A quarter of a mile south of the seminary was a turnip-field, where once stood the church the colonists hastened to build. You would not imagine you stood on consecrated ground where holy rites were once performed. This was not the place where the holy sacrifice was first offered. Their first chapel was an Indian wigwam, which a friendly native gave up to Father White; for the colonists founded an Indian village here which owned the pacific rule of King Yaocomico, and established themselves in peace beside it. Opposite the place where the church stood, and east of it, are some traces of the lord proprietary's residence. The old cellar is nearly filled with rubbish, in which are found fragments of crockery and bricks—bricks brought from the old country. There were grand doings here once. Hilarity and merriment had their hours in that miniature court, amid those of grave deliberations. But, at last, Pallida Mors, "that at every door knocks," came in the train, and brought mourning to all the settlers; for here died Leonard Calvert. He was nursed in his last moments by his relatives Margaret and Mary Brent. He died on the 9th of June, 1647. The place of his burial is not known. In these days of woman's rights, it may not be amiss to recall the first woman in this country, perhaps, who asserted her claim to share the privileges of the stronger sex. Margaret Brent was appointed by Governor Calvert his sole administratrix, which is certainly a proof of her capacity for business. By virtue of this appointment she claimed to be the attorney of the lord proprietor. Her claims were admitted by the council. She then appeared in the general assembly, and claimed the right to vote as Lord Baltimore's representative. This was not permitted. She was a large land-owner, and displayed her energy in laying out her estates; and she quelled a mutiny among some Virginia soldiers who had served under Leonard Calvert. It is surprising the strong-minded women of this day have not brought forward this fine precedent, who has been ranked with the famous Margaret of Parma, regent of the Netherlands. Let us hope, with all her fine abilities, that she retained her sweet womanly ways and that modesty which is the charm of her sex. I fancy she did, or she would never have subdued those early representatives of the gallant Virginia chivalry.
Close by the lord proprietary's place is a spot charming enough for Egeria. It is a spring of delicious water bubbling up from the rocks, that flows off in a streamlet, over tufts of the thickest and greenest moss. It is shaded by a dense clump of cedars and holly bushes—-a fit haunt for the dryades and all the sylvan deities. The warm noontide air was fanned into this cool and leafy bower, where the birds still sang and insects floated, bringing with it a certain aroma from the crushed leaves of the wood. From a distance came the measured cadence of some negro song, snatched up at the hour of noonday rest, which harmonized with the spot and the atmosphere. There is always an undertone of melancholy in the gayest songs of the colored race which lulls the heart, as sorrow underlies all gayety in the heart of man. It was a place to be alone with nature, poetry, God, and just the spot for an old hermit to set up his cell, and pass his days in sympathy with nature and in communion with nature's God.
With all its beauty, this plain of St. Mary's is full of melancholy, especially in the fall of the year. Haunted with memories, its loneliness is in such contrast with its past history that it touches the spring of regret. The autumn winds, the slight veil of haze that hangs over the landscape, are full of sadness. One seems to hear the wail of the forsaken lares whose altars have so long been levelled with the rest.
"In consecrated earth,
And on the holy hearth,
The lares and lemures moan with midnight plaint."
The wailings of Jeremiah come to mind as we wander over the site of the city that was once full of people, but now sitteth solitary. "The city of thy sanctuary is become a desert, and the house of thy holiness and our glory, wherein thou wert praised, is laid desolate." Perhaps, after all, the melancholy was in my own heart; for the sky was clear, the earth smiling, and before us lay, glad and gleaming, the bright waters of the St. Mary's river,
"Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon,
When it breaks into dimples and laughs in the sun."
There is this peculiarity about the river: its windings are so abrupt that from certain points there seems to be no outlet, and it has the appearance of a succession of lakelets; pellucid gems set at this autumn time in bosses enamelled with every shade of crimson and gold, which I loved to think a bright rosary strung by nature in honor of Our Lady.
Two or three miles from St. Mary's is Rose Croft, a charming old place at the very point between St. Inigoes Creek and St. Mary's River. In old colonial times it was the residence of the collector of the port of St. Mary's, and here lived the heroine of Kennedy's Rob of the Bowl. As I rode up to it, I half expected to see the fair Blanche peeping out of the window to see if the carriage did not contain the secretary.
The house is a low, broad one, with verandas and porches, and large, airy rooms, which look out upon a lovely water view. There is a good deal of wainscoting about it, and some carvings in the large parlor that witnessed the birthday festivities. The lady of the house told me that, in making some repairs, a few years ago, a ring and a pair of velvet slippers were found, perhaps once worn by Blanche. All around the yard grows spontaneously the passion flower, winding over every shrub and tree, and trailing along the ground. Everything was left very much to nature, and she had thrown over the grounds a certain sad grace of her own, which harmonized with the antiquity of the house, and the echo of past times that lingered in its rooms. A spruce garden and well-trimmed trees and shrubbery would have ill accorded with such a spot. And there was a certain melancholy in the large, sad eyes of the mistress of this charming place that spoke more of the past than of the present, as if she had imbibed something of its spirit.