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: