University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
FAMILY PORTRAITS.

Whilst Frank Meriwether amuses himself with
his quiddities, and floats through life upon the current
of his humour, his dame, my excellent cousin Lucretia,
takes charge of the household affairs, as one who
has a reputation to stake upon her administration.
She has made it a perfect science, and great is her
fame in the dispensation thereof!

They who have visited Swallow Barn will long
remember the morning stir, of which the murmurs
arose even unto the chambers, and fell upon the ears
of the sleepers;—the dry-rubbing of floors, and even
the waxing of the same until they were like ice;—
and the grinding of coffee mills;—and the gibber of
ducks, and chickens, and turkeys; and all the multitudinous
concert of homely sounds. And then, her
breakfasts! I do not wish to be counted extravagant,
but a small regiment might march in upon her without
disappointment; and I would put them for excellence
and variety against any thing that ever was
served upon platter. Moreover, all things go like
clock-work. She rises with the lark, and infuses an
early vigour into the whole household. And yet she

is a thin woman to look upon, and a feeble; with a
sallow complexion, and a pair of animated black
eyes that impart a portion of fire to a countenance
otherwise demure from the paths worn across it, in the
frequent travel of a low country ague. But, although
her life has been somewhat saddened by such visitations,
my cousin is too spirited a woman to give up
to them; for she is therapeutical in her constitution,
and considers herself a full match for any reasonable
tertian in the world. Indeed, I have sometimes
thought that she took more pride in her leech-craft
than becomes a Christian woman: she is even a little
vain-glorious. For, to say nothing of her skill in
compounding simples, she has occasionally brought
down upon her head the sober remonstrances of her
husband, by her pertinacious faith in the efficacy of
certain spells in cases of intermittent. But there is
no reasoning against her experience. She can enumerate
the cases—“and men may say what they
choose about its being contrary to reason, and all
that:—it is their way! But seeing is believing—nine
scoops of water in the hollow of the hand, from the
sycamore spring, for three mornings, before sunrise,
and a cup of strong coffee with lemon juice, will
break an ague, try it when you will.” In short, as
Frank says, “Lucretia will die in that creed.”

I am occasionally up early enough to be witness
to her morning regimen, which, to my mind, is
rather tyrannically enforced against the youngsters
of her numerous family, both white and black. She
is in the habit of preparing some death-routing decoction

for them, in a small pitcher, and administering
it to the whole squadron in succession, who severally
swallow the dose with a most ineffectual
effort at repudiation, and gallop off, with faces all
rue and wormwood.

Every thing at Swallow Barn, that falls within
the superintendence of my cousin Lucretia, is a pattern
of industry. In fact, I consider her the very
priestess of the American system, for, with her, the
protection of manufactures is even more of a passion
than a principle. Every here and there, over the
estate, may be seen rising in humble guise above the
shrubbery, the rude chimney of a log cabin, where
all the livelong day the plaintive moaning of the spinning-wheel
rises fitfully upon the breeze, like the fancied
notes of a hobgoblin, as they are sometimes
imitated in the stories with which we frighten children.
In these laboratories the negro women are
employed in preparing yarn for the loom, from which
is produced not only a comfortable supply of winter
clothing for the working people, but some excellent
carpets for the house.

It is refreshing to behold how affectionately vain
our good hostess is of Frank, and what deference she
shows to his judgment in all matters, except those
that belong to the home department;—for there she
is, confessedly and without appeal, the paramount
power. It seems to be a dogma with her, that he is
the very “first man in Virginia,” an expression that
in this region has grown into an emphatic provincialism.
Frank, in return, is a devout admirer of

her accomplishments, and although he does not pretend
to an ear for music, he is in raptures at her
skill on the harpsichord, when she plays at night for
the children to dance; and he sometimes sets her to
singing `The Twins of Latona,' and `Old Towler,'
and `The Rose Tree in Full Bearing' (she does
not study the modern music), for the entertainment
of his company. On these occasions he stands by
the instrument, and nods his head, as if he comprehended
the airs.

She is a fruitful vessel, and seldom fails in her annual
tribute to the honours of the family; and, sooth
to say, Frank is reputed to be somewhat restiff under
these multiplying blessings. They have two
lovely girls, just verging towards womanhood, who
attract a supreme regard in the household, and to
whom Frank is perfectly devoted. Next to these is
a boy,—a shrewd, mischievous imp, that curvets
about the house, `a chartered libertine.' He is a
little wiry fellow near thirteen, that is known altogether
by the nick-name of Rip, and has a scapegrace
countenance, full of freckles and deviltry: the
eyes are somewhat greenish, and the mouth opens
alarmingly wide upon a tumultuous array of discoloured
teeth. His whole air is that of an untrimmed
colt, torn down and disorderly; and I most usually
find him with the bosom of his shirt bagged out, so
as to form a great pocket, where he carries apples
or green walnuts, and sometimes pebbles, with which
he is famous for pelting the fowls.

