“To the white regions of eternal peaceThe General has gone forward!”
“To the white regions of eternal peaceThe General has gone forward!”
“To the white regions of eternal peaceThe General has gone forward!”
In the centre of the room a huge calico extinguisher has descended from the ceiling, and hides something we are about to see; some invisible machinery upraises the extinguisher, and reveals a muffled group, swathed in wet linen, which is slowly unwound—and we gaze upon the sculptor’s masterpiece,Andromache, modelled in clay. He has chosen no moment of tragic agony for his work; but a still scene of home life. Hector has gone to the war—the pain of parting is over, and Andromache sits at her spinning-wheel, her hands lying listlessly in her lap, the thread still between her fingers, her eyes looking forward but seeing nothing. Her thoughts have wandered after her hero, and are lost on the battle-field. The attitude, full of grace, is one of utter despondency, the lovely face is full of sadness and longing, shadowed by a weariness that tells of almost helpless despair. A lizard, the emblem of death, is stealing out from among the folds of her drapery, to snap the thread that lies so loosely in her hand. Her child, a sunny-faced, smiling cherub, has climbed upon her lap, and is playing with her neck ornament, trying in vain to attract her attention, and watching for the smile of recognition to dawn upon her lips.
The work is still in an unfinished state; the artist being occupied in arranging the draperies and carrying out other details of his work. It is exquisite in design and finely executed. I have no doubt thatthis rare work of art, will, when completed, find its way into the European galleries. Meanwhile the artist turns a shower of spray upon the beautiful group, wraps her again in her damp swathing clothes, the calico extinguisher descends, and Andromache is lost to view.
Fire and ruins.—Through sylvan scenes.—The cave of Luray.—A jewelled city underground.—The white savages of Wise County.
Fire and ruins.—Through sylvan scenes.—The cave of Luray.—A jewelled city underground.—The white savages of Wise County.
Afterspending a delightful week in Richmond, we begin to think it is time to be “moving on.” So anxious are we to resume our journey southward, we decide to go by the evening train, but unfortunately about mid-day a thick smoke fills the air, and over-spreads the city like a funeral pall. We learn that the railway bridge is on fire, burning so furiously, and spreading so rapidly, that in the space of an incredibly short time the buildings on either side are gutted, and the wind carries the flying sparks over the city, and for a time it is in danger of total destruction; people rush out of their houses, and watch breathlessly the result; but the sparks fly over the house-tops in a flaming shower, setting fire to one roof after another; and at last, after scaring half the town, catching at the tindery thatch of the Allan House, threatening to destroy one of the chief landmarks of the ill-starredpoet’s life, but the passers by rush to the rescue, and the old house is saved for the benefit of new generations of relic hunters.
We fear that the destruction of the railway bridge will cause us difficulty, and detain us in Richmond to our inconvenience; but our landlord assures us we shall be able to start in the evening, as we had originally designed. “Things are sure to be fixed all right,” he says. Wonderfully expressive, and variously applied is that little word “fix,” in the idiomatic language of this “Greater Britain.” Never did so small a word mean so much! It does duty as a “word of all work,” in the kitchen, in the stable, and in the lady’s chamber; the ladies “fix” their hair, the gentlemen “fix” their whiskers, they “fix” their dinners, they “fix” their babies, they “fix” their weddings, they “fix” their funerals—in fact that little insignificant monosyllable is imported into all the articles of their daily life, and they live in a general atmosphere of “fixing.”
In accordance with our host’s kind assurance, things are pleasantly “fixed” for our departure, the only inconvenience being that we have to drive across the foot-bridge (so called because it is a wide carriage drive) over the river, and take the train from Manchester on the other side. The shades of evening are fast falling round us as we drive down the narrow streets towards the river, and thence take our last view of these Richmond hills, which remind us so strongly ofthat other Richmond, girded by our winding river Thames.
The Capitol with its silent groups of heroic dead is dimly shadowed forth in the fading light; here and there the street lamps are lit, and look like glimmering glow-worms crawling up the narrow winding ways; and from the stained glass windows of many churches the mellow light streams through, revealing a fantastic kind of mosaic in brilliant hues—blue and crimson, green and gold, blending harmoniously together; the roll of the organ, and the united voices of the singers follow us down through the hilly street until they are lost in the distance.
