We were sorry to leave the wooded hills and the green valleys of Logan
County and press on to the southeast. Driving through Delaware, Ohio, we
stopped to see the campus and fine buildings of Ohio Wesleyan
University, and then came on by way of Columbus to Granville. Leaving
Columbus we found the road very wet and heavy from the recent rains,
which had fallen after a drought of many weeks. We lost our way in
coming into Granville, and had to inquire directions at the house of a
farmer. He was so kindly that we were moved to express to him a hope
that he might some day have a motor. "Well, I don't begrudge 'em to
nobody even if I can't have one myself," said he cheerfully.
We came into the broad main street of Granville, the lights shining,
the leaves of the maple trees glistening with the rain which had fallen
earlier in the day. If ever there was a New England town in a Western
State, Granville is that town. It was founded more than a hundred years
ago by Connecticut people, and it bears the impress of its founders
to-day. Its wide street, its old churches, its white houses with green
shutters, its look of comfort and cleanliness, all are typically New
England. We had a most comfortable night at the old fashioned Hotel
Buxton, and drove up on the hill in the beautiful clear morning to see
the buildings of Denison University. The University is very finely
situated on a high ridge overlooking the wooded town, and commanding a
fine view of the green valley beyond. There is a brick terrace on the
hillside, with an ornamental sundial, where one may enjoy the rich
champaign below. Back of the college buildings, which look out over the
valley, the hill plunges down into a fine forest of beeches. The student
at Granville has beautiful surroundings for his years of study. Emerson
said that the mountains around an institution should be put in the
college curriculum. Granville students certainly should include in their
curriculum the beauty of beech forests and the richness of the Ohio
farming country.
From Granville on to Zanesville the country increases in charm. It is
rich and fertile, gently rolling, diversified by fine beeches and elms.
Here and there are plenteous corn fields. But Ohio farmhouses do not
seem to cultivate more flowers than do the farmhouses of Iowa and
Illinois. Reaching Zanesville we are greeted by a great sign suspended
across the road above our heads. It reads, "Hello! Glad you came. Just
drive carefully. Zanesville Motorcycle Club." In leaving we pass under a
similar sign and find that it reads on its reverse side, "Thank you!
Come again. Zanesville Motorcycle Club." We are on the old National Road
now, and find it rather poor. It is uneven, and is rendered bumpy by the
constant road bars. The country grows more hilly, and the towns are
beginning to change character. Newark is an attractive little city,
standing rather high. "Old Washington" has very old red brick houses,
and St. Clairsville is an attractive old town. The towns remind one of
the old Pennsylvania towns. The houses are built flush with the sidewalk
just as one sees them in Pennsylvania. Many of the farmhouses are built
of substantial red brick, with white porches.
About nine miles from Wheeling, West Virginia, we come along a fine road
to a most beautiful hilltop view. Prosperous farms and farmhouses are
all about, the farmhouses standing high on the green, rounded tops of
the hills. The National Road being under repair, we take a detour in
order to reach Wheeling. A hospitable sign at the entrance to our
roundabout road to the right reads, "This road open. Bellaire bids you
welcome." We learn later that there are in this region what are called
Ridge Roads and Valley Roads. We are entering Bellaire by a Ridge Road,
and have fine views of hilltop farmhouses and barns, and of hilltop
cornfields, all the way. We drop down a steep hill into Bellaire, turn
north to Bridgeport, and from there turn east across the Ohio River into
the city of Wheeling.
From Wheeling we drive on into Pennsylvania, through Washington, a hill
city, to Uniontown. The whole country is hilly and we are constantly
enjoying fine views. Around Uniontown many noble trees are dying. They
tell us that this is the locust year, and that these trees are victims
of the voracious insects. Beyond Uniontown we sweep up a long hill,
over a splendid road, to the Summit House. The hotel is closed, so we go
on over the hills to a simpler hotel which is open all the year. This is
the Chalk Hill House, and here we have true country comfort. For supper
we have fried chicken, fried ham, fried hasty pudding, huckleberries,
strawberry preserves, real maple syrup, water melon rind pickles,
cookies, cake, apple sauce, flannel cakes, and coffee. This is
Pennsylvania hospitality. Chalk Hill is 2100 feet above sea level, and
we have fine mountain air. We learn that Braddock's troops in their
famous march to the West passed only 500 yards back of where the Chalk
Hill House now stands. We ask our fellow travelers at the inn about a
very tall monument which we passed, between Washington and Uniontown, on
a hilltop. It is eighty-five feet high, and bears the name of
McCutcheon. We are told that Mr. McCutcheon's will directed that all his
money should be spent in the erection of this monument to his memory. So
there it stands.
Our route lies through Cumberland to Hagerstown, and from Hagerstown
through Martinsburg to Winchester, Virginia. We are crossing the
southwest corner of Pennsylvania, and coming into Maryland on the
northwest corner; passing through a small triangle of West Virginia, and
entering Virginia by the northwest.
Not long after leaving Chalk Hill House we pass on the left the
comparatively new monument which marks Braddock's grave. A beautiful
bronze tablet on one side of the granite shaft reads: "This bronze
tablet was erected and dedicated to the memory of Major-General Edward
Braddock by the officers of his old regiment, the Coldstream Guards of
England, October 15th, 1913." Another bronze tablet has been placed by
the Braddock Memorial Park Association of Fayette County, Pennsylvania.
There is also in bas relief a bust of Braddock in military dress. The
great seals of the United States and of Great Britain adorn the shaft.
The main inscription on the shaft reads:
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.
[Illustration: 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 the gleaming 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.
[Illustration: 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 announces that 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 old situation 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
comfortably for 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 country through 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.
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 recumbent statue of General Lee by Valentine; so realistic
that the dead man seems to lie before one wrapped in marble sleep.