair “cruped high” for the first time, presided, and her bon mots won the applause of the company, which was quite a social triumph for a sixteen-year-old girl, trying to hold her own with Lafayette, Count d’Estang and the famous Rochambeau. They clicked glasses and drank to her health standing, and little Maria danced with “Betty Lewis’ Uncle George himself,” for Washington did not disdain the stately measures of the minuet.
But there is an obverse here. The old Doctor did not fail in his duty. On horseback, with his saddlebag loaded with medicines, he rode down dark forest paths to the homes of pioneers, traveled the streets of Fredericksburg and came silently along lone trails in the country in the dead of night, when hail or snow or driving rains cut at him bitterly through the trees. He refused no call, and claimed small fees. He was Mary Washington’s physician for years, called on her almost daily, and stood by her bedside mute, when, the struggle over, she quietly passed on to the God in whom she had put her deepest faith.
Of the many people who walk in Hurkamp Park, in the center of the old town, there are few who know that they are passing daily over the grave of the genial and popular Doctor, who was Fredericksburg’s first mayor, and Washington’s dearest friend.
Maury—a Master Genius