From a River to a Racecourse.
Having enjoyed as much of the hospitalities of my kind friends as time permitted, I obtained a letter of introduction, and, embarking in a steamer, started for Williamsburg, so called after King William III. On our way down, we picked up as healthy and jolly a set of little ducks in their 'teens as one could wish to see. On inquiring what this aggregate of rosy cheeks and sunny smiles represented, I was informed they were the sum total of a ladies' school at Williamsburg—and a very charming sum total they were. Having a day's holiday, they had come up by the early steamer to pic-nic on the banks, and were now returning to chronology and crotchet-work, or whatever else their studies might be. Landing at King's Mills, a "'bus" took us all up to Williamsburg, a distance of three or four miles, one half of which was over as dreary a road as need be, and the other through a shady forest grove.
This old city is composed of a straight street, at one end of which is the establishment occupied by the rosy cheeks of whom we have been speaking, and which is very neat and clean-looking; at the other end—only with half a mile of country intervening—is the college. On each side of the said street is a crescent of detached houses, with a common before them. The population is 1500, and has not varied—as far as I could learn—in the memory of the oldest inhabitant. I naturally felt very much interest in visiting this place, as it was originally the seat of the royal government, and my grandfather had been the last governor of the state. The body of the old palace was burnt down by accident, while occupied by French troops, in 1782. The foundations, which were six feet thick, are still traceable, although most of the bricks have been used for the buildings in the neighbourhood. The outlines of the old garden and its terraces may also be traced, and a very charming spot it must have been. There are two beautiful lime-trees in a thriving state, which, I was told, he had planted himself from seeds he had brought from home. His thoughts were evidently on that far-off home when he planted them; for, as to position relatively to each other and distance from the old palace, they precisely coincide with two beneath which many of my early days were passed, at the old family mansion of Glenfinarl, on Loch Fine, which has since become the property of Mr. Douglas.
There is an old ditch in the neighbourhood, which goes by the name of Lord Dunmore's Ditch. The history which my informant gave me thereof is absurd enough, and there is a negro of the name of Isaac still living who remembers all the circumstances. It appears that Lord Dunmore, having found fault with an Irish labourer for not doing sufficient work, Paddy replied, "'Faith, if 'twas yer 'onnur that had the shpade in yer hand, maybe one-half would satisfy yer 'onnur." The Governor, who happened to be a man of iron frame, and not at all averse to a joke, immediately took up Paddy's challenge, and replied, "Paddy, I'll work four hours against you in a ditch for a month's wages." The combatants set to work the following morning, and at the end of four hours Paddy was obliged to confess himself beaten, and the result of my grandfather's labours goes by the name of Lord Dunmore's Ditch to this day.
The only parts of the old palace still standing are the two wings, one of which is now the parsonage, and the other a school, which is kept by an Englishman, educated at one of our universities, and living here for his health. This place is both a well-chosen and a favourite locality for schools, being situated upon a high plateau of land, with James River on one side and York River on the other; consequently, the air is peculiarly healthy and pure.
The most imposing, if not the most useful, of the scholastic establishments is the college, which was founded by William and Mary in the year 1692. It contains a very fair library of old books, but comparatively few additions appear to have been made in latter years. The building bears every internal mark of neglect and dilapidation, defaced walls, broken plaster, &c. Upon entering the lecture-room, a quantity of eighteen-inch square boxes full of moisture suggest the idea of a rainy day and a roofless chamber. Be not deceived: these are merely receptacles for the discharge of the students' 'bacco juice; and the surrounding floor gives painful demonstration that their free spirits scorn the trammels of eighteen-inch boundaries, however profusely supplied. From what causes I cannot say, but the college has been all but deserted until lately. The present authorities are striving to infuse into it a little vitality of usefulness. With these simple facts before me, it was amusing to read, in an American gazetteer of the day, that the college "is at present in a flourishing condition."
In front of the college there is an enclosed green, and in the centre a statue, erected in honour of one of the old royal governors, Berkeley, Lord Bowtetort. Whether from a desire to exhibit their anti-aristocratic sentiments, or from innate Vandalism, or from a childish wish to exhibit independence by doing mischief, the said statue is the pistol-mark for the students, who have exhibited their skill as marksmen by its total mutilation, in spite of all remonstrances from the authorities. The college was formerly surrounded by magnificent elms, but a few years since a blight came which destroyed every one of them, leaving the building in a desert-like nakedness. The inn at Williamsburg is a miserable building, but it is kept by as kind-hearted, jolly old John-Bull-looking landlord as ever was seen, and who rejoices in the name of Uncle Ben. Meat is difficult to get at, as there are no butchers; the cream and butter are, however, both plentiful and excellent. The house is almost entirely overshadowed by one magnificent elm, which has fortunately escaped the blight that annihilated nearly all its fellows.
After the hustle of most American cities, there was to me an unspeakable charm in the quiet of this place. Sitting at the inn-door, before you lies the open green, with its daisies and buttercups; horses and cattle are peaceably grazing; in the background are the remaining wings of the old palace; to your left stands the old village church, built with bricks brought from England, and long since mellowed by the hand of time, around which the clinging ivy throws the venerable mantle of its dark and massive foliage. Now, the summoning church-bell tolls its solemn note; school children, with merry laugh and light step, cross the common; the village is astir, and a human tide is setting towards its sacred portals: all, all speaks to the heart and to the imagination of happy days and happy scenes in a far-off land. You close your eyes, the better to realize the dream which fancy is painting. When they open upon the reality again, the illusion is dispelled by the sight of a brawny negro, with a grin on his face which threatens to split his ears, jogging merrily along the street with a huge piece of sturgeon for his Sunday feast. My friends, however, left me little time to indulge in a contemplative mood, for good old Madeira, a hearty welcome, and a stroll about and around the place, filled up the day; while the fragrant weed and the social circle occupied no small portion of the evening. Having spent a few but very pleasant days here, I took leave of my hospitable friends—not forgetting that jovial soul, Uncle Ben; then embarking in a steamer, and armed with a solitary letter of introduction, I started off to visit a plantation on the banks of James River.