The dark river is rushing beneath the foot-bridge at our feet; and on our right the foaming flood is lighted by the fading fires of the still burning wreck of the railway bridge. The whole structure is down, and the huge beams lying like fiery serpents on the river’s surface, now smouldering in red sullen fires, then up-leaping in tiny flickering tongues of blue flame, licking round and feeding upon every remnant that remains of the bridge that only at noon had stood proud and strong against the sky, its iron limbs spanning the dark water. It had been supported by twelve brick pillars, which are still left standing; each one wearing its crown of jewelled flames, burning in lurid flashes, like altars of the Eastern fire-worshippers, or beacon lights at sea, showing the gloomy gapsbetween, whence the burning masses had fallen into the sea. These colossal pillars blazing in the darkness, between the sable shadows of the river, and the moonless midnight of the sky, threw a light bright as the brightest day around us. On both banks of the broad river, before and behind us, rise the gaunt ruins that were prosperous factories in the morning, now mere blackened shells, yet picturesque and radiant in the soft golden ruddy glow of the beautiful cruel flames, that still lick and twist serpent-like in and out of the empty window frames. Successful commonplace prosperity at noon, they are transfigured into resplendent ruin at night. Well, the train awaited us on the opposite side, and there the owners of the destroyed property were already talking together, planning the rebuilding of their factories with improvements; wasting no words in useless regrets; they were scheming, and in their mind’s eye reconstructing the works, while the ruins still smouldered before their eyes.
The road to Western Virginia leads through some of the most beautiful scenery of the south. Lying near, and around us, are soft swelling hills and undulating valleys, with here and there dark pine woods, grouped in sombre masses; their branches standing out stiff and grim, like serried ranks of swords, pricking the skies—a standing army of nature’s wild recruits rooted to her breast, their only warfare beingcarried on with the raging elements, when the storm king comes crashing down from the distant mountains in a whirlwind of raging wrath, and armed with the invisible horrors of the air hurls itself upon the woodland kings, tearing their stiffened limbs, wrenching and twisting their tall straight trunks, and leaving them a shapeless shivering mass upon the ground, broken like a gallant army, but not vanquished; the earth still holds them fast, wrapping her soft moss about their bleeding wounds, fanning them with sweet airs, and lifting them up again to flourish in the face of the sun. Here and there broad bands of the silver stream sandal the foothills, and lace the ragged fringes of the earth together. We look round on a wide panoramic view of variegated green, where hill and valley, wooded knolls and rocky ridges, frowning forests and smiling meadows, are blended in one harmonious whole, and a soft hazy atmosphere lies like a heavenly mystery over all. The view is bounded and shut in by the lofty range of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Winding slowly and almost by imperceptible gradations downwards, we soon reach the beautiful Shenandoah valley,en routefor the wonderful cave of “Luray,” which lies in the centre of Page county.
The earth’s surface here and for miles round is rugged and broken, as though by some great upheaval centuries ago; huge grey boulders are lying in alldirections, as though some ancient Titan had flung them down in sport. Giant rocks, the work of the great sculptor Nature, lie in folded ridges, their stony draperies falling about them in massive magnificence that is beyond the reach of art. Rivulets of living water trickle down their gaping sides, and gather, and swell, and flow through darkened chasms half hidden from the light of the sun, playing an everlasting game of hide and seek, then rushing forth sparkling and laughing in its light.
Eastward about a mile from the pretty village of Luray, and partially screened by the dense thickets which crown the hilltops, there exists an extensive cave. Concerning its first discovery, many years ago, tradition tells an interesting story, indicating a man named Ruffner as its first discoverer. He with his family, it is said, was among the first settlers in the valley below, and one day he went out on a hunting expedition and never returned. After a search of many weeks, his gun was found at the entrance to the cave, and in due time he was discovered, having wandered among its labyrinthine courts and passages till he was lost and dead of starvation. From this event it was called “Ruffner’s” cave, and is so printed on the maps both of that period and since. Little interest, however, attached to the cave, and for a time it seemed to have passed from the memory of man, and remained neglected and hidden away in the heartof the mountain until the summer of 1878, when a number of gentlemen formed themselves into a company not only for the more complete exploration of the old cave, but for a regularly organised search for new wonders. They hoped to discover even a more extensive cave, which from their geological survey they believed to exist in the neighbourhood. They ranged the hillside, penetrated dense thickets and tangled woods; crept and groped under rocky ledges—first taking care to rout the brood of rattlesnakes from their slimy bed, and hunting the frightened foxes from their burrows under the ground, where for ages they had lived in savage security—but for many weeks their search was in vain. However, on returning one evening, exhausted and disheartened, along the northern side of the hill, they observed a suspicious looking hollow choked up with straggling bushes, loose stones, weeds, and rubbish of all kinds, the accumulation of years. They set to work at daydawn, clearing away the tangled brushwood, tossing out the loose stones, and plunging deeper and deeper into the dark abyss, till they felt a rush of cool air creeping up through the broken earth, and after a few hours’ laborious endeavour they found themselves in a lofty passage, which formed a kind of antechamber to a vast palace of wonder which had been building since the world began. Thus was the Luray cave discovered; but it is only during the last year that ithas been rendered accessible to the public. Nature hides her most beautiful secrets so closely within her breast, and surrounds them with so many mysteries, that art and labour, hand in hand, must come to the fore before they can become the property of the world outside.
