St. Michael’s chimes.—Architectural attraction.—Magnolia Cemetery.—A philosophical mendicant.—The market.—Aboard the boat.—Fort Sumter.
St. Michael’s chimes.—Architectural attraction.—Magnolia Cemetery.—A philosophical mendicant.—The market.—Aboard the boat.—Fort Sumter.
A closeracquaintance with Charleston, its surroundings, and its people, deepens our first impression. A dignified gravity seems to be set like a seal upon their lives, whence all light frivolous things have been cast out, and replaced by high hopes and noble aspirations, born of a past sorrow. There is a look of preoccupation on their faces, as though their thoughts and desires have outstripped their powers of action, and they are pushing the world’s work forward that they may come up with them and realise the state of their holy ambitions. They dress sombrely, in dark neutral tints, with a quiet elegance and simplicity. They are as the sober setting to a brilliant picture, where the coloured folks supply the flaunting figures and gaudy colouring—the blacker they are the more gorgeous are their personal adornments.
Passing up the long shady Meeting Street, with its rows of tall trees on either side of it, the most prominent object in view is the old Church of St. Michael, which is a great point of interest to visitors. It was built more than a century and a half ago; the quaint and somewhat sombre interior, with its high box pews, groined roof, and dainty columns is impressive as only such ancient places of worship can be. The tall, graceful, steeple towers high above all other spires and is a landmark for miles round. It has a wonderfully fine peal of bells, too, with a most romantic history. In 1782 when the British vacated Charleston they seized these bells and shipped them to England, considering them as a military perquisite. However, in the space of a few weeks, they were re-shipped to Charleston, and replaced in the belfry. In 1861 they were sent to Columbia for safety, and in the terrible conflagration which destroyed that city they were so much damaged by fire as to be perfectly useless. They were then sent once more to England to be recast, and, strange to say, this delicate piece of work was performed by the descendants of the same firm which made them nearly a century and a half ago! They were recast from the same model, and perfected as nearly like the original as possible, and when finished were returned to Charleston, where they were detained in the custom-house for some time,the authorities being too poor to pay the duty, which amounted to several thousand dollars! These public boards are seldom public-spirited—red tapeism seems to tie down their sympathies, and strangle their patriotism. However, after all their vicissitudes, the bells were reinstated in their old place, and all Charleston went wild with excitement when the musical chimes rang out once more, seeming to tell their story in rhythmical rhyme! And when their brazen tongues again clashed out upon the ears of the people, who knows what other tales they told, or what mournful memories they sent echoing through the city, stirring all hearts like the roll of a muffled drum?
Both within and without, St. Michael’s is perhaps the most interesting of all the churches. Its preachers have always been men of note; enrolled among them are many who are now world-famous. There are places of worship for all denominations of sinners, who can choose their own road, through highways or by-ways, from this world to the next.
They can travel express through the mystic musical region of the highest of high churches, where the spiritual leader takes the train in hand and is answerable for all accidents by the way; or they may wander through quiet, peaceful meadow-lands, where only the voice of the shepherd calls their attention to the tinkling bells of salvation in the distance, whosemusic will ring out clearer and sweeter as they near the great beyond. Indeed, people may take their religion in any form they please; the means are abundantly supplied, from the undiluted draught of simple faith to the modest mixture of half-and-half measures, where soft music is falling, candles faintly burning—and always extinguished at the right moment—and on to the hottest, strongest spiritual essence, with incense burning, banners flying, and—why not?—drums, fifes, and trumpets playing on the march to celestial glory! And no doubt the Salvation Army will soon come streaming from the east, laden with patent piety warranted to cure the most diseased soul, and secure a front seat in the halls of heaven in a single day!—not without payment, though, for the “almighty dollar” plays a prominent part in these spiritual proceedings.
