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[Unnumbered page of printed photographs clipped, arranged and identified by R.T.W. Duke, Jr. as B.L. Gildersleeve, Francis H. Smith, Dr Cabell, Stephen O. Southall, John B. Minor] [III 1]
The Session of 1871-72
I was now a second year student & as mother was to accompany father to Washington it was determined that I should board at Morea. I needed a room-mate & at the same time wanted to get all the boarders I could for Aunt Mary: So, as the custom then was, I—with many others of the “old students”—used to frequent the depôt to look after the new men. There was only one depôt, in Charlottesville then—what is now the Chesapeake & Ohio. In those days & indeed up to 1880 the Southern Trains, then known as the Virginia Midland, ran on to the C & O trains track at what is now the Union Station—only a Switch then—& came to the C & O Station, whence they ran on the track of that road to Gordonsville, where they branched
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off on their own track. Late in September or about the first of October—for the sessions did not open then until Octo first—I was at the depôt on the lookout for boys. That depôt was a busy place then. The old ramshackling building towards the east now used as a storage ware-house was the Central Hotel & it was a very popular & crowded hostelry, surrounded by a wide portico & always crowded. Across the way on the site of the present depôt and running in a triangular shaped row were several brick buildings adjoining the C & O depôt. The depôt was frame—these buildings brick & one was a bar-room which did a tremendous business— Indeed the profits of that bar-room paid the entire rent of the Hotel & its own rent beside. In those days large crowds of people used to meet the trains as an amusement— The C & O & the Midland trains passed each other at this Station, so it was quite
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an animated and lively scene when the sight seers assembled & the trains came in: Especially was this so when the students came in. There were shouts of greetings from the “arrived” to the “arrivals”. There were numerous visits to the Bar & a general jollification. When new & unknown men came, they were generally kindly greeted. On the occasion I mentioned, I saw seated on the Hotel portico an exceedingly handsome young man—rather undersized, but with brilliant black eyes—very dark hair and a tiny black mustache. He had on a grey uniform with brass buttons & shoulder straps on which were in gilt braid, clasped hands. I was at once struck with him & walked up, introduced myself to him & found that his name was James E. Creary of Milton, Florida & that his uniform was that of Sewanee—now the University of the South— I recommended Morea to him, as a boarding house.
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told him I wanted a room-mate & in an hour all was arranged.
Thus commenced a friendship which has lasted up to the present day. I loved Ed: Creary & he me— When his first child—a boy—was born he named it “Duke” after me. A beautiful child—who died when he was a few years old. I named my youngest son “Edwin Ellicott” after him & my friend of after years Eugene Ellicott.
That dear little boy joined the other in heaven when he was eighteen months old (Dear old Ed: died Aug lst 1924)
Creary & I established ourselves in the room at Morea which is now used as a kitchen. The kitchen of those days as in most Southern houses was some distance from the dining room on the North side & connected with it by a latticed covered-way.
We hung up pictures—got up our stove & made ourselves comfortable & made acquaintance with the other boarders.
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These consisted of Tudor Jones—a friend of his from Bolivar Tenn: whom we called “Bolivar” Miller tho’ his real name was Charles—Allen J. Hooker a large Mississippian—whose favorite and only oath was “Great Science”—Edgar Ballard a cousin of ours studying medicine—Creary & I and one or two others whose names I do not recall. J.E.F. Mathews* (*Whom we called “Timothy Tugmuttar,” & Joe Simpson of Pensacola Florida.)
I took that year in addition to Latin—& German, History & Literature & Moral Philosophy. The Professor of History and Literature was Geo: Frederick Holmes—an Englishman by birth—a graduate of Durham College, England & quite an odd and eccentric character. He was tall & thin, a scraggy beard—a shock of hair, which looked as tho’ he never had a comb in it & decidedly careless in his dress. In some sort of way his face reminded me of Tennyson—tho’ his eye had a peculiar
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stare in it which was entirely unlike the liquid eye Tennyson had. He taught History in the driest sort of a way; but his Literature class was a delight. He had a thorough acquaintance with all the great lights of English Literature & with most of the small & his lectures on that subject were illuminating & instructive. He was very fond of reciting bits from the poets & did it well, tho’ he mouthed his “o’s and a’s", in a very decided way. In his class and thro’ him I made acquaintance with phases of English Literature I had never dreamed of before. I had never heard of Swinburne until I heard him recite “Itylus” and tho’ the manner in which he recited it was somewhat comical, “Swallow! my Sister! Oh! my Sister Swallow”, yet it made me get what was then published of Swinburne & read it with avidity. I can yet hear his “Swallow, my
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sister”, and the laughing reply we were tempted to give to it, “What a large swallow, it was”.
Of course the fraternity occupied much of my thoughts. We had to give up our room in the old “Midway building” and moved down town into a room over the building on the corner of what is now know as the Burnley block* (* Later No 1 Court Square Building—on the lower floor of which I now—in 1922—have my offices.)—the house in which the Mannonis had their confectionery shop, when I was a boy— We bought multitudinous yards of black calico & draped the room in the most funereal manner. Jack Frost Walker & I did most of the work.
The “old men” who came back were Walker & Charlton—Lilly; Harry Whitaker & myself. We took in that year R.M. Cooper of S.C. a brother-in-law of Dr Petrie & a splendid fellow. Saml L. Winston of Hanover Co who moved to Texas & died: Geo: J McCown of S.C & Jas L. Orr, Jr, of S.C. Son of the Governor of that State
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who had also been Speaker of the U.S. Ho: of Representatives just prior to the Civil War, and J.C. Bush of Mobile Ala—a fine lot of fellows with whom my associations were most delightful. We met every two weeks & walked down to our meeting place very frequently stopping going or coming for a few “refreshers”. I neglected to note that amongst the “tickets” I took was that of Wm H. McGuffey (old Guf as we called him) Moral Philosophy.
In an article in the University Bulletin published several years ago I wrote describing Dr McGuffey, so I will not dwell upon him very much. He was the most wonderful teacher I ever knew. In Logic I do not think he was as able as in Metaphysics & Ethics, but he taught me how to think, how to reason, how to study & I believe had as much influence upon my modes of thought
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as any teacher could have. He was a thin—smooth shaven man—very bald—about the average height, tho’ he impressed you as being rather undersized. He had a steel grey eye that looked you through and a rather pleasant voice in its lower notes. When he raised it, the timbre was decidedly shrill & unpleasant. His lecture came at 3 p.m. a very sleepy time of the day & as he spoke in rather a monotonous way, very often tapping with his pencil on his desk, it was sometimes very hard to keep from going to sleep. His lecture room was a model of neatness. He had benches & desks painted every year & woe betide the unfortunate youth who marred them with jack knife or pencil. His great skill as a teacher in my judgment consisted in the way in which he constantly repeated his subjects. I laughed and told him once that his last lecture had a little of the first one in it
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“and why not?” he replied. The class looked upon him as a stern, unsympathetic man. He was just the reverse. One of the things I love to remember about him was the deep interest he took in the success of every man in his class & how eagerly he wanted to help the man who worked and showed interest in his work: And to stand well in his class made him your friend. One of his class was Idus L. Fielder—a peculiar, wild chap from one of the Southern or South-Western States. Fielder never missed a recitation or a class & so stood high in the Doctor’s favour. He was quite “lively” at times & one morning late in the session he got to the dining room of his “Hotel”—The Misses Ross’—after the door was shut. He kicked it open, went in & demanded breakfast. When it came there were no eggs,and he demanded eggs. He was told there were none—Thereupon he drew a large revolver &
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laying upon the table cocked, simply said—“Bring me eggs”—and the eggs were brought. Of course this conduct was reported & the Faculty sat upon his case. It was resolved that Fielder had to leave the University, when old Doctor McGuffey spoke up: “Gentlemen!” he said, “Fielder is the best man in my class; He has never been absent or missed a single recitation. He will graduate very highly. I cannot permit him to be expelled.” And he was not. He apologized—promised good-behavior & kept his promise. He did graduate very highly. In his last illness the old Doctor’s thoughts were ever on “his boys”, and he would talk to Witherspoon—the Chaplain—who filled the chair during his illness & after his death to the end of the session & tell him what student needed pushing and encouragement. I look back upon
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his teaching as one of the great influences of my life in my methods of thought and reasoning.
He generally graduated a large number of men. Indeed only one man failed in my class. It is said that the members of the Faculty once laughed at him at the large number of men who graduated in his ticket. The old Doctor smacked his lips: “In my opinion: he said drily, “the success of a teacher is shown—not by the men who fail, but by the men who succeed, and I would consider myself, but a poor teacher if the greater part of my men failed”. And I think he was right.
His readers & spellers were wonderful books. What a pity they do not use them in the schools now, instead of the “new method” books which do not teach children either to spell or read correctly. When I was about sixteen, the Doctor once called me
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in his office & gave a me a complete set of his books, from his primer to his fifth reader. I lugged them home & had not enough sense to appreciate their value & let them be lost. I would give a large sum to have them now. The Doctor had one peculiarity: I might say two. One has since been adopted universally. That is limiting the time in which men should stand his examinations. At 9 o’clock in the morning he put up a section of questions. At 2 p.m. he rubbed them out. At 3 p.m. he put up the second and last section and at 5 p.m. rubbed them out & dismissed the class. This very wise and humane method was the exception. In all other classes a hugh array of questions was put on the blackboard & the students were allowed to stay as long as they chose. I have known men to remain until midnight, snatching
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a little time for dinner & less for supper. We had no printed list of questions then—tho’ in my last year we raised the money to employ a lithographer. But of that later. Another peculiarity of the Doctor was to require each student to read to him his final examination paper. He called us in squads of four. Two were admitted to his sanctum & one listened to the other read. John Sharp Williams—the present Senator from Mississippi—was my companion. His paper was almost perfect. Williams had taken one of the three prizes the Old Doctor had offered for the three best students & was by far the best man in the class. I could see as he read how many errors I had committed, but when I read as I came to them, the old Doctor would stop me, “Did you mean that Sir?” he would ask. “Yes”, Doctor,” I replied, “I meant just what I said at the time. I see now
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what a fool I was”. “Better late than never”, he chuckled, but when I concluded said “Pretty fair, Sir—pretty fair; but nothing to be overly proud of.” I graduated anyway—as did my room-mate Creary who was a far better student than I was.
I might say something here of the method of instruction in the University. We had text books, but the Professors lectured and we took down rapidly notes of their lectures— Sometimes they would pause & dictate slowly something they thought we should write out fully, but generally we had to get down what they said in the best way we could.
I find after writing this, that I have made a mistake in stating that I took History & Literature during this session. I did not—I took Latin—German—French & Moral Philosophy— In Latin I made very little Progress. The difficulty
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was, I think, that Colonel Peters paid too much attention to construction & grammar & too little to the beauties of the Literature. I didn’t want to be either a philologist or a teacher of Latin: the gerund was nothing to me, but an ode of Horace or a line of Virgil or Ovid much more & I soon wearied of construction and the like & the time I spent in Latin at the University was practically thrown away.
German & French I enjoyed thoroughly—for we did much translating and old Schéle’s lectures were entertaining & instructive particularly on the literature of those languages.
I took much interest in the Literary Society and spoke often. I was elected President & appointed the Final Committee whose names all appeared on the engraved invitations & places upon which were much sought. I made many friends some of which I yet retain & many of whom have “gone West.”
