The rose of old St. Louis 17 – Dillon · Verses Across
Literature · Historical Fiction
The rose of old St. Louis 17A Virginia Farmer
18
Literature · Historical Fiction
The rose of old St. Louis 17
A Virginia Farmer
DillonEnglish
"Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere,
In action faithful, and in honour clear."
"What, Fatima! You refuse?"
I dismounted and led her carefully down the steep bank and on to the ferry-boat. She followed me very willingly, but I stood with my arm over her glossy neck, for I saw she eyed the water distrustfully, and while I had no fear of her being disobedient to my word of command, I knew it would comfort her to feel my arm about her neck. She neighed her appreciation, and gently rubbed her nostrils against my side, ever a token of affection with her. When the boat began to move, the two stalwart negroes pulling at their great oars and chanting dismally in time to their pulling, Fatima again showed signs of excitement, but I easily quieted her, and then I had leisure to use my eyes.
This crossing the Potomac to Washington reminded me vividly of crossing the Mississippi to St. Louis more than three months before. Nor did the capital look more impressive at this distance than the village of St. Louis. Both were embowered in trees, and, but for the two imposing white buildings,--the President's Palace and the Capitol,--Washington was much the less prepossessing village of the two, and I thought how much more worthy was our own city of Philadelphia to be the capital of the nation.
Indeed, when I had led Fatima off the ferry, she sank over her fetlocks in mud, and I had to lead her some distance before I found ground firm enough to warrant my mounting her, lest my weight should make the poor creature flounder hopelessly in the mire.
I bore in my pocket a letter from Captain Clarke introducing me to Mr. Meriwether Lewis, which he had written at Mulberry Hill, after the boat that was to bear me away was in sight, and also an address he had given me of a respectable innkeeper where I might find lodging. The inn was my first quest, and that once found and a suitable toilet made, I was eager to present my letter of introduction, and, if chance favored me, meet the President also.
It was still early, and the road I found myself upon (for it could not be called a street, since there were no pavements and only at long intervals a house) was filled with a well-dressed throng all wending their way in one direction. It seemed to me too early an hour for gentlemen to be seeking a place of amusement, and too late and the throng too generally well dressed to be on their way to business. Some were in coaches, with coachmen in livery on the box and footmen standing up behind, and some were on horseback and some on foot, but all, or nearly all, were wearing silk stockings and fine ruffled shirts and carefully powdered queues and shining shoe-buckles.
A little stretch of brick sidewalk gave an air of distinction to a solidly built two-story house with sloping roof and dormer-windows, and in front of the house, on a stool planted on the curb, sat an old negro, bandy-legged, with snowy wool, industriously polishing a row of shoes neatly arranged in front of him, and crooning happily a plantation melody as he worked. I drew Fatima to the curb.
"Good morning, uncle," I said as the negro slowly lifted his head, bowed over his brush. "Can you tell me who all these people are and where they are going?"
"Mohnen, marsa," the negro returned politely, and then looked at me with round-eyed astonishment. "Yo' dunno whar they's gwine? Why, sah, dey's de Senatahs and Represenatahs, sah, and dey gwine to de Cap'tul, sah."
Of course! It was very stupid of me not to have thought of it. The negro evidently thought so, too, but a sudden excuse suggested itself to him.
"Mought yo' be a stranger in Washington, sah?" with a glance of such undisguised pity for any barbarian who did not know the capital that I felt myself coloring, and to recover my self-respect assured him that I had set foot in this "domtiferous" mud-hole for the first time just fifteen minutes before.
He was greatly impressed with my emphatic word, and addressed me with much-increased respect.
"Den, sah, if I might be so libertious, p'r'aps yo' like me to p'int out de 'stinguished gen'lemen."
Nothing could have pleased me better, and I drew Fatima still closer to the curb while Bandy Jim--for that, he said, was his name--proceeded to point out the celebrities.
There was passing at that moment a very elegant coach, with mounted postilions in pink plush and gold lace, and an exceedingly handsome man with an aristocratic face leaning back among the cushions, his eyes half closed, as if mentally conning a speech for delivery in Congress. Bandy Jim did not wait for the eager question on the tip of my tongue.
"Dat, sah, is de welfiest and most 'stocratic gen'leman in Washington. Dat am Mistah Gubernoor Morris of de gre't city of New York. I 'low he studying dis minnit on a speech 'bout de Mississippi Riber and dem Spanish men."
I looked at him again, more eagerly than before. I knew Gouverneur Morris well by reputation, though I had never seen him, as one of the most polished and scholarly men of the country, and the devoted friend of Hamilton, whom I idolized as all that was brilliant, great, and noble. But my eagerness was largely due to Bandy Jim's suggestion that they were discussing the Mississippi question in Congress, and as I looked more keenly I hoped he was on the right side, for I thought that broad white brow could think great thoughts and those clear-cut lips could utter them with force.
"Why do you think it will be on the Mississippi this morning, uncle?" I inquired, amused that the old darky should seem to know the doings in Congress. "Do you go up to the Capitol to listen to the debates?"