The many handsome churches and public buildings add largely to the attractions of Charleston, and are, to a certain extent, a reflex of the minds of the people. As the descendants of old families concentrate their energies and their pride on their ancestral home, so the good Charlestonians from generation to generation have devoted theirs to the glorification of their beloved city; and in erecting new buildings, public companies as well as private individuals, instead of building according to their own special taste, have had some regard to that oftheir neighbours; every stone has been laid thoughtfully one upon the other, not only with regard to its own features, but as a part of a whole, and in perfect harmony with the general aspect of the city. One building never mars the effect of the other; the eye is hurt by no incongruity of architecture, no false colouring, but everywhere is a pleasant blending of symmetrical forms and delicate tints. The effect upon the eye is the same as that of a perfect melody upon the ear—no slurred notes, no flat where a sharp should be, nothing jarring, no false rhythm anywhere.
In secluded streets as well as in the public quarter of many a large city the eye is often struck with discords in bricks and mortar, marble, or stone; each structure perhaps tasteful enough in itself, but the effect being marred, and marring by contrast the work of its neighbour.
Fancy the effect of knee-breeches and a tall beaver on the Apollo Belvedere, a flat nose on “Antinous,” or anez retrousséon the Venus of Milo!
The first question you are asked on entering a southern city is: “Have you been to the cemetery?”
This is one of the chief places of interest which everybody is anxious to point out; for next to the city of the living they cherish the city of their dead. It is here they come to while away their leisure hours, and bring the fresh flowers of every season to lay abovethe dust of their departed—for you seldom see an undecorated grave.
The Magnolia Cemetery is about three miles from the city; we pass first through a grand avenue to the German burial-ground, which is beautifully kept, with shining white walks winding among blooming flower beds and rare shrubberies, shaded by grand old oaks, clothed in their mantles of soft grey moss. Carved upon the headstones the solemn words “Her ruhet in Gott” meet the eye at every turn. Passing through this grave-garden, we soon come to the main entrance to Magnolia Cemetery; within the massive gates a colossal bell is suspended from a lofty scaffolding, which tolls slowly as the funeral approaches; a pretty Gothic chapel, where the services are held, stands to the left. Passing under the archway we come upon a few score of white wooden headstones, which stand like special guardians at the gates of death; beneath these lie the Federal dead. Farther on lies the wide Confederate burial-ground; here, side by side, and rank on rank, by hundreds—nay, by thousands—lie the soldiers of the lost cause sleeping their last sleep, happily unconscious of the ruin that fell on the land they loved before yet the grass grew over their graves. Few, very few, have an inscription to mark who rests beneath, but soft green hillocks swell in low waves on all sides of us; these hide the unknown dead, and over them are daisies and sweet wild flowersgrowing. Beyond these again lie the more fortunate, who have died at home, surrounded by friends and kindred, and fitly mourned in monuments of marble; there are symbolical urns and broken columns, groups of mourning friends in every possible or impossible attitudes of depression; there is a cherub blowing a trumpet as though striving to wake up the heavenly host with the news “another recruit is coming.” He is blowing so hard he seems to have blown himself out of his draperies, which are fluttering in the wind behind him, and weeping angels are drying their eyes with stony pocket-handkerchiefs, as though bemoaning that all the virtues of all the world lay perishing beneath them—at least, so says the inscription written there. As it always happens in the great cemeteries of north, south, east, and west, some of the departed are mourned in doggerel rhyme, some in ungrammatical prose. I think that many would rise up from their silent beds and wipe out these effusions if they could; but the dead have no remedy against the imbecilities of the living. One feels disposed to envy the unknown dead whose worth is chronicled and memory kept green in the hearts that loved them, with no marble monument to point the place where they lie “carved in dust.”
Passing through this silent world, we find ourselves in a wide white street which runs through the Catholic cemetery from east to west, in the centre and at thehighest point of which stands a gigantic black cross. Cedar and ash and willow trees are growing in picturesque masses; green shrubberies refresh the sight, and rich red and cream roses are blooming everywhere. The grave gardens here are laid out in various shapes and sizes—square, circular, triangular, &c.—like a geometrical puzzle spread over the ground. The simplest grave has a cross above it, sometimes of wood, of iron, or of stone; the symbol of Christianity, as though growing out from the hearts of the sleepers, is lifted on all sides.
