On the afternoon of June 22, a few miles outside the Virginia Capes, the British frigate Leopard fired on the U.S. frigate Chesapeake, killing three men, severely wounding eight, and slightly wounding ten. Among the slightly wounded was Commodore James Barron, ranking officer on the Chesapeake. The American frigate, taken by surprise and totally unprepared for action, fired one shot of protest and struck her colors. A party from the Leopard then boarded the Chesapeake, subjected it to the indignity of mustering its crew, and removed from it four men alleged to be deserters from a British man-of-war.

The issue of impressment was then at its height. The British Navy, short of manpower, charged that many of its men were deserting to the American merchant marine to enjoy better pay and working conditions. It was not at all unusual for British men-of-war to hail American merchantmen on the high seas and search them for deserters. Nor were the British too careful about the men they took off, frequently including American citizens among them. This practice had been bitterly resented by a large part of the American public, but, while complaints had been made to the British Government, the abuse had not yet been considered a cause for war.

The incident of the Leopard and the Chesapeake, however, was different. This was the first time a British man-of-war had thus dealt with an American man-of-war. It therefore assumed the proportions of a national insult.

In spite of the primitive communications of the times, the bad news traveled with astonishing speed. Three days after the clash between the two ships word of it reached Washington. It spread rapidly to the cities up and down the coast. As it spread public indignation rose to fever heat. Political animosities were for the time being forgotten as the public seethed with resentment at this latest outrage at the hands of the British Navy. The bitterness of the days of the Revolution against King George III, who, though old and broken mentally, was still on the throne, was revived. President Jefferson later remarked that at that moment he held the issue of peace and war in the hollow of his hand.

The Richmond community shared wholeheartedly in this tidal wave of indignation. The sensational news from Norfolk reached the city almost simultaneously with the Grand Jury’s indictment of Burr and Blennerhassett and their alleged fellow conspirators. Momentarily the trial yielded first place in the public consciousness to this threat against national sovereignty from abroad.

In its issue of Saturday, June 27, the Enquirer published a dispatch from Norfolk, dated three days earlier, which revealed the intensity of public feeling there and clarified the reports and rumors that had reached Richmond by presenting an orderly account of what had actually happened.

“We are now to present our readers,” said the Enquirer, “the details of the most unexampled outrage, on the perpetration of which the blood of our countrymen has been shed by the hand of violence, and the honor and independence of our nation insulted beyond the possibility of further forbearance.” There followed a vivid account of the attack.

Most of the young male population of Richmond was organized into uniformed militia companies among which there was a strong and healthy rivalry. They seized upon this opportunity to demonstrate their patriotism and willingness to strike a blow in preserving the nation’s honor. The Richmond Light Infantry Blues assembled at the Bell Tavern and adopted resolutions declaring that “Members of this company pledge their fortunes and their lives.” The Manchester Cavalry, meeting across the river at Brooks Tavern, resolved that “We render our services to the Government.” The smart Richmond Troop of Cavalry, calling its members to the Eagle Tavern, appointed a committee to draft a suitable address to the President of the United States making a tender of its services.

The demonstrations of loyalty were not confined to the military. On July 1 a great mass meeting of the citizens of Richmond and Manchester and their vicinities was assembled to take under consideration the “late hostile attack upon the Chesapeake.” Judge Spencer Roane, of the Virginia Court of Appeals, was in the chair. Editor Thomas Ritchie acted as secretary. John Gamble, Colonel Robert Gamble’s son; Peyton Randolph, Edmund’s son; the venerable mayor Dr. Foushee; William Wirt; and District Attorney Hay were among the speakers who swayed the crowd. At the conclusion of the meeting a letter was addressed to the President of the United States asserting that “While we are sensible of the evils which must result from war, we are prepared to encounter them in defense of our dearest rights.”

Not content with the Leopard having humiliated the United States Navy by its attack on the Chesapeake, the commander of the British squadron, which included the offending frigate now anchored in Lynnhaven Bay, poured salt on the wound by addressing threatening remarks to the authorities of Norfolk. Governor William Cabell interpreted this as a threat and an insult to the sovereign State of Virginia. He promptly called his council together and, after consultation with it, issued an order to the Virginia militia to march to Lynnhaven Bay and there oppose any offensive action the British might take.

Among the militia contingents were some from Richmond and there were few dry eyes as they marched off down Main Street to what many believed would soon be war.