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While writing these last few pages I heard of the death of Robt M. Cooper of S.C. a club-mate whose friendship never ceased—a splendid gentleman—keeping ever the heart of a boy.
Father & mother spent the winter in Washington— My sister Mary went to School at “Edge Hill”, the home of the Randolph’s, presided over by the daughters of Col Thos Jefferson Randolph, Mr Jefferson’s grandson. A nobler set of women never lived. The literary head of the School was Miss Sarah—the youngest—Miss Harrison—a widow with two children—a son & a daughter—Miss Mary & Miss Carrie—the latter being the business manager & one of the best women of business I ever knew. The School itself had been in existence many years. The Colonel having a large family of daughters commenced the School to educate them & then kept
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it up. My mother’s sister Aunt Maria—Uncle Lindsay Walker’s wife—went to School there in the 40’s. It was there I first met my dear wife. There were an unusually pretty lot of girls there. Mary Randolph—of California—who afterwards married Joe Kent of Wythe—who was at the University with me—Maydie May Marye—who was very pretty & a host of others I do not now recall. Of course I had to visit my sister very often & so met a great many of the girls & up to my twenty fifth or sixth year I was a regular visitor & a privileged character, as father was Counsel for the family & I as his partner went often on “business”. A friendship for these noble women then commenced & only ended with their death.
I was the Executor of Miss Carrie the last survivor & she bequeated me Mr Jefferson’s chair & couch & table which I still possess.
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Col Randolph was a superb type of manhood. Considerably over six feet in height—he was largely proportioned. He very much resembled the portraits of Mr Gladstone taken in his old age, tho’ his expression was much more genial. I had known the Colonel from my boyhood. He had spent one or two nights at SunnySide & to him I owe probably the proudest moment of my life. I went to Edge Hill in the summer of my sixteenth year & was invited to stay to dinner—dinner hour being two ’oclock. Just before dinner the Colonel walked in the parlour where I was sitting & said, “Well sir;” its grog time: Come along”. So up I got & went with him to the buffet where I mixed my grog—whiskey & water—& who can express my emotions. “I am at last a man”, I felt—“Colonel Randolph invites me to take a
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drink with him”. Verily I felt as a Roman youth did when he assumed the toga virilis, [attire of a man] and my “sublime head smote the stars”, tho’ to be honest the drink nearly choked me. I never cared for whiskey & water by themselves. How horrified the “Sisters” in the Methodist Church & the hypocritical tyrannical fanatical prohibitionists of today would have been if they had seen this. The whites of their “d-mned, sanctified” eyes (as Mr Garth used to say) would have been shown to the full. And yet I wasn’t hurt by it. Whiskey in those days was used by gentlemen in moderation & was used daily. Young men drank with their elders & did not abuse it. I verily believe that the fanatical prohibitionists had as much to do with the curse of drink as the Bar-keepers. They drove the respectable grocers out of the business. They abused those who sold whiskey with such violence respectable people
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gave up the business and it fell into the hands of the lowest element who adulterated the liquor & who sold to anybody, at any time & whose only thought was to make money. When I was growing up nearly every grocer sold whiskey & wine. The Bars were regularly licensed & the character of the Bar Keepers enquired into & the Bars were well kept & law & order generally prevailed. I noticed the great change in all these things as the abuse of the “rum seller” commenced & by the time I was twenty five there was scarcely a respectable man who dared to be interested in a saloon.
But to return to our Randolphs & Edge Hill. I shall paste on the next page a cut of the old house as I knew it. This house was burned some few years since & has been rebuilt by the Harrises—charming people who
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now—1919—own it—on practically the same lines—the porch on the west side of the house not having been restored & the roof of the present house being somewhat steeper.
[Picture of Edge Hill cut from printed publication inserted here]
“Edge Hill” as it was in my early manhood days & until it was sold by Cary Ruffin Randolph & myself as Executors of Miss Carrie the last survivor of the sisters—in [ ]
There were four sisters Mrs Harrison (Miss Ellen) Miss Mary—Miss Carrie & Miss Sarah. The latter was the
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only one of the four who had the slightest pretensions to good looks—tho’ all were refined & fine looking women— Miss Sarah was of the highest intellectual order. A fine scholar—linguist & writer, her “Domestic Life of Thomas Jefferson” deserves reprint & her Life of Stonewall Jackson is an excellent piece of work.
Mrs. Harrison—the widow of one of the “Brandon Harrisons—was a very sweet kindly intellectual woman with two children—Randolph—a boy who was really mentally deficient & Jane who was as a girl one of the most peculiar girls I ever knew—she dressed as if her clothes had been pitched on her her hair was always disordered & her general manner caused her to be christened “Crazy Jane” by the school girls. She had lots of sense—was a jolly good girl & when she grew up
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became a very exquisite in dress & manner & conducted a fine school in Baltimore— She married a Mr Randall & is about as far removed from the Jane of her girlhood as any one could be.
Miss Mary taught—chemistry amongst other things. Miss Carrie was the farmer & a splendid one too & Miss Sarah taught Literature & other branches of Belles Lettres. They had a french teacher & other teachers of course & the school was a superb one.
Contact with these four noble gentlewomen was an education in itself: Then no girls were admitted to the school except those belonging to the best families & a finer sweeter lot of young ladies I never knew than those who attended the school from the time I knew it until it finally closed. I had a sweetheart there every session for many years & sometimes
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two. Being a sort of priveleged character I was allowed a little more freedom than most of the young men & so I visited a good deal & was allowed to see my sister & several “other sisters” whenever I went down.
Mrs Harrison I think died first of the sisters. Miss Mary next. Miss Sarah went to Patapsco & took charge of the almost moribund Institute there, making quite a successful school of it.
She gave that up & went to Baltimore & opened & conducted a very select & fashionable school there to which Mrs Duke’s sister Rosalie went & also Maymee Richardson of Monroe Louisiana who subsequently married Sam Slaughter—my brother-in-law & whom I have always loved very much, as a dear sister in some ways & a dear friend in others—and who is now—1924—my dear wife. [“and... wife.” inserted after his second marriage.]
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Miss Sarah’s health broke down completely in Baltimore & after fighting for some years with that dread disease consumption she passed away. The former pupils of her school erected a monument over her grave in the burial ground at Monticello, on which occasion I delivered an address which will be found in the Charlottesville Progress of [ ] & in my scrap book.
Miss Mary died some years before Miss Sarah & Miss Carrie carried on the School for several years giving it up finally as advancing years compelled her to do so.
I with her nephew Cary Ruffin—who being adopted by her took the name of Randolph were her Executors & to me she devised the curious old Chair—couch & table which had belonged to Mr. Jefferson & which I still have.
And speaking of Cary I must say that he was one of the most
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loveable & most utterly worthless men I ever knew. Very dissipated at one time, he went West as a cow-boy then came back & reformed completely. He had no more idea of the value of a dollar than a cat & ran thro’ every cent he had. All sort of wild schemes—Polo Ponies—this—that & ’tother. Miss Carrie idolized him & really ruined herself borrowing money to finance him in his fool schemes. She would not allow any one to criticize him, or remonstrate with her for borrowing money to give him & the only time she grew angry with me was when I begged her not to put another lien on “Edge Hill” for Cary to throw away the money. She broke down & wept finally as she said to me—“Can I not do what I will with my own property”? Of course she got the money & Cary
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threw it away, as usual.
Cary’s sister—Eliza Ruffin—also lived with them. Col Frank Ruffin of Agricultural fame had married one of Col Randolph’s daughters & dying left several children. These two were taken by the Randolph ladies and raised as their own. ’Liza & I were great friends & continued so to her death. She could out talk any human being I ever knew & talked, I think, sometimes with no idea of what she was saying. But I was very fond of her in an absolutely friendly way. A few weeks before her death she sent for me & asked me to promise her that I would sing at her funeral— When I remonstrated she said very faintly “Oh! I don’t mean for you to sing by yourself, but to join in the hymns—for I always loved to hear you sing in Church.” And so in the old Monticello graveyard I united my voice with the choir & sang her favorite hymns.
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Col Randolph—was—as I have said—a superb type of manhood. His devotion to Mr Jefferson was beautiful—“My grandfather—Mr Jefferson”—as he always called him. He told me many stories of his grandfather—most of which Miss Sarah has in her “Domestic Life”— When he came to die he had his bed moved into the parlour at Edge Hill & by the window thro’ which Monticello could be seen & his last gaze was upon that Mountain where he had spent his boyhood days & upon whose side he sleeps today. He was to have read the Declaration of Independence at the opening of the Centennial of that Instrument in Philadelphia at the Exposition. But he died in 1875.
The session of 1871-2 went on about as usual. I had a good time, studied just enough to keep up on my classes & in the early part of 1872 I paid another
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visit to Father & Mother in Washington. Of course I enjoyed it. The Sawyer girls—Miss McClanahan & others made it quite pleasant for me. I attended debates in Congress & saw & watched men—some of whose names became famous like Garfield: Bayard: Blaine &c &c
In the Senate were Bayard: John A. Logan O. P. Morton. Han: Hamlin who had been vice President under Lincoln—Sumner & Wilson. In the house were Garfield: Blaine Frye & Hale: Carl Schurz—Jas: Brookes & Oakes Ames of Credit Mobilier “fame”. S. S. Cox: Roscoe Conklin—John Sherman &c &c The first four afterwards became Senators & Blaine Secretary of State under Garfield Wilson became Vice President under Grant Morton was a cripple with one of the meanest, most gloomy, lowering, scowling faces I ever saw. Sumner was, without any exception, the vainest & most egotistical looking man I ever beheld, with a mean cross look always on his face. Conklin was a strutting pompous looking man: very dressy: fond of red cravats, but one of the
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clearest most convincing speakers I ever heard. Many years after I heard him argue a case in the Supreme Court of the United Sates & I never heard a more logical, clear presentation of a case. Logan was a very tall swarthy man with a huge black moustache. Garfield was a rather good looking man, with reddish brown hair & beard. My father always said he was as deep in the mire as poor old Brookes & Oakes Ames in the Credit Mobilier scandal, but too smart to be caught. He was not a high man—decidedly tricky & very fond of the ladies. The Assassin’s bullet de-ified him. His nomination for the Presidency was all that prevented his wife from suing him for divorce. It is said the papers were actually prepared, when his nomination came & his wife was prevailed on to hold off. No caricature could do justice to Ben Butler “the Beast”. Cross eyed—mean looking I have often thought
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of him in connection with the German saying “When God has marked a man watch him”. He was a shameless brute—a theif—a low dog, but as smart as you please. I was in the House when he was attacked by Democrats & Republicans alike & he was so badgered & bedevilled he actually broke down & wept.
Frye & Hale were afterwards Senators from Maine & I knew them both fairly well—Frye particularly so, when I was lobbying for a Light House at Sabine Pass in the 90s. He was always very nice to me. Schurz was intensely German—tall—with dark reddish brown hair & beard—bespectacled & with an expression about his nose that looked as if it smelt something bad.
S.S. Cox & my father became warm friends & father always liked him.
