Here lieth the remains of Major-General Edward Braddock who, in command of the 44th and 48th regiments of English regulars was mortally wounded in an engagement with the French and Indians under the command of Captain M. de Beaujeu at the battle of the Monongahela,within ten miles of Fort Duquesne, now Pittsburg, July 9, 1755.He was borne back with the retreating army to the old orchard camp, about one-fourth of a mile west of this park, where he died July 13, 1755. Lieutenant Colonel George Washington read the burial service at the grave.
Here lieth the remains of Major-General Edward Braddock who, in command of the 44th and 48th regiments of English regulars was mortally wounded in an engagement with the French and Indians under the command of Captain M. de Beaujeu at the battle of the Monongahela,within ten miles of Fort Duquesne, now Pittsburg, July 9, 1755.
He was borne back with the retreating army to the old orchard camp, about one-fourth of a mile west of this park, where he died July 13, 1755. Lieutenant Colonel George Washington read the burial service at the grave.
We are on historic ground all along here. A little farther down the road we pass a tablet on a roadside boulder, erected in 1913 by the Great Crossing Chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution, to mark the old "Nemacolin's trail," so named from the Delaware Indian guide for the Ohio Company. The tablet records that Washington passed this way in 1753, 1754, and 1755.
On the right of the road we pass a very old farmhouse of red brick, back of which in a swampy meadow is the site of the camp of Braddock's forces. We go down the cow lane to see the old camp, whose outlines are marked.
1. Braddock's Monument near Uniontown, Pa. 2. Old Farmhouse near Braddock's Camp. 3. Historic Inn at Hancock, Md.1. Braddock's Monument near Uniontown, Pa. 2. Old Farmhouse near Braddock's Camp. 3. Historic Inn at Hancock, Md.
We are in a region of fine old stone bridges, and of beautiful orchard country, alternating with rolling hills covered with heavy forest. At Grantsville we pass the old Dorsey House, now called the Hotel Castleman. This used to be a hostel much frequented by the farmers. A small boy who is playing in the street and who is sojourning here for the summer gives us this information, and adds that at the Hotel Castleman you have "lots to eat, and plenty of it." We are sorry that it is not luncheon time so that we could put his statement to the test. Passing through Grantsville we cross the old Castleman Bridge, an immense single span of stone. Another fine old bridge with very solid buttresses spans Conococheague Creek.
After luncheon in Cumberland, we press east to Hagerstown. We are advised that we will find the road far better if we drive east to Hagerstown and then southwest to Winchester, instead of taking the direct southeast route to Winchester from Cumberland. We have an excellent road from Cumberland to Hagerstown, and find the rich orchard country very beautiful. Ten miles from Cumberland, we come upon a point of vantage from which we have a most lovely view. As we near the town of Hancock with its famous old inn the country is still more interesting. We look down on thegleaming Potomac, winding through green fields and beautifully cultivated orchards. This is famous apple and peach country. Every year more of the virgin forest on the mountainside is cleared and planted to young apple and peach trees. The soil and the climate are most admirably adapted to the growing of fruit, and there are immense investments in these beautiful orchards. What a fair, fair country! After we pass Hancock we look down on the canal near which our road runs. A canal boat passes, the mules walking leisurely along the towpath. A boy stands at the helm looking out on the beautiful landscape of forest, orchard, and field. Clothes flap from the clothes-line on the boat. It is a fine life, we think, this gliding along so securely between green fields and orchards and clumps of forest.
Hagerstown is a pleasant town in which to spend the night. We enjoy walking about the streets and seeing some of the old houses. Even the main street of Hagerstown still has one fine old stone house, low and solid, painted yellow. It is the only residence left on the business street, its owner not yet having been tempted by its increased value to sell it.
1. "Moore House" at Yorktown, Va., where terms were drawn up after the Surrender of Cornwallis. 2. Castleman Bridge, Md. 3. Old Church Tower on Jamestown Island.1. "Moore House" at Yorktown, Va., where terms were drawn up after the Surrender of Cornwallis. 2. Castleman Bridge, Md. 3. Old Church Tower on Jamestown Island.
From Hagerstown there are fine shale roads in our drive south to Winchester. After passing through old Williamsport we cross the Potomac on a long bridge. All along these roads the motorist is annoyed by many toll gates at which he is halted to pay toll. These are the landmarks of other times and of old customs. These roads were originally built and maintained by private companies. They are fast being bought up by the State, and in a few years the toll gates will disappear. As we approach Winchester the country becomes more prosperous in appearance than it is around Martinsburg, West Virginia. Five miles from Winchester we pass two fine old red brick farm houses with white porches. We are at last in the Old Dominion, and look forward with high spirits to a tour among the Virginia towns and cities.
Winchester is a very old town, with a fascination that grows upon one. It is a simple little place, with a certain placidity and quiet that are very soothing. Here is the Winchester Inn with its wide porches and high ceilings. And here is Mrs. Nancy Cobles's private boarding-house, whose very appearance breathes of homelike comfort and Southern hospitality. The Winchester Inn announcesthat it is "refurnished, refitted, reland-lorded."
In Winchester is the little old building used as a surveyor's office by young Washington when he was working for Lord Fairfax. Here is fine old Christ Church, endowed by Thomas, Lord Fairfax, whose ashes rest underneath the church.
In Winchester I begin to see very interesting and perfectly clear traces of old Colonial days. There are quaint old names on the grave stones; "Judith," "Mary Ann," "Parthenia." Here is the old English name of Fauntleroy. And here are old houses with fan-lights over the doors.
