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."
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. The views 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.
[Illustration: 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 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 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. 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 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.
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 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 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 and prosperity 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 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 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 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, 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.
[Illustration: 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 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 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 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 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 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 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
adopted by 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 Chanco
The Christian Indian boy
whose warnings saved
The Colony of Virginia from destruction
In the Massacre 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 God
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 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, "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 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 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 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_, 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 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
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
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 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 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 countryside and 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 a French 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, up through 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.