indeed there always is in scenes that recall the chivalric, grand, ever-glorious past.
In the rich-colored sunset light we visited the old Lord Nelson house where Robert C. Winthrop was staying during the centennial ceremonies. It was once a grand mansion. The grounds in front had been carefully laid out and kept; a cedar hedge was still standing, and ivy crept over the front of the house every brick of which was brought from England so many years ago. But the moth and rust of time were eating into everything, and the dust of the road lay thick upon it. A servant showed us through the lower story. There is a massive staircase in the wide hall, there are paneled walls, great, high, old-fashioned windows with wooden shutters, and deep, monstrous fire-places. The very air of romance seems resting in the grand old rooms, and it was easy to picture them alive with bright faces and courtly figures, forgotten music floating through the still, sluggish air to which they kept time in the stately minuet.
Dangerously radical notions in regard to orthography and orthoepy were abroad, and a truly wonderful method prevailed, of which I recall two delectable specimens,—"Horses stabled and fead," and "Ice House."
We returned to the Frances delighted with our sight-seeing. And now that we were lying quite still in the harbor, rather to our surprise we were not seasick, and heartily enjoyed the delicious fare that Mr. Sears prepared for us. As we were to have several days at Yorktown, a trip to Richmond was planned for the next day.
The next day was hot and sultry, the close, disagreeable atmosphere extremely enervating. Could it be that the report of malarial fever broken out among the centennial tourists made imaginative nervously inclined ladies more susceptible to debilitation? Be that as it may, it was pleasant to start for Richmond, for we did start at last, after waiting for what seemed an interminably long time. We learned at the outset that one can never tell when he may or may not be going to start for a place. There was nothing certain about it. No one seemed to be responsible for or cognizant beforehand of the proceedings of public conveyances.
We went to West Point on the steamer. The southern steamers are whited sepulchres, fair to outward view but unconscionably fusty, musty and dirty. The sail was most enjoyable, and we watched the low-lying fertile shores and the solitary plantations and lonesome looking houses with eager interest. Arrived at West Point we waited a long time for the cars to leave the immense unsubstantial-seeming new depot. Troops were going through military tactics here, martial music was sounding, the sights and sounds were very exhilirating. The soldiers of the rebellion said it brought the days of the war back again.
But at last the cars started. It was a long ride to Richmond, through the Chickahominy swamp where the luxuriant foliage glowed in rich Autumn colors. Virginia creeper climbed to the tops of the trees and clothed their trunks with bright beauty, trumpet flower trailed along the fences, and glossy-leaved laurel grew abundantly. We went past great peach orchards, by desolate cabins, miles apart in the marshy fields,—the scenery monotonous, unvarying, yet not uninteresting.
The Custis plantation, owned by Martha Custis Washington's first husband, was pointed out. On first entering Richmond we saw the Libby prison, gloomy and forbidding, of doleful memory. We met a courteous and agreeable southern lady on the cars. In the course of conversation she remarked that "the death of President Garfield has done more to heal the breach between the North and South than all the talking and pretentions of the years before."
Richmond is beautiful. It reminded me of Concord, N. H., though likening a southern to a northern city might seem absurd. But its broad streets,