It is in Winchester, too, that I begin to sense the tragedy and awfulness of the Civil War, as traced by many a sad inscription on many a gravestone. Hundreds of Southern dead are sleeping in the Winchester cemeteries. There are monuments to many unknown dead. "Unknown dead from Winchester battlefield," "Unknown dead from Cedar Creek battlefield," and so on. There are monuments to "the brothers Ashby," and to "the Patton brothers." How young are the ages given on many of these stones! Nineteen, twenty-three, twenty-nine.
Our most interesting call in Winchester is upon a lady who is the owner and manager of a farm of 8000 apple trees, 7000 of which she has set out herself within the past five years, "every tree in a dynamited hole, every tree pruned by a government expert." She tells us that all she knows of apple culture she has learned by a careful study of government pamphlets. Her orchard is about five miles from town, and she drives out daily from her pleasant home. She tells us that her apples are sent to Jersey City and there kept in cold storage. Late in the season she sells them, getting sometimes as high as $7.50 a barrel toward the end of the winter. As we talk with her we wonder why it is that more women do not go in for apple culture. Surely it is a delightful vocation, clean, healthful, invigorating, and profitable.
Our friend tells us laughingly that so far as her experience goes, negro servants are "still proving to their former owners that they are free." She relates an experience with a young negro maid, who after eight months of happy service with her, during which time she had the best of training, suddenly left her. She took a new position just across the street and for exactly the same wages as her oldsituation had given her. When her former mistress asked her why it was that she was leaving, she giggled and said demurely, "I mus' do de bes' I kin fo' myse'f."
From Winchester we drive to Staunton over a fine road. From the fine country about Winchester, dotted with beautiful orchards, down through Harrisonburg in the midst of great grain and hay farms, we are passing through the famous Shenandoah Valley. We see it at a disadvantage, for the months of dry weather have burned the fields brown and dry and increased the dust of the roads. But it is beautiful still, a fair and prosperous farming country. We pass through Harrisonburg on court day, and the town is filled with farmers who make of this day a general market day.
As we approach Staunton we come again into orchard country. We have been passing through many miles of farms devoted to grain. On the left, as one enters Staunton, is Chilton Hall, standing high above the town. Chilton Hall, kept by a woman, is a fine new private house, transformed into a tourist hostel. It looks most attractive. We go on into Staunton as we wish to be in the heart of the town. We establish ourselves very comfortablyfor a few days at "The Shenandoah," also kept by a woman. Here we have for a very moderate price a room with a private bath. We enjoy fresh milk and cream, home-made butter, jams, and jellies, and all the good things of a hospitable Virginia table. We visit the famous Mary Baldwin Seminary, an exquisitely kept institution. We also see the Episcopal Church school in its fine old building, Stuart Hall, and we walk past the Presbyterian manse where President Wilson was born. We visit the fine cemetery and read the sad inscriptions on the head stones. One, erected to a young officer of thirty years, reads, "Here lies a gallant soldier," and adds that he fell fighting "in the great battle of Manassas." In this cemetery there are 870 Southern dead whose names are given. There are also about 700 soldiers lying here, "not recorded by name." The inscription speaks of them as "unknown yet well known." There are quaint names of women on the old stones here, as in Winchester; "Johanah," and "Edmonia." And there are old English names; as Barclay, Warwick, Peyton, Prettyman, Eskridge, and Darrow.
During our stay in Staunton we take a day for a drive to the Natural Bridge. It is charming countrythrough which we drive, growing more broken and wooded as we go farther south. We find the road bumpy and dusty, but not at all impracticable. We have our luncheon with us, and after paying a somewhat exorbitant fee of one dollar apiece for entrance to the natural park which includes the Bridge scenery, we walk along the ravine beside the little river, to the mighty arch of the Bridge itself. It is a noble span of rock, of an enormous thickness, on so grand a scale that it is difficult to realize its height and width. We have our luncheon beside the stream in the forest, and drive back to Staunton. The wooded Virginia hills and the fields are beautiful in the afternoon sunlight.
In returning to Staunton we stop in Lexington to see the old cemetery where Stonewall Jackson lies buried, and where his statue looks out from a terrace over the open country. We also visit the very beautiful campus of the Washington and Lee University, and the hilltop situation of the famous Virginia Military Institute, where another statue of Jackson stands in commanding position. Were there time, one could linger for hours on the University campus and in the old Lexington cemetery.I find a very interesting inscription on a simple stone, which reads thus:
Samuel Hays. In loving remembrance for faithful service; this stone is erected by the desire of his master. He was loved, honoured, and trusted, by three generations.
Samuel Hays. In loving remembrance for faithful service; this stone is erected by the desire of his master. He was loved, honoured, and trusted, by three generations.
The buildings of Washington and Lee University are of classic type, and the whole campus with its fine trees and its many white porticoes gleaming through them, makes an impression that is best expressed by the old phrase, "classic shades." Some of our more modern universities impress one by their very architecture and atmosphere as being magnificently equipped institutions of business. Washington and Lee University has the old atmosphere of study and of the quiet, ordered life of the scholar. The Virginia Military Institute is particularly interesting to the traveler, because of the vault in its chapel crypt where rest the ashes of the Lee family. Here are buried Lighthorse Harry Lee, and his distinguished son General Robert E. Lee. And here there is a beautiful recumbentstatue of General Lee by Valentine; so realistic that the dead man seems to lie before one wrapped in marble sleep.
