AT THE PIER MARKED "BRANDON"
It was late on the following afternoon when Gadabout was out of the
creek, out in the river, and bound for the little pier marked
_Brandon_.
A belated steamboat was swashing down stream, and a schooner, having
but little of wind and less of tide to help it along, was rocking
listlessly in the long swell. In the shadow of the slack sails a man
sprawled upon the schooner's deck, while against the old-fashioned
tiller another leaned lazily.
Gadabout had to make quite a detour to get around some shad-net poles
before she could head in toward the Brandon wharf; and her roundabout
course gave time for a thought or two upon the famous old river
plantation.
Starting but a few years after those first colonists landed at
Jamestown Island, the story of Brandon is naturally a long one. But,
working on the scale of a few words to a century, we may get the gist
of it in here.
Among those first settlers was one Captain John Martin, a considerable
figure of those days and a member of the Council appointed by the King
for the government of the colony. He seems to have been the only man
who believed in holding on at James Towne after the horrors of the
"Starving Time." He made vigorous protest when the settlers took to the
ships and abandoned the settlement.
About 1616, he secured a grant of several thousand acres of land in the
neighbourhood of this creek that we were now lying in, and the estate
became known as Brandon--Martin's Brandon. The terms of the grant were
so unusually favourable that they came near making the Captain a little
lord in the wilderness. He was to "enjoye his landes in as large and
ample manner to all intentes and purposes as any Lord of any Manours in
England dothe holde his grounde." And he certainly started out to do
it.
But soon the General Assembly attacked the lordly prerogatives of the
owner of Martin's Brandon. It did not relish the idea of making laws
for everybody in the colony except John Martin, and he was requested to
relinquish certain of his high privileges. This he refused to do,
saying, "I hold my patente for my service don, which noe newe or late
comers can meritt or challenge." After a while, however, he was induced
to surrender the objectionable "parte of his patente," and manorial
Brandon became like any other great estate in the colony.
After several changes of ownership, Brandon came into the possession of
another prominent colonial family, the Harrisons. The founder of this
Virginia house (the various branches of which have given us so many men
prominent in our colonial and national life) was Benjamin Harrison, one
of the early settlers, a large land holder, and a member of the
Council. His son Benjamin (also a man of position in the colony and a
member of the Council) was probably the first of the family to hold
lands at Brandon.
But it was not until the third generation that the Harrisons became
thoroughly identified with the two great plantations that have ever
since been associated with the name; Benjamin Harrison, the third,
acquiring Berkeley, and his brother Nathaniel completing the
acquisition of the broad acres of Brandon. Berkeley passed to strangers
many years ago; but Brandon has come down through unbroken succession
from the Harrisons of over two centuries ago to the Harrisons of
to-day.
That makes a great many Harrisons. And as it happened, while Gadabout
was on her way that day to visit their ancestral home, a genealogical
chart with its maze of family ramifications was lying on a table in the
forward cabin, and Henry saw it.
"King's sake!" he exclaimed. "That must be the host they couldn't
count. Don't you know John say how he saw a host no man could number?
That's cert'nly them!"
As we approached the Brandon pier, we saw a man on it who proved to be
the gardener and who helped to handle our ropes as we made our landing.
Then, with the aid of a beautiful collie, he led us up the slope toward
the still invisible homestead.
Entering the wooded grounds through quaint, old-fashioned gateways, we
followed our guide along a trail that topped the river bluff, where
honeysuckle ran riot in the shrubbery and tumbled in confusion to the
beach below. The trail ended in a cleared spot on the crest of the
bluff--a river lookout, where one could rest upon the rustic seat and
enjoy the ever-varying picture of water, sky, and shore.
[Illustration: RIVERWARD FRONT OF BRANDON.]
But we turned our backs upon it all, for to us it was not yet Brandon.
Now, our course lay directly away from the river along a broad avenue
of yielding turf, straight through an aged garden. Above were the
arching boughs of giant trees; below and all about, a wealth of
old-fashioned bloom. The sunlight drifted through shadowing
fringe-trees, mimosas, magnolias, and oaks. Hoary old age marked the
garden in the breadth of the box, in the height of the slow-growing
yews, and in the denseness of the ivy that swathed the great-girthed
trees. It all lay basking in the soft, mellow light of sunset, in the
hush of coming twilight, like some garden of sleep.
Suddenly, the grove and the garden ended and we were over the threshold
of a square of sward, an out-of-door reception room, no tree or shrub
encroaching. Beyond this was a row of sentinel trees; and then a
massive hedge of box with a break in the middle where stood the white
portal of Brandon. We could tell little about the building. The eye
could catch only a charming confusion: foliage-broken lines of wall and
roof; ivy-framed windows; and, topping all, just above the deep green
of a magnolia tree, the white carved pineapple of welcome and
hospitality.
