I stood in the wide hall of the old brick mansion built, a century and a half ago, by “King Carter,” on the shore of the James River.
It was Autumn. The doors at either end of the saloon were open, and their casements framed the landscape like a picture. From the foot of the moss-grown steps at the rear, the drive stretched its length, under several closed gates, for half a mile, till it joined the little travelled high-road. From the porch in front, the ground fell away, in what had once been a series of terraces, to the brink of the river, across whose western hills the November sun was setting red. Not a ripple stirred the surface of the water—the dead leaves on the ground never rustled. All was still; solitary, yet not melancholy. The place seemed apart from the present—a part of the past.
Within doors, everything was mellowed by the softening touch of twilight and age. The hospitable fire which blazed in the great throat of the library chimney, cast odd shadows on the high wainscot, and the delicately wrought mouldings over the chimney-breast, and its reflections danced in the small panes of the heavily framed windows as though the witches were making tea outside.
The dark staircase wound upward in the centre of the hallway, its handrail hacked by the swords of soldiers in the Revolution. As I glanced at it, and then out along the long avenue, I seemed to see Tarleton’s scarlet-clad dragoons dashing up to surround the house. Then, as I turned westward, imagination travelled still further into the past, and pictured the slow approach of a British packet, gliding peacefully up to the little wharf down yonder, to discharge its household freight of tea and spices, of India muslins and “callamancoes” before it proceeded on its way to the town of Williamsburg, a few miles farther up the river.
At the period of which I was dreaming, Williamsburg was the capital of the province, with a wide street named in honor of the Duke of Gloucester, and a college named after their late majesties, William and Mary, with a jolly Raleigh tavern and a stately Governor’s Palace; but all this had come about some fifty years before the building of Carter’s Grove.
In the middle of the seventeenth century it was far more primitive,—indeed, it was not Williamsburg at all, but only “The Middle Plantation,” with a few pioneer houses surrounded by primeval forests, from which savage red faces now and then peered out, to the terror of the settlers; while at nightfall the heavy wooden shutters had been closed, lest the firelight should prove a shining mark for the Indian’s arrow. If the traveller found Williamsburg in the eighteenth century “a straggling village,” and its mansions “houses of very moderate pretensions,” what would he have thought of those first modest homes, where the horse-trough was the family wash-basin; where stools and benches, hung against the wall, constituted the furniture; where the kitchen-table served for dining-table as well, and was handsomely set out with bowls, trenchers, and noggins of wood, with gourds and squashes daintily cut, to add color to the meal; while the family was counted well off that could muster a few spoons, and a plate or two of shining pewter! But those pioneers and their wives felt pride in their little homes, for they realized how favorably they contrasted with the cabins built at “James Cittie” by Wingfield and Smith and their fellow-adventurers. They had indeed more cause for honest pride than the stay-at-homes in England could ever realize, for such knew nothing of the infinite toil and the difficulty of founding a settlement in a new country, thousands of miles from civilization, with forests to be cleared and savages to be fought, turbulent followers to be ruled, and food, shelter, and clothing to be provided.
No sooner were the “Ancient Planters,” as the chronicles call the first settlers, fairly ashore on their island, than the Company at home opened its battery of advice upon them: “Seeing order is at the same price with confusion,” the secretary wrote, setting down a very dubious proposition as an aphorism, “it shall be advisably done to set your houses even and by a line, that your streets may have a good breadth, and be carried square about your market-place, and every street’s end opening into it, that from thence, with a few field-pieces, you may command every street throughout; which market-place you may also fortify, if you think it needful.” It must have seemed grimly humorous to those pioneers, huddling their cabins together within the shelter of the wooden fence, dignified by the name of a palisade, and mounted with all the guns they could muster, to be thus advised from a distance of three thousand miles to construct at once a model English village, and fortify the market-place, if they thought best. An Italian proverb has it that “it is easy to threaten a bull from a window,” and so the Virginia Company found no difficulty in regulating the affairs of the colonists and the Indians, from their window in London. The settlers paid as little heed as possible to their interference, and struggled on through the sickness and the starving-time, as best they could, clearing away the brush, and felling trees, and putting up houses. But building went on so slowly that in 1619, “In James Cittie were only those houses that Sir Thomas Gates built in the tyme of his government (1610), with one wherein the governor allwayes dwelt, and a church built wholly at the charge of the inhabitants of the citye, of timber, being fifty foote in length and twenty in breadth.” The report from the town of Henrico was still less encouraging, for there were found only “three old houses, a poor ruinated church, with some few poore buildings on the islande.”