Claymont Court, near Charles Town, the house in which my companion and I were so fortunate as to be guests during our visit to this part of the country, is one of the old Washington houses, having been built by Bushrod Corbin Washington, a nephew of the first President. It is a beautiful brick building, with courts at either end, the brick walls of which, connecting with the house, extend its lines with peculiar grace, and tie to the main structure the twin buildings which balance it, according to the delightful fashion of early Virginia architecture. The hexagonal brick tile of the front walk at Claymont Court, and the square stone pavement of the portico, resemble exactly those at Mount Vernon, and are said to have been imported at the same time; and it is believed also that the Claymont box trees were brought over with those growing at Mount Vernon.
Claymont Court is one of the old Washington houses. But in all its history it has never been a happier home or a more interesting one than it is to-day
The estate was sold out of the Washington family in 1870, when it was acquired by a Colonel March, who later sold it to a gentleman whose wild performances at Claymont are not only remembered, but are commemorated in the house. In the cellar, for instance, bricked up in a room barely large enough to hold it, whence it cannot be removed except by tearing down a heavy wall, stands a huge carved sideboard to which the young man took a dislike, and which he therefore caused to be carried to the cellar and immured, despite the protests of his family. It is said that upon another occasion he conceived the picturesque idea of riding his horse upstairs and hitching it to his bedpost; and that he did so is witnessed by definite marks of horseshoes on the oak treads of the stair. Later Frank R. Stockton purchased the place, and there he wrote his story "The Captain of the Toll-Gate," which was published posthumously.
But in all its history this glorious old house has never been a happier home, or a more interesting one, than it is to-day. For now it is the residence of four young ladies, sisters, who, because of their divergent tastes and their complete congeniality, continually suggest the fancy that they have stepped out of a novel. One of them is the Efficient Sister, who runs the automobile and the farm of two or three hundred acres, sells the produce, keeps the accounts, and pays off the men; another is the Domestic Sister, who conducts the admirable ménage; another is the Sociological and Artistic Sister, who draws and plays and thinks about the masses; while the fourth is the Sprightly Sister Who Likes to Dance.
Never had my companion or I seen a more charming, a more varied household, an establishment more self-contained, more complete in all things from vegetables to brains. No need to leave the place for anything. Yet if one wished to look about the country, there was the motor, and there were the saddle horses in the stable—all of them members of old Virginian families—and there were four equestrian young ladies.
"Would you-all like to ride to-day?" one of the sisters asked us at breakfast.
To my companion, horseback riding is comparatively a new thing. He had taken it up a year before—partly because of appeals from me, partly because of changes which he had begun to notice in his topography. Compared with him I was a veteran horseman, for it was then a year and three months since I had begun my riding lessons.
I said that I would like to ride, but he declared that he must stay behind and make a drawing.