One interested spectator at the trial up to this point found his enthusiasm shifting from the court to the military. Winfield Scott, though not then a member of the militia, mounted his horse and rode posthaste thirty miles through the night to his home town of Petersburg to volunteer his services. They were accepted, but the quartermaster was hard put to it to find a uniform large enough for the youth’s massive frame. Somehow the problem was solved and Scott accompanied the Petersburg troops to Norfolk. This was his first taste of military life and it got into his blood. From then on the army, not the bar, was his vocation.

Still another man to succumb to the military contagion was William Wirt. To his friend Dabney Carr he wrote an impassioned letter announcing his intention to hand his wife back to her father for the time being and join the army. Wirt formed an ambitious plan for creating a legion of four regiments; he was to be the colonel of one, Carr colonel of another. For a few days his letters re-echoed the idea. But the plan aroused opposition and, as the war fever abated, the proposal died. Thereafter Wirt was as completely wedded to the law as Winfield Scott was to the military. Wirt’s brief dabbling in the military was to serve as a source of ridicule among his contemporaries.

In the very middle of the excitement over the Leopard-Chesapeake affair came July 4. Even under ordinary circumstances the anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence was regularly observed by the Richmond community with appropriate ceremonies as a patriotic celebration. The crisis acted as an extra stimulus on this occasion.

At daybreak the populace was awakened by the firing of a single gun. At sunrise there followed a salute of seventeen guns. Those units of the military which had not gone to Norfolk played a conspicuous part in the ceremonies. At 9 A.M. a troop of light horse, three volunteer companies of light infantry, and several more militia companies assembled on the parade ground. From there they marched to the Capitol Square with bands playing and colors flying. Meanwhile, in the House of Delegates, where Judge Marshall’s court had so recently adjourned, the more sedate people of the community were listening to orations from leading citizens of the town, then a popular form of entertainment.

At 2 P.M. the military and civilians joined forces in the Capitol Square. There, according to regular custom, the military formed a great circle and from the center Mayor Foushee solemnly read the Declaration of Independence. At its conclusion three cheers were given, the band struck up “Yankee Doodle” and followed it by “Hail, Columbia,” while soldiers and civilians joined in the chorus.

A silence then fell over the crowd as Shelton Jones, Esquire, distinguished for his eloquence, mounted the platform and delivered a funeral oration in memory of the seamen who had lost their lives on the Chesapeake. During the oration the troops stood at attention with arms reversed and, as the orator concluded his address, the solemnity of the occasion was emphasized by the roll of muffled drums and the firing of minute guns.

These serious ceremonies duly performed, the public now turned to the lighter features of the celebration. The militia companies repaired to the various places of entertainment previously designated for them while many of the civilians assembled in the Capitol for the drinking of toasts. Word had gone out that in keeping with the theme of independence native drinks—and no others—were to be the order of the day. At the Capitol the official count showed that seventeen standing toasts were drunk, the first having been proposed by Governor Cabell.

There is no mention of the Chief Justice having been present at the celebration at the Capitol. But Richmond was a busy place that day and the festivities were by no means confined to one spot. His absence from the Capitol might have been traced to another and more exclusive assemblage at an inviting spot several miles to the west of the town known as Buchanan’s Spring. This was a shady picnic spot on the property of the Rev. John Buchanan. It was the regular meeting place of the social organization known as the Barbecue Club, of which Judge Marshall was an enthusiastic member. The club, composed of the leading citizens of the town, had already been in existence some twenty years and it met regularly for sumptuous dinners at which individual members took turns at being host. The Fourth of July was always the occasion of a meeting of the club.

The dinner, laid out on a table under an open shed, had been prepared by Jasper Crouch, Richmond’s most popular caterer. Crouch enjoyed eating food as much as he did preparing it and, according to contemporary accounts, he had by this time “acquired gout and the rotundity of an alderman.” The custom of the club forbade either dessert or wine. The ample meal was washed down with toddy, punch, and mint julep. A diversion greatly enjoyed by members of the club was pitching quoits, at which the Chief Justice excelled. Tradition has it that his quoits were made especially for him and were heavier than those used by other members.

