"I knowed that fool nigger would give you trouble!"
"Why, what's the poor child done?"
"Po' chile! Little devil, I call him! He's done po'ed out all the baby's milk in that yaller water, and seasoned it with lettuce leaves!"
We found the society of Richmond delightful. Southern society has often been described, its members praised or blamed, criticised or admired, according to the point of view; sometimes commended as "stately but condescending, haughty but jovial," possessing high self-appreciation, not often indulging in distasteful egotism; fast friends, generous, hospitable; considering conversation an art to be studied, and fitting themselves with just so much knowledge of literature, science, and art, as might be indispensable for conversation; but withal "cultured, educated men of the world who would meet any visitor on his own favorite ground."
Richmond society has always claimed a certain seclusiveness for itself—not exclusiveness—for nobody properly introduced could visit Richmond without having a dinner or evening party given in his honor. "Taken in?"—of course the entertainers were sometimes "taken in"! That did not signify once in a while.
I remember a portly dame with two showy daughters, always handsomely attired, who managed, at some watering-place, to find favor in the eyes of one of our citizens and obtained an invitation, which was eagerly accepted, to make him a visit. An evening party was given to introduce them. I had my doubts after a conversation with Madame Mère—and expressed them, to the disgust of one of my friends. "Impossible," she said, coolly. After they left, Mr. Price, our leading merchant, presented a large bill for female fineries with which he had unhesitatingly credited Madame, who had departed with her daughters to parts unknown. It was promptly, and without a grimace, paid by their deluded host. I could remember the sweetly apologetic way in which Madame had told me she feared her "girls were a bit overdressed for the small functions in Richmond. In New York, now! But here, of course, there need be no such display as in New York!"
No amusement, except an occasional song from an obliging guest, was provided for our evening parties. Conversation and a good supper, with the one-and-only Pizzini to the fore—this was inducement enough. Not quite as spirituelle as Lady Morgan, we required something more than a lump of sugar to clear the voice. And Pizzini's suppers! His pyramids of glacé oranges, "non pareil," and spun sugar; his ices, his wine jellies, his blanc manges and, ye gods! his terrapin, pickled oysters, and chicken salad! We assembled not much later than nine, and remained as long as it pleased us. Sometimes we acted—"The Honeymoon," or some other little play; Anna Cora Mowatt (Mrs. Ritchie) gave charming tableaux, with recitations; but usually we talked and talked and talked! "Art of conversation?" I suspect art has nothing to do with conversation. When it becomes art, it ceases to be conversation. We did not gossip, either. Personalities were quite, quite out of the question. Our hosts knew to perfection the art of entertaining.
Sometime in the fifties, Charles Astor Bristed wrote his book, entitled, "The Upper Ten Thousand of New York." It appears the world was waiting for some such work. The theme rippled from shore to shore, until within the past few years it seems to have expired with the myth of the Four Hundred. N. P. Willis (wasn't he a bit of a snob himself?) caught with avidity the new departure in Mr. Bristed's book, and eternally harped upon it. From 1852 until the war, and afterward, until the subsidence of the Four Hundred ripple, we have heard a great deal about classes, society; and finally, American manners came to the fore as a subject of journalistic interest. "American manners! Are they improving in grace or dignity?" The question was put to a number of men and women whose experience and frankness could be relied upon. The answers, except for one, were vague and cautious. Nobody likes to appear as a satirist or cynic—and yet nobody is willing to acknowledge that he knows nothing better than what appears at present to be the standard of good breeding, by comparison with the standard twenty or more years ago.
The one honest man revealed by the lamp-light of the inquiring editor remembered the chapter allotted to a contributor in the preparation of "a history of Ireland." The subject of the chapter was dictated—"The Snakes of Ireland"—and it appeared with that heading. It was brief and to the point—"There are no Snakes in Ireland."
"American manners?" answered the one honest man; "there aren't any." "American manners," said George William Curtis, "where do you find them? If high society be the general intercourse of the highest intelligence with which we converse,—the festival of Wit and Beauty and Wisdom,—we do not find it at Newport. Fine society is a fruit that ripens slowly. We Americans fancy we can buy it."