We are sorry to leave the hospitable "Shenandoah" when the time comes to go on to Charlottesville. We drive from Staunton out past the National Cemetery which stands on a hill overlooking the valley. We are soon to cross the ridge between the Shenandoah Valley and the other great valley known as Piedmont, the crossing point being at Rock Fish Gap. This is the historic point where the early settlers first saw and laid claim to the Shenandoah Valley in the name of the King of England.
The view from the top of the Gap, which is reached by a very easy climb, is strikingly beautiful. On one side is the Shenandoah Valley from which we have just come up, stretching far into the distance. On the other are the fertile rolling hills,and the miles of green orchards, of the Piedmont section. Here is a view which shows us the smiling, fruitful Virginia of which we have dreamed. We descend from the Gap by a very fine new road, and shortly after we cross a bridge which is in the last stages, so far as traffic is concerned, of tottering decay. At each end of the old wooden structure there is a card posted by the county commissioners to the effect that they will not be responsible for the safety of travelers crossing the bridge. It strikes one as rather incongruous that they should warn people against using the bridge, save on their own responsibility, and yet offer no alternative. Just beyond Yancey Mills we pass an old, old farmhouse at whose gate there hangs an attractive sign,
"THE SIGN OF THE GREEN TEA-POT."
"THE SIGN OF THE GREEN TEA-POT."
We decide to go in for a cup of tea. It is a charming little place, kept by a woman of taste and arranged for parties to sup in passing by, or for a few people to make a short stay. We admire the simple, dainty furniture, the homelike little parlor, and the attractive dining-room. Everything is beautifully clean and we sigh that we cannot make a longer stay. They give us one of the best cups of tea that we have had in all our long journey. Theviews about the place are charmingly pastoral, and we feel that with books and walks we could spend an idyllic fortnight here. Coming into Charlottesville we pass the fine campus of the University of Virginia.
Now comes a delightful week in old Charlottesville. To begin with, we insure our comfort by staying at a private boarding house on Jefferson street, where we have the delicious cooking that makes the tables of the old State famous. We find the boarding houses in Virginia to be very pleasant places indeed. We enjoy our Virginia table neighbors and we enjoy the homely comfort of these establishments. When we do not know the address of a boarding house we are accustomed, upon entering a town, to make inquiry at the best looking drug store. We have found this plan admirable, and are indebted for some very kindly and practical advice.
While in Charlottesville we drive about the country over the red clay roads which are so beautiful in the midst of the green meadows and orchards. This is the scenery that is so charmingly described by Mary Johnston in "Lewis Rand." Charlottesville is in the midst of a famous apple country,where are grown most delicious wine saps. All along in our Virginia travels we have seen evidences of a bumper crop of apples. Never have I seen so many apple trees bowed to the ground with their rosy crop. Each tree is a bouquet in itself; and a whole orchard of these trees with their drooping sprays of apple-laden branches, many of them propped from the ground, is a charming sight. I wish for the brush of a painter to transfer all this color and form to an immortal canvas.
On a hill near Charlottesville we have a never-to-be-forgotten view. Across a little valley on another hilltop is Thomas Jefferson's "Monticello," or Little Mountain. Just in front lies the town of Charlottesville upon its many knolls. And on beyond, rank on rank, stretch 150 miles of the Blue Mountains. The hill on which we stand has a bald top and just below this is a fringe of beautiful young apple and peach orchards. The trees do well on these hills. Lower down is the Pantopps orchard, which once belonged to the Jefferson estate.
1. Conococheague Creek Bridge, Md. 2. "Edgehill," near Charlottesville, Va. Old Home of Martha Jefferson Randolph. 3. "At the Sign of the Green Teapot," near Yancey Mills, Va.1. Conococheague Creek Bridge, Md. 2. "Edgehill," near Charlottesville, Va. Old Home of Martha Jefferson Randolph. 3. "At the Sign of the Green Teapot," near Yancey Mills, Va.
One day we drive, by virtue of an introduction, to "Edgehill," a fine old estate where lived Martha Jefferson Randolph, Thomas Jefferson's daughter. We are only a short distance here from "Castle Hill," the old home of the Rives family and the present residence of the Princess Troubetskoy. Another day we drive, by a stiff hill road winding through the estate, to "Monticello." The trees on the lawn of "Monticello" are our special delight, as are the views from the hilltop plateau on which the house stands. From here Jefferson could see in the distant trees the tops of the buildings of the beloved University which he had founded. No wonder that it is on record that Thomas Jefferson spent 796 days in all at "Monticello" during his two terms as President! In a family cemetery on the hillside, not so very far from the hilltop lawn, rest the mortal remains of Thomas Jefferson. He sleeps with the members of his family about him, and on the plain shaft of Virginia granite are these words, which were written by Jefferson himself and were found among his papers:
"Here was BuriedThomas Jefferson,Author of the Declaration of AmericanIndependence,Of the Statute of Virginia for ReligiousFreedom,And Father of the University of Virginia."
We spend some time at the University of Virginia, wandering about the campus, and admiring the old buildings of classic architecture. Every visitor should stand upon the terrace of the library, which commands a beautiful view of the quadrangle, flanked by long lines of professors' houses with classic white porticoes and enclosed at its further end by a hall of assembly. On the lawn of the quadrangle stands a statue of Homer. The bard is represented as sitting with his lyre in his hands while at his feet is a youth in the position of a rapt listener and learner.