One celebrity who, perforce, was unable to join the general public in these festivities was Colonel Burr. He was now a prisoner in the penitentiary; and, if his own word is to be believed, every effort both official and unofficial was being exerted to make his stay there as comfortable as possible. To Theodosia he wrote describing the considerate behavior of his jailer:

“Jailer: ‘I hope, Sir, that it would not be disagreeable to you if I should lock this door after dark?’

“Burr: ‘By no means, I should prefer it to keep out intruders.’

“Jailer: ‘It is our custom, Sir, to extinguish all lights at 9 o’clock. I hope, Sir, you will have no objection to conform to that.’

“Burr: ‘That, Sir, I am sorry to say, is impossible, for I never go to bed till 12, and always burn 2 candles.’

“Jailer: ‘Very well, Sir, just as you please. I should have been glad if it had been otherwise, but, as you please, Sir.’”

A few days later Burr wrote Theodosia again: “My friends and acquaintances of both sexes are permitted to visit me without interruption, without inquiring their business, and without the presence of a spy. It is well that I have an ante-chamber, or I should often be genÉ with visitors.” Alluding to the possibility of Theodosia joining him in Richmond, he added: “If you come I can give you a bedroom and parlor on this floor. The bedroom has three large closets, and it is a much more commodious one than you ever had in your life.” Once more he admonished her to observe the stoical role he expected her to play: “Remember, no agitations, no complaints, no fears or anxieties on the road, or I renounce thee.”

Among Richmond’s smart society it became the fashion to prepare dainty dishes for the distinguished and charming prisoner now suffering persecution at the hands of the irascible tyrant in the White House. The Colonel was overwhelmed with wine jelly, a favorite Richmond sweet. Lemons, pineapples, and other rare and exotic fruits were showered upon him. Admirers brought him fresh butter; and to preserve it in the torrid heat of a Richmond summer, an icebox was installed and generously stocked by the owners of icehouses. In short, his friends did all they could during the weeks he was behind the bars to relieve the ennui of his confinement and to supply him with all the luxuries his fastidious nature craved.

The ladies were foremost in their attentions. This was in contrast to the behavior of some of the men. In a letter to a friend, Washington Irving reported that it had almost been considered culpable to evince toward Burr the least sympathy or support. He had, he said, seen many a “hollow-hearted caitiff,” who basked in the sunshine of Burr’s bounty when he was in power, and who now skulked from his side and mingled among the most glamorous of his enemies. But this, heaven be praised, was not the attitude of the ladies.

“The ladies alone,” observed Irving, “have felt, or at least had candor and independence sufficient to express these feelings which do honor to humanity. They have been uniform in their expressions of compassion for his misfortunes, and a hope of his acquittal; not a lady, I believe, in Richmond, whatever may be her husband’s sentiments on this subject, who would not rejoice on seeing Col. Burr at liberty. It may be said that Col. Burr has ever been a favorite with the sex; but I am not inclined to account for it in so illiberal a manner; it results from that merciful, that heavy disposition, implanted in the female bosom, which ever inclines in favor of the accused and the unfortunate.”

Irving might have observed that the actions of some of the ladies, whose husbands were in some manner connected with the trial, could well have caused those husbands embarrassment. It was fortunate for them that Richmond viewed the personal entanglements with a tolerance that has seldom been granted in other criminal cases.

Irving could, for example, have been referring to Mrs. Robert Gamble. The former Catherine Grattan, who had braved Indians and panthers and other perils of the frontier in her youth, was not now to be overawed by a son-in-law who was one of the leading lawyers for the prosecution. Let William Wirt employ his eloquence to get Aaron Burr hanged. Nevertheless Mrs. Gamble felt free to send refreshments from her kitchen to the prisoner. After all, were they not neighbors? The Gray House and the penitentiary occupied adjoining promontories. They shared equally the architectural genius of Benjamin Henry Latrobe. Why should not Catherine Grattan Gamble welcome Burr with all the courtesies customarily extended by Richmonders to a new resident with the proper social background?

Irving’s description of Burr in prison was nothing like so glowing as that of Burr himself. The only reason for immuring the Colonel in that abode of “thieves, cut-throats and incendiaries,” commented Irving, was that it would save the United States a couple of hundred dollars, which would have been the charge for guarding him at his lodgings.

Contrary to Burr’s statement that his friends had ready access to him, Irving reported that, “I found great difficulty gaining admission to him for a few moments. The keeper had orders to admit no one but his counsel and his witnesses—strange measures these!