A planter's home, like the good Highland laird's, seems made of India rubber. Without writing to inquire whether the house is full, or your company agreeable, you consider the former improbable and the latter certain. When you approach your victim, a signal is thrown out; the answer is a boat; in you get, bag and baggage; you land at the foot of his lawn or of some little adjoining pier, and thus apparently force yourself upon his hospitality. Reader, if it is ever your good fortune to be dropped with a letter of introduction at Shirley, one glance from the eye of the amiable host and hostess, accompanied by a real shake of the hand, satisfy you beyond doubt you are truly and heartily welcome. A planter's house on James River reminds one in many ways of the old country. The building is old, the bricks are of the brownest red, and in many places concealed by ivy of colonial birth; a few venerable monarchs of the forest throw their ample shade over the greensward, which slopes gently down to the water. The garden, the stables, the farm-yard, the old gates, the time-honoured hues of everything,—all is so different from the new facing and new painting which prevails throughout the North, that you feel you are among other elements; and if you go inside the house, the thoughts also turn homeward irresistibly as the eye wanders from object to object. The mahogany table and the old dining-room chairs, bright with that dark ebony polish of time which human ingenuity vainly endeavours to imitate; the solid bookcases, with their quaint gothic-windowly-arranged glass-doors, behind which, in calm and dusty repose, lie heavy patriarchal-looking tomes on the lower shelves, forming a sold basis above which to place lighter and less scholastic literature; an arm-chair, that might have held the invading Caesar, and must have been second-hand in the days of the conquering William; a carpet, over whose chequered face the great Raleigh might have strolled in deep contemplation; a rug, on whose surface generations of spinsters might have watched the purrings of their pet Toms or gazed on the glutinous eyes and inhaled the loaded breeze that came from the fat and fragrant Pug: whichever way the eye turned, whatever direction the imagination took, the conviction forced upon the mind was, that you were in an inheritance, and that what the wisdom and energy of one generation had gathered together, succeeding generations had not yet scattered to the winds by the withering blast of infinitesimal division. With the imagination thus forcibly filled with home and its associations, you involuntarily feel disposed to take a stroll on the lawn; but on reaching the door, your ears are assailed by wild shouts of infantine laughter, and, raising your eyes, you behold a dozen little black imps skylarking about in every direction, their fat faces, bright eyes, and sunny smiles beaming forth joyousness and health. Home and its varying visions fly at the sight, giving place to the reality that you are on a slave plantation. Of the slaves I shall say nothing here beyond the general fact that they appeared healthy, well fed, and well clothed on all the plantations I visited. Having enjoyed the hospitalities of Shirley for a few days, it was agreed that I should make a descent upon another property lower down the river. So, bidding adieu to my good friends at Shirley, I embarked once more on the steamer, and was landed at the pier of Brandon, in the most deluging rain imaginable. A walk of a quarter of a mile brought me to the door like a drowned rat, a note from my Shirley friends secured me an immediate and cordial welcome.
Brandon is perhaps the plantation which is more thoroughly kept up than any other on the James River, and which consequently has altered less. I am alluding now to the house and grounds about, not to the plantation at large; for I believe the proprietor at Shirley is reckoned A1 as a farmer. I have before alluded to the blight which destroyed so many fine elms on both shores of the James River. The withering insect appeared at Brandon; but the lady of the house soon proved that she knew the use of tobacco as well as the men, by turning a few hogsheads of the said weed into water, making thereby a murderous decoction, with which, by the intervention of a fire-engine, she utterly annihilated the countless hosts of the all-but invisible enemy, and thus saved some of the finest elms I ever saw in my life, under the shade of which the old family mansion had enjoyed shelter from many a summer's sun. Brandon is the only place I visited where the destroyer had not left marks of his ravages. The lawn is beautifully laid out, and in the style of one of our country villas of the olden time, giving every assurance of comfort and every feeling of repose. The tropical richness and brightness of leaf and flower added an inexpressible charm to them, as they stood out in bold relief against the pure and cloudless air around, so different from that indistinct outline which is but too common in our moist atmosphere. Then there was the graceful and weeping willow, the trembling aspen, the wild ivy, its white bloom tinged as with maiden's blush; the broad-leafed catalpa; the magnolia, rich in foliage and in flower; while scattered around were beds of bright and lovely colours. The extremes of this charming view were bounded, either by the venerable mansion over whose roof the patriarchal elms of which we have been speaking threw their cool and welcome shade, or by the broad stream whose bosom was ever and anon enlivened with some trim barque or rapid-gliding steamer, and whose farther shore was wooded to the water's edge. There is one of the finest China rose-trees here I ever beheld; it covers a space of forty feet square, being led over on trellis-work, and it might extend much beyond that distance: it is one mass of flowers every year. Unfortunately, I was a week too late to see it in its glory; but the withered flowers gave ample evidence how splendid it must have been.