Surely Aladdin’s magical lamp never lighted up such jewelled wonders as are to be beheld here! Here are halls and corridors, stairways and galleries, chasms and bridges, built or hollowed out with a weird architectural magnificence wonderful to behold. We stand in the spacious nave of the cathedral, and gaze at its groined and glittering roof, and Gothic columns of many-coloured stalactite. The utter silence (which never exists in the outer world, where there is always the whirr of invisible insects, the stir of leaves, the whispering of grasses, and a thousand other nameless sounds) here is supremely impressive; the air, laden with solemn stillness, lies heavy and close round us. We listen for the roll of some hidden organ to fill the darkening shadows with music, and tempt us to fall upon our knees in worship of the Great Unknown. We pass through a narrow jagged passage full of grotesque shapes and caricatures of things real and unreal, till we come to a damp, low-roofed opening called the bridal chamber, which is profusely ornamented with fantastic formations of crystalline rock. It is said, I don’t know how truthfully, that somebenighted imbeciles have already been married on this spot. The roof is everywhere supported by hundreds of columns of various gradations of colour and size, from a thin walking cane to the grand pillar in the “giant’s hall,” which is nearly twenty feet in circumference, and is ribbed and rugged like the bark of a tree. A curious feature in this particular cave is the profusion of thin icicles—I do not know by what other name to call them; it seems as though threads of ice had been woven together in a veil of frost work unknown to decorative art. They hang from the edges, and drape the walls in falling folds like a tapestry curtain; they droop in graceful folds before Diana’s bath, and are drawn round the couch of the “sleeping beauty”—for a symmetrical form that is almost human lies shrouded in ice beneath it. Fancy has found some appropriate name for every nook and corner, form and figure, of this underground world. However fantastic these stalactite embellishments may be they are never inharmonious, one thing never seems out of keeping with another. Here we may gather to ourselves lessons of loveliness, and the mysterious mingling of the beautiful in form and colour that æstheticism tries in vain to teach.
We wander through the “garden,” and gaze round with still greater amazement upon the gorgeous colouring and delicate formation of these stalactite flowers, so airy and fragile; they look as though abreath would wither them, yet they have been in bloom for ages, and will bloom on for ages more. The grey stone is covered with this growth of glassy flowers, with quivering petals of pink and violet and white. We are inclined to smell them, scarce believing they are cold and scentless. Presently we come upon a glacial forest scene, where the fluted columns, uprising like knotted trunks of trees, spread their thin, brittle branches till we fancy we see them quivering in the still air. Let fancy take the bit in her mouth and run away with our reason, and we shall believe we are standing amid a spectral group of ancient willow and elm trees which have perished from the upper world, and live out their frozen life of ages here below. Here and there a tiny rill of water trickles like a silver thread down among the folded draperies, till it is lost among the fretted frostwork below. Then crossing a rude stony balcony we look down into a wide, deep chasm, which yawns beneath our feet, and it is not difficult for the imagination to evolve the most uncanny creatures of weird, unearthly forms from the depths of darkness which the magnesium lights illuminate but cannot penetrate.
At last we come up from those vast underground realms to the light of the living sun, awestruck and impressed with the wonders thereof. While we are carrying out our small human lives, taxing our intellect, our imagination and our skill to build up vast edificesof brick and stone on this outer earth, which in a few short years must crumble away, an unknown and invisible world is being slowly perfected beneath our feet—a world not made by hands—every touch and tint the work of a passing age; silently and slowly the viewless workers labour on, under the land and under the sea, while cycles and ages pass! Will not this outer crust whereon we live slowly crack like a shell, and one day fall away, and leave a world such as the Revelation tells of, whose jewelled palaces are of silver and gold, the glory and wonder whereof this world knoweth not! We feel as though we had stood on the outermost edge and caught a glimpse of the wonder-land where nature is working her will in silence and darkness.
Some of the most picturesque and sublime scenery of the South may be found in the regions of Western Virginia, where nature in her wildest mood holds sovereign sway among her everlasting hills, clothed with majestic woods running down to the narrow valleys and winding lands which intersect the mountains. Here in these solitudes, scattered through these lonely regions, live a primitive people, leading a primitive life.
They are supposed to be the descendants of the Irish and Scotch who came over to this country about two hundred years ago, and wandered on and on till they reached these solitudes and then settled down insparse and scattered groups far apart, not in villages but in single families, where they have been living undisturbed through all these changing years, marrying and intermarrying with some kind of ceremony peculiar to themselves, from generation to generation. Children have been born, grown to be old men, and died, having never passed out from their own solitary homes.
