Another charming residence, not far from Oaklands, which attracted visitors from various quarters, was Buena Vista, where we passed many happy hours of childhood.

This residence—large and handsome—was situated on an eminence, overlooking pastures and sunny slopes, with forests, and mountain views in the distance.

The interior of the house accorded with the outside, every article being elegant and substantial.

The owner—a gentleman of polished manners, kind and generous disposition, a sincere Christian and zealous churchman—was honored and beloved by all who knew him.

His daughters—a band of lovely young girls—presided over his house, dispensing its hospitality with grace and dignity. Their mother’s death occurring when they were very young had given them household cares, which would have been considerable, but for the assistance of Uncle Billy, the butler—an all-important character presiding with imposing dignity over domestic affairs.

His jet black face was relieved by a head of grey hair with a small round bald centre piece; and the expression of his face was calm and serene, as he presided over the pantry, the table and the tea-waiters.

His mission on earth seemed to be keeping the brightest silver urns, sugar-dishes, cream-jugs and spoons; flavoring the best ice creams; buttering the hottest rolls, muffins and waffles; chopping the best salads; folding the whitest napkins; handing the best tea and cakes in the parlor in the evenings, and cooling the best wine for the decanters at dinner. Indeed he was so essentially a part of the establishment, that in recalling those old days at Buena Vista, the form of “Uncle Billy” comes silently back from the past and takes its old place about the parlors, the halls and the dining-room, making the picture complete.

And thus upon the canvas of every old home picture come to their accustomed places, the forms of dusky friends, who once shared our homes, our firesides, our affections—and who will share them, as in the past, never more.

Of all the Plantation Homes we loved and visited, the brightest, sweetest memories cluster around Grove Hill; a grand old place in the midst of scenery lovely and picturesque, to reach which, we made a journey across the Blue Ridge—those giant mountains from whose winding road and lofty heights we had glimpses of exquisite scenery in the valleys below.

Thus winding slowly around these mountain heights and peeping down from our old carriage windows we beheld nature in its wildest luxuriance. The deep solitude; the glowing sunlight over rock, forest and glen; the green valleys deep down beneath, diversified by alternate light and shadow—all together photographed on our hearts pictures never to fade.

Not all the towers, minarets, obelisks, palaces, gem-studded domes of “art and man’s device” can reach the soul like one of these sun-tinted pictures in their convex frames of rock and vines!

Arrived at Grove Hill, how enthusiastic the welcome from each member of the family assembled in the front porch to meet us! How joyous the laugh! How deliciously cool the wide halls, the spacious parlor, the dark polished walnut floors! How bright the flowers! How gay the spirits of all assembled there!

One was sure of meeting here agreeable society from Virginia, Baltimore, Florida, South Carolina and Kentucky, with whom the house was filled from May ’till November.

How delightfully passed the days, the weeks! What merry excursions; fishing parties; riding parties, to the Indian Spring, the Cave, the Natural Bridge! What pleasant music, and tableaux, and dancing in the evenings!

For the tableaux, we had only to open an old chest in the garret and help ourselves to rich embroidered, white and scarlet dresses, with other costumery worn by the grandmother of the family nearly a hundred years before, when her husband was in public life and she one of the queens of society.

What sprightly “conversazioni” in our rooms at night—young girls will become confidential and eloquent with each other at night, however reserved and quiet during the day!

Late in the night these “conversazioni” continued, with puns and laughter, until checked by a certain young gentleman—now a minister—who was wont to bring out his flute in the flower garden under our windows, and give himself up for an hour or more to the most sentimental and touching strains, thus breaking in upon sprightly remarks and repartees, some of which are remembered to this day, especially one which ran thus:

“Girls!” said one. “Would it not be charming if we could all take a trip together to Niagara?”

“Well, why could we not?” was the response.

“Oh!” replied another, “the idea of us poor Virginia girls taking a trip!”

“Indeed,” said one of the Grove Hill girls, “it would be impossible. For here are we on this immense estate, 4,000 acres, two large, handsome residences—and three hundred negroes—considered wealthy, and yet to save our lives could not raise money enough for a trip to New York!”

“Nor get a silk velvet cloak!” said her sister, laughing.

“Yes,” replied the other. “Girls! I have been longing and longing for a silk velvet cloak, but never could get the money to buy one. But last Sunday, at the village church, what should I see but one of the Joneses sweeping in with a long velvet cloak almost touching the floor! And you could set her father’s house in our back hall! But then she is so fortunate as to own no negroes.”

“What a happy girl she must be!” cried a chorus of voices. “No negroes to support! We could go to New York and Niagara, and have velvet cloaks too, if we only had no negroes to support! But all our money goes to provide for them as soon as the crops are sold!”

“Yes,” said one of the Grove Hill girls; “here is our large house without an article of modern furniture. The parlor curtains are one hundred years old. The old fashioned mirrors and recess tables one hundred years old, and we long in vain for money to buy something new.”