Geo: F. Hoar of Mass was in the House too. At that time a tremendous South hater & abusive of all things Southern. He was not unlike Mr
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Pickwick. Round faced—ruddy, smooth shaven, with large eyes behind gold spectacles— Father gave him a severe reprimand which caused a great roar in the House. Hoar had made a most violent attack on the South—spoke of the immorality of the Southern men with the negro women & the horrors of slavery. Whilst he was speaking Father sent a Page up to Speaker Blaine with a note, which Blaine read & nodded to Father. When Hoar sat down, Blaine said “The Gentleman from Virginia” and Father rose & in that clear penetrating voice of his, said that no doubt the gentleman from Massachusetts knew from personal experience—for he could not imagine how else he got such wide information—the immorality of the negro women. That he admitted Slavery like the Factories of New England had bad points, but he wished to call the Gentleman from Mas-
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sachusetts’ attention to one remarkable fact as to Slavery, he had overlooked;” He paused a moment, walked out into the aisle & shaking his finger at the irate Hoar said, “We of the South took the negro when he was a very little removed from the ape & in two hundred years we made him the Equal of the Gentleman from Massachusetts”. He then sat down amidst roars of laughter & applause & old Hoar—who had been a great advocate of negro equality—got as red as a beet, but never opened his mouth.
I got to know the old man very well in later years & he repented very much of his South hatred. He was particularly nice to me in aiding me to get a Bill thro’ the Senate to buy the Jefferson Manuscripts from Miss Carrie Randolph for $50.000. We got it thro’ the Senate in one Congress & thro’ the House in another, but never could get it thro’ both
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bodies in the same Congress. Thomas Jefferson Coolidge finally bought them for $5000—& gave them to the Boston Public Library.
John Sherman was also in this Congress. I only saw him once or twice Both he and his brother Tecumseh—the General—had decidedly unpleasant faces. John was undoubtedly dishonest— He entered public life poor & came out of it a millionaire— No honest man could have done that. General Sherman was one of the most infernal old liars in the Country. I never shall forget the amazement of a young lady—I have forgotten her name—who rushed up to me at a reception & asked me to come with her at once as she wanted to introduce me to General Sherman, when I declined “the honour” & stated that under no circumstances would I be willing the meet General Sherman. She gasped with amazement & did not ask “why”?
Allen G.
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Thurman—the noble old Roman—was in the Senate. He was a splendid looking man. Thomas F. Bayard was a splendid type of a gentleman. Tall, handsome, with an intellectual kindly face. I little thought that in a year’s time, he and I were to speak from the same platform. He delivered the address to the Literary Societies in the Public Hall in July 1873 & at the same time I was presented by Prof Geo: Frederick Holmes with the Magazine Medal & made my first public speech after his.
Mat Ranson was in the Senate from North Carolina and his son Mat, Jr., was at the U of Va with me & in Washington with me in the Spring of 1872. The Doorkeeper of the House pounced on Mat: & me when we were making a good deal of noise in the Speaker’s Lobby one morning, to our great indignation, but he finally calmed us down by reminding us that we were only there “by courtesy” & “courtesy” required us to behave ourselves. We thereupon
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very promptly apologized & quieted down.
Speaking of Oakes Ames & Brookes, I was in the house when Ames was expelled & heard Brookes answer the reprimand of the house, both on account of their participation in the Credit Mobilier frauds. Brookes who appeared to me a very old man was dressed in a blue swallow tailed coat with brass or gilt buttons & was very tremulous when he spoke. Father always said that Blaine and Garfield & several others were just as guilty as Ames or Brookes, but too smart to be caught.
This was in 1873, a month or less before the 42nd Congress ended, but I put it down now lest I might forget it.
I made many friends during the session of 1871-72. Spoke in the Washington Literary Society quite often & I am afraid enjoyed myself much more than I studied. Amongst
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the boarders at Morea was Joe Simpson of Pensacola Florida, who was a great friend of Ed: Creary’s—tho’ as different from him as night is from day—Joe and I used to get on an occasional spree & one night he tried to drink me drunk, at Bowyer’s bar-room just outside of the University gate— We drank black-berry brandy & Joe got violently drunk & tried to jump in the University pond as we were coming back to Morea. I was so disgusted with myself I drank no more that session.
Amongst the friends of this session I recall John Sharp Williams—afterward the distinguished leader of the Democratic party in Congress & United States Senator from Mississippi. “Sharp” as everybody called him, was a brilliant fellow—rather dissippated—a habit he unfortunately never got over. Thos A. Seddon was received the magazine medal & was a man of exceedingly bright mind. He died young whilst teaching at
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“Norwood”. He started to practice law, but gave it up in disgust because he did not at once leap into prominence— He was a fine fellow. Fergus Graham who was “Wash” medalist was also a friend, as was poor old “Ranny” Mason— Jeffn Randolph Mason was a descendant of Jefferson’s & a curious odd fellow. He & I were co-editors of the University Magazine in 1872—from Octo to December— Henry T. Kent—a brother of my Father’s adjutant & of C. W. Kent afterwards Prof of English—was “Jeff” Medalist for that year as “Henry A. McCollam of Louisiana was of the “Wash”. He beat Fergus Graham—but the latter was elected in 1873—I being his opponent— Henry McCollam had a younger brother with whom I was quite intimate, as indeed I was with Henry.
Allen McC. Kimbrough of Mississip-
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pi—a Z.Y—was a great friend: A tall, dignified, quiet man—who has since been a judge in his native State. Julio Romano Santos of Bahia de Carracas [Caràquez] Ecuador, also became a great friend—a friendship which ran thro’ many years. He too was a Z.Y: Later on & the Fraternity helped to get him out of imprisonment & saved him from probable death in one of the Revolutions in his native land.
I made my first appearance as a poet in the early part of this session—my verses “Hidden Chimes” appearing in the first number of the University Magazine for the session of 1871-2. They were signed “Herzog” & dedicated to “Miss____ (Sally Knight) of Richmond Va.”
In the early part of December I went to Staunton to visit Maggie Stuart & with her went to Cousin Mary Baldwin’s School—the famous Baldwin School for girls.
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As “Cousin Mary Julia”, as we called her, was a Cousin of my mothers she allowed me a good many privileges & I went several times to call on various & sundry girls. I was very much attracted by a very pretty one named “Emma Heard” & great was my delight when she told me she was going to visit her school mate “Annie Woods—the daughter of our Pastor Revd Edgar G. Woods at Christmas. Annie & I had been intimate friends for several years & both professed great fondness for each other—a fondness which was genuine on my part. So when “Emmy” came over I paid her the most devoted attention & so kindly did we feel for one another that we commenced a most vigorous correspondence. I sent her a handsome book at Christmas & all went “as merry as a marriage bell.”
Imagine my horror when I
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on a fine morning I received a package with all my presents & a curt little note saying she had been under the impression “she was corresponding with a gentleman”. Finding she was mistaken she begged leave to return my correspondence & gifts & begged I would return her letters. I, of course, did it with a very stilted & solemn note saying I too imagined I was a gentleman & would like to know wherein I had failed. In the mean time I began to imagine one of my “deadly rivals” poor old Josh Green—was in some way responsible for “Emmy’s” ideas & I at once proposed challenging him to deadly combat. I was laughed out of the idea—as I had no proof & really old Josh was as innocent as an unborn babe. I knashed my teeth—tore my hair—I had hair in those days—but all in vain. Finally I received a note from my fair one saying I had
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best ask Annie Woods— Now Annie had been the first person to whom I had gone with rage & grief in my bosom—asking the meaning of “Emmy’s” strange letter. I afterwards recalled a very peculiar look on her face, but she it was that made me think a “deadly rival” had told of some desperate escapade. The truth was I had, been on a rather conspicuous spree with some of the boys & had made a good deal of an ass of myself, but no more than a score or more of the boys did very often. This spree I thought “Josh” had “given away”. Hence I thirsted for his gore”.
But in getting Emmy’s last note I hurried off to my “dear friend” & asked what it all meant? To my horror & surprise, she burst into a flood of tears & said She & She alone was responsible.
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That she had written “Emmy” I was showing her letters around to other young men & she must not write to me any more. “She was wrong” she knew, & “ought to have asked me first” & sob-sob-sob—would I forgive. “But there was not one word of truth in it”, I said indignantly. “No living soul but she & I ever saw one of her letters to me. How could you write such a falsehood?” “Oh!” she sobbed—“Bob Meade” (to whom it seems “Emmy” was also writing) told me he had seen you with a letter from Emmy”. That was true. Bob & I met at the Post Office each with a letter in hand. “I’ve a letter from Miss Heard,” he said. “So have I”, I remarked & that was all. Bob told Annie that I had had a letter from Emmy, as he had & he feared she was a flirt. I left Annie’s presence the maddest young man you can imagine, & the
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probably—foolish part of it, was that I never spoke to her from that night until long after we both were married— She wrote me a note asking me to do something about Chinese Missions, but I replied very shortly saying I had enough Heathens at home—I then had two children. After that we spoke & once or twice she tried to be friendly, but I had no use for her & do not think I made any mistake in not wishing to be friendly with her again. She married John Sampson—a splendid fellow—who started & built up “Pantops School”, but his health broke down & the splendid School went out of existence. His brother—my intimate & dear friend Thornton Sampson—the missionary to Greece—once told me that Annie had much to do with the break down of Sampson & the School. She was a little “daft” on
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foreign missions. “Domestic missions” might have made her husband a happier man.
I do not know why I write this foolish episode. Best to have forgotten it I suppose, but I had been exceedingly fond of Annie Woods & was quite épris [taken with] with Emmy & the two fold blow to my friendship & love “wrankled in my bosom” a long time. But here is the sad part of it. About four or five years after I was married I received a newspaper directed in a woman’s handwriting. In it was a marriage notice of a Mr. Thos Heard to Miss E.—something—Heard. I give you my honest word—I had forgotten—not only “Emmy’s” existence, but her very name & wondered over the notice until all of a sudden it flashed into my mind “Heard”—why it must be “Emmy”. And so it was: She & a cousin had become
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engaged, but he was so dissipated her father would not let her marry him; but they remained faithful to one another & after her father’s death she married the cousin. She must have been several years over thirty when she did marry. I hope she has been & always will be happy. Just to think of it. I have never seen her since Christmas 1871.
Quite a sad trajedy broke into our college life in April 1872. Arthur L. Coleman—one of the hardest students & a most exemplary Christian man, who stood well in every way, had just received notice that his application for a teacher’s place had been favourably received. He hastily wrote the joyful news to his mother—a widow & hurried down to the train to post the letter. In those days the trains on what is now the Southern
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Railroad, ran on to the tracks of the C & O at a place called the Junction—right where the Union Station now is. They then ran on the C & O tracks to Gordonsville, where they met their own track again. Coleman tried to jump on the moving train as it took the switch—missed his hold—fell between the cars & his body was cut in twain.
I happened to be at the lower Station when the train come in & helped to carry his body up to the “Meade’s where it was tenderly cared for. Of course this fearful trajedy cast quite a gloom over college & I do not believe there was a single student absent in the long procession that the next day followed his body to the train en route to Richmond, where it was buried in Hollywood
I took great interest in the Literary Societies—especially in my own—the Washington—& spoke
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very often. I was a great politician also & took an active interest in the elections for Medalist—Orator—& Final President. All these were elected & politics ran very high. My friend & Fraternity Mate Walter G. Charlton was elected Final President of the “Wash” &C. A. Jenkins a Morea Boarder—Orator. Henry McCollam was Medalist in the “Wash” & Henry T. Kent Medalist in the “Jeff” Moses Langley Wicks was Final President of the Jeff & his campaign nearly led to a duel. Moses Langley Wickes imagined himself insulted by Kent & challenged him to deadly combat. Winchester was Wickes’ second & all arrangements had been made, when Col Peters got wind of it & would be combatants & seconds were hauled up & required under threat of arrest to give their word of honour that the affair would go
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no further: And so the matter was ended.