As we wish to see as much of Virginia as possible we drive from Charlottesville to Culpeper, returning from Culpeper to Richmond. In leaving Charlottesville we drive past Keswick, a little settlement around which the country has been taken by many beautiful estates. Our route runs by Gordonsville and Orange through Madison Mills to Culpeper. Not far from Keswick we pass a sign at an attractive farm gate, which reads, "Cloverfields. Meals for tourists. Golf." We are sorry to be unable to test the hospitality of Cloverfields.
Although our road is more or less indifferent, we are passing through beautiful country. AroundKeswick the fields are beautifully kept, and the entrances to estates are marked by ivy-covered posts of yellow stone, rough hewn. Some of the houses are red brick with white pillars, others are of stucco. There are plenty of turkeys and chickens, and hounds, as everywhere else in Virginia. We begin to see clumps of pine trees from time to time. The oak trees of the forest are very large, many of them of noble height. The juniper trees are in blossom, their blue-green berries making them look as if they wore an exquisite blue-green veil. In Virginia, one is everywhere impressed by the richness and luxuriance of the foliage. All along the roadside banks are clumps of hazel bushes, heavy with clusters of nuts in their furry green coats. The chestnut trees are full of fruit. About a mile north of Gordonsville we pass a plain shaft of light pinkish-grey granite on the roadside bank at the left. The name Waddel is on the shaft and the following inscription:
Near this spot while yet primeval forest stood the church of the blind preacher James Waddel.A devout man of God and a faithful minister of the Presbyterian Church.Born 1739—died 1805.Socrates died like a philosopher, but Jesus Christ like a God.From his sermon as narrated by William Wirt.
Near this spot while yet primeval forest stood the church of the blind preacher James Waddel.
A devout man of God and a faithful minister of the Presbyterian Church.
Born 1739—died 1805.
Socrates died like a philosopher, but Jesus Christ like a God.
From his sermon as narrated by William Wirt.
This country has just the charm that I should expect it to have from my reading about Virginia. Here are late-blooming honeysuckles in the hedges. Here are men drawing wagon loads of produce along the rather heavy clay highways to market. Sometimes they drive two horses tandem. The rear horse is saddled, and the driver rides him and so guides the team. Sometimes a heavy wagon is drawn by four horses, the driver astride the near horse in the rear. Sometimes we see farmers ploughing with three horses or mules, flocks of turkeys or chickens following in the wake of the plough and picking up the luscious morsels thrown up by the ploughshare. Sometimes we see fine Hereford cattle grazing in the fields. Then come the reddest of red pigs feeding contentedly in big fields of alfalfa. Once we pass a farmhouse with late-blooming yellow roses climbing over the stone posts at the farm entrance. Once we see a man ploughingin the fields with a mare, her mule baby running by her side as she plods along. Near Madison Mills we cross the Rapidan river, a rushing, yellow stream. As we near Culpeper the wooded country opens out into a beautiful grazing region, the land rising and falling in long undulations. Here and there in the great fields are clumps of trees giving a park-like effect to the country. All this is very beautiful, and one's joy would be undimmed were it not for the traces of the great conflict of fifty years ago. We are coming now to the region of Cedar Mountain which is locally known as Slaughter Mountain. Here is the site of a bloody battle. The Confederates were intrenched in a position of vantage on Cedar Mountain and the Unionists were advancing across the fields and through the forest into a sort of basin below the mountain. It is quite easy to understand the heavy slaughter of the Union troops; for on both sides of the road, here and there in the fields, are stones marking the spots where certain officers and certain groups of men fell. Here is a stone near the road marking the spot where Colonel Winder of the 72nd Pennsylvania fell as he was advancing.
As we see these stones the present peace andprosperity of these rolling grass lands is emphasized by the bloody background of the past.
We stay in Culpeper at the old railway hotel, "The Waverly." In the morning we drive about the rich country and are decided in our own minds that if we wished to come to Virginia for a great grazing establishment, this is the part of the country to which we should turn. We hear tales of one farm where the owner has made seven cuttings of alfalfa in the course of one year.
We make a hurried trip to the National Cemetery at Culpeper. 12,000 Union soldiers sleep in this cemetery; and Maine, Massachusetts, New York, Ohio and Pennsylvania all have monuments to their dead. The granite pillar of Pennsylvania, with its bronze tablets, keystone shaped, is particularly fine. The noble inscription begins: "Pennsylvania remembers with solemn pride her heroic dead who here repose in known and unknown graves."
In leaving Culpeper we retrace our path as far as Gordonsville, and there turn toward Mechanicsville, on our way to Richmond. Again we come through alternations of open, rolling, exquisitely pastoral country and lush forest. Between Culpeperand Madison Mills we notice particularly a little old red brick church set in the forest trees by the roadside. A tablet on the building tells us that this is "Crooked Run Baptist Church. Organized 1777, rebuilt 1910." Crooked Run, a swift, clay-red creek, hurries along through the forest near the church.
One thing that interests us in Virginia is the frequency of family cemeteries, quiet plots near the old farmhouses and mansions. Sometimes they are surrounded by low brick walls, over which the honeysuckle climbs. Sometimes they are open plots on a knoll in some field near the house. After we pass Gordonsville the fine road changes to a comparatively poor one and the open country with its park-like appearance gives way to long stretches of rich forest. There are many fine oaks and clumps of green pines. After passing Louisa we are more than ever in what seems to be back country, lonely and apparently sparsely settled. We drive over long stretches of old corduroy road, the planks now much rotted. Here and there is a comfortable looking negro cabin, and here and there a negro is clearing land. The soil looks very rich and fertile after it has been opened to the sun. At a somewhatlonely point we come upon three little negro boys and tell them that we wish to take their pictures. I stand them in a row while T. gets his camera, assuring them that each boy is to have two pennies for standing quietly. They are somewhat awed by the occasion; and when T. produces a tripod and begins to pull out its long legs preparatory to getting a high stand for the camera, they are terrified. The face of the oldest one melts into tears, but we reassure him and the picture promises to be a success. We tell the proud mother of the oldest boy that we will surely send her a picture and we are glad to keep our promise later.
