During the late war heavy guns were placed in the family burying-ground on this plantation—a point commanding the river; and here was interred the child of a distinguished general[16] in the Northern army—a Virginian, formerly in the United States army—who had married a member of the Powhatan family. He was expected to make an attack upon Richmond, and over his child's grave was placed a gun to fire upon him. Such are the unnatural incidents of civil war.
About two miles from Powhatan Seat was another beautiful old place—Mount Erin—the plantation formerly of a family all of whom, except two sisters, had died. The estate, becoming involved, had to be sold, which so grieved and distressed these sisters that they passed hours weeping if accidentally the name of their old home was mentioned in their presence.
Once when we were at Powhatan, and these ladies were among the guests, a member of the Powhatan family ordered the carriage, and took my sister and myself to Mount Erin, telling us to keep it a secret when we returned, for "the sisters," said she, "would neither eat nor sleep if reminded of their old home."
A pleasant drive brought us to Mount Erin, and when we saw the box hedges, gravel walks, and linden trees we were no longer surprised at the grief of the sisters whose hearts entwined around their old home. The house was in charge of an old negro woman—the purchaser not having moved in—who showed us over the grounds; and every shrub and flower seemed to speak of days gone by. Even the ivy on the old bricks looked gloomy, as if mourning the light, mirth, and song departed from the house forever; and the walks gave back a deadened echo, as if they wished not to be disturbed by stranger tread. All seemed in a reverie, dreaming a long sweet dream of the past, and entering into the grief of the sisters, who lived afterward for many years in a pleasant home on a pleasant street in Richmond, with warm friends to serve them, yet their tears never ceased to flow at the mention of Mount Erin.
One more plantation picture, and enough will have been described to show the character of the homes and people on our plantations.
The last place visited by my sister and myself before the war of 1861 was Elkwood, a fine estate in Culpeper County, four miles from the railroad station, the residence of Richard Cunningham.
It was the last of June. The country was a scene of enchantment as the carriage rolled us through dark, cool forests, green meadows, fields of waving grain; out of the forests into acres of broad-leaved corn; across pebble-bottomed streams, and along the margin of the Rapidan, which flowed at the base of the hill leading up to the house.
The house was square and white, and the blinds green as the grass lawn and trees in the yard. Inside the house the polished "dry-rubbed" floors, clean and cool, refreshed one on entering like a glass of iced lemonade on a midsummer's day. The old-fashioned furniture against the walls looked as if it thought too much of itself to be set about promiscuously over the floor, like modern fauteuils and divans.
About everything was an air of dignity and repose corresponding with the manners and appearance of the proprietors, who were called "Uncle Dick" and "Aunt Jenny"—the a in "Aunt" pronounced very broad.