The boarders at Morea were a very pleasant set of fellows: They studied hard & our only dissipation was a game of cards now & then—never for any stakes. Cards bored me then, as they have ever since & as they do now, but I used to make up a hand once or twice a week. I visited very little. Went to dancing “school” taught by a man named Carr, whose “school” was carried on in Massie’s dining room. I had much difficulty in learning to waltz: so much so that Carr said I never would learn—I got very angry at this & went to work & did learn & became one of the best waltzers in the University, so the girls said & as I afterwards lead many a “German”—as they called the Cotillion then—both in Charlottesville & at the White Sulphur, I believe the girls were correct.
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I resume these long drawn out “Recollections” this 28th January 1922 when the snow is pouring down—having snowed steadily for over twenty four hours & lying upon the ground over two feet. I cannot explain the way in which I have procrastinated from time to time bringing these Recollections up to date. “Laziness” pure & simple—I think is the reason & a growing dislike to use a pen. But I am “house bound” & tired of reading, so I resume.
The session closed as usual with the Finals in early July in the old public hall, that hideous extension back of—north of—the Rotunda, which the fire happily cleared away. It was a long hall, with galleries on each side & in the front; a stage at the back end, behind which hung the “School of Athens” bright with colour & in my humble judgement far more beautiful—if not so absolutely a copy—as the present copy in Cabell Hall
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“Finals” were great events in those days. To attend your “First Finals” was for the debutante in Virginia, very much what a presentation at Court was in England. These were three night affairs—the celebration of the Washington Literary Society—on the first night—of the Jefferson Literary Society on the second & on the third the Joint Celebration of the two Societies when some distinguished Orator addressed the large audience which then always attended. Pendleton: Thurman: Hendricks: Bayard & men of that stamp delivered address. Thursday was the Final Day when diplomas were delivered & after dinner a distinguished Alumnus delivered the address to the Alumni— At night was the Alumni dinner—tho’ sometimes held in the day & it was not a “dry dinner” either The Final Ball then took place & we always danced until day break & were fearful objects when we came out into the
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light—powder all gone—hair dishevelled—dresses often torn & wilted with the ladies & the boys with shirts & collars & cravats wilted—for those July nights were hot—& looking as they had been drawn thro’ a keyhole.
The Board of Visitors & Faculty always attended these functions in a body— They were met at the Front—South door—by the Committee with rods wrapped with the colours of the Societies—white for the “Wash”, blue of the Jeff, & as the Band in the front gallery—that is the East gallery—played a March—first the Board of Visitors marched down & passed under the crossed rods of two of the Committee & took their places on the stage— Then the Committee marched back & brought down the Faculty in the same way. Then came the third Procession—consisting of the Society whose
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night it was, the President & Orator & Committee being seated on the Stage & the Society in seats reserved for them in the front of the Hall. Invocation was offered & then music & then the Orator spoke & then the best debater’s medal was delivered by the President & then the debater delivered a short address. Then everybody went out on the lawn, which was brilliantly lit with long rows of Chinese Lanterns & in the centre a Band Stand ablaze with many coloured lights & whilst the Band played—happy couples paraded down the Lawns & crossed at the celebrated “Triangle” at the foot of the lawn. In those days the Lawn only extended about fifty yards beyond Prof Lile’s (then Minor’s) residence on the East & Prof Fitzhugh’s (then McGuffey’s on the West. From the end of the pavement by each house ran a
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brick pavement to the centre of the lawn where there were steps running to the Public Road which then & up to the Fire in 1896, ran at the foot of the Lawn. There has been quite a fill made there now & all trace of the old road lost. These two pavements meeting as they did made a triangle & as the lights hung along each side of it, there was quite a shadow outside. So “Courting Couples” used to walk the “Triangle” & disappear in the shadows. Many a match, they say, were made in those same shadows. The promenading was very pleasant for awhile. Your first session you could not get enough of it: your second you did not enthuse & thereafter you “dodged,” if possible: For sometimes you were “tied” to the same girl & the tramp, tramp, tramp, for hours became fearful & always reminded me of the procession of the
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damned in <Vuthek.>
The Professors then very generally entertained & the various classes were invited—with a few other favoured men—to receptions & dances, where refreshments--oh! tell it not in Gath”—often of vinous kinds were served. Schele—who lived then, in what is The Administrations Building now, generally had a dance every night of the Final & many envious glances were directed at the windows by which fair forms flitted by & out of which “music arose with its voluptuous swell”. Other Professors had receptions or dances & old fashioned Virginia Hospitality was the rule. I graduated in Moral Philosophy & with the class marched up to the sound of music & were handed our diplomas by the Chairman of the Faculty. Each graduating class in every school marched up & the Professional Schools after the last class & then the A.B’s &
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A.M. these being very few—sometimes only one—of the latter. For an A.M. then meant to graduate in nine schools & no credit was given for work done elsewhere. A P.H.D of Oxford or A.M of Cambridge, Yale or Harvard had to attend the same classes & pass the same examinations as if he had never been either. This made scholars it is true, but as I come to look at it now, it sacrificed too much good material for too small a result. Many men actually broke themselves down trying to make this degree.
The session closed with Ball—& then the usual farewells. I have seen since very few of the men of those days. Some rose to prominence—some went into obscurity—many oh! so many now have passed beyond the river. Pray God they rest under the shade of the trees.”
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1872-3
The summer of 1872 was an unusually delightful one: For in it I accompanied my dear father in a trip thro’ Augusta, Bath & Highland— Whilst Father was in Congress the Virginia Legislature changed all the Congressional Districts & some of the ambitious & as I think unscrupulous members of that body, determined to work a plan which they hoped would get themselves into Congress. The plan was to so manipulate the Districts as to throw two of the members into the same district & in the rivalry of these two between each other, the valiant & shrewd Legislator would slip in. I am glad to say not a single one succeeded. But they threw my father & John T. Harris of Rockingham into the same District & the fight came up between them. It looked like a hopeless one, for they left my father only Albemarle
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Green & Goochland on this side of the Mountain—all the other Counties being in the Valley & Valley Folk are notorious for sticking together.
Harris, was a tall oleaginous demagogue— Had been elected as a bolter from his party prior to the Civil War— Had dodged service during the Civil War—& was very nigh into a deserter at the close of the war Yet he defeated my father—he carrying all the Valley Counties & my father all of his old District—that is to say—all that was left, being the three counties mentioned. Harris was no more to be compared to my father than a Satyr to Hyperion, but he was elected & re-elected, which shows what politics amounts to.
But my father was a fighter & determined to go into the enemies’ country, so he made all of his preparation & to my great delight told <me> I should go with him.
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He and mother—who was to visit Cousin Stuart & Tom Ranson—went to Staunton on the train. I drove a large raw boned sorrel mare—a vicious but fine animal—to Staunton, the longest drive I had ever taken up to that time. I remember father & mother waving to me out of the car window as the train passed me just a mile or so this side of Waynesboro. I never pass the spot to this day without thinking of it. We spent the night in Staunton & the next day started on our journey to Monterey the County seat of Highland. Our only luggage were the essentials in the way of clothing & toilet articles and father’s trout fishing tackle—for he expected & did combine some sport with his campaign.
I still remember the beautiful drive by Buffalo Gap & into Highland County. It was & is a beautiful County—very fertile—splendid farms & we were received very hospitably by
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the people— Of course we did not hurry, as father stopped at the various house & “electioneered” & now & then chatted with men on the roadside and in the fields. There were many pretty streams & full of trout, but father did not fish any until our return trip. At Monterey, the County seat of Highland, we spent the night at the house of a lawyer named Stephenson—who was a friend and supporter of my father & my father the next day addressed a large crowd in the Court House and was very favourably received. Father was a splendid speaker—Had a fine voice—used clear, crisp, elegant English—embellished his speech with anecdotes & apt quotations & it did not take him long to enthuse a crowd. His manner was very pleasant—he spoke without effort & at times rose to the heights of eloquence. Indeed I do not think
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I every heard a better—stronger and more elegant speaker & I have heard a great many of the best orators.
We came home by a little different route & spent one night at the Warm Springs. It was my first visit to that quiet, delightful old watering place & I recall to this day the shock I received, when I plunged into the clear beautiful pool—whose deep green water I expected to find cold—& found it almost hot. I do not think there is a more delightful bath in the world & there is a peaceful, sweet air about the place which has always made me wish to re-visit it. I never saw it again until after my first marriage, when my dear wife & I—attending a meeting of The Bar Association—drove over from “The Hot”. She enjoyed the Ladies Bath as much as I did the Mens: We too promised ourselves to come to it & stay awhile, but with the single exception of
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another day’s visit when we were again at a Bar Association meeting at “The Hot,” we never saw the place again. Father fished in many of the Streams as we came back, but with indifferent luck. I used to laugh at him for many years at two of the incidents which took place as we made our way over the roads. One was on a Sunday—when of course—according to the strict rule of those days—& my dear mother was one of the strictest of Presbyterians—fishing was not to be thought of. As old man Gaujot used to laugh & say “Á pêcher c’est á pécher.” [“To fish, that is to sin”] As we crossed on a rustic bridge one of the streams we looked down & a pool beneath the bridge just swarmed with trout. Father reined up our mare—got out & leaned over the railing & fairly sighed as he saw the splendid fish lazily swimming in the deep water or lying at the end of the ripple—now &
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coming to the top of the water & jumping out at a fly. Father looked long & lovingly— then finally walked to the rear of the wagon—got out his tackle—chose an attractive fly & started to work. But evidently the fish were Sunday observers also, for not one of them so much as looked at a fly—tho’ father changed a half dozen times. After half an hour of useless whipping—father returned his flies to their book—the rod to its case—got in the waggon—took the reins & drove silently away. I suppose we had driven three or four miles before he opened his mouth: Then he turned to me with a twinkle in his eye and said: “Don’t tell your mother.”
The other episode was a very unsportsmanlike one, but I think entirely justifiable under the circumstances. We drove some miles along a stream; I think it was a branch of Jackson’s river, when
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we came to a beautiful pool filled with splendid trout. There was one fish—evidently the boss of the pool—which was—as we found out later—about fourteen inches long and beautifully coloured. He swam in the most dignified way in the pool as if he owned it. Again father stopped—got out his flies & pole & line & whipped the water for a good half an hour— Not a fish paid any attention to his flies— He then got a cricket & put on his hook. Then made me dig some worms. “Nothing doing”. “The old rascal” father said, actually shoved the worm away with his nose and winked at me”. Flesh & blood could stand it no longer: Hastily removed his light line from the rod, father put on a heavy line to which he attached a “dull”—a snare— Cautiously leaning over the bank he slipped the fatal noose over the fishe’s head and in a in-
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[stant] had the fish out of the water & in his hand. He was a beauty & weighed nearly a pound. “The Colonel’s” blood was up & in the most murderous & unsportsmanlike manner he continued to “dull”, until we had a dozen, at least, fine fish in the creel. Then he turned to me—“A most outrageous, shameful thing, my son— Unsportsmanlike & to be utterly condemned: But confound ’em and especially that big fellow they deserved it. I gave ’em every chance to be caught accordingto rule, but they scorned me & I just had to have a few: But don’t you ever follow my bad example, for my conscience is hurting me now”.