"Sometimes, sah, but mos'ly I reads dem in de 'Post,' sah!" And the proud air with which he let me know of his unusual accomplishment beggars description.
"And so you can read, Uncle? And who taught you?"
"Ole Miss, sah. I's a free nigger, sah. Ole Miss gib me my papers so I mought stay wid my fambly when she follow de gin'ral and his father to Mulberry Hill in Kaintuck'."
I confess Bandy Jim seemed like an old friend at once when I found he had belonged to the Clarkes, and in my delight at seeing "one of the family" in a strange land, I slipped from Fatima's back and grasped him by the hand.
When he found I was just from Kentucky and Mulberry Hill, he was more excited than I, and especially was he eager for news of "Marse William."
"He mah baby, sah!" he repeated over and over, his old eyes shining with visions of other days.
"An' Yorke, sah,--you know Yorke?--he mah son!" with great dignity and much evident pride in a son of such distinction.
I had many things to tell him of Yorke's prowess and address that pleased the old fellow greatly. I might also have recounted the many times when I had had all the will in the world to horsewhip the rascal, but I did not distress his old father with any of his shortcomings.
The morning was fast slipping away when I bethought me it was time to be looking up my lodging and making myself ready for my call at the President's Palace. I flung Bandy Jim a piece of gold and told him I would see him again. And then as I was in the act of mounting Fatima it occurred to me he could no doubt direct me.
"Can you tell me how to find the Mansion House, Uncle?"
"Right here, sah," grinning with delight; and sure enough, what had seemed to me the home of some respectable citizen proved to be mine inn. And a very good one indeed; for when Bandy Jim had called a boy to lead Fatima around the house to the stables in the rear, and another to take me in to the landlord, I found myself in as clean and comfortable a hostelry as one could hope to find. My chamber was a large square one, on the second landing, and from its windows I could catch glimpses through the bare trees of the white building on the hill that I knew was the Capitol.
And when a boy had brought my saddle-bags, Bandy Jim himself hobbled in to help me dress. He had been body-servant to both General Clarke and his father, and, old as he was, bent nearly double and dim of sight, his fingers were skilled for lacers and laces, for buckles and ribbons.
I thought I looked quite as a gentleman should for a morning call at the "White House," for that, I understand, is what Mr. Jefferson prefers to have the President's Palace called. Indeed, I have heard he very vehemently objects to having it called a palace at all. I was wearing a plain cloth habit of dark green with no lace at wrist or knee and only a small lace tie at the neck. My shoe-buckles were of the plainest silver, but Bandy Jim had polished them till they shone like new. I had some thoughts of deferring my visit until later in the day, when I might with a good grace have worn satin and velvet and fine lace ruffles, for I am afraid I was something of a beau in those days in my liking for dress. But bethinking me that the plainness of my costume would only be an additional recommendation in the eyes of the President, should I have the good fortune to meet him, I set off on Fatima's back, following the straight road, as Bandy Jim had directed.
A more forlorn village it has rarely been my lot to see: stretches of mud road with neither houses nor fields to outline it, and then for a block or more bare and ugly houses, hideous in their newness, not having even the grace of age to soften their ill proportions. I was glad mademoiselle was not there to gaze upon the capital of America with eyes that knew so well how to be scornful, and that would so soon find her own gay French capital so beautiful.
I was in the very act of saying to myself for the twentieth time, "Idiots and dolts, not to have selected beautiful Philadelphia for a nation's capital!" when there rode up beside me a farmer in plain, almost rough, clothes, but riding a magnificent horse. He was about to pass me (for I was riding slowly, out of respect to the mud, which might easily have bespattered me so that I would be in no condition for a call), but I hailed him:
"Are you going my way, my friend?"
"If you are going mine."
"I am going straight ahead to the President's Palace."
"And I to the White House, sir."
"Then our ways lie together. Are you acquainted in Washington?"
"Somewhat, sir."
I began to think this rather a surly farmer, he was so chary of words, so I looked at him more narrowly. But I saw nothing surly in his face. Indeed, at a second glance, I decided it was as fine a face, its features as clearly chiseled, as one often sees, and the eyes, beneath the broad white brow, were full, open, and benignant.
"He is no ordinary farmer," I said to myself, "but most like a wealthy Virginia planter of education and social standing, but careless in matters of dress." Therefore I addressed him with a shade more of respect than I had hitherto used:
"I am a stranger in Washington, sir," I said, "and if you are better acquainted here, I thought perhaps you would be so good as to tell me something of the city."
He unbent immediately, and not only pointed out every object of interest on the road, but in a very delicate and gentlemanly manner proceeded also to pump me as to my name and errand in Washington. I was not more amused at his curiosity than at the skilful method he employed in trying to satisfy it, but, as I flattered myself, I gave him but little satisfaction.
In reply to some question of mine about the debate in Congress on the Mississippi question, he gave me such a masterly exposition of the whole subject, so clearly and concisely put into a nutshell, I began to think my eccentric planter was a political genius, possibly a member of Congress, though if so I thought his horse was headed the wrong way.