1. Three Young Virginians. 2. An Old Homestead on Tidewater, Va.1. Three Young Virginians. 2. An Old Homestead on Tidewater, Va.
Farther on we pass some forlorn looking negroes in a field, clearing the land. By the roadside sits the baby, a round little pickaninny in a rustic baby carriage made of a soap box on wooden wheels. We stop the car and ask if we may take the baby's picture. The older man looks very troubled and says, "I'm afraid not. You see I ain't got any money. I just got this heah land." We assure him that we don't want any money and will be only too happy to send some pictures of the baby if our photograph turns out well. But he is still dubious and troubled, and the baby's brother says, "The baby's mother ain't heah; we dursent do it when she ain't heah." Evidently they think that we mean to involve them in some financial obligation or to cast some sort of spell over little black baby, contentedly sucking her thumb. I don't like to be beaten, but we cannot stay to convince them that they are mistaken, so we say "Good-bye," and drive away. From time to time we pass patches of tobacco, very green and thrifty looking; but there is much uncleared land and there are long stretches of lonely country.
We reach Richmond at six o'clock and are so fortunate as to have the address of a charming boarding house on Franklin Street. Richmond has some excellent hotels; and she also has some very attractive pensions. "Where do you come from?" asks our hospitable hostess, as she shows us to our big, comfortable room. "From California," I respond, and create quite a sensation.
Richmond is worthy of a longer stay than we can possibly make this time. But we drive for a morning and enjoy all that we can of the old city. We go up to Monument Hill and have the fine view from there, looking down on the winding James and on the green fields of Chesterfield County andManchester beyond. We drive out to the National Cemetery where 6573 Union soldiers sleep, 5678 of them unknown. We go to Church Hill and see old St. John's Church, where Patrick Henry's pew in which he made his famous speech is marked with a brass plate and an inscription. We drive to the other end of the city and see the new part of Richmond with its wide streets and fine equestrian statues of General Lee and General Stuart. The old houses of the town, built of red brick and adorned with white porches, with pink crape myrtle blooming luxuriantly in their door yards, are particularly attractive to us.
But we must leave the old city and drive on fifty miles to Williamsburg. The road is sandy and somewhat muddy in shady spots, under the heavy forest foliage. Nine miles out from Richmond we pass through the village of Seven Pines, the region of the bloody battle of Seven Pines. All about are extensive forests of pine; and on the left, after we pass through the village, is a National Cemetery surrounded by a brick wall, just as are those of Richmond and Culpeper. This is a smaller cemetery, but there are rows and rows of little white headstones, marking the graves of the fallen.
We drive for miles through the forest, the fine trees growing close to the road. There is a special fascination in driving through open forest. Here are willow oaks, live oaks, and green, green pines. Here is a heavy undergrowth of young dogwoods. And here by the roadside are persimmon trees, loaded with fruit. Wherever the land is cleared it is rich and fertile. As we come nearer to the sea the forest growth is heavier. Here and there are negroes working in neat little clearings or sitting on the whitewashed wooden porches of their tiny cabins.
We are in water-melon country and great wagon-loads of the fruit are being taken to the nearest station for export. All along the road we see the pink and green fragments of discarded fruit. People eat water-melons at this season as we eat oranges in the North. We can see the remains of many an open air banquet, by the roadside. We stop by one wagon-load and I ask a boy who is driving what a water-melon will cost. "Oh! fifteen cents." "We don't want such a big one," say I. "Can't you sell us a smaller one for ten cents?" "I reckon so." And he picks out a huge water-melon, and passes it over. As we drive along we cut outcubic pieces of the pink delicacy. Never have we tasted such a water-melon. It has not been wilted by a long, hot train journey, but has just come from the field, and is fresh and delicious.
At Williamsburg we stay at the Colonial Inn, a most pleasant hostel, on old Duke of Glouchester Street. Williamsburg, known then as Middle Plantation, was the settlement to which the Jamestown settlers moved when they found Jamestown Island too damp and malarial for permanent occupancy. It is one of the most interesting Colonial towns in the United States. In Williamsburg I realize that many of our Virginia forefathers were Englishmen of the aristocratic class. The coats-of-arms on the old stones in the cemetery; the quiet elegance of the old parish church with its handsomely draped governor's pew—all the marks of early days' ceremonial are here. A service in Bruton Parish Church is an experience, and it is also an experience to see the communion plate of solid silver and the old prayer-book used in Colonial days. One can see for one's self the pages in the prayer-book where "King of kings" has been scored out and "Ruler of the universe" has been written in on the margin. In this prayer-book the prayer forthe king has been pasted over, a prayer for the president having been written on the paper covering the printed prayer. The parish register of the church has many interesting and amusing entries. In one entry twin slaves have been registered by their master as "Adam" and "Eve."