The sun is shining, the sweet air blowing, and a look of serene calm and most perfect peace is smiling everywhere. How the vexed and troubled folk, who wander here to get away from the busy, noisy world, must long to creep down under the roses and hide from this world’s noisy strife, and lie beside the sleeper under the sod, with hands crossed, eyes closed, at rest for ever more. Here is a grave covered with “forget-me-nots,” and a cry—a hard, cold cry—written in stone, craving to be “kept green in men’s memories;” as though the dead could hope to be remembered, whenwewho are living have to lift up our voices and struggle to the front that we may not be forgotten even while we live! Tall costly shafts of granite, wreathed with everlasting flowers, prick the skies, and elaborate architectural designs are erected here and there; one has brass cannon at the gates and sabres crossed uponthe threshold, pointing the way the sleeper took to his death. After wandering about for some time we sit down to rest under a cedar tree, luxuriating in the sweet scent and bright colour of the waving flowerbeds, quite alone, as we thought, till a voice rather suggestive of “beer and skittles” came out of the silence:
“Nice weather, marm; things is sort o’ springin’ up everywheres, and some on ’em is full blowed, ain’t they?”
I look up; the owner of the voice has evidently just sidled round from the other side of the tree. He is an elderly man, with a ragged beard and patched clothing—the forlorn and decaying remnants of military glory; his face has a sodden, dissipated look, and his eyes a weak gin-and-watery appearance, anything but prepossessing. He was not exactly a nice kind of human ghoul to meet in such a solitary spot. I answered with an assenting smile or some kind of commonplace cheap civility, which evidently satisfied him, for he edged a little nearer, adding philosophically—
“Yes, it takes a good deal o’ sunshine to set things a startin’ out; sometimes I think I’d as lief be lyin’ down there in the dark as starvin’ up here in the sunshine—leastways the sun don’t always shine, not on me. I’ve been a soldier, marm,” he added with a slightly Irish accent, “and done my duty on many a gory field, and—oh! a—ah!”
He groaned a low guttural sort of groan—his feelings were evidently too much for him; he took out a red cotton handkerchief, shook it out for one moment as though unfurling a battle flag, then buried his face in it and boo-hoo’d behind it till his broad shoulders shook with emotion. I felt embarrassed. I was not sure I should not have that six feet of suffering manhood in another moment grovelling at my feet; but he recovered his mental equilibrium, replaced his handkerchief, shook his hat well forward on his head, and said somewhat irrelevantly but with a mournful intonation—
“‘Tain’t no use trying to cross yer fate. I’ve tried it, and it don’t answer; but one thing always puts me in mind of another; n’ flowers, n’ trees, n’ grass, n’ sich-like strikes me jist now as oncommon like human natur, for the sun o’ charity must shine on the human heart, before it will open up and give out the perfume from its inhuman pockets as it oughter—” There was a momentary and suspicious silence on my part; then my ragged and somewhat poetic philosopher added insinuatingly, “Yer don’t happen to hev a stray quarter hanging about yer clo’es anywheres? ’cause a sight of it would do me a deal o’ good.”
This ancient sinner wheedled the quarter out of my “clo’es,” and fearing lest he might move up his guns for another attack I got up and walkedaway a poorer and wiser woman, resolved never again to become the prey of a hoary impostor, but to fly from the first wag of his tongue as from the first clash of the tail of a rattlesnake.
We saunter on, and looking from the eastern point of Magnolia we have a magnificent panorama of the city and the clustering vessels afloat in the harbour, while stern and grim Fort Sumter looms in the distance; the white sails flutter to and fro, and dainty vessels curtsey to their own shadows reflected on the placid water; not a ripple stirs its surface, and the sun pours down a flood of silver on this sea of glass, lighting up and brightening the prospect all around, the purple pines and low-lying forts on the surrounding islands forming a charming background to the panoramic scene.
Charleston is reported by its inhabitants (and surely they ought to know) to be a perfectly healthy city, free from epidemics of any kind; if you dared to doubt it, all good Charlestonians would have you stoned to death on the spot. It certainlymaybe true within the limits of the city, but of its surroundings the healthfulness is more than doubtful. It lies low, and is surrounded by marshy lands, which at certain seasons of the year are covered with water—the overflow of the two rivers, Ashley and Cooper, which compass it on either side.