They hold no communion with the outer world; no “iron horse” steams through their solitudes, and few and far between indeed are the travellers who invade their wilderness. Even with each other their communication is scarce and scant—their nearest neighbour may be residing from five to twenty miles away; visiting is therefore a rather difficult process, especially as there are no roads leading from one place to another. People have to find their way, or rather make their way, over the rough, stony mountain, and through the tangled woods, wading through brooks and leaping across dangerous chasms before they can enjoy the luxury of looking on a human face! These poor people can neither read nor write, they have no means of learning to do either; they are beyond the reach of the school-board, without the pale of civilisation. There are no schools, no books, no newspapers, no post, no highroads, no church, no law but what their own untaught nature lays down; no religion save that which they evolve from the mysteryof their own being—for even in the most savage, untutored breast, a still small voice is always whispering speculations as to the unknown from the beginning to the end and after. They build their own log huts (some of which are in the last stage of dilapidation) and make their own rough furniture. Having cleared as much land as they want, they grow patches of corn, cabbages, and such like; nuts, fruits and sorrel, and other kinds of green stuff which they use for food all grow plentifully in these uncultivated lands. Some own a cow and a few fowls, and wild hogs are numerous enough to supply them with all they need of animal food.
In all this region cotton grows abundantly, and they weave their own clothes, the old spindle of two hundred years ago being still in use among them. The men wear shoes—when they can get them—all the year round; but the women go barefoot except in the winter time and during the inclement season, when the streams are turned to frozen ice, and the earth is shrouded in thick snow. It is the women who do the outdoor work, while their lords and masters, following the example of savage Indian tribes, stay by the fireside and smoke their pipes. Occasionally, once in a year or two, some one of this scattered community will load his mule and fill his cart with different commodities of his own and his neighbour’s and make a pilgrimage to the nearest town—which may be ahundred miles off or more—and sell or exchange them for such necessaries as they require, and with which they cannot supply themselves. The existence of these primitive people is very well known to such travellers as from time to time have penetrated these solitudes; but this state of things will not be allowed to remain long unchanged; the spirit of progress is abroad, and is already making a subtle and invisible progress even among these primeval solitudes.
Some three or four years ago a solitary gentleman of engineering proclivities started on a voyage of discovery through these desolate regions, and after long wanderings and many disappointments fell figuratively upon his feet at last, and after a patient investigation of certain localities came to the conclusion that some of nature’s rich resources were hidden away in the heart of these mountains. Having once convinced himself of this truth he returned to civilisation, and with little difficulty organised a company, and in the course of a few months returned with a staff of engineers and workers necessary for the full development and carrying out of his design. The shaft was sunk, the mine is now in full working order, and promises to be a great success.
Meanwhile there have been many and great difficulties to be overcome in the suspicious ignorance and sturdy opposition of these, the original inhabitants of the soil, who regard the new order of things with evileyes, and watch with ill-disguised dissatisfaction, and low, muttered threats that the invasion of their privacy shall be paid for by the lives of their invaders, who, however, go steadily on with their work with a fearless determination to carry it through in spite of the opposition of this hostile community.
The new comers associated with the old inhabitants, whenever occasion served, in a frank, friendly fashion, endeavouring to convince them that any act of violence on their part would be followed by speedy punishment and the total expulsion of the whole scattered community from the soil where they had become rooted for generations past. But in vain they tried to persuade them that the new order of things would be for their benefit, and would bring them into connection with the great world, giving to them and to their children an opportunity of rising and improving their condition. They have no ambition, and being utterly unconscious of their ignorance are content therewith. They don’t know anything nor don’t want to know anything; they have many curious traditions circulating among them, descending from father to son, and growing and deepening in wonder by the way. They are full too of strange superstitions, as a people living so utterly apart from the rest of the world, lost in the speculations and mystery of their own lonely lives would naturally be; they may have a kind of dreamy conviction that somewhere acrossthe mountains the inhabitants boil and eat brown babies, and, if occasion serves, are in no ways loth to indulge surreptitiously in the luxury of a fine fat white boy!
However, they are day by day getting more reconciled to the presence of their civilised brethren, who by general tact and little helpful kindnesses have won their toleration and good will. Though they still stand aloof and watch the progress of affairs with curious eyes, they givenoassistance and offer no opposition.
Meanwhile public attention having been called to the existence of the valuable mines throughout these districts, the construction of a railway is under consideration; and if the projected undertaking be carried out villages and towns will spring up like magic in these untrodden wilds, the echoes of life and labour resound through the now silent solitudes, and the flood of a new strong life will burst among these wandering weaklings of humanity, and either absorb them into their own strength, or drive to still deeper and farther solitary wilds the white savages of Wise County.
Through the great swamp.—Charleston.—A memory of the old world.—Blacks and whites.—Peculiarities of the coloured folk.—A ghost of dead days.—Quaint scenes.
