It was another glorious morning when I left Charles City Court House. Warm and brilliant as May, I anticipated a delightful day's journey. Nor was I disappointed. A heavy fog during the night had hung each bough and spray with liquid jewels, and these, glittering in the early sun, fell in radiant showers as the light breezes touched their resting-places. Traversing a rough road for nearly four miles, I crossed a rapid stream at a mill, and ascending to a plain half a mile beyond, I reined up at the entrance-gate to Sherwood Forest, the estate of ex-President Tyler. His mansion is very spacious, and stands upon the brow of a gentle slope, half a mile from the highway. It is sheltered in the rear by a thick forest of oaks, pines, and chestnuts, while from the front the eye overlooks almost the whole of his plantation of fourteen hundred acres, with occasional glimpses of the James River. The distinguished proprietor was at home, and received me with that courteous hospitality so common in the South, which makes the traveler feel at ease, as if at the house of a friend. Mr. Tyler is tall and slender in person, his locks long, thin, and slightly grizzled, and he was dressed in the plain garb of a Virginia planter. After giving warm expressions of interest in my enterprise, and an invitation to remain longer at Sherwood Forest,
** This tavern, in which I lodged, was built about ten years before the skirmish which occurred within and around it. It is now occupied hy Edmund F. Christian, Esq., the clerk of Charles City county when I visited it in 1848.
*** A man named Royston, whom Mr. Tyler well knew, was badly wounded in the affray. A pistol was discharged so near his head, that grains of powder sprinkled his face, and disfigured him for life. He was then struck down by a saber blow, and the troopers cruelly tried to make their horses trample him to death. The animals, more humane in action than their riders, leaped over him, and he was saved. He crawled to the residence of Mr. Tyler, where a colored nurse, the only inmate of the house, dressed his wounds and gave him food and drink. Mr. Tyler had moved his family to a place of safety, beyond the Chickahominy River.
The Slashes of the Chickahominy.—Difficulties at the Ferry.—The Chickahominy and its Associations.
he sketched a map of my route to Jamestown, as a guide among the diverging ways. Time was precious, and I passed only an hour at the hospitable mansion of the ex-president, and then departed for the Chickahominy.
Soon after leaving Sherwood Forest, I entered a low, wet region, covered with pines, called the slashes. These extended to the banks of the Chickahominy, a distance of seven miles; and in all that journey, without a clearing to cheer the eye, I saw no living thing, except an occasional "wild boar of the wood," a dwarf breed of hogs which inhabit this dreary region. Here, where once broad fields were smiling with culture-blessings, and this road, now almost a quagmire, but fifty years ago was one of the finest highways in Virginia, wild deers and turkeys abound, as if the land was a primeval wilderness. It was a sad commentary upon the past husbandry of Virginia, and a sadder picture of the inevitable result of the present bad husbandry which prevails in many regions of the South. Year after year the tillers make constant drafts upon the vitality of the soil without an ounce of compensating manure, until all fertility is exhausted. I saw thousands of acres in the course of my journey, where tillage had levied its withering taxes until the generous soil could no longer yield its tithe, nor even its hundredth. The earth was completely covered with "poverty grass," dwarf pines, or stately forests of the same tree, patiently renewing its strength during a long Sabbath-rest of abandonment by man.
It was at meridian when I emerged from the wilderness and halted upon the high sandbank of the Chickahominy, a few miles above its confluence with the James River. Above, all appeared bright and beautiful; below, all was gloomy and desolate. Silence reigned here, where once the busy ferryman plied his oars from morning until night. No voice was to be heard; no human habitation was to be seen. The broad and turbid river moved sluggishly on without a ripple, and on the beach a scow, half filled with water, told only of desolation. There appeared no way for me to cross the stream. If denied that privilege, I must make a circuit of thirty miles' travel to a public crossing above! I looked for the smoke of a dwelling, but saw none. I shouted; there was no response but that of echo. Remembering that, just before reaching the clearing upon the Chickahominy, I saw a road, covered with leaves, diverging toward the James River, I returned, reined into it, and followed it with hope. Presently I saw a log hut upon the shore, and heard the voices of men. They were negroes, busily preparing a canoe for a fishing excursion. I inquired for a ferryman, and was informed that nobody crossed now, and the scow would not float. Two of the men speedily changed their opinion when I offered a bright half dollar to each if they would "bail out" the craft and "pole" me across. They worked faithfully, and within half an hour I was embarked upon the stream, with my horse and vehicle, in a shell just long enough and broad enough to contain us. To keep Charley quiet, so as to "trim the boat," I allowed him to dine upon some oats which I procured at Charles City Court House. The Chickahominy is here about a quarter of a mile wide. The current was quite strong, and so deep, that the poles, by which the bateau was impelled, were sometimes too short for use. We drifted some distance down the stream, and, at one time, I anticipated an evening voyage upon the James River, but by the great exertions of the motive-power we reached the landing-place in safety, after rather a dangerous voyage of nearly three quarters of an hour. The bateau was again almost half filled with water, and the ferrymen were obliged to empty it before returning. I was too much occupied while crossing with apprehensions of an involuntary bath to reflect upon the perils which Captain John Smith encountered upon this very stream, before the empire of the white men had commenced; but when safely seated in my wagon upon the Jamestown side of the river, I looked with intense interest upon the wooded shores of those waters, up which that adventurer paddled. More than sixty miles above the place where I crossed he was captured by Opechancanough, the king of Pamunkee, and carried in triumph to Powhatan, at Werowocomoeo, where he was saved from death by the gentle Pocahontas. These events we shall consider presently.
I was now eight miles from old Jamestown, the goal of my day's journey. Hungry and thirsty, I was about entering another dreary region of slashes, five miles in extent, when I
Green Spring and its Associations.—Distant View of Jamestown Island.—Changes in the River Banks.—Tradition.
saw a log hut on the verge of the woods. I hailed, but no person appeared, except a little child of six years, black as ebony, and having nothing on but its birth-day suit and a tattered shirt. It brought me a draught of cool water in a gourd from a spring near by. Dropping half a dime into the emptied shell, I pursued my way. Emerging from the slashes, I passed through a portion of the celebrated Green Spring plantation, its mansion appearing among the trees on my left, half a mile distant. *