Miss Estelle Smith, a lady who lives in a most interesting old house on Palace Green, knows the history of Williamsburg thoroughly, and is a very charming guide. Miss Smith's house, where a few paying guests find gracious hospitality, is known as "Audrey House." It was this house that Mary Johnston used as the setting for her heroine, Audrey. On one window-pane of the "Audrey House" an unknown hand traced with a diamond long, long ago these words: "Nov. 23rd, 1796. O fatal day." On another pane there is a name and the date 1734. Miss Smith says that no member of her family knows what the fatal day was, away back in 1796. No tradition or record of that unhappiness has descended.
In Bruton church yard, I am interested to read on a family gravestone a special inscription to "Mammy Sarah, devoted servant of the family who died aged sixty years."
The gallery of the old church is known as "Lord Dunsmore's Gallery." Lord Dunsmore retired here from the seats of the Burgesses on the floor below, shortly before the Revolution, not being in sympathy with their revolutionary attitude. Later the gallery was assigned to the students of William and Mary College, and its old railing is covered with their initials, cut deep into the wood.
One can read fine old names, and very great names, on the brass tablets which adorn many of the pews and many wall spaces in Bruton church. George Washington, Peyton Randolph, Patrick Henry, and many others. As we read them we feel that we are in a distinguished and patriotic company, silent and yet present.
It is pleasant to wander about the old streets of the village, shaded by gnarled mulberry trees and fine elms. Masses of pink crape myrtle embower some of the old houses, and waxen leaved magnolia trees shade the door yards. At one end of the village there is an interesting stone to mark the site of the old Capitol. We read that "Here Patrick Henry first kindled the flames of revolution by his resolutions and speech against the Stamp Act, May 29-30, 1765." "Here June 12, 1776, was adoptedby the convention the immortal work of George Mason, the Declaration of Rights and on June 29, 1776 the first written Constitution of a free and independent State ever framed."
We drive out past the shaded campus of William and Mary College and over eight miles of sandy road through the forest, to Jamestown Island. We cross a rickety rustic bridge over the saltwater stream which separates the island from the mainland. Driving across grassy fields we come to the present church, incorporating the old tower and surrounding with its brick walls the precious foundations of the early church. The present church is really a protection for these low, broken foundations which are railed off from the possible vandalism of tourists; and the repository of certain old tombs and of an ever increasing number of memorial tablets upon its brick walls. One tablet which pleases me much, reads:
In honour of ChancoThe Christian Indian boywhose warnings savedThe Colony of Virginia from destructionIn the Massacre of 22 March, 1622.Erected by the Society of ColonialDames of America in the State of Virginia.
Another interesting tablet reads:
To the glory of GodAn in grateful remembrance ofThe adventurers in EnglandandAncient Planters of VirginiaWho through evil report and loss of fortuneThrough suffering and deathMaintained stout heartsAnd laid the foundations of our country.
A fine statue of Captain John Smith stands on the greensward, near the church, looking out over the broad waters of the James. The Captain is represented in the dress of his day, his wide trousers tied with ribbons at the knee, his broad boot tops falling over in picturesque fashion. On the monument is a simple inscription, "Captain John Smith, governor of Virginia, 1608." A graceful statue of Pocahontas is to stand near that of Captain Smith, facing the water.
Not far from the church and in an open positionstands the tall, fine granite shaft which commemorates the first settlement. Its main inscription reads:
JamestownThe first permanent colonyof the English peopleThe birthplace of VirginiaAnd of the United StatesMay 13, 1607.
Jamestown Island contains 1600 acres, and is some three miles long. It is owned by Mrs. Barney, who lives upon it and who conducts a farm on part of its acres. She and her husband generously gave the portion of the island containing the church yard to the Society for the Preservation of the Antiquities of Virginia. It is less than fifteen years since the restoration and care of the old Jamestown settlement site has been undertaken. Before that the graveyard was neglected and overgrown, the foundations of the old church were falling to pieces, and the whole place was utterly forlorn and forsaken.
From Williamsburg we drive on to Yorktown, now a small village. One short street, a few oldhouses, a shop and a little inn or two are all that remain of Yorktown. No railroad reaches it, and it is therefore rather inaccessible to tourists. The village is most nobly situated on a high bluff overlooking the broad waters of the York River, which stretch away like a great bay. The Yorktown monument, quite as fine and imposing a shaft as the Jamestown one, stands high on the river bank in a striking and dramatic situation. We hear a pretty story of how the President of the United States came down with a party of gentlemen some months ago and walked about the village. No one recognized him save a young girl of fourteen who volunteered her services as a guide, took the party about and explained to them the points of interest. They remained with her nearly two hours. At the end of this time when they were bidding her farewell, she said, nodding to the President, "YouarePresident Wilson, are you not?" We drive out from the village to an old farmhouse known as the "Moore House," where terms of capitulation were drawn up after the surrender of Lord Cornwallis. We go into the room where the terms were made, and feel that we are really in the birthplace of our great nation.
From Yorktown we cross by ferry to Gloucester County, for we purpose to see something of the famous section known as Tidewater Virginia. As Tidewater on Chesapeake Bay is a region where creeks and inlets make a thousand indentations in the coast, the ideal way to see it all would be by motor boat. But our purpose is to drive along the sandy roads and through the forests of Gloucester County for some thirty miles, until we reach the region of Mobjack Bay. As we drive along we pass many negroes, respectable looking people in comfortable buggies and light open wagons. Some are driving mules, and others have very good horses. We find that we must drive slowly, as many of the animals are afraid of our car. We pass old Abingdon Parish Church, and stop to read the names on the tombs with the coats-of-arms in the church yard. A little farther on we turn down a long lane and drive for a mile and a half through fields and trees. Then we come through a gate on to the green lawn of "Newstead," an old estate where they are good enough to take a few paying guests. Sheep and turkeys walk calmly about on the grass under the shade of noble oak trees. Before us are the blue waters of the Bay. We are on that particular armof Mobjack Bay known as the North River. Here is the enchanting region of which Thomas Dixon Jr., wrote some twelve years ago when he described his own home in a book called "The Life Worth Living." A long motor boat ride convinces us that Mr. Dixon's descriptions are not exaggerated. All along the river (which is really an arm of Chesapeake Bay) stand pleasant homes surrounded by green lawns and shaded by fine trees. It is so sheltered here that one has the advantages of the real country, as well as of the real sea.