I must digress, to say a word about Rip's head-gear.

He wears a non-descript skull-cap, which, I
conjecture from some equivocal signs, had once been
a fur hat, but which must have taken a degree in fifty
other callings; for I see it daily employed in the
most foreign services. Sometimes it is a drinking-vessel,
and then Rip pinches it up like a cocked hat;
sometimes it is devoted to push-pin, and then it is
cuffed cruelly on both sides; and sometimes it is
turned into a basket, to carry eggs from the henroosts.
It finds hard service at hat-ball, where, like
a plastic statesman, it is popular for its pliability. It
is tossed in the air on all occasions of rejoicing; and
now and then serves for a gauntlet—and is flung with
energy upon the ground, on the eve of a battle: And
it is kicked occasionally through the school yard, after
the fashion of a bladder. It wears a singular exterior,
having a row of holes cut below the crown,
or rather the apex, (for it is pyramidal in shape,) to
make it cool, as Rip explains it, in hot weather. The
only rest that it enjoys through the day, as far as I
have been able to perceive, is during school hours,
and then it is thrust between a desk and a bulk-head,
three inches apart, where it generally envelopes in its
folds a handful of hickory-nuts or marbles. This
covering falls down—for it has no lining—like an extinguisher
over Rip's head, which is uncommonly
small and round, and garnished with a tangled mop
of hair. To prevent the frequent recurrence of this
accident, Rip has pursed it up with a hat-band of
twine.

From Rip the rest of the progeny descend on the
scale, in regular gradations, like the keys of a Pandean
pipe, and with the same variety of intonations,
until the series is terminated in a chubby, dough-faced
infant, not above three months old.

This little infantry is under the care of mistress
Barbara Winkle, an antique retainer of the family,
who attends them at bed and board,—and every
morning takes the whole bevy, one by one, and
plunges them into a large tub of cold water; after
which, they are laid out on the floor to dry, like
young frogs on the margin of a pool; and then she
dresses and combs them with a scrupulous rigour,
they making, all the while, terribly wry faces. The
faithful dame, as she turns them on her knee, sings
some approved lullabies in a querulous tone of voice,
accompanied by a soothing recitative, which, I have
occasionally observed, is apt to be chanted in rather
an angry and shrill key.

This mistress Barbara is a functionary of high
rank in the family, and of great privileges, from having
exercised her office through a preceding generation
at Swallow Barn. She is particularly important
when there are any festive preparations on foot; and
there is then evidently an enhancement of her official
gravity. She glides up and down stairs with
surprising alacrity, amidst an exceeding din of keys;
and may be found one moment whipping cream, and
another, whipping some unlucky scullion boy; clattering
eggs in a bowl, scolding servants, and screaming

at Rip, who is perpetually in her way, amongst
the sweetmeats: All of which matters, though enacted
with a vinegar aspect, it is easy to see are
very agreeable to her self-love.

She is truly what may be termed a bustling old
lady, and has a most despotic rule over all the subordinates
of the family. There is no reverence like
that of children for potentates of this description. Her
very glance has in it something disconcerting to the
young fry; and they will twist their dumpling faces
into every conceivable expression of grief, before they
will dare to squall out in her presence. Even Rip is
afraid of her. “When the old woman's mad, she is
a horse to whip!” he told Ned and myself one morning,
upon our questioning him as to the particulars of
an uproar in which he had been the principal actor.
These exercises on the part of the old lady are neither
rare nor unwholesome, and are winked at by
the higher authorities.

Mrs. Winkle's complexion is the true parchment,
and her voice is somewhat cracked. She
takes Scotch snuff from a silver box, and wears
a pair of horn spectacles, which give effect to
the peculiar peakedness of her nose. On days
of state she appears in all the rich coxcombry
of the olden time; her gown being of an obsolete
fashion, sprinkled with roses and sun-flowers,
and her lizard arms encased in tight sleeves as
far as the elbow, where they are met by silken
gloves without fingers. A starched tucker is pinned,

with a pedantic precision, across her breast;
and a prim cap of muslin, puckered into a point
with a grotesque conceit, adorns her head.—
Take her altogether, she looks very stately and
bitter. Then, when she walks, it is inconceivable
how aristocratically she rustles,—especially on
a Sunday.