“Well!” said one of the sprightliest girls, “we can get up some of our old diamond rings or breastpins which some of us have inherited, and travel on appearances! We have no modern clothes, but the old rings will make us ‘look rich!’ And a party of poor, rich Virginians will attract the commiseration and consideration of the world when it is known that for generations we have not been able to leave our plantations!”

After these conversations we would fall asleep and sleep profoundly, until aroused next morning by an army of servants polishing the hall floors, waxing and rubbing them with a long-handle brush, weighted by an oven lid. This made the floor like a “sea of glass,” and dangerous to walk upon immediately after the polishing process, being especially disastrous to small children, who were continually slipping and falling before breakfast.

The lady presiding over this establishment possessed a cultivated mind, bright conversational powers and gentle temper, with a force of character which enabled her to direct judiciously the affairs of her household, as well as the training and education of her children.

She employed always an accomplished gentleman teacher, who added to the agreeability of her home circle.

She helped the boys with their Latin and the girls with their compositions. In her quiet way she governed, controlled, suggested everything; so that her presence was required everywhere at once.

While in the parlor entertaining her guests with bright, agreeable conversation, she was sure to be wanted by the cooks—there were six!—to “taste or flavor” something in the kitchen; or by the gardener to direct the planting of certain seeds or roots, and so with every department. Even the minister—there was always one living in her house—would call her out to consult over his text and sermon for the next Sunday, saying he could rely upon her judgment and discrimination.

Never thinking of herself, her heart overflowing with sympathy and interest for others, she entered into the pleasures of the young as well as the sorrows of the old.

If the boys came in from a fox or deer chase, their pleasure was incomplete until it had been described to her and enjoyed with her again.

The flower vases were never entirely beautiful until her hand had helped to arrange the flowers.

The girls’ laces were never perfect until she had gathered and crimped them.

Her sons were never so happy as when holding her hand and caressing her. And the summer twilight found her always in the vine-covered porch seated by her husband—a dear, kind old gentleman—her hand resting in his, while he quietly and happily smoked his pipe, after the day’s riding over his plantation, interviewing overseers, millers, blacksmiths and settling up accounts.

One more reminiscence and the Grove Hill picture will be done. No Virginia home being complete without some prominent negro character, the picture lacking this would be untrue to nature, and without the “finishing touch.” And not to have “stepped in” to pay our respects to old “Aunt Betsy” during a visit to Grove Hill, would have been considered—as it should be to omit it here—a great breach of civility; for the old woman always received us at her door with a cordial welcome and a hearty shake of the hand.

“Lor’ bless de childen!” she would say. “How they does grow! Done grown up young ladies! Set down, honey. I mighty glad to see you. And why didn’t your ma (Miss Fanny) come? I would love to see Miss Fanny. She always was so good and so pretty. Seems to me it ain’t been no time sence she and Miss Emma”—her own mistress—“used to play dolls together, an’ I used to bake sweet cakes for ’em, and cut ’em out wid de pepper-box top, for thar doll parties; an’ they loved each other like sisters.”

“Well, Aunt Betsy,” we would ask, “how is your rheumatism now?”

“Lor’, honey, I nuver specs to git over that. But some days I can hobble out and feed de chickens; and I can set at my window and make de black childen feed ’em, an’ I love to think I’m some account to Miss Emma. And Miss Emma’s childen can’t do without old ‘Mammy Betsy,’ for I takes care of all thar pet chickens. Me and my old man (Phil) gittin mighty ole now; but Miss Emma and all her childen so good to us we has pleasure in livin’ yet.”

At last the shadows began to fall dark and chill upon this once bright and happy home.

Old Aunt Betsy lived to see the four boys—her mistress’ brave and noble sons—buckle their armor on and go forth to battle for the home they loved so well; the youngest, still so young that he loved his pet chickens, which were left to “Mammy Betsy’s” special care; and when the sad news, at length, came that this favorite young master was killed, amid all the agony of grief, no heart felt more sincerely, than her’s, the great sorrow.

Another, and still another of these noble youths fell, after deeds of valor unparalleled in the world’s history—their graves the battlefield, a place of burial fit for men so brave. Only one—the youngest—was brought home to find a resting place beside the graves of his ancestors.

The old man—their father, his mind shattered by grief—continued day after day, for several years, to sit in the vine-covered porch, gazing wistfully out, imagining sometimes he saw in the distance the manly forms of his noble sons, returning home, mounted on their favorite horses, in the gray uniforms and bright armor worn the day they went off.

Then, he too followed, where the “din of war, the clash of arms” is heard no more.

To recall these scenes so blinds my eyes with tears that I can not write of them. Some griefs leave the heart dumb. They have no language; and are given no language, because no other heart could understand, nor could they if shared, be alleviated.