National Geographic : 1968 Dec
In Bruton's naked graveyard, flat tomb stones gleamed like islands of black glass. This church has the deepest roots in all Wil liamsburg. It was here first. The men who came to man the palisade against the Indians in the 17th century built on this spot a pon derous little chapel of Jacobean design. Because the church was here, the college came, and because both church and college existed, Williamsburg became the capital. The man directly responsible was James Blair, an Anglican minister who had founded the college. As Bruton's rector, he was a domi neering spirit of stupefy ing religiosity. In colonial Virginia church and state were one. Only Anglicans could hold public office. For 50 years Blair reigned over body politic and English soul. He had two gover nors recalled, and a third remembered him, because of his constant interference and intoler ance, as "a very vile old Felow." Today the visitor to the church is greeted by Mr. James Driver, a mild and gentle citizen attired in a verger's gown. But some thing of an old pugnacious spirit still lingers. For Mr. Driver, one of the Uni versity of Virginia's pre mier athletes in his youth, had a famous battle on the football field when Jim Thorpe's Carlisle In dians broke his nose and Home from the shop, jour neyman silversmith Philip Thorp plays with his daugh ters. The Thorp family lives in the original Lightfoot House. Mr. Thorp served as an apprentice silversmith while a student at the Col lege of William and Mary and decided to continue in the trade after graduation. He works with wood as a hobby and has built a replica of the Raleigh Tavern bar for the basement of his home. four ribs. His eyes glowed happily with the memory of that encounter. "That man could run through a wall," he said in a hoarse whisper, as the visitors assumed prayerful attitudes near the altar. "To bring him down," he said, clenching his gnarled fist, "you had to hurl yourself before him!" At that moment a young couple passed on their way out of church. "Thank you, Father," the man said. Mr. Driver's eyes, intent on the rushing colossus of Jim Thorpe, unfocused for a moment, then wnwnOO a M (h N.c.