On returning through the suburbs from our visitto the cemetery, we come upon a very handsome house in a solitary situation, surrounded by a somewhat neglected garden and wide-spreading meadows. Leading to the entrance is an avenue of fine old English oaks, draped with grey Spanish moss. Although secluded, it has the spires and steeples and other prominent features of Charleston city in full view. It is in a state of perfect preservation, with no signs of dilapidation anywhere—it is simply deserted utterly both by man and beast. The dog kennels are empty, not a bird sings from the boughs, not even the domestic cat crouches upon the tiles or creeps along the weedy garden paths; even the stone lions which guard the entrance look in a damp depressed condition, as though they too would be glad to get away if they only could! On inquiring the cause of this desertion, I am answered:
“Oh, it belongs to a very fine family—they cleared out some weeks ago. They always leave in March and come back in October.”
“What a pity! It seems to me that they are away at the very pleasantest season.”
“But the most unhealthy; it is impossible to live about here during the summer months.”
“Malaria?” I hazard interrogatively.
“Worse—what we call country fever, which is more dangerous and often fatal. If it once getsthoroughly into the system people die of it, or are sufferers for life.”
Presently we are overtaken by waggon loads of men, both black and white—all singing merry rollicking songs, and driving at a rapid pace towards the city. We draw our modest vehicle to one side as they rattle and clatter past us. We then learn that they are the factory phosphate hands, driving back to their homes in the city. Although the phosphate works are only an hour’s distance from Charleston they are totally deserted every evening; not a single living creature remains upon the premises, as it is injurious to breathe the poisonous air after the sun has set, for then the noxious vapours rise and fill the air with disease and death. Over the extensive works, where the sound of pickaxe and shovel and whirring wheels and human voices are echoing all the day, a silence falls, and the malarial fiend wanders through its confined space seeking, but seeking in vain, for some human prey to torment and kill with its subtle kiss.
This lurking evil lies only in the one direction of the city; on the other side and extending round the harbour are some delightful summer resorts, Mount Pleasant and Sullivan Island being among the most prominent, both being easily reached by a pleasant river trip. The Ferry Company’s boats make the journey in about an hour, and make it many times in the day;but perhaps the loveliest of all Charleston’s surroundings is Summerville, which is reached by the South Carolina railway. It is situated in the heart of the pine woods, on a ridge which extends from the Ashley to the Cooper river; the climate is health-giving and invigorating, and in summer, though the days are warm, there is always a deliciously cool breeze in the evening, and there are no mosquitoes to make night horrible to the sleeper; it is serene and peaceful as a corner of the original paradise.
On our way to Fort Sumter we have to pass through the market, which is quite unique of its kind. It is a remarkably fine building in the form of a temple; the front faces Meeting Street, the most picturesque of all Charleston thoroughfares. Passing through a handsome lofty archway with a carved stone front and iron gates—now open, as the marketing operations are in full swing—we find ourselves in a long narrow corridor with groined roof and wide windows and doors on either side, where gawky, ill-looking buzzards are gathered, flapping their wings and feeding upon refuse.
As we walk up this narrow aisle piles of rich luscious fruit rise to the right and the left of us; there are hills of pine-apples, and yellow and red bananas, festoons of purple grapes, and mountains of strawberries, bushels of black and white currants, pumpkins, and that arch impostor, the great green water-melon,all artistically arranged, and forming a perfect mosaic of nature’s own colouring—only the rough red face of the honest British gooseberry is nowhere to be seen.
Next comes the vegetable department, where everything green looks crisp and fresh, with the diamond dew-drops still decorating the folded leaves, and everything coloured seems painted in Nature’s brightest hues. Dainty young carrots, and tiny turnips, looking like baby snowballs, are nestling among the sedate old cabbages, whose great white hearts seem enlarged almost to bursting; and the oyster and egg plant, unknown in European markets, are hiding among the common but useful rough-coated potato; and the delicate asparagus, with its purple tips and straight white stems, bound up in big bundles, the large and well-proportioned rallying round and covering up the crippled weaklings of their kind, and performing this manœuvre so artfully that the most Argus-eyed housekeeper is sometimes taken in by the false pretence. The scarlet runners and fine marrowfat peas seem bursting out of their skins with joy at being gathered at last; from the very moment when they first unfolded their pink and purple buds they have been forced to creep up and cling to those tormenting sticks, twisting and twining and working so hard, night and day, till they were tired of living, and would really have gone soon toseed, and once more hidden themselves in their native earth. Now they are at rest—they don’t know they are going to be boiled in an hour.
