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 that for so many years was the abode of hospitality and good cheer.
In connection with Culpeper County, it is due here to state that it excelled all others in ancient and dilapidated buggies and carriages, seeming to be 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 for 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 miraculous longevity.
Many more sketches might be given of pleasant country homes—themes 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, and so bewitchingly pretty, that they attracted a concourse of visitors, and were sure to be belles wherever they went.
And many remember the owner of Vaucluse, Mr. Blair Dabney, 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 being neat rows of white cabins in the 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 that one could scarcely make one's way up or down stairs. Everything needed repair, from the bed upon which you slept to the family coach which took you to church.