But evidently I had lighted unwittingly upon a rich mine of information. It was never my way to neglect my opportunities, and I began at once to ply him with questions about men and things in Washington. Last of all, I asked him about Mr. Jefferson.
Now my family was not of Mr. Jefferson's party: we were ardent admirers and strong partizans of Mr. Hamilton. Not that we had any fault to find with Mr. Jefferson, except for his quarrel with Hamilton. But bethinking me that it was quite possible my planter might be a "Democrat," as Mr. Jefferson calls his party, I spoke guardedly, I thought.
"Can you tell me something of the President, sir? Do you admire him? And is it true he is such a sloven in dress as they say he is?"
I could not tell from his face whether he were Democrat or Whig, for it changed not a whit. He answered readily:
"I know Mr. Jefferson quite well. I can hardly say whether I admire him or not, but I like him. In fact, he is quite a friend of mine. As to his being a sloven in dress, is that what they say about him? He dresses as well as I do: would you call that being a sloven?"
"Not at all, sir, not at all!" I answered quickly; but to myself I said, "If he dresses no better, God help us!" I added aloud:
"I hope, sir, what I have said about the President has not offended you, since he is a friend of yours. I have never seen him, and was only repeating the general report."
The stream of people that had been setting eastward earlier in the morning had ceased entirely. We had ridden on some distance without meeting any one, but at this moment we met two gentlemen on horseback, and both took off their hats and kept them off until we had passed. I thought it probable that from my fine clothes (which, though plain, were of undeniable elegance) they took me for a stranger of distinction, and I bowed most graciously in return. My farmer friend but touched his hat with his riding-whip, and then pointed off through the woods to where we could see the chimneys of a large house, on the banks of the river.
"That," he said, "is Mr. Law's mansion. You may have heard of him?"
"Oh, yes," I answered; "he married Miss Custis, and I used to know her quite well, when we were both children."
We mounted a little elevation in the road, not enough to be called a hill, but enough to give a more extended view over the wide acres of brick-kilns and huts of laborers and dismal waste land unfenced and uncultivated. To the east, in the direction of the Capitol, he pointed out the towers of Doddington Manor, the house of Daniel Carroll. We had passed so many houses that seemed to me but little more than hovels or barracks that it was a relief to me to see from Mr. Law's and Mr. Carroll's places that there were some gentlemen's residences in the capital. When I said something of the kind to my guide, he replied, with some asperity, that there were many gentlemen's residences at Alexandria and Arlington and Georgetown, only a short gallop away, and that it would not be many years until Washington itself could claim as many as New York or Philadelphia.
I saw he was one of those violent partizans of the "ten-mile square" (probably because his farm lay somewhere near), so discreetly turned the discourse, since I did not want to bring up the vexed question of the superior merits of New York, Philadelphia, and the ten-mile square as a seat for the capital.
By this time the President's Palace was in full view, and a beautiful building it was, looking very large and very white, and, it must be confessed, very bare, since there were no gardens surrounding it, nothing but mud in front and marsh behind, between it and the Potomac.
Fatima picked her way daintily through the mud, often half stopping for better footing (as if she knew she must not bespatter me when I was going to call at the President's house), and by that means the farmer's powerful horse (who seemed not to mind the mud, knowing there was no finery to be hurt by it) got well ahead. I was myself so much engaged with the badness of the road that I did not, for a few minutes, look up. When I did, I observed that two orderlies were holding the farmer's horse, from which he had just dismounted, while the farmer himself stood on the steps awaiting my approach. One orderly led his horse away as I rode up, but the exclamation of disgust for the mud that rose to my lips never passed them. As I glanced up at this "farmer" in corduroy small-clothes, red plush waistcoat, rough riding-boots splashed with mud, he had suddenly grown tall and majestic.
"Orderly, take this gentleman's horse to the stable!" he said, with an air of command, and then turned to me with stately dignity.
"Welcome to the White House, my young Philadelphia friend," he said, and smiled.
For my confusion knew no bounds. I was never quick where a puzzle or trick was concerned, but now it slowly dawned upon me that my farmer friend was the President of the United States! and I had been criticizing him to his face, and talking flippantly to him, and even superciliously. My consternation grew; I knew not what was the proper thing to do, but I stammered out the most abject apology I could think of.
Mr. Jefferson only laughed at my confusion.
"Come, come, sir," he said genially, "there is no great harm done. Don't you suppose I know what people say of me? You were only repeating the 'general report,' you know." And then he added seriously, as he saw my confusion was but increased by his raillery:
"Where no offense is intended, sir, none is taken. I beg you will enter the White House, and I will send my secretary to you, Mr. Meriwether Lewis."
As he spoke he led the way into the house and into a very large and beautiful room, with a full-length portrait of General Washington on the walls.
"I shall hope to see you later," he said pleasantly as he left me; "if I mistake not, I have some communications of interest for you." Then he turned and went up the grand staircase and left me alone to my miserable pastime of recalling every word and every incident of that wretched ride to the White House, and from not one of them could I extract an atom of comfort to soothe my wounded self-esteem.