Here and there we come upon a silly-looking turtle lying on its back, its flabby flippers wriggling feebly as though trying to turn over and crawl back to its native element.
Next we arrive at the fish and poultry division. There are golden pats of butter dressed in white frills and ornamented with violets, which, it is said, impart to it a delicious fragrance and flavour; and eggs from all the feathery tribe, white and brown, speckled and light blue, are eternally rolling over, trying to crack one another’s shells with all their might. Here plump young chickens, who were unfortunate enough to be born in the early spring, are strung up beside their tough old grandfathers; and prairie hens, and other wild birds from desolate regions, hang with stretched necks and drooping wings above the slabs of white marble, where fish from all waters are spread in tempting array. The shining red mullet, and the fat ugly sheep’s-head, and even the humble red horse, lie side by side with the aristocratic salmon; and the poor little baby porker, slaughtered in its infancy, before it had even had time to wear a ring through its nose or grout in the gutter, is lying close by, stiff and stark, with a lemon in its mouth.
Framed, like a picture, by the archway at the opposite end of this long aisle, lie the sparkling waters of the bay, with the swelling green hills beyond, and the little wheezy vessel which is to take us to Fort Sumter bobbing up and down by the pier. The little steamer, with the stars and stripes fluttering front the masthead, is puffing and blowing and making a great fuss, plunging head foremost, and shrieking like an angry virago for us to make haste, as she is in a hurry to get away.
With the fresh breeze blowing in our faces, and the sun shining in our eyes, as only a Southern sun can shine, we step on board, and in another moment our brisk little convoy is dancing over the water like a joyous child released from school; it trembles and leaps like a living thing, and we almost fancy that its iron heart must be beating with a feeling of sentient enjoyment like our own.
All kinds and conditions of men are crowded round us—high and low, rich and poor; evidently we are all out for a holiday, and in the most perfectsang-froidfashion, and without the slightest ceremony, everybody talks to everybody else. A lady from the North sits beside me, and shading her complexion from the sun, softly drones into my ear her whole family history, from the birth of her first baby to the vaccination of her last. I learn that she is now travelling in search of health, and cannot findit—the farther she goes, the farther it flies from her.
“And yet,” she murmurs plaintively, “I know it must sometimes be quite near me, if I could only lay my hands upon it.” She talked of health as a thing to be caught on the “hold fast” or “let go” principle.
“It seems to be like a game of ‘hot boiled beans and butter,’”I remark somewhat flippantly, “only there is no one to tell you when you are growing ‘hot’ or ‘cold.’”
Why will people afflict their fellow-travellers with the history of their family troubles or personal ailments, and so indulge in a luxury which is even forbidden to hospital patients! Our sympathies cannot be worked like a fire-engine; it is impossible for the most sympathetic to pump up a sudden interest in Jeremiah’s gout or Matilda’s inward complications, especially when there are beautiful scenes and delicious airs around you, which you may have come thousands of miles to enjoy; but there are some people to whom nothing is attractive or interesting outside of that great ogre “self.”
With the exception of ourselves they were all Americans on board—men from the East, men from the West; some were for the first time making a tour through their own Southern States, but east and west, north and south, walked up and down the deck,side by side, fraternising in the most friendly fashion, chatting upon passing scenes, or talking quietly one with another, indulging in reminiscences of that long long ago, when the links of brotherhood had been for a time broken. Close by was an old man with a stubbly grey beard and a mangy fur cap, that looked like a drowned kitten tied round his head; he had gathered a few hoary-headed comrades round him, and they were talking of old days, fighting their battles over again, setting up their guns, and drawing plans upon the deck. So, as the future narrows and closes round us, we are driven to the past for comfort. Flashes of sentiment and scraps of conversation were floating round us, and the very air seemed impregnated with a subtle something that was new and strange to us. While looking round upon this pleasant peaceful scene, the white sails dipping and coquetting with their own shadow in the water, the soft green hills and the grim old forts beyond, all bathed in peaceful sunshine, it is impossible but the mind will travel back to the day when the air was filled with lurid battle smoke, and the cannon stationed all around the shore belched forth blazing fires, while a hundred hungry, angry tongues of flame leapt from their iron mouths. Just such a calm as this lay upon the city the day the first gun was fired, though the passions of men were brooding below like a strong and silent tide, which is soon to overflow and floodthe nations. A Carolinian poet thus describes the scene, and the vivid picture is present to-day as it was then:—
“Calm as the second summer which precedesThe first fall of the snow,In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds,The city hides the foe.As yet, behind their ramparts stern and proud,Her bolted thunders sleep—Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud,Looms o’er the solemn deep.No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scar,To guard the holy strand;But Moultrie holds in leash the dogs of war,Above the level sand.”