The chestnut oak, the magnolia, the willow oak, the crape myrtle, the fig and the grape all flourish luxuriantly. The grass is thick and green; and yet sail boats and motor boats ride at anchor at private piers and your man can dredge your own oysters from your own oyster-bed just in front of your grass and flowers. The estate of which Mr. Dixon wrote so delightfully is only ten minutes by motor boat from "Newstead."
A mild climate, rich vegetation, fertile soil, birds and flowers and fruits, the best eating in the world, what more does Virginia need to make her a paradise on land and by sea?Only good roads, andthen the motorist will enjoy her rare charms as they have never yet been enjoyed.
We retrace our journey through the thick woods, past fine oaks and beeches to the Yorktown ferry. Crossing again to Yorktown we drive on to Old Point Comfort, taking a little time to visit the extensive buildings of the famous Hampton Institute. At Old Point Comfort we take the boat for Cape Charles City. It is our plan to drive straight up the Maryland Peninsula, having first spent the night in a comfortable little hotel at Cape Charles City.
It is a lovely September morning, clear and bright, as we drive north along bumpy roads, through beautiful forests of pine and oak. We are in Accomac County, Virginia, on the southern end of what is called the Delaware-Maryland-Virginia Peninsula. This seems to be a lonely country through which we are driving, somewhat sparsely settled. And yet between Cape Charles City and Pocomoke City there are twenty-seven prosperous banks, they tell us. And here in Accomac County is harvested five per cent. of the entire sweet potato crop of the United States. The climatic conditionsfor fruits and vegetables are almost perfect on this peninsula, and the soil is extremely fertile. All this country is destined to be an immense peninsula garden. As we drive along we see great heaps of yellow sweet potatoes waiting to be packed away in barrels. We see long rows of baskets filled with scarlet tomatoes, stretching down the fields, alongside the denuded tomato plants. What glorious color it is! I should like to come here and paint a tomato field just after the fruit has been picked, the whole field marked by lines of color. First a row of green tomato plants, somewhat grey and dusty in the bright sun; then a row of baskets of scarlet fruit glowing in the sunshine; then a stretch of brown earth. Then another row of the grey-green plants and another row of baskets piled high with scarlet fruit; and so on across many acres of browns and greens and scarlets. We pass immense wagon-loads of tomatoes being hauled to the canneries and to the station. The fruit is placed in the wagon in double decker fashion; the first platform of baskets being surmounted by a second platform upon which the second rows of baskets rest. The wagons are drawn by sturdy mules, sometimes four strong. At Pocomoke City we havean excellent luncheon at the little hotel. We have crossed the Maryland boundary, and our route is to lead us through Princess Ann and Salisbury off to the northeast to Easton. The country is less heavily wooded now, but the soil is of the same fertile quality, and the cultivated fields are beautiful to see. We are driving along the famous Eastern Shore, where many people have their country seats. The towns through which we are passing, from Cape Charles City clear along the peninsula, show their age. They belong to the days of early settlement.
At Easton we take a day or two to drive about the open country and see the charming country estates, the houses standing on the shores of creeks and inlets, and having the double charm of the country and the sea, just as they do in Tidewater Virginia. We drive out to "The Wilderness," the home of a Pittsburg gentleman. One approaches the old brick house through a long avenue of trees. The house faces on a green lawn which slopes to the waters of a broad stream, with glimpses in the distances of a wide bay. About the house there are broad fields with rich, fertile soil capable of high cultivation. Fine roads run all through the countrysideand there are charming places on the creeks and inlets, each commanding a beautiful water view. You may take your launch in the late afternoon if you are weary, and run about in sheltered water ways commanding fine views of pretty homes set in lovely lawns and trees. Or you may take a sail, venturing out from a small inlet to a wider bay, and so on into the great open water of the Chesapeake.
I know a green lawn on a certain inlet, shaded by luxuriant oak trees, where the sound of bells comes across the water from the village spires of an historic old village. The family boat is just behind the house, rocking gently on the waters of a little stream, which runs up from the larger stream into the mainland. The situation is ideal.
We drive about Talbot County and on into Princess Ann County. Everywhere we find the same fertile, level fields, the same water ways with their lovely glimpses of broader water beyond. Where could one wish for a better luncheon than the one served us at an unpretentious little inn called Queen Cottage, in the old village of Queenstown? Delicious oyster soup, the oysters just out of the water, an omelet that would have done justice to aFrench chef, candied sweet potatoes cooked as only a Southern cook knows how, fresh peas, hot biscuits, excellent coffee, and the pink heart of a cool, unwilted water-melon; and all for a most reasonable sum. Queen Cottage would be a sweet spot in which to spend a little time of retreat, bountifully fed and free to wander about quiet streets and fertile open country.
We pass, in driving about, the largest oak tree in the county, standing in the door yard of a country place, and carefully preserved and watched over. Perhaps I should say watched under, as it is an immense green tent of huge spreading branches, each one a tree in itself in its girth and diameter.