Through the great swamp.—Charleston.—A memory of the old world.—Blacks and whites.—Peculiarities of the coloured folk.—A ghost of dead days.—Quaint scenes.
Aftermuch loitering and a keen enjoyment of the wilder beauties of Virginia we start on our way to Charleston, one of the oldest historic cities in America, and doubly interesting to us from its connection with the old colonial day, when the British flag fluttered over the inhabitants, and the stars and stripes were things of the future.
Our way lies through wide stretches of uncultivated lands, dotted here and there by negro huts with black babies and pigs tumbling together in the mire. In the course of a few hours we emerge from these uninteresting wilds, and are running through the great swamps which extend for miles along either side of our iron road, and are strictly impassable for either man or beast, though it is said that hundreds of poor human creatures in the old days chafed and fretted and grew discontented with their conditionof life, and in their foolish endeavour to escape from it were lost in these wilds. Who knows what cries to God for help and mercy have gone up from the inner gloom of these dismal swamps?—cries that perhaps the angels heard and came down from heaven to answer.
Although we are journeying through perfectly flat country, with never an undulating wave of land in sight, the scenery is ever changing, and never presents the same picture to the eye for two minutes together. There is, of course a certain monotony in the character of the natural pageant that is gliding past us, but the combinations vary both in form and colour, now advancing, now receding as we flash past them; the air is full of light, and queer-looking grey birds rise up and wheel in eddying circles over our heads, flapping their wings, and uttering strange cries, which our engine’s voice has not strength enough to smother.
The idea of a swamp had always presented itself to our mind’s eye as a vast expanse of shiny, slushy soil, half mud, half water, with here and there a rank undergrowth of bushes and stiff grass, and briers, through which it must be a melancholy task to travel,—but it is not so. In travelling through these swampy regions the prospect is neither a dull nor an uninteresting one; whole forests of grand old trees rise up from the watery waste, the rich varied foliage growing soluxuriantly, and in such impenetrable masses that scarce a ray of sunshine comes glinting through. We feel as though by some strange accident we have been caught up by some modern magician, clothed in steel with a heart of iron, and whirled along through the forest primeval.
For hours, nay, for the whole day long we speed through this world of green, now and again the great trees turning their leafy arms into a perfect arch above our heads, as we go thundering on.
Some of our fellow travellers go to sleep, others yawn over a book which they have not energy enough to read, some get out the cards and play poker orécarté, according as the spirit of gambling moves them; we hear murmured complaints, “There is nothing to see,” and “What a horribly monotonous journey.”
But to us it is not monotonous; there is life and beauty in the ever-changing lights and shadows of the forest, sometimes most Rembrandt-like in their depth and dim obscurity; in the dainty colouring of the leaves, and the many strange formations of these ancient kings of the forest, standing in deep rank and file, sentinels and guardians of the silent land, their green heads lifted to the skies, their gnarled and knotted feet firmly planted on the earth below. We wonder are they quite dumb and speechless? Deaf to the low whispering of the wind, stirred onlyto a gentle rustle by its balmy breath? Who knows? What to us is the mere soughing of the wind may be to them a living language coming straight down from the Great Unknown, with a message cheering them in their solitude here with a promise of a hereafter, when they shall bloom in paradise, and angels walk and talk beneath their leafy shade. They seem so lonely here; they have never heard the sound of a human voice; no foot has ever strayed among their fallen leaves, no lovers’ voices made sweet music in the night, no childish babble echoed through their bended boughs.
We are still lost in contemplation, with our thoughts wandering through the soft luxuriant beauty of this forest land, when we slowly emerge from its density into the open country. The landscape changes, widens,—Charleston is in sight! In a few minutes the cling-clanging of the engine bell tells us we are nearing the station—another moment, and we are there.
It is evening now, the lamps are lighted, and but a few scattered groups are making their way homeward through the quiet streets, for they keep early hours in Charleston, and by ten o’clock all decent folk are at home in their beds.
The gloomy grandeur of the “Charleston House”—and it is really a handsome stone building—attracts us not; we stop at the “Pavilion,” a pretty homelike hotel with a verandahed front, and balcony filledwith evergreens and flowers, on the opposite corner of Meeting Street. Our room has the usual regulation furniture, without any pretensions to luxury—clean, comfortable beds, chilly-looking marble-topped tables, and the inevitable rocking chairs, without which the humblest home would be incomplete. We go to bed and sleep soundly after our twenty-four hours’ run.
Within all was bright and pleasant enough, but without the prospect was anything but cheering. Our windows opened upon a dingy courtyard, surrounded on three sides by dilapidated buildings two stories high; the rickety doors hung loosely on their rusty hinges, the windows were broken or patched with paper or old rags, and the venetian blinds swung outside in a miserably crippled condition—all awry and crooked, every lath splintered or broken, the paint was worn off in rain-stained patches everywhere, and the woodwork was worm-eaten, and rotten. The place had altogether a miserable appearance, as though the ghost of the old dead days was haunting and brooding over it in the poverty of the present. It seemed to be deserted too, for as we looked out upon it in the light of the early morning, we heard no sound, nor saw a human creature anywhere.