I’m afraid my conscience did not hurt me at all when that night I feasted on the fine golden meat of these delicious fish.
We spend one night at Covington at the house of one of Father’s friends,
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and I still remember the delicious “fricasseed venison” we had for supper.
Father left me the next day. I drove home in three days, passing under “Elliott’s Knob” & dining at the “Variety Springs” which at that time had a decidedly primitive Hotel. To this day I remember its “dried apple” pies.
The rest of the Summer passed uneventfully— The Democratic Convention for the 7th District nominated John T. Harris for Congress over my father. Father carried all of his old District; Harris all of his & so a common low politician—a skulker in war—a demagogue in peace was elected over a gallant soldier—a pure high minded gentleman of education—ability and learning. But such is politics.
I entered the University again in October 1872. I was now a full fledged “oldster” and as many of my friends came back I was very happy in my associates.
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My fraternity was much in my thoughts & the selection of new men was attended with great care and secrecy. “Rushing” was unheard of & would have met with the most chilling reception. We elected our man: One of us then went to the “fortunate” man & in the most secretive manner told him of the great honour conferred upon him. If he accepted, it was kept quiet & no one knew of his initiation until he blossomed out with the pin. During the session we took in several new men & before the end the Fraternity consisted of Augustus Barnes of Alabama—Bob Cooper—a dear fellow—whose sister married Dr Petrie our beloved Presbyterian minister & so Bob & his two pretty daughters in after years came to Charlottesville more than once. He died only a few years ago.
A. H. Goelet became a distinguished Physician in New York. He too has joined the great majority. E. T. (Tiff) Hunt—who died in Florida a few
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years ago. Allen T. Mc C. Kimbrough who became a judge in Mississippi & who is yet alive. M. P. Morrell yet living a physician in St Louis—Julio R. Santos of Ecuador—who is dead. Tom Vivion—who became a writer of some note, but who simply dropped out of sight—Sam Winston of Hanover, who moved to Texas & died there—the first one of the Fraternity of that year to go into the hereafter. They were a splendid lot of fellows & I loved each one of them: Kimbrough & I are the only ones now living (1922)
I took that year International &c Law, as I expected to study law the next year. The Professor S. O. Southall was a charming old gentleman—a good lawyer—but one of the poorest teachers I ever knew. I took also History and Literature & Political Economy. I graduated in all, but history which Prof Holmes made as dry
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as one could conceive.
I had been elected Editor of The University Magazine from the “Washington” Society; J. R. (Ranny) Mason was my associate from the “Jefferson. We elected a business manager—Geo: R. Lockwood—a splendid fellow & then commenced a friendship which has lasted until today & which I trust will last all of our lives. Geo: married Miss Davis—Capt Eugene Davis’ neice & an adopted daughter of Col Thos L. Preston: This brought him back to the University very often & he was here this summer (1922)
I took very much pride in my editorship & wrote several articles & some inferior poetry. The printer’s devil was pressing me for copy & whilst he waited I hurriedly wrote an article called “Old Letters”—which to my great surprise took the “Magazine Medal” given for the best article published during the year. Its only competitor was a criticism of Tennyson’s Last Idyl by me. I almost thought Thornton’s Article on The Study of English—ought to
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have taken that medal. And speaking of Thornton (Wm Mynn) recalls to me his present wife, my dear, dear, friend Gertie Massie whose acquaintance I made in the early part of the session & we began a warm friendship, which has grown with the years & which today is warmer & dearer than ever— Into that friendship, there never entered the slightest idea of love or flirtation. We were just, good honest friends in the highest sense of the word. A truer more loyal friend never lived & today we love to get together & talk about the old days & old friends of 72 and 73 & 74. She was a most enthusiastic “Zete” & was really in love with E.T. Hunt. Hunt, I am sorry to say was rather dissipated & the parents of Gertie frowned upon the match. Gertie’s mother was Mrs John L. Cochran—wife of Judge John L. Cochran and he was her third husband. By her first she had two children Tom & Gertrude. At the death
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of this husband she married his cousin—another Massie by whom she had three children. Frank, Nita—now the wife of Archie Patterson of Richmond—and Jeannie the wife of Oscar W. Underwood—who died some time since. By Judge Cochran she had two sons & one daughter.
Both of her Massie husbands were very hard drinkers & so was the judge when she married him: But she thoroughly & entirely reformed him in a few years. She was absolutely insane on the subject of Temperance—who could blame her, poor woman—organized the W.C.T. Union & was active in all temperance movements. She was a fanatic on the subject & when her son Frank Massie was desperately ill with typhoid fever & Doctor Davis prescribed whiskey, she refused positively to let a drop come in the house. Doctor Davis told her the boy would die without it. “Then let him die”, she said. Dr Davis refused to continue in the case & told her she was a murderess. But she had her way, and Frank got well all
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the same; He never was the same man again however. She was a good woman—a splendid woman all the same & I was very fond of her, as I think she was of me. I was the only person who ever dared to jest with her on the liquor question, so they told me.
I visited the girls a great deal that session & there were lots of pretty ones in Charlottesville & at the University & many came over from the Schools in Staunton to visit friends in & about the City. Mrs Cochran was very hospitable & Gertie had frequent “parties”, to which the Zetes were all invited. I made up my mind to “run” for medalist in the Washington Society & started out in the Campaign about December 1st. My opponent was Fergus R. Graham. The two great honours in the Literary Societies were the “Final Oration” & the “Medalist”. The latter was the greatest honour & highly coveted. It was given to
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the best debater, presumably but was really given to the man who could muster the most votes. Graham, however, was an excellent speaker—logical—clear & forceful. I was a sky scraper: Very florid & disposed to oratory instead of logical speaking. But as I said the relative merits of the speakers had little to do with it. It soon ran into politics of the most violent kind & caucus were held & all the arts of the politician brought into play. These caucuses were held at the rooms of friends most remote from the University & were accompanied by much smoke & a great deal of “Hotopp” wine. Hotopp was a German farmer who had come to Albemarle & like Noah planted himself a vineyard & made an excellent wine. He bought “Pen Park” the old Gilmer estate & covered the hills with grape vines. He was the pioneer in grape growing & wine making in Albemarle. His example was followed by many farmers & grape growing became a popular and paying investment.
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My brother Willie planted several vineyards at Sunny Side & shipped a great many fine grapes to the Northern markets. All of us helped to pack, & very often Mary’s friends, Lucy Shackleford, Jeannie Randolph & others came out & we had regular “packing parties”. It was easy & pleasant work. A gentleman told us he had seen boxes of grapes bearing the “Sunny Side” label on the station at Montreal Canada. It was a paying investment—sometimes yielding $50 to $100 an acre. With the establishment of the Monticello Wine Co: grape growing increased & soon Albemarle Clarets & especially its Norton’s Virginia became famous. My Father was one of the originators of the Company & the best people in the Country took stock. It was years before it paid a dividend, but it did a great deal for the County & strange to say for the cause of temperance. The old County Court days used to be
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drunken orgies accompanied by fights & rows, so that no lady dared to go on “The Square” on Court days. When wine began to be drunk, it was only a year or two before Court Days began to grow quieter. Men drank Claret & White wine & no longer got violently drunk & the change was simply miraculous— Our wines were absolutely pure & as they grew older became so good, that at the Paris Exposition of 1878 (I think it was) a box of Albemarle Monticello Norton’s Virginia—very close kin to Burgundy—took the only silver medal given to America Wines, no gold medal being given.
When phyloxera attacked the finer varieties of grapes & communication with California became easier the cheap wines of California injured the wine industry very much. The Monticello Wine Company held its own, however, for the superior quality of its wines holding the market & its splendid brandy being used by physicians, kept it in fine shape. It was
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paying well & improving in its products when the infernal fanaticism of prohibition gave it its death blow. In 1872, however Hotopp’s wines were very popular & quite in evidence at our caucuses.
I made several delightful friendships during that session. Dear old Westray Battle of N.C. one of the most charming of boys as he is of men was one of them. He was tall, thin & rather cadaverous. He always swore that he had consumption & used to beat his breast & in a hollow voice proclaim that one lung was gone & the other going— Prof Beck’s assistant was a poor old foreigner named “Folke”. He actually had consumption & was tall, lean & cadaverous. “Pig” (W.W.) Dancy christened Westray Battle, “Folke” & the name stuck. He was called “Folke Battle” all the time. Wes took very kindly to his “dram”—“for my lungs, you know,” he would say. He was—& is—a most
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charming fellow—very brilliant & witty & full of “quips & oddities”. Along with Battle came Tom Brem, also of North Carolina—Raleigh—& who was one of the greatest oddities I ever knew. He was tall, angular, a shock of red hair over a freckled face. He dressed as carelessly as a field hand—seldom wore a cravat & to look at him one would have thought his intelligence would not have been very high—to say the least of it. He came with a letter to the Fraternity urging us to take him in, but when we saw him, we simply laughed at the idea. All of us met him as he lounged into our room, but all pronounced him “impossible” from a fraternity standpoint. What was our surprise to find that in a few weeks he was taken into the Delta Psi’s—one of the “high-brow” fraternities & composed of unusually bright & nice fellows. And what was our greater surprise to find him an unu-
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sually brilliant man. Well read—a fine latin & greek & french scholar & a mathemetician of the first order. So well his ability in the latter study he had been offered a professorship in a College of first class standing— But he wanted to be a lawyer & so came to the University. Whilst a member of the Delta Psis, his affection grew for us & he was more with us than with his own fraternity. He and Wes Battle roomed together & we never had a supper—even a fraternity supper—that Brem was not a guest. He was a fine talker—full of fun & merriment & with ability to talk on more serious subjects than mere college gossip. His failing was drink. He loved it beyond any other love & drank a great deal—often to the extent of drunkeness. It became so apparent that the Faculty took notice of it—a rare thing in those days—& he was summoned
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before that august body & given the option of “swearing off” or leaving the University. He “swore off” & pledged his honour not to take a drink during the rest of the session—a pledge he literally kept: But we saw every now and then plain indications that Brem was under the influence of liquor. We taxed him with his breach of faith, but he swore he had never taken a drink of anything in the nature of wine, beer or spirits. The mystery was explained when one morning as I entered the room I was greeted by a strong smell of whiskey & saw Brem—half dressed—with his face deep down over a washbasin. He looked up with a deprecating grin on his face as I said, “What’s the matter—nose bleeding?” and replied “No! I’m getting drunk”. He had taken a quart bottle of whiskey, poured it into his washbasin
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& by inhaling its fumes had time & again got “comfortably drunk”. I am glad to say we persuaded him that this was in spirit if not in letter, a violation of his pledge & he gave up the habit & kept entirely sober the rest of the session.
W. W. Dancy also of North Carolina was another particular friend. From a supposed likeness to a pig, he was christened “Pig” Dancy and seldom known by any other name. He was a very handsome fellow all the same and very popular, despite a rather loose way of talking and very dissipated habits. It is curious the nicknames we gave each other in those days. Hunt was known as “Mule” Hunt. Clarke of Arkansas was known as “Spread Eagle”. Cooper of Delaware was “Horse” Cooper &c &c.
Two of my warm friends were Tom Raymond & “Sid” Lewis of New Orleans— Raymond has been
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dead many [years]. A splendid Christian character. Sid Lewis was devoted to me & I afterwards helped to nurse him thro’ a severe attack of Typhoid fever.
