If natural scenery reflects itself upon the heart no wonder a “holy calm” rested upon this family, for far down the river the prospect was peace and tranquility; and many an evening in the summer house on the river bank, we drank in the beauty of soft blue skies, green isles and white sails floating in the distance.
Many in Richmond remember the delightful weddings and parties at Powhatan Seat, where assembled the elite from Richmond, with an innumerable throng of cousins, aunts and uncles from Orange and Culpeper counties.
On these occasions the house was illuminated by wax-lights issuing from bouquets of magnolia leaves placed around the walls near the ceiling, and looking prettier than any glass chandelier.
We, from a distance, generally stayed a week after the wedding, becoming, as it were, a part of the family circle; and the bride did not rush off on a tour as is the fashion now-a-days, but remained quietly enjoying family, home and friends.
Another feature I have omitted in describing our weddings and parties—invariably a part of the picture—was the sea of black faces surrounding the doors and windows to look on the dancing, hear the music and afterwards get a good share of the supper.
Tourists often went to walk around the beautiful grounds at Powhatan—so neatly kept with sea shells around the flowers, and pleasant seats under the lindens and magnolias—and to see the historic stone; but I often thought they knew not what was missed in not knowing—as we did—the lovely family within.
But, for us, those rare, beautiful days at Powhatan are gone forever; for since the war the property has passed into stranger hands, and the family who once owned it will own it no more.
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[6] 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.”