We learned afterwards that these had been the original slave quarters, and are still occupied by the same inhabitants—the freedmen of to-day, the slaves of yesterday, in many cases still serving their oldmasters in the old way. The servants of the hotel, waiters, chambermaids, etc, are all coloured, or rather coal-black; for as we go farther South the mixed breeds are more rarely to be met with; it is only here and there we come across the mulatto or others of mixed blood, which is rather a surprise to us, for we expected the half breeds greatly to outnumber the original race.
In Charleston two thirds of the population are black, and almost without exception in all Southern cities they largely preponderate over the whites, whose superiority they tacitly acknowledge, and work under their direction with amiable contentment.
Their inherent respect for the white race is exemplified in many ways, especially in the small matters of everyday life. In many of the coloured churches they have white preachers, and these are always the most popular. One old “mammy,” who had nursed a friend of mine forty years ago, and who still occupies her old position in the same family, is accustomed to walk three miles to and from church, though she is over seventy years of age. On her mistress inquiring why she went so far, when one of her own people held service close by, “I’se no sit under no nigger preacher!” said the old woman, shaking her head contemptuously.
This kind of feeling penetrates even into the nursery. The dark nurse will be most devoted tothe white baby, while she utterly neglects her own,—hence the great mortality among the dusky brood, which, comparatively, more than doubles that of the whites. An attempt to secure the services of a young coloured girl for an infant of her own race (whose mother was nursing a white child) was met with the scornful answer, “I’se no tend no nigger babies,” the girl herself being black as coal!
It is the same in the schools, for though both white and coloured pass exactly the same examinations, they will not send their children to be taught by their own people. The rank and file of teachers may be coloured, but they must be led, and in all their duties superintended, by the whites! Woe be to the coloured teacher who dares to put a naughty Topsy in the corner! The maternal virago swoops down upon her with direst outcries, and lays her case before the authorities with as much solemnity as could be used in the court-martial of a refractory colonel.
The master mechanics, builders, carpenters, blacksmiths, etc., are generally white, while the journeymen and labourers are coloured; it is the same with the shopkeepers and small traders, their employés being of the opposite race.
The great drawback in the labour market throughout the Southern States is the uncertainty of the labour supply. The blacks as a rule are excellent mechanics,but they will not work well unless under strict supervision, and they will only work while necessity demands they should. They have no sense of the responsibility which rests upon their employer, and cannot see that their idle self-indulgence must result in his ruin and ultimately in their own. So soon as they have earned a few dollars they enjoy a spell of idleness till they have eaten them up, and then go to work for more; but this peculiarity is not confined to the dark race. They are a good-natured and simple, but shiftless and utterly irresponsible, people; to-day is all; they apply the scriptural text literally, and “take no thought of to-morrow.” Gay, thoughtless, fond of pleasure and every kind of self-indulgence, and having led for generations past a life of dependence on the will and direction of others, they can exercise no discretion of their own; they are mere machines to be set in motion by the master hand. Generations must pass before they can learn the lesson of self-government, and be led to feel that their own prosperity must be the outcome of their co-operation with the prosperity of others. I speak of the general character of the people; of course there are exceptions to this rule, and many of them. Education is doing its work slowly but surely; there are schools everywhere, where they receive exactly the same training as the whites, andconsequently the coloured population of to-day is a great advance on the enslaved race of twenty years ago.
We spend our first day in Charleston in a rambling promenade through the city, so gathering a general view of the whole before we take the special points of interest.
It is a bright sunny day, with a cool fresh breeze blowing, not at all the sort of weather we ought to have considering the season; instead of the hot sun blazing and burning in vindication of its Southern character, compelling us to creep along every inch of shade, and melting us even then, it simply looks down upon us with a kind, genial eye, occasionally winking and playing bo-peep with the woolly white clouds which come sailing across the azure sky, and the balmy breath of the wind is sufficiently cool to render our wraps not only comfortable but absolutely necessary.
Before we have gone many steps on our way we come upon a pleasant party of some half dozen negroes, sitting on a fence like a gathering of black crows, each one whittling a stick and chewing tobacco in solemn silence—not the silence of thought, but the silence of emptiness, their great shining eyes staring at nothing, thinking of nothing, like lazy cattle basking in the sunshine in supreme idleness.
On returning some hours later, we find them inexactly the same place, whittling the same stick and chewing the same quid; they do not seem to have stirred an inch. In odd nooks and corners, entangled in the ragged edges of the city, we come upon similar groups, and I believe if we had returned in six days instead of six hours we should have found them in precisely the same condition.