From Easton we drive north and northwest to Wilmington over fine roads. The State of Maryland is improving her roads and will in a few years have highways that will be among the finest in the country, while her scenery is that of a smiling country becoming more and more cultivated. On from Wilmington to Philadelphia and from Philadelphia out to Byrn Mawr; and from the parked and shaded beauty of Byrn Mawr over the rolling farming country of Pennsylvania with its beautiful cultivation and its substantial stone farmhouses, upthrough Trenton and Newark and across the ferry to New York. We are once more on the Lincoln Highway as we travel northeast from Philadelphia. It is a joy to travel again by the familiar red, white, and blue signs. We know the pleasant open country of New Jersey through which the noble Highway runs for these last miles, and are at last At Home.
The Lincoln Highway is destined to be a much-traveled road. Already the motorists of the West are turning the hoods of their motor cars to face the East and the motorists of the East are starting Westward. Happy is the man who has his hotel or inn situated on the road marked by the red, white, and blue. The traveler is bound to come his way, and the traveler is bound to alight at his door if only he has something to offer that is worthy of the name of hospitality. But he can no longer afford to be careless. There is an unwritten rule of the open road which reads that the traveler shall tell his fellow traveler of places at which to halt and of places to avoid. It is inevitable that in the course of a short time the slovenly and careless inn-keeper must be supplanted by a better man.
The tourist does not enjoy looking out of his hotel window on piles of old tin cans and heaps of barrel staves and discarded packing boxes. Nor does he enjoy looking at mounds of ashes, and quantities of vegetable parings. He will not long endure a soiled table cloth, horrible green tea, and indifferently cooked food. Nor will he endure a lack of hot water and utterly careless sanitary arrangements. He may say little about them to the landlord who entertains his party, but he will very soon see to it that better inns take the place of the old ones of careless and indifferent management. The hotel keeper congratulates himself that his open door looks out on the Lincoln Highway, and that his own sign proudly bears the three distinguishing bars of red, white, and blue. He must have more than this to make his inn a success. It is surprising how fast the news of a clean, well kept inn, with excellently cooked food, travels from mouth to mouth.
In France there is a roll of honour for inn-keepers under the direction, if I mistake not, of the Touring Club of France. Only those inn-keepers whose houses and whose tables attain a certain standard, not of style but of simple cleanliness andof wholesome excellence of food, are admitted to this company. I have seen the certificate of the roll of honour hanging on the walls of more than one country inn in France.
It is to the credit of the many places in which we halted for the night that in only one did we find conditions impossible. We slept in a rather indifferent bed-chamber, having reached the inn late. But when we saw the dining-room the following morning, we paid our bill and fled; driving on twenty miles farther for a late breakfast. Surely the average commercial man of the United States who travels in country districts year in and year out must have a charméd digestion and an iron-clad constitution. He may well rejoice that the days of motoring have come, for with the motorist is coming not only the broad Highway, but the clean and comfortable inn. Not necessarily the fashionable hotel, with its expensive and extravagant accessories; but the clean, immaculately kept country inn, with its excellent cooking of the abundant food in which our country is so rich. Perhaps we shall need to import some Swiss inn-keeper to tell us how to do it. Whether we do or do not, the man who knows how and the man who is willing to liveup to his knowledge will inevitably displace the inn-keeper who is careless and indifferent. The biggest bid for a motor tourist is a clean bed-chamber, a comfortable bed, and a well cooked though simple dinner.
If I were crossing the Lincoln Highway again I should take with me a spirit lamp, a little sauce pan, some boxes of biscuits, some excellent tea, some cocoa and other supplies. Not that this is a necessity. But it would be very pleasant to have a luncheon or a cup of afternoon tea al fresco, now and then.
For our own comfort and convenience we laid down for ourselves certain rules of the road.
First: We did not wear our good clothes. The long, dusty journeys are very hard upon clothing, and for a lady a comfortable light weight tweed suit with plenty of washable blouses with rolling collars, covered by an ample motor coat, gives the greatest comfort and satisfaction. The dust of the plains is ground into one's clothing and one should be ready for this. The requirements of the hotels along the road are very simple, and a fresh blouse will usually be all that is needed. We took care to use only such dust robes to cover our luggage as could not be injured by the wear and tear of thejourney. We did not take with us our best rugs and robes.
Second: We did not travel by night. We found it very delightful to travel in the late afternoon, when the lights were particularly fine, but we avoided as much as possible traveling late into the evening. In this way one does not miss the scenery of the country, and one is not over fatigued. We found that when we were obliged to arrive late at our inn, it was wiser to eat supper at the proper supper hour wherever that might find us.
Third: We did not as a rule travel on Sunday. Partly because we wished to attend church in whatever town we might be, partly because we found ourselves fresher for enjoyment and sight-seeing after the rest and quiet of a day.
Fourth: We resolved at the outset to take the days and the roads as they came; not looking for luxury and well satisfied with simplicity. It is surprising how one is fortified for the vicissitudes of the road by such a deliberate attitude of mind.
The Lincoln Highway is not as yet a road for those motorists who wish only luxurious hotels, frequent stops, and all the cushioned comfort of the much-traveled main roads of the favorite touristparts of Europe. It is, however, perfectly practicable in its entire length of 3200 miles, and rich in interest and charm for those who care for what it has to give.
We drove a Studebaker car as far as Denver and a Franklin car from Denver to New York. In all the distance traversed we were not conscious of braving any dangers or of taking any particular risks.