In the softened light of evening, the charm of the place was upon
us--old Brandon, standing tree-shadowed and dim, its storied walls in
time-toned tints, its seams and crannies traced in the greens of moss
and lichen, its ancient air suggestive, secretive,
"In green old gardens hidden away
From sight of revel and sound of strife."
We entered a large, dusky hall with white pillars and arches midway,
and with two rooms opening off from it--the dining-room on the one
hand, the drawing-room on the other. In the old chimney-pieces, fire
leaped behind quaint andirons taking the chill from the evening air.
And there in the dusk and the fire-glow, where shadows half hid and
half revealed, where old mahogany now loomed dark and now flashed back
the flickering light, where old-time worthies fitfully came and went
upon the shadowy, panelled walls--we made our acquaintance with Brandon
and with the gracious lady of the manor. Our talk ran one with the hour
and the dusk and the firelight--old days, old ways, and all that
Brandon stands for.
When our twilight call was over, it was with dreamy thoughts on the far
days of Queen Anne and of the Georges that we went from the
white-pillared portico down the worn stone steps and followed a side
path back toward our boat. In the gloaming the side-lights were being
put in place, and Gadabout turned a baleful green eye upon us, as
though overhearing our talk of such unnautical things as gardens and
heirlooms and ancestral halls.
Next morning there was much puffing of engines and ringing of signal
bells down in Chippoak Creek. Gadabout went ahead and backed and
sidled. And it was all to find a new way to go to Brandon. Mrs.
Harrison had told us of a landing-place in the woods at the creek side
from which a sort of roadway led to the house. Fortunately, our charts
indicated, near this landing, a small depression in the bed of the
creek where there would be sufficient depth of water for our houseboat
to float even at low tide. At last, we got over the flats and into the
hole in the bottom of the creek that seemed to have been made for us.
We rowed ashore to a yellow crescent of sandy beach shaded by cypresses
where a cart-path led off through the woods. We called it the woods-way
to Brandon. It followed the shore of the creek a little way, and
through the leafy screen we caught glimpses of Gadabout out in the
stream, now with a cone-tipped branch of pine and again with a
star-leaved limb of sweet gum for a foreground setting.
Farther along were many dogwood trees; and in the springtime these
woods must be dotted with those white blossom-tents that so charmed the
first settlers on their way up the river. Here, for the first time, we
came upon the trailing cedar spreading its feathery carpet under the
trees. Ferns lifted their fronds in thick, wavy clusters. The freshness
from a night storm was upon every growing thing; a clearing northwest
wind was in the tree-tops; and the air was filled with the spicy
sweetness of the woodland.
The way led out of the shadow of the trees into the open, and we came
upon "the quarters"--long, low buildings with patches of corn and sweet
potatoes about them. Two coloured women were digging in the gardens and
another was busy over an out-of-door washtub. A group of picaninnies
played about a steaming kettle swung upon a cross-stick above an
open-air fire. One fat brown baby sat in a doorway poking a pudgy thumb
into a saucer of food and keeping very watchful eyes on the strangers.
Beyond the quarters were barns and some small houses.
[Illustration: A SIDE PATH TO THE MANOR-HOUSE.]
[Illustration: THE WOODS-WAY TO BRANDON.]
And here was our first reminder of a distressing chapter in the story
of Brandon. We knew that but few of these buildings were old-time
outbuildings of the estate. The Civil War bore hard upon this as upon
other homes along the James. It left little upon the plantation except
the old manor-house itself, and that injured and defaced.
On ahead, we could see the great grove in which the manor-house stands,
looming up in the midst of the cleared land like a small forest
reservation. Our route this time brought us to the homestead from the
landward side through an open park, and we got a better view of the
building than the dense foliage on the other side had permitted. The
house is of the long colonial type, consisting of a square central
building, two large flanking wings, and two connecting corridors. It is
built of brick laid in Flemish bond, showing a broken pattern of glazed
headers. Each front has its wide central porch and double-door
entranceway.
The emblem of hospitality that tops the central roof is truly
characteristic of the spirit within. Old colonial worthies, foreign
dignitaries, presidents and their cabinets, house-parties of "Virginia
cousins," and "strangers within the gates"--all have known the open
hospitality of Brandon. And the two latest strangers now moved on
assured of kindly welcome at the doorway.
Entering Brandon from the landward front, we found ourselves again in
the large central hall. It is divided midway by arches resting on
fluted Ionic columns and has a fine example of the colonial staircase.
This hall and the drawing-room and the dining-room on either side of it
cover the entire ground floor of the central building. Offices and
bedrooms occupy the wings. The rooms are lofty, and most of them have
fireplaces and panelled walls.
Through the east doorway one looks down a long vista to the river. In
the sunlight it is striking: the shadows from the dense foliage before
the portal lie black upon the grass; beyond is the stretch of sunny
sward; and then the turf walk under meeting boughs, a green tunnel
through whose far opening one sees a bit of brown river and perhaps a
white glint of sail.