The aspect Charleston presents at the first glance to the stranger’s eye is impressive in the extreme; apart from the historical and romantic interest which clings to the place, it has a character peculiarly its own, and bears slight resemblance to any other city we have seen. It seems to have stood still during the last century, and is strictly conservative in its appearance and in its ways.
Quaintly tangled streets and alleys cling to the main thoroughfares, running up and down, in and out, in a sort of thread-my-grandmother’s-needle fashion; making a loop here, tying themselves into knots there, and resolving themselves into a perfect puzzle which the pedestrian has hard matter to piece together with his weary feet.
The houses in these out-of-the-way parts of the town are old-fashioned, odd-looking places, some so crippled in their lower limbs as to need the support of strong oaken beams, or patches of bricks and mortar; some are rickety in their upper stories, and lean affectionately on one side so as to supportthemselves on the strength of their neighbours, as weaker human creatures are apt to do. Everything seems pining for a fresh coat of paint; but they do their best to conceal their need of it, covering themselves with creeping plants or tawdry hangings, hiding their discolorations and bruises with gorgeous hued flowers, and clasping their green mantle round them as we may have seen an aristocratic beggar draw his robe across his breast to hide his rags and tatters. Occasionally, in some obscure corner of the city, we come upon a rambling old mansion of quaint, picturesque architecture, once the home of refinement and wealth, where the great ones of the country lived in a state of ease, luxury, and almost feudal splendour. It is occupied now by hosts of coloured folk; swarms of black babies crowd the verandahs or climb and tumble about the steps and passages, while the dilapidated balconies are filled with lines of clothes to dry; the negro smokes his pipe beneath the eaves, and the women folk, with their heads turbanned in gay-coloured handkerchiefs, laugh and chatter from the windows and lounge in the doorways. How long ago is it since the clank of the cavaliers’ spurs rang upon the crumbling pavement, and sweet ladies with their pretty patched faces laughed from the verandahs, while merry voices and music and hospitality echoed from the now dingy, time-dishonoured halls, and stately dames inthe decorous dress and manners of the old days walked to and fro, adding by their gracious presence to the attraction of the festive scene? But these good old days are over; no imperious dames, in stiff brocades and jewelled slippers, pace the wide corridors, or dance the graceful minuet upon the floor; there is no sound of flute and tabor now, but the many sounding notes of labour, the tramp of busy hives of working men and women, and the plaintive voices of the negroes singing is heard instead of it, and who shall say which makes the better music?
It was on the balcony of one of those houses Jane Elliot stood to see her lover, William Washington, march past with his cavalry regiment on their way to the war, more than a century ago. Drums beat and bugles sounded, and as the gallant men marched on she observed they had no flag! For a few brief moments they halted beneath her window while with her own hands she tore the crimson brocade back from one of her drawing-room chairs, and improvised a banner, which they triumphantly bore away, marching double quick time to the tune their hearts were playing.
Years after, in 1827, when she was widowed and old and grey, she stood on the same spot and gave this, her dead husband’s battle banner, to the Washington light infantry of Charleston. It is now held by them almost as a sacred relic, and is onlycarried on days of grand parade or other special occasions. We may catch a glimpse of life as it was in this Charleston of old times from a writer in 1763, who says:—
“The inhabitants of this Carolina province are generally of a good stature and well made, with lively and agreeable countenances. The personal qualities of the ladies are much to their credit and advantage; they are genteel and slender, they have fair complexions—without the aid of art—and regular, refined features, their manners are easy and natural, their eyes sparkling and enchantingly sweet. They are fond of dancing; many sing well, and play upon the harpsichord and guitar with great skill. In summer riding on horseback or in carriages—which few are without—is greatly practised. In the autumn, winter, and spring, there is variety and plenty of game for the gun or dogs; and the gentlemen are by no means backward in the chase. During the season, once in two weeks, there is a dancing assembly in Charleston, where there is always a brilliant appearance of lovely and well dressed women: we have likewise a genteel playhouse, where a very tolerable set of actors, called ‘The American Company of Comedians,’ exhibit. Concerts of instrumental music are frequently performed by gentlemen. Madeira wine and punch are the common drinks of the inhabitants, but few gentlemen arewithout claret, port, Lisbon, and other wines of Spanish, French, or Portugal vintages. The ladies are very temperate, and only drink water, which in Charleston is very unwholesome. There are about 1,100 houses in the town, some of wood, some of brick; many of them have a genteel appearance, though generally encumbered with balconies or piazzas, and are all most luxuriously furnished. The apartments are arranged for coolness, which is very necessary.”