One of my warmest friends & one of the handsomest men I ever saw was John [ ] Marshall of S.C Full of fun & devilment—charming in every way—a Z.Y. the next year. I met him in Richmond with his wife several years since—& once before that when he passed thro’ Charlottesville. He was, & is, the same jolly good fellow, tho’ entirely bald. There was an awful trajedy in his life, which saddened him for many years. His father & he were chums—their relations being very much like those of my dear Father & myself. Some years after he left college he & his father were out hunting together & as they rode, his father fell in behind him. John threw his gun over his shoulder & it was discharged—killing his father instantly.
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Two odd characters from Texas—“Big” Huck & “Little” Huck, were also friends. “Big” Huck was one of the most eccentricmen I ever knew. They were very rich—spent money like water. Roomed together & always had in their rooms—Champagne & claret &c &c, tho’ Big Huck was very sober. He married Maggie Brown, who was “Cousin Betty’s” daughter. Whilst at the University the great tidal wave washed away the City in which they lived—Corsicana—& utterly ruined their father & themselves; They were rich one night—paupers the next morning.
All these men were supporters of mine & attended the caucuses— One caucus I recall very distinctly at what we called “Andersonville” now the home occupied by Mrs H.H. Williams (Fanny Berkeley) There was a huge crowd & several Kegs of Hotopp consumed. Billy Boaz was making a speech standing on a Beer Keg, when
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some of the opposition rushed in & tried to break up the meeting. Billy deliberately fell off of his Keg on the chief offender & so smashed him that the crowd became good natured at the sight & amidst laughter & song the “enemy” came into the meeting & some were actually converted to our side. Billy Boaz—my life long friend was one of the most remarkable men I ever knew. Born and raised in Albemarle at Covesville, I happened by chance to sit next to him in the German class. I very frequently copied his exercises, but we never spoke to each other until nearly at the end of the session when we were formally introduced. Such was the absurd custom at the University then. That ceremony being duly performed we became friends & remained so to his death.
He was a brilliant man, but so quiet & unostentatious no one would have judged him above the ordinary. But he took his A.M.
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degree—no easy thing in those days—graduated in law—& began practice about the same time I did. He drank hard—a habit inherited from his father—& was known in college as Billy Boaz—the Gittite—But it never interfered with his work. He moved from Charlottesville to Lovingston in Nelson County & there nearly drank himself to death: Came home—pulled himself together, was elected & re-elected to the Legislature—became Chairman of the Finance Committee & stood high in State Finance. He & my brother were in the Legislature several terms & the warmest friends. He was also a member of the Constitutional Convention. A splendid fellow—he died in [ ]. I shall never forget his first political speech—long before he obtained prominence & when he & I first came to the Bar. Tom Wallace of Fredericksburg—later of Orange was to be the chief speaker at a
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big Democratic Rally held in the Court House, I think in 1875. Billy was to flesh his maiden sword & as the hour for the meeting drew nigh, proceeded to get up his courage by numerous libations; so when he walked into the crowded Court House at 8p.m he was decidedly high. Wallace was late, so Billy was put up to keep the crowd. He mounted the rostrum as solemn as an owl steadied himself against the railing & in a rather thick voice spoke as follows:
“Feller Citizens. We come here tonight in the intrests of the great Democratic party. Who is its opponents. The Publicans. Publicans are friends of rich men— Publicans got no use for poor man. Democrats is the party of the poor man. I’m a Democrat. I love the poor man. I don’t want to ’sociate with rich men. Am a poor man myself & I love to go around and grasp the hand
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of the poor man—of the horny handed Sons of _______s” Billy intended to say “horny handed sons of toil” but unfortunately the other word had been rather too often used & instead of toil he substituted the word which designated the plural of female canines. The crowd roared & just then Wallace came in the door. Billy’s face lit up—“Genelmen”, he said, “I see the distinguished orator of the evening approaching & I am goin’ to sit down”. And so he did. It was a long time before Billy ever made another speech, but when he did he had no occasion to regret anything he said & neither did his audience.
Our Fraternity that year got in the habit of having a supper at Ambroselli’s every Club night: That is every other week: Ambroselli’s restaurant was situated on the North East corner of what is now fourteenth & Main Streets—only there was no Fourteenth Street in those days
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Where the street is was then a field & the only house in it was The Blue Cottage a four room—or rather eight room house—four rooms on a floor—it having two stories with a porch on each floor. It was a very simple frame structure lime-washed blue: Hence its name. It stood on the site of the Peyton house—that is the second house from King’s Greenhouse on the West side of the street. Brem & Battle roomed in it on one side—the Hucks above.
Ambroselli had a restaurant and Bar-room, my first year at the University—but license was refused him & he had only the restaurant during the rest of his life. The cooking was very simple—but Mrs Ambroselli’s waffles were famous. Our suppers were very simple. Scrambled eggs & waffles & oysters in season. Each member of the Fraternity “set up” suppers in turn, so it did not cost any one very much. There being ten men in the Fraternity & each
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one paying for a supper in turn, it can be seen that it cost very little And besides our suppers rarely cost over fifty cents a head. Whilst Ambro—as we called him—no longer kept bar—wine was easily obtainable at $l a bottle. Of course he had to send to town for it, but we always noticed that the messenger never took over three minutes to go & come the two miles necessary to be traversed. But we asked no questions & enjoyed our “Hotopp” as if it had come from the most respectable grocery. Occasionally one of our members “got wealthy” & “set up” a bottle Champage. Miserable stuff it was with a curious metallic “after taste”, & was not a popular drink, except with “fools.”
Our suppers usually took place about 11 o’clock & we used to raise a window in the rear of the dining room & yell for Tom Brem, who living in the “Blue Cottage” a very short distance
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away, was in easy call. He always came & always insisted on “setting up” supper when his time came around. So Tom was almost like a Zete—of us, if not in us. It used to be said he was was a member of the ΔY, but belonged to the Z.Y, & that was practically the case.
These suppers were very delightful affairs: There was no dissipation—nobody got the slightest “under the influence.” We sang & talked—gossip some times—of course our girls were discussed—always in the most gentlemanly way—but sometimes graver questions were talked over & literary questions touched upon. Our noctes Ambrosellianae, as I christened them, were—if not equal to Kit North’s Noctes Ambrosianae—certainly very good & I often wished we had had a stenographer to take down the wit & humour—the sparkling talk & the pleasant discussions of men and things which took place in the plain
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old dining room—now a thing of the past.
I boarded at Morea again this session in the front room to the South up stairs—Allen Hooker being my room mate. Two Jones boys from Tennessee—a man named Beaton from Texas—J.E.F. Mathews & several whose names I have forgotten. Not as congenial crowd as the year before, but we got on pleasantly. My campaign for the “Wash” Debater’s medal went on in a very lively way & I spoke often.
I paid numerous visits to my sister—of course—at Edge Hill & was invited to one or two dances. I went to Washington to visit Father once & I think twice & enjoyed the occasion very much. My brother went with me once & on that occasion something happened which will shock the <“onco quid”> I’m afraid. My Father asked us if we had ever been in a Faro Bank? On our answering in the negative he asked if we would like
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to see one. We answered in the affirmative, so that night he took us down to a very noted Faro Bank on Pennsylvania Avenue on the block on which the Raleigh Hotel is now situated. A man from Albemarle—Tom Yates—was part owner & he greeted us as we entered the room. He was a large, stout—man, rather good looking & was a brother of Mrs Anderson our neighbour. “I brought the boys down to “see the Tiger”, Tom,” Father said & I am going to leave them in your charge.” Then turning to us he said, “Now boys you are old enough to be trusted: I want to tell you & Mr Yates here will tell you the same. Do not ever bet on a card or on anything else: But you have your own money. I do not tell you that you must not; only that I wish you would not. Look around & then say “good night to Mr Yates. “Not a bit of it Colonel” replied Tom—“You & the boys have got to stay to supper” and he would have no
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excuse. Such a supper as it was I have rarely seen. Oysters in every shape—Old Virginia Ham: Wild Ducks: Terrapin: Venison: Damask table cloth—glittering cut glass—Champagne & Clarets & the finest whiskeys & brandies. The dining room was very handsome—as indeed every one of the rooms were. Velvet carpets—silk hangings, beautiful furniture. Well dressed servants moved noiselessly about & a throng of men—Senators—Congressman &c &c “sat down to eat & rose up to play”. Father ate a light supper & then left. Tom Yates made us sit down & had us served in the most royal way—took us to the Faro—& Roulette tables & told us all about the games—then let us peep in the Poker room where we recognized several men prominent in public life. Tom re-echoed father’s warning. “Keep away from cards, boys. I make my living by them, but only fools bet.” He introduced us then to a very
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quiet, dignified, handsome man—“Col Black”. I got it in my head it was Jeremiah Black & watched him with much awe, which was changed into amazement when I saw him take the place of the dealer at a Faro table. He was one of the professional dealers.
At one Faro table was a handsome young man—who had a large stack of chips & was betting very high & it seemed to us losing. Yates told us his name & two weeks later we saw in the newspaper that he had shot himself after losing his fortune at the gaming table.
We stayed until twelve o’clock & later, but did not bet, tho’ we asked Yates if it was customary for guests to throw at least a dollar or so to pay for supper. He laughed and said: “Why for regulars, yes, but you boys are my guests & the old man left you in my charge: You should not bet even if you wanted to. Take my advice & never bet.
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And we never did: We saw “the Tiger”, but he never got his claws into either of us. My Father never bet himself. I think he adopted a very wise course in doing as he did. He let us see a gambling house at its very best & trusted us. I do not think my brother or I would have violated that trust even if we knew we were going to break the Bank. Yates was a client of my father’s & afterwards of mine. He was said to be the best “Boston” player in the United States & used to play matches with noted card players at Saratoga—winning there once in one summer over fifty thousand dollars: He died however, not worth a nickel. I never knew a gambler who died with any fortune.
The session went on about as usual dances & caucuses and lectures & fun— I spoke often with Graham as my opponent & politics ran very high & very exciting, but in an absolutely correct & gentlemanly
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way. I had a lot of friends & they worked hard for me. But when the election took place I was defeated by eight or ten majority.
I graduated in Literature—Political Economy and International Law.
Walking up Main Street in the morning a few days before Commencement I met Graham & two or three others & Graham hailed me. “Hello, Duke,” he said— “Do you know who got the Magazine Medal?” I replied that I did not, as I had spent the night at home & did not know the bulletin had been put up. “Well!” he said, it is up & they say a fellow named Duke got it on an article called “Old Letters”, and my late antagonist shook my hand most cordially. I never felt a greater surprise or a more delightful one & I literally trod on air. Absolutely unexpected & more delightful for that reason. I never had a greater thrill, excepting the time I saw my first poem in the old Scribner’s
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Monthly Magazine.
The most important event of the Session of 1872-3 was my trip to Eastern Penna as a delegate to the Convention of the Zeta Psi Fraternity.
I left soon after Christmas—late in December & got to New York on the 31st of that month. I recall my amazement in Baltimore when we dropped the engine & the cars were pulled thro’ the streets over the tracks by a long string of horses. I had never been north of Washington & of course the whole trip was very full of interest & delight— I got to New York in the night I think & went to the St Nicholas Hotel. I do not know now where it was, except that is was on Broadway & what would be now very far down town. Then it was rather up town. To my eyes it was one of the most gorgeous structures imaginable—gilt & scarlet & immense mirrors— I remember the Barber’s Shop was one immense
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mirror, sides & ceiling.