In drawing-room and dining-room are gathered numerous paintings forming
a collection well known as the Brandon Gallery. It represents the work
of celebrated old court painters and of notable early American artists.
[Illustration: IN THE DRAWING-ROOM.]
In the drawing-room, a canvas by Charles Wilson Peale may be regarded
as the portrait-host among the shadowy figures gathered there, its
subject being Colonel Benjamin Harrison. He was friend and college
roommate of Thomas Jefferson, and a member of the first State Executive
Council in 1776. Against the dense background is shown a slender
gentleman of the old school, with an intellectual, kindly face and
expressive eyes.
About him is a distinguished gathering--dames and damsels in rich
attire and languid elegance; gallants and nobles in court costume and
dashing pose, jewelled hand on jewelled sword.
In the dining-room, the portrait hostess is found, the wife of the
Colonel Harrison who presides in the drawing-room. She was the
granddaughter of the noted colonial exquisite and man of letters,
Colonel William Byrd, whose old home, Westover, we should soon visit on
our way up the river. It was through her marriage to Colonel Harrison
that there were added to the Brandon collection many of the paintings
and other art treasures of the Byrd family, including a certain,
well-known canvas that carries a story with it.
It is an old, old story--indeed the painting itself is dimmed by the
passing of nearly two centuries; but just as the sweet face looks out
from its frame ever girlish, so does perennial youth seem to dwell in
the romance of the "Fair Maid of the James." The portrait is by Sir
Godfrey Kneller. It shows a beautiful young woman. Her gray-blue gown
is cut in a stiff, long-waisted style of the eighteenth century, yet
still showing the slim grace of the maiden. The head is daintily
poised. A red rose is in her hair and one dark curl falls across a
white shoulder. Her face is oval and delicately tinted. She follows you
with her soft, brown eyes, and her lips have the thought of a smile.
Such was the colonial beauty, Evelyn Byrd, daughter of Colonel William
Byrd. Though her home was not here but at Westover, and there she
sleeps under her altar-tomb, yet the girlish presence seems at Brandon
too, where the winsome face looks down from the wall, and where we must
pause to tell her story.
This Virginia girl was educated in London where she had most of her
social triumphs. There she was presented at court and there began the
pitiful romance of her life in her meeting with Charles Mordaunt. In
all youth's happy heedlessness these two fell in love--the daughter of
"the baron of the James" and the grandson and heir of London's social
leader, Lord Peterborough.
It seemed a pretty knot of Cupid's tying; but just here William Byrd
cast himself in the role of Fate. Some say because of religious
differences, some say because of an old family feud, he refused to
permit the marriage. He brought his daughter back to Virginia where, as
the old records say, "refusing all offers from other gentlemen, she
died of a broken heart."
That day when we left the manor-house, we started homeward, or
boatward, with our faces set the wrong way; for we wandered first into
the old garden.
It is a typical colonial garden that lies down by the river--a great
roomy garden where trees and fruit bushes stand among the blossoming
shrubs and vines and plants. It is a garden to wander in, to sit in, to
dream in. All is very quiet here and the world seems a great way off.
Only the birds come to share the beauty with you, and their singing
seems a part of the very peace and quiet of it all. The old-fashioned
flowers are set out in the old-fashioned way. There are (or once were)
the prim squares, each with its cowslip border, and the stiffly regular
little hedgerows. One may hunt them all out now; but for so many
generations have shrub and vine and plant lived together here, that a
good deal of formality has been dispensed with, and across old lines
bloom mingles with bloom.
The old garden calendars the seasons as they come and go. As an early
blossom fades, a later one takes its place through all the flowery way
from crocus to aster.
Trifling, cold, and unfriendly seem most gardens of to-day in
comparison with these old-fashioned ones. Perhaps the entire display in
the modern garden comes fresh from the florist in the spring, and is
allowed to die out in the fall, to be replaced the next spring by
plants not only new but even of different varieties from those of the
year before. Not so at Brandon. Here, the garden is one of exclusive
old families. Its flower people can trace their pedigrees back to the
floral emigrants from England. The young plants that may replace some
dead ones are scions of the old stock. Strange blossoms, changing every
spring like dwellers in a city flat, would not be in good standing with
the blue flags that great- (many times great-) grandmother planted, nor
with the venerable peonies and day lilies, the lilacs and syringas that
remember the day when the elms and magnolias above them were puny
saplings. Even a huge pecan tree, twenty-one feet around, whose
planting was recorded in the "plantation book" over a century ago, is
considered rather a new-comer by the ancient family of English
cowslips.
Here is restful permanence in this world of restless change. Loved ones
may pass away, friends may fail, neighbours may come and go; but here
in the quiet old garden, the dear flower faces that look up to cheer
are the same that have given heart and comfort to generations so remote
that they lie half-forgotten beneath gray, crumbling stones with quaint
time-dimmed inscriptions.