Charleston, as I have said before, is strictly conservative in its principles, and in many respects is much the same to-day as it was then. In spite of all its reverses—the internal struggles of the Cavaliers and Puritans, who brought hither their old quarrels and prejudices along with their household gods, from over the sea, its strife with the Indians, its troubles during the British occupation, and its terrible disasters during the late four years’ conflict—it still retains many of its old characteristics; its features are the same, though cruelly scarred with the flames and sword of war. We pass on our way through Meeting Street, one of the chief thoroughfares of the city; it is a long, straight, not overwide, shady street, with beautiful trees on either side, and has a look of almost cloistered quiet about it. There are several handsome churches embosomed in bowers of green, and the ruins of an ancientcathedral, which was burned by accident more than twenty years ago; they point this out as proudly, and cherish it as fondly, as though it were a legitimate ruin, a wreck that old time had left upon their shores.
The long stretch of houses on either side are not of any specially varied or picturesque style of architecture; they are three stories high, and have a rather curious appearance, as they turn their backs upon the streets, or rather stand sideways like pews in a church, their fronts facing seaward, to catch the cool sea breeze which blows down from the battery above. The three-storied piazzas running round every house, the green venetians wholly or partly closed, not a soul in sight, either from within or without, give an appearance of almost oriental seclusion to the place; one half expects to see some dark, laughing beauty peeping out from among the flowers. The dear old city is full of romance and beauty everywhere, and as we pass through the silent street—silent, yet speaking with an eloquence that surpasses speech—the ghost of the dead days seems marching with muffled feet beside us, and the very stones seem to have a story to tell. We feel as though we have fallen upon an enchanted land, where time is standing still, and the years have grown grey with watching. Here and there we come upon a large empty mansion,one of the grand dwellings of old colonial days, whence the tenants have been driven by adverse circumstances; it stands staring down upon the street with blank, glassy eyes, perhaps with a rent in its side, and its face bruised and battered, its discoloured, painted skin peeling off, and slowly rotting. People have neither time nor money to rehabilitate these ancient mansions; they must needs be deserted by their owners, who have gone to seek their fortunes in the eastern cities, while the old homes are left to decay.
From this pretty shady street we come out upon the Battery, and stand for a moment to look round upon the peaceful scene, and enjoy the balmy breeze which sweeps straight from the near Gulf Stream. This is a delightful promenade and pleasure ground, where the good Charlestonians from time immemorial have come for their evening stroll, or to sit under the leafy shade of the scrub-oaks, gossiping with their neighbours. The Battery grounds front the land-locked bay—a sheet of crystal water about three miles wide—around which, and on the opposite side, lies a perfect garland of softly-swelling green islands, which stretch far away out of our sight. On each side, running like arms from the bay, are the Ashley and Cooper rivers, holding the town in their watery embrace. Around three sides of the Battery there runs an elevated promenade, raisedabout two feet from the grounds, which are beautifully laid out in pretty, white shell walks, grassy turf, and gorgeous flower beds, while groups of fine old forest trees, that have heard the whispering of many centuries, spread their leafy branches far and wide. Turning their backs upon the town and facing this lovely land-and-water scene, stands a variegated collection of fine old-fashioned houses of quaint architecture. Some are landmarks of the old colonial days; each one differs in form and colour from the other, but all are fanciful structures with elaborate ornamentation; some are circular, some flat fronted, some curving in a fantastic fashion, and seeming to look round the corner on their friends and neighbours, to assure them they are not proud though they have turned their backs upon them; some have wide balconies of stone, some light verandahs with green venetian blinds or graceful ironwork clinging to their front; but everywhere creeping plants and brilliant flowers are growing.
The view on all sides is most picturesque and lovely, and the fragrant air is a delight to the senses. Here is the real aristocratic part of the city, and here to this day, in spite of the many freaks of fortune, the descendants of the old Huguenot and Cavalier families inhabit the homes of their ancestors, whose familiar names still echo on the ears of the town. With lagging footsteps we take our way homeward through thecity, losing ourselves and finding ourselves more than once. Altogether we come to the conclusion that Charleston is a sober suited, gentlemanly city strongly impregnated with the savour of old days; somewhat worn and grey, but thoroughly dignified and pleasant, full of old-world prejudices and decorum that no flighty tourist would care to outrage.
We have merely glanced at the outer aspect of the city, to-morrow we must visit some interiors and the more definite features within and around it. As we enter our chamber after our long ramble we hear the sounds of merry voices, and the passing of people to and fro in the courtyard; then suddenly amid the shouting and the laughter there rises a choir of voices, a hush falls everywhere—they are singing “The sweet by and by.” We approach the window and look out. A group of coal-black negroes are sitting round one table piling up rich ripe strawberries for our dessert; close by is another party shelling peas. It is these groups who are singing. Their plaintive melancholy voices affect us solemnly; but even as the last notes are trembling on their lips they begin to play monkey tricks on one another, turning somersaults in the air, grinning from ear to ear, and chattering like magpies!