"Here was Buried Thomas Jefferson, Author of the Declaration of American Independence, Of the Statute of Virginia for Religious Freedom, 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 cla.s.sic 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 cla.s.sic white porticoes and enclosed at its further end by a hall of a.s.sembly. 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sing through beautiful country. Around Keswick 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 n.o.ble 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 cl.u.s.ters of nuts in their furry green coats. The chestnut trees are full of fruit. About a mile north of Gordonsville we pa.s.s 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 G.o.d and a faithful minister of the Presbyterian Church.

Born 1739--died 1805.

Socrates died like a philosopher, but Jesus Christ like a G.o.d.

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 pa.s.s a farmhouse with late-blooming yellow roses climbing over the stone posts at the farm entrance. Once we see a man ploughing in 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 and prosperity of these rolling gra.s.s lands is emphasized by the b.l.o.o.d.y 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, Ma.s.sachusetts, 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 n.o.ble 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 Culpeper and 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sing Louisa we are more than ever in what seems to be back country, lonely and apparently spa.r.s.ely 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 somewhat lonely 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, a.s.suring 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 rea.s.sure 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 1. Three Young Virginians. 2. An Old Homestead on Tidewater, Va.]

Farther on we pa.s.s 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 a.s.sure 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 pa.s.s 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 and Manchester 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 bra.s.s 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 c.r.a.pe 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 pa.s.s through the village of Seven Pines, the region of the b.l.o.o.d.y battle of Seven Pines. All about are extensive forests of pine; and on the left, after we pa.s.s 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 pa.s.ses it over. As we drive along we cut out cubic 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 cla.s.s. 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 for the 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 att.i.tude. Later the gallery was a.s.signed 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 bra.s.s tablets which adorn many of the pews and many wall s.p.a.ces 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. Ma.s.ses of pink c.r.a.pe 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 adopted by the convention the immortal work of George Mason, the Declaration of Rights and on June 29, 1776 the first written Const.i.tution 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 salt.w.a.ter stream which separates the island from the mainland. Driving across gra.s.sy 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 Chanco The Christian Indian boy whose warnings saved The Colony of Virginia from destruction In the Ma.s.sacre of 22 March, 1622.

Erected by the Society of Colonial Dames of America in the State of Virginia.

Another interesting tablet reads:

To the glory of G.o.d An in grateful remembrance of The adventurers in England and Ancient Planters of Virginia Who through evil report and loss of fortune Through suffering and death Maintained stout hearts And 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 position stands the tall, fine granite shaft which commemorates the first settlement. Its main inscription reads:

Jamestown The first permanent colony of the English people The birthplace of Virginia And of the United States May 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 old houses, 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 n.o.bly 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, "You _are_ President 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s 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 gra.s.s under the shade of n.o.ble oak trees. Before us are the blue waters of the Bay. We are on that particular arm of 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 c.r.a.pe myrtle, the fig and the grape all flourish luxuriantly. The gra.s.s 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 gra.s.s 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_, and then 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 Inst.i.tute. 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 b.u.mpy 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 spa.r.s.ely 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 conditions for 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 pa.s.s 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 st.u.r.dy mules, sometimes four strong. At Pocomoke City we have an 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 Sh.o.r.e, where many people have their country seats. The towns through which we are pa.s.sing, from Cape Charles City clear along the peninsula, show their age. They belong to the days of early settlement.