“That it is not sufficient that a man against whom no certainty of crime is proved, should be confined by bolts, and bars and massy walls in a criminal prison; but he is likewise to be cut off from all intercourse with society, deprived of all the kind offices of friendship, and made to suffer all the penalties and deprivations of a condemned criminal. I was permitted to enter for a few moments, as a special favor, contrary to orders.” Could it have been that the Colonel was afraid the enthusiastic young man might stay too long?

Irving thought the Colonel seemed in lower spirits than formerly. He was composed and collected as usual, but there was not the same cheerfulness that Irving had hitherto remarked. The Colonel told him that it was with difficulty that his very servant was allowed occasionally to see him. “He had a bad cold, which I suppose was occasioned by the dampness of his chamber which had lately been whitewashed.” It was with a heavy heart that Irving left him.

The Colonel’s and Irving’s accounts of the imprisonment could hardly be more contradictory. But then Burr was trying to relieve Theodosia’s anxieties, whereas Irving’s purpose in being in Richmond was to use his talents to turn public opinion in Burr’s favor.

Irving’s obligation to Burr’s friends for enabling him to be present at the trial was not a small one. The young man at this stage of his life delighted in mingling with the great and the near-great and he had had a rare opportunity to do so in Richmond.

To his brother-in-law James Paulding, associate editor of Salmagundi, he wrote enthusiastically of his experience: “I have been treated in the most polite and hospitable manner by the most distinguished persons of the place—those friendly to Burr and those opposed to him, and have intimate acquaintances among his bitterest enemies. I am absolutely enchanted with Richmond, and like it more and more every day. The society is polished, sociable and extremely hospitable, and here is a great variety of distinguished characters assembled on this occasion, which gives a strong degree of interest to passing incidents.”

But there must be an end to all good things. Irving had his magazine in New York to think about. No telling how long the trial would take. He had been in Richmond two months and the Court had done no more than get through the preliminaries. So before the actual business of trying Burr began, Irving had to set out on his return home. On the way he stopped off in Washington and from there wrote a letter to his confidante, Miss Mary Fairlee, a charming young person who then was the reigning belle in New York. To her he confided that, as much as he enjoyed Richmond society, he had been faced by a serious personal problem. It was of a sort that was likely to happen to a handsome and eligible young man on his first appearance in a community. He was pursued by designing young women.

“By some lucky means or other,” Irving informed Miss Fairlee, “I got the character, among three or four novel-read damsels, of being an interesting young man [the italics are Irving’s]; now of all characters in the world, believe me, this is the most intolerable for any young man, who has a will of his own to support, particularly in warm weather. The tender-hearted fair ones think you absolutely at their command; they conclude that you must, of course, be fond of moonlight walks, and rides at daybreak, and red-hot strolls in the middle of the day (Fahrenheit’s Thermom. 98½ in the shade) and ‘melting hot-hissing hot’ tea parties, and what is worse, they expect you to talk sentiment and act Romeo, and Sir Charles and King Pepin all the while! ’Twas too much for me; had I been in love with any one of them, I believe I could have played the dying swain, as eloquently and foolishly as most men, but not having the good luck to be inspired by the tender passion, I found the slavery unsupportable; so I forthwith set about ruining my character as speedily as possible.

“I forgot to go to tea parties; I overslept myself of a morning. I protested against the moon and derided that blessed planet most villainously. In a word I was soon given up as a young man of most preposterous and incorrigible opinions, and was left to do e’en just as I pleased. Yet, believe me, I did, notwithstanding, admire the fair damsels of Richmond exceedingly; and, to be candid at once, the character of the whole sex, though it has ever ranked high in my estimation, is still more exalted than ever.”

Bless the young man! The fair damsels would have been flattered at his general impressions of them, even though not one of them had succeeded in winning his heart. They may have reflected that, had they encountered him when Richmond weather was more on their side they might have made greater headway. If Miss Fairlee was as sentimentally inclined as the young ladies in Richmond she must have felt reassured by this evidence that the handsome young Washington Irving would return home to New York as detached and uninvolved as though he had never been exposed to the wiles of designing southern belles. On the other hand, after reading the letter and reflecting on the character it unconsciously revealed, might she not have concluded that Irving’s imperviousness to the assaults of impressionable females knew no sectional bounds?

During the first week in June the Enquirer in its columns had hailed the arrival in Richmond of the “celebrated Cowper.” The Enquirer hoped that the manager of the new brick theater on the edge of Shockoe Hill would not fail to avail himself of the opportunity of gratifying the public by engaging him for a few evenings at least.

The “celebrated Cowper” was without doubt Thomas Abthorpe Cooper, a handsome and talented young Irish actor. No doubt Cooper, too, had been attracted to Richmond by the gathering of celebrities there and had concluded that the list would not be complete without the presence of the leading actor of the day.

Richmond in the summer of 1807 not only attracted the leading actor of the day; it attracted also an artist recently arrived from France who was making a name for himself in the cities of the coast through his ingenious manner of making likenesses. On Friday, July 17, the Enquirer carried on its front page a paid notice under the heading “Likenesses Taken and Engraved.” It stated that the subscriber, as an advertiser was politely known in those days, begged leave to inform the ladies and gentlemen of the city of Richmond that “he takes and engraves Likenesses in a style never introduced before in this country.”

The subscriber respectfully solicited the same favor and patronage he had met with in the largest cities in the United States. Samples of his work, said the announcement, could be seen at the subscriber’s lodgings in Mrs. Harris’s house nearly opposite the Custom House. To stir the Richmonders to prompt action he closed his public notice by stating that in order not to disappoint those who might desire to “set for their likenesses,” he begged leave to suggest that his stay in the city would be short. The notice was signed, “St. MÉmin.”

The subscriber, to give him his full name, was Charles Balthazer Julien Ferret de Saint-MÉmin. Born in Dijon, France, of an aristocratic family, he fled the French Revolution and arrived in New York in 1793. He proceeded at once to tour the cities of the East. He visited Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Annapolis successively. Wherever he went he left behind him a trail of his crayon portraits. They were done in black and white crayon on pink paper with the aid of a device invented by the gentleman himself and known as a “physionotrace.” The profile of the subject was thrown as a shadow on the paper and there traced with mathematical exactness. Saint-MÉmin was an artist as well as a technician. The portrait executed life size was framed in black and gold and the whole presented a lifelike and satisfying effect.

But that was not all. In addition to every life-size portrait, the artist made a small copper plate about two inches in diameter from which were struck off a dozen engravings. The sitter received the framed portrait, the engravings, and the plate. Saint-MÉmin’s usual price was $25 for gentlemen and—somewhat ungallantly—$35 for ladies. Though high according to contemporary values the price was not exorbitant as portraits go.

Saint-MÉmin’s reputation preceded him to Richmond. Shrewd man that he was, he no doubt counted on the trial to provide a healthy lot of potential customers. If so, he was not disappointed. He did the Chief Justice. He did John Wickham, and Mrs. Wickham too. He did William Wirt, and the Cabells, the Gambles and the Mayos, and others prominent in Richmond society.

Modern art critics are inclined to turn up their noses at Saint-MÉmin’s work because of its mechanical quality. Yet from the standpoint of social prestige the money paid out for it could not have been better spent. No doubt there were many men and women in Richmond who thought of engaging Saint-MÉmin. They may then have reflected that $25 or $35 was a goodly sum. They would have been unusual if they had not had more pressing demands than portraits—perhaps new parlor furniture, or a great four poster bed in the heavy empire style just coming into vogue. Perhaps they reflected that at least part of that sum might be needed to pay the fees for their children at the dancing class going on at the Haymarket Gardens. What better and more direct way to obtain social prestige than by sending children to a dancing class? Or a room may have needed papering or a leaking roof called for attention.

Whatever the practical, common-sense reason, there were many who failed to seize the opportunity presented them by Saint-MÉmin. They could not know that a hundred years or so after they had gone to their reward their portraits, in black and white crayon on pink paper, hanging on a wall in New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Annapolis, or Richmond, and duly authenticated as an ancestor, entitled its owner to a place in the most exclusive social circles.

In a country where a coronet is not worn a “Saint-MÉmin” comes closest to being the equivalent symbol of nobility. Anyone who unguardedly inquires “what is a Saint-MÉmin?” could offer no better proof of not belonging. The moral of the Saint-MÉmin episode is that whenever an offer to be extravagant appears, take it. No telling what social prestige it may bring one’s descendants.

No, following the indictment of Burr and the others, and the adjournment of court, and while waiting for it to convene again on August 3, Richmond was far from dull.