“Calm as the second summer which precedesThe first fall of the snow,In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds,The city hides the foe.As yet, behind their ramparts stern and proud,Her bolted thunders sleep—Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud,Looms o’er the solemn deep.No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scar,To guard the holy strand;But Moultrie holds in leash the dogs of war,Above the level sand.”
“Calm as the second summer which precedesThe first fall of the snow,In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds,The city hides the foe.As yet, behind their ramparts stern and proud,Her bolted thunders sleep—Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud,Looms o’er the solemn deep.No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scar,To guard the holy strand;But Moultrie holds in leash the dogs of war,Above the level sand.”
We pass by “Sullivan Island,” girdled by its beach of golden sand, with a beadwork of white foam embroidered in living light fringing the shore, and its pretty homes surrounded by lovely gardens and farmsteads, and tall church steeples, gleaming in the sunshine. We have but a distant view of Fort Moultrie, which is a striking feature on the low-lying land, but we have no time to pay it a visit, our hearts and our eyes too are anchored on Fort Sumter, and thitherward our saucy vessel turns its head, a crazy plank is flung to the shore, and we land at last. Federals and confederates, foreigners and strangers, saunter on together.
There is little of the old fort standing; it is a ruin now—a grim picturesque rugged ruin, almost levelledto a mound of rock and sand; desolation, with its empty socketless eyes, stares from the narrow loopholes, where twenty years ago there flashed the fiery orbs of war. We descended, or rather scrambled, down a flight of broken steps—it seemed we were going into the bowels of the earth—peeped into what looked like dark, narrow graves, where the men used to lie, smothered and half stifled, while they worked their guns, and living through this death in life for four long years, they came out of their darkness to the light of the sun to find their martyrdom had been in vain—their cause was lost. But the gates are closed upon all these things, and God keeps the key.
The great Salt Marsh.—A break down.—We reach Savannah.—Fancy sketches.—The forest city.—A Gossip with the Natives.—Cross questions and crooked answers.
The great Salt Marsh.—A break down.—We reach Savannah.—Fancy sketches.—The forest city.—A Gossip with the Natives.—Cross questions and crooked answers.
Onthe sweetest of spring mornings, when the sunshine seems to reach down into our hearts, and the soft breeze stirs our pulse and sets our thoughts playing a jubilant melody, while our hearts sing a soft sweet song that the ears hear not, and that our own spirits can but dimly comprehend—we turn our back on the quaint old city of Charleston, and resume our journey South.
Squatting about the platform of the railway station we find groups and whole families of negroes, or, as they are now more respectfully called, “coloured folk,”—from the queer little black ball of a baby, to the withered old grandmother with a face notched and scarred, as though time had kept his calendar and scored the passing years in wrinkles, till they all run one into the other, and the face was made up of nothing else. They are dressed, as is the custom oftheir kind, in all the colours of the rainbow, and are heavily laden with baskets of fish, fruit, vegetables, and bundles of their personal belongings, with their “piccaninnies” sprawling at their feet and crawling in and out like little black eels. We are struck with an idea, almost a dread, that they are going to ride in our car—not that we object to the colour of “God’s image carved in ebony,” but their neighbourhood is not odorous.
“We has second class on dis line,” said the porter, in answer to our inquiries, “and dey be gwine dere; dey’s no company for white folk—not clean, nor nice in dey’s manners. I’s black myself, but I knows dem folk’s no company for ladies and gen’l’men.”
