Across the Continent by the Lincoln Highway

by Effie Price Gladding

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.

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.