Some of the New York Zetes called on me New Year’s day & insisted on my going calling with them. I did so & visited home after home of people whose very names I never knew. My companions of course did know them. There was a very fine “collation” spread at every house & a great deal to drink—punch & champagne & all sorts of wines & liquors. At the door of some of the houses a basket was hung to the doorknob, which meant that the ladies of the home were not “receiving.” We deposited our cards in these baskets & went our way.
I recall very little of New York, but remember that the wooden scaffolding had not been taken down from the steeples on St Patrick’s cathedral. I expect I ate & drank more than was good for me for I woke up on the train going to Easton where I arrived that same night. I went to the Hotel where I was most enthusiastically received by the
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boys. I think my coming was looked forward with much interest. There had not been a Zete from the South since the Civil War & I rather expected that they would be rather chilly to me. I think they expected I would be a sort of a wild man. But both were disappointed. They were enthusiastically friendly—in fact gushed over me & I was found to be a boy just like they were individually. Somewhere I have a collection of the photos of most of these boys. Amongst them was a very young fellow named T.A.H. Hay who sported huge side-whiskers. Dear old Tom Hay—who is now a cherubic rosy faced old man without a sign of a whisker, but with the old time boyish laugh & happy youthful spirit— Then commenced a friendship which has lasted up to the present time & his delight in seeing me & my children this August (1922) when we stopped for lunch in Easton (his home)
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was very pleasant. We had met at several Conventions & I visited Easton twice since 1873 in addition to my lunch this summer. I spoke at the Convention Banquet & raised such an enthusiasm that they took me off my feet & put me on the table to finish. I went back to the Convention of [ ] stayed at the same Hotel (much enlarged) & spoke in the same dining room & was wildly cheered. I went back again in [ ] at the invitation of dear old Prof [ ] who was the Professor of Latin in Lafayette College. He had read my speech on the study of the Classics delivered at William & Mary in [ ] & asked me to deliver it to the students. I did so—staying this time with Fred: Drake a very enthusiastic Zete who also lived in Easton. I was most kindly received. I do not recall very much of this trip, except the Convention which was very enthusiastic & pleasant— There were delegates
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from Maine & California. Hay is the only one of whom I have now any knowledge.
I graduated in International &c Law. in Political Economy & in English Literature. At the Commencement Senator Thos F. Bayard delivered the Address to Literary Societies: It was a magnificent speech & his tribute to General Lee was very beautiful & received wild applause. After he finished Prof Holmes read the report of the Committee on the Magazine Medal & then in a graceful little speech delivered the medal to me as “the hopeful son of a distinguished sire”. I made a very short speech in acceptance & as I had quite a carrying voice & could be heard I was much applauded. All the family were present & Sally Knight as well who had come up to the Commencement. She gave me a beautiful basket of flowers: But Gertie Massie captured the medal
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and wore it that night.
Prof Holmes also announced that the Scholarship awarded the two Editors who had gotten out the three best numbers of the Magazine had been awarded to Mason & myself. This meant very much to me, as Father had told me that owing to the falling off of his practice—owing to his being in Congress—& some heavy security debts he had to pay he would not be able to send me back to the University. But the Scholarship enabled me to go back free of all charges & as I was to stay at home I was enabled to go back. The Summer of 1873 went by very rapidly. Dances & tournaments & parties took up a good deal of time & we had a series of tableaux at Rio & Hydraulic Mills (mere names now) and at White Hall which was very pleasant. We only danced the “Square” Dances at the Country Places then. Waltzing was confined to the University dances with some
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rare exceptions. I do not think any thing can be prettier than the old Virginia Reel (Sir Roger De Coverly, as the English call it)
As I was older I made friends with the Charlottesville men—most of whom were older than I & some of whom had served in the Civil War: John Foster—who owned & edited the Charlottesville Progress. Wm Garth—“red Billy” to distinguish him from Wood Garth’s family—to whom, however, he was related—Bob Harris—a fine fellow—a great fiddler—& a valued friend & later on a client. Billy Garth—who is still living in a green old age—was desperately wounded in the Civil War. Bob also served—both in Cavalry. Rice Burnley an artilleryman—afterwards Sheriff & still living in the eighties Moran—a New Yorker—who bought the farm adjoining Sunny Side. Inloes—a Baltimorean, who served in the Civil War & bought the place adjoining Sunny Side on the west.
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Bob Harris—Moran & Inloes have all “gone West”.
Foster was a very tall & large man: Full of fun, but in looks & appearance very grave & dignified. He—like most of us, was very fond of a drink & generally carried a quart “tickler” of good whiskey to every party to which we went. I remember in the winter of 1873, we had tableaux & a dance at Rio. It was very cold & cloudy & after the tableaux we had a dance. Bob Harris was the fiddler & got very tight I’m sorry to say. He played very well at first & shouted the figures in the liveliest way. Finally his playing became very unsteady & ceased: Bob was sound asleep. One of the young ladies—a great favorite of his—went up to him & woke him up. He roused himself & in a stentorian voice yelled “Change partners” & began to play vigorously—just where he left
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off. It was only for a moment, however, & he was asleep again. Again he was awakened by the same girl & this time he yelled “I won’t play another d—nd drop until you change partners” & then we led him out on the porch & laid him down on a bench. We got another musician, & forgot all about Bob, until going out on the porch we found it had been snowing steadily & drifting over Bob’s inanimate form until it was completely covered. Some one suggested that it was a dry snow & the best thing to do was to let him lie there—and he did until the party broke up about 3.A.M & it was still snowing. We woke up Bob, who was then perfectly sober—gave him a drink & all drove off in the fast falling snow—as merry as crickets. Bob didn’t take cold & suffered no inconvenience.
Foster wore a very long Ulster overcoat & carried his Quart in one of the pockets. He
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hung it up on a hook in the room in which we were dancing & in the midst of the merriment took it down for some purpose & the quart bottle fell out & rolled over in the midst of the dancers, who paused in the dance. Foster was unabashed. He picked up the bottle—& then looked at the overcoat. “Oh! me” he said “what a fearful thing. This is not my Coat, but that of dear old Uncle William ___’s” mentioning the name of a prominent Methodist Minister in Charlottesville, who was about as high as Foster’s shoulder “I took it off the rack in the Hall where we took supper together: I never thought he drank”. And gravely he replaced the bottle in the overcoat pocket & walked out on the porch, where he was followed by “many friends”.
John is long since dead—a fine fellow & charming gentleman—peace to his ashes.
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1873-4
It was determined that I should remain at home for the session & walk over to my lectures, dining at Morea when it was necessary: My lectures were nearly all in the morning, so I only dined at Morea probably twice a week. I walked across the fields to the railroad track & then down the track to McKennie’s bookstore. This way by the track was not the shortest, but it led me by the Blue Cottage, where I generally stopped for a short chat with Brem or Marshall or Battle—the first two being in the same classes with me. Sometimes I would stop at the Bookstore and “hae a crack with Dr McKennie—“old Doc” as we called him, tho’ he was then in his forties.
Dr Minor lectured in a large room under the Public Hall in the Annex. Only a small part of his Institutes had been published, so he got a student to write a portion
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every morning on the Blackboard & we copied it. He adhered rigidly to his analytical method.
“A1 Contingent Remainders—Wherein consider—(abbreviated to W. C)
He was a very clear forceful lecturer—and great teacher. Like Dr McGuffey he taught his pupils to think & his constant repetition kept a given subject in mind. He was a strikingly handsome man, with a fine voice & very impressive: With a very high temper, which he kept, as a usual thing under good control, when he did give way to it his explosion of wrath was like lightning & thunder at once. He grew deadly pale, then red & with a fearful explosion fell upon his unfortunate victim with all the power of sarcasm & invective. He quizzed a great deal & used question and answer as a vehicle of continued dissertation upon the subject under dis-
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cussion. His great fault—in my judgment—was a “fondness for the antique” & he frequently discussed & dwelt upon laws & customs belonging almost to the “age of the mammoth & mastodon”. And the difficulty was that he gave some prominence to these subjects on his examinations. “Old John tithed mint & rue” one of the brilliant members of his class,” once said, “and if he doesn’t exactly neglect the weightier matters of the law, certainly wastes a lot of valueable time, which ought to be given to it.” He was fearfully severe on any change in the law—attacked most vehemently “homestead & poor debtor’s” exemptions, and almost frothed at the mouth when the married woman’s law—“that abominable piece of legislation fathered by one Smith of Nelson” was mentioned. Tom Smith—who introduced the earliest married woman’s Act being from Nelson County in the Virginia
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Legislature. Common law Pleading was to him the perfection of human reason & no pharisee ever saw a jew touch the Ark of the Covenant, with greater wrath & horror than Mr Minor viewed any change in that wretched system. He was a cold man, I think & somewhat narrow, but no more honest, upright and high minded man ever lived.
The other Law Professor was dear old Stephen O. Southall—about as poor a teacher as he was rich in all the elements that make up a gentleman. He came to teaching directly from the Bar & at an age when it was too late to learn the art of teaching. He had the important subjects of Equity and Evidence & the minor subject of International Law & Government. We used Vattel in the one & The Federalist in the other. It was a very easy subject under “old South’s” teaching & he made it a very uninteresting one. His lectures were dry & he seemed very indifferent as to
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the whole matter. It is said he graduated a whole class once because the papers blew out of his window & he was too lazy to pick them up. Having graduated in that subject at the last session I did not have to take it & attended his lectures on Equity & Evidence passing my intermediate examination in both subjects. Why I did not graduate I will explain later.
Mr. Southall was, however, a most lovely character—a splendid gentleman & a most eloquent speaker. His farewell address each year to his class was a model of good taste & style as well as pathetic and eloquent. He was a bachelor & very quiet & rather solitary in his life. It is a rather strange thing that the Chair filled by Prof Southall never—until late years had a teacher in it. It had able lawyers & fine men, but absolutely poor as instructors. Prof Holcombe, Southall’s predecessor was a brilliant man—eloquent—strong as a lawyer, a member of the
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the Confederate Congress—but a very poor professor of law. Southall was succeeded by Professor Gilmore—one of the ablest lawyers in the Southwest, but an absolute failure as a Professor. Indeed he resigned after some years of service, thus preventing a request for his resignation which was said to be about to be made. He was succeeded by my dear friend Walter D. Dabney, who was a most learned & brilliant man & who would have made his mark but for an excessive modesty. As it was, he was a decided improvement on any of his predecessors. I am unable to say anything as to his successors.
There were a fine lot of men in the class of 1873-4. Thomas Nelson Page sat next to me & then commenced a friendship which has lasted up to this day. Tom was an excellent student & stood high in the class, despite a rhyme I made on him in return to some verses on me rather inelegant it is true. In reply to them I
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wrote.
“There are Pages of wit & pages of Glee,
And pages writ over with maxims, so sage,
But when Tom Page is called on by old John B.
Why what is it then but a blank Page”
Edward Echols who failed on his final examination to the great anger of the whole class, was afterwards a Member of the State Senate & Lieutenant Governor of the State. He was a wealthy man & did very little out of Politics. [ ] Rector of Arkansas—who was afterwards Attorney General of that State—also failed on his final examination. The indignation of the class was caused by the fact that Echols & Rector used to write up Mr Minors syllabusses on the Blackboard in the class room, giving much of the time they might have spent in study to this work for the Professor. They ought to have known that Prof Minor was absolutely just & fair & “played no favorites. If Echols & Rector failed, they failed to answer the question & Mr
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Minor saw the papers & no person behind them. But the boys, with whom Echols & Rector were great favorites, when the names of neither one appeared on the graduating list, went down en masse & “booed” under Mr Minor’s window—interspersing the “booing”, with loud cheers for Echols & Rector. Mr Minor paid no attention to the demonstrations. Jas M. Ambler now Associate Judge of the Supreme Bench of Baltimore was also in the class and others who have made their mark.
I commenced the session with the fixed intention of taking my B.L. in one year & I began to study hard & with some system. But fate was against me. I drove mother over to Morea to spend the day the latter part of October—a raw & chilly day. I drove the old sorrell mare I had driven down the Valley in the summer of 1872. She was an ill conditioned brute, but I took her out of the buggy—took off her harness & turned her out to graze. When evening came I attempted to catch
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her, but she showed me her heels & it was a very angry young man who finally cornered her in the angle of a <worm> fence— As I came up behind her she threw up her heels & kicked me square in the face. Had I been three feet away she would have killed me. As it was she shattered the bones in my nose & I got up & rushed back to the house a very bloody youngster. I alarmed the household. Mother almost had hysterics. Dear Lucy Armistead was then on a visit to Morea & she dressed my wound—washing my face & laying me down on the bed & sitting by holding my hand until Dr Cabell came. He came very near not coming at all as the stupid negro who went for him informed him he must come at once to Morea where a horse had kicked a man & knocked out all of his brains. He did come, however, ran a pocket pencil up my nostril, put adhesive plaster on the injured mem-
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ber & went off. Lucy was simply lovely to me & then commenced a friendship & affection that ceased only with her death. But the wound was a serious one. My face was blue & yellow & my eyes closed. I was not able to read until nearly Christmas & so I got behind my class and never caught up.
The wound was long & obstinate in healing & a great deal of what was called “proud flesh” came in it. Dr Cabell treated me with an electric needle, burning out the flesh, every other day. It healed about Christmas, but left a decided scar, which has not entirely disappeared. I suffered a great deal with it & was rather despondent & gave up studying almost altogether, only doing enough to keep from failing in the class. I did graduate—or rather pass—several of the intermediate examinations.
I am afraid my running for the debater’s medal in the “Wash” Society had a good deal to do with my failure as well, as my wound. Politics
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ran very high & the Wash had the largest membership in its history. My opponent was a young gentleman from Alexandria named Brooks of whom I have never heard since he left the University. He could not speak but was very popular & defeated me by a tie vote—the President Richard H. Bell of Staunton casting the deciding vote in Brooke’s favour. But the contest was a hot one & canvassin[g] & speaking & caucussing took up a lot of time. I am sorry to say that my opponent or his friends played very dirty politics & in one case a dirty little jew from Norfolk actually forged some telegrams. My friends took the matter up to the faculty & the result was that this was the last contest for the debater’s medal on the old plan of election by popular vote. A committee of the faculty heard a certain number of debates and awarded the medal.
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(whilst I was writing the page before this (Wednesday Novbr 1st 1922) dear old Thos Nelson Page was lying a corpse in his house in Hanover Co: He was walking in his garden & dropped dead yesterday—Nov lst— His wife & mine died within a week of each other.)
The Session passed rapidly to a close— The Finals were very pleasant & the Final Ball unusually pleasant. I was President of the Ball Association & very proud of our success. I took Mrs. Charles Goodyear, one of the handsomest women I ever saw— She was half greek—her father being a Presbyterian Missionary to Greece & her mother a Greek lady. We danced in those days “jusquá jour” [until day] & I never shall forget how well she looked as we came out in broad day light—Most women looked bedraggled—powder in streaks—gown torn & dishevelled. Daylight on any one who has danced all night in July is a terrible “dis-
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illusioner”, but she looked very beautiful.
My opponent—Brooks—received the medal, but that rascal John Marshall persuaded him into getting a white vest about six inches too long for him & his appearance was rather ludicrous.
Old friends parted that July night never to meet again & my college days ended. Delightful days they were, full of joy & pleasure but in many ways I wasted the greater part of them. Had I studied as I should have done—& been less superficial I might have made my mark in life. But they were happy days & I learned one thing which has proven of great value to me; that is the ability to think on my feet & to speak readily.
I did little that Summer, but enjoy myself. Dear Lucy Armistead came to Morea to spend the summer & I saw much of her
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there & at Sunny Side. Drove with her, walked with her & thoroughly enjoyed her company.
I was twenty one on the 27th day of August. I applied for a certificate as a man of “good moral character” at the September County Court & with it went with Father to Fluvanna Court at Palmyra, where Judge Henry Shackelford—who was holding Court there—examined me. His only question was, “When do they cut clover hay?” and when I answered, “When it was ripe,” said, “Hand me your license & I’ll sign it. If you are as d—nd fool farmer as that, I suppose you will make a lawyer— Why they cut it when its green”.
I did not get off as easy a week later when with Warwick Reade—an A.M. & B.L. of the University I went to Staunton & was examined by Judge [ ] Christian of the Supreme Court of Appeals.
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The Judge made an appointment for late in the afternoon, so Reade & I got a handsome “double team” & drove around Staunton.
When we got to Judge Christian’s room we found [ ] Quarles—who had been a classmate & the Judge examined us & signed our licenses. Quarles was & is a remarkable man. Seemingly dull & stupid he was afterwards County Judge of Augusta Co & a member of Congress. I think he was “heavy” not dull. He had & I suppose has a good law practice, & was & is, an excellent gentleman.
I returned home & spent the next month having a good time. Dear Lucy Armistead & I drove a good deal & I went to dances &c &c making new friends & renewing old friendships.
The Circuit Court met in October and I qualified to practice law, Judge Henry Shackel-
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ford being on the Bench. He immediately assigned me to defend a negro accused of breaking in a corn house & stealing corn from Col [ ] Northrop, who had been Commissary General of the Confederate States & whose general inefficiency contributed much to the downfall of the Confederacy. He was a South Carol[in]ian & was anxious—so I have heard—to feed our armies on rice. He had been at West Point with Mr Davis & it was probably a personal appointment. He was a bigoted Roman Catholic & a very strange sort of a man. Highly educated, but absolutely impracticable. He bought the farm on which Col Mosby was raised—now owned by Mr [ ] Harrison. His son Xenus & I were & still are good friends. Xenus lost a son in the world war.
Of course I was intensely interested in my case. Made a speech which was much complimented &
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darkey was acquitted: So greatly disgusted was Col Northrop that he never spoke to me again. Said these young “springalds of the Law”, ought to be prohibited from taking such cases. The evidence against the negro was very slight & he ought to have been acquitted. Not quite as slight, however, as a case the Col had against a negro whom he had arrested for stealing a sheep. He stated to the Magistrate that he found where his sheep had been killed; He suspected a certain negro—went to his cabin—found what was “cold sheep’s grease” in one of the pots in the kitchen. “I, then sir”, he said to the Magistrate, “seized the negro firmly by the nose & chin, opened his mouth & smelt his breath. He had been eating sheep, sir & it was my sheep”. He never forgave the magistrate for not issuing a warrant on this
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testimony. I recall that dining at home once, Mother taxed him with Roman Catholics denying salvation to any but of their own faith. “Not at all, Madame”, he replied— “We believe many of you will be saved by “invincible ignorance”. I never shall forget how Mother drew herself up & replied, “I do not think I would value salvation on such a plea.”
My father threw some little business in my hands & my first chancery suit was for partition in the case of Sandridge vs Lewis. Father declined to give me any help. “Work it out for yourself”, he said & I had to do it. He adopted this wise plan during all of our lives. I had to prepare papers without his assistance. He then looked over them & pointed out any errors. This made me self reliant, but was the best way to teach me the practice of the
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law.
Shortly before Christmas father told me that he was going to dissolve the partnership of Duke Jones & Hanckel & take me in as his partner. It was—I know—a hard wrench for him to give up Mr Jones. He loved Mr Jones as if he were a brother & Mr Jones loved him. He was a quiet, modest, unassuming gentleman—rather shy & never appeared in Court; but was a good draughtsman: But father really brought practically all of the business to the firm & thought I ought to help him. Father hated to write. He had some trouble with the nail on the thumb of his right hand which made the thumb tremble when he wrote, so his handwriting, which had at one time been very good, became decidedly bad, so he had his partners do most of the
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writing. This was long before the stenographer was known in Charlottesville & the type writer had not been invented. I may say here—en passant—that I was the first lawyer ever to have a stenographer and a type writer—the old Caligraph. My stenographer was a Miss Conger of New Orleans & the older members of the Bar were very much horrified to think of having a woman employed in a lawyers office. Today a young lawyer gets his stenographer as soon as he opens his office. How many of them can afford to have them & pay them is a mystery to me.
But it was well on in the eighties before I had either stenographer or type writer & the amount of writing I did in long hand would look marvellous to the young lawyer
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of today.
On January 1st 1875 the firm of Duke & Duke was formed & the old sign is in my office now (Feb:y 1923) I kept the name up to 1922 & then my son Eskridge & I took C.E. Gentry into partnership with us we kept the name, simply adding his to it.
From January 1875 commenced my real career as a lawyer. I do not think I have ever been a good lawyer. I have been a successful one, but I never cared to study law. My main strength has been as an advocate, tho’ I liked to work up for, & write briefs. Strange to say I have always hated the wrangle & jangle of the Court room—even with the superb lawyers who were at the Bar when I came to it. They were learned, courteous men, high men, disdaining chicanery & sharp practice
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such a contrast to the set who now practice here— It is with a mingled feeling of disgust & contempt that I now have to cross—sticks—not swords—the latter being too noble a weapon—with the men at the Charlottesville Bar today, with a few honourable exceptions. Ignorant, pretentious—shysters,—but I must not go on.
I worked very hard for many years, helping my dear Father & as he told me in his last illness, taking the burden from his shoulders. I made up my mind that I would never marry until he was out of debt. He had no idea how much he owed & my first work was to get a statement of all he owed. It welnigh paralyzed me, for a hundred dollars in those days meant to me far more than a thousand does today.
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The amount father owed would be to me now nothing extraordinary. Then it looked colossal: But each year saw it cut down & when Father was out of debt, he owned SunnySide, well stocked & had money in Bank. I might here say something of the Albemarle Bar in 1875 & future years, but I have written my reminiscences & a history of this Bar in Vols VII & VIII (new Series) of the Virginia Law Register to which I refer my children. It was a superb Bar of fine lawyers & splendid gentlemen. “Quantum mutatus ab illo”. [how much has changed from earlier time]
The year was a very busy one with me, but I had a good time. I went to the University a good deal to see my old classmates & friends & it was hard to realize that I was not still a student.
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I attended all the dances—lead many of the Germans & visited the ladies in the City & at Edge Hill a great deal.
Col Thos Jefferson Randolph died at Edge Hill this year & I went to his funeral which was largely attended. After the grave was filled about six or eight of his old servants gathered about the grave & sang a very pathetic song— I recognized neither the words or the music, but the latter was very sweet & impressive. There were very few dry eyes in the crowd. Col Randolph was a kind master & much beloved by his servants. He was a strong believer in Emancipation of the negroes & introduced a bill in the Legislature, where he served several terms. He told me more than once that but for the rabid abolitionists in the North & their violence & abuse, slavery would have been abolished in Virginia long before the