With much tumbling, and clutching their brood together, they scrambled into their appointed places, in a seedy-looking car adjoining ours, and we are off; the city spires and steeples fade from our view, and our faces are set towards Georgia. We are well beyond the region of the maple trees now; but forests of pine and cypress, dashed here and there with the snow-white blossoms of the dogwood, close on all sides of us, except where our narrow iron path makes its way through them. Soon we come to an open clearing, where the forest trees have been cut down and timber huts built up; this is a wood station, and mountains of logs are piled on each side. Here we stop to feed our engine, while a diversified companyof wild hogs—gaunt, lean, hungry-looking creatures, all legs and heads, like swinish tramps who get their living in the woods—gather and grunt in herds almost under our car wheels, and goats with large families of youthful nannies and billies stand staring mildly in the background, now and then playfully butting one another.
We are soon off again; racks of wood are stationed at certain distances all along the line, coal being scarce in these localities, and wood much lighter of digestion. Our hungry engine insists on having four square meals a day, and even then grows weak and feeble, and demands a snack in between; it slackens, and snorts, and grumbles, till the driver, often aided by the passengers (who seem to enjoy the fun), gets down and cuts a few dainty branches just to appease its appetite, and coax it on to the next station.
We pass through the great salt marsh, where the grand old pines, rank on rank, are standing with their roots in pickle, and their half bald heads fringed with green lifted heavenwards. A bush fire has broken out somewhere in the distance, and the flames come leaping along the surface of the marsh, with a blue, lurid-looking light, feeding upon whatever they can find; now they glide in graceful spiral lines, like fiery serpents round the trunk of some grand old tree, and leave it a charred and blackened stump.
As the evening shadows fall we enter the cypressswamps; the dusky forms of the forest giants stand stiff and stark in the gloaming, making up a weird and somewhat romantic scene. Night closes in, the great golden moon climbs slowly into the purple skies, and the balmy evening air has a delicious fragrance as though it came from worlds unknown. But with all its sombre subtle charm, a cypress swamp is not exactly the place one would choose to break down in, and just here our engine, which has been crawling and groaning like a crippled maniac for the last half hour, elects to stop short. She (I believe engine is feminine) stops, and shows no sign of ever intending to move again.
Americansang-froidis difficult to disturb, but on this occasion the passengers deign to manifest some interest in the cause of the delay. They bombard the conductor with questions, and skirmish round the engineer, sending their suggestions flying round his devoted head, till a peremptory order is given, and they are driven back into the cars with some loss of patience. As if by magic, a breakdown gang is soon gathered round the engine—heaven knows where they came from, whether they dropped from the skies, or emerged from the bowels of the earth, for human habitation thereabout seemed impossible, unless they had built a nest high up in the dark cypress boughs.
Meanwhile various editions of the cause of our delayare freely circulated. One piece of official information at last reaches us: The mainspring of our engine is broken. One reports that they are making a new one; another that they are mending the old one. “No, they are propping it up with a piece of wood,” says a third. “That’s impossible,” cries another unlicensed authority; “the idea of an engine hobbling on wooden legs!” Then begins a game at speculation, and we all take a hand: “How long shall we be kept there?” “Perhaps all night—perhaps all day!” “Will they send help to us?” “They can’t, there’s only a single line of rail, and no telegraph near.”
Then some of our fellow travellers begin to relate, at the top of their voices, a chapter of the worst accidents that have ever happened anywhere or to anybody, ending with the relation of a terrible catastrophe which happened only a week ago, when the trestle work, which runs for six miles across the Savannah river a little further on, gave way, and the whole train was precipitated into the river—“not a soul saved,” adds the narrator with great gusto.
Meanwhile everybody is getting hungry; and buns, biscuits, and morsels of stale crumbly cake are fished up from bags or baskets. I have nothing to fish up from anywhere, and a good Samaritan gives me an orange and a piece of rye bread; never was voluntary contribution more thankfully received. Presently a plausible youth comes along the car selling cold hard-boiledeggs. Where he comes from, where he got, or how he cooked his eggs is a mystery; but hunger bids us hasten to invest in his wares. Alas! he and his eggs prove a delusion and a snare! The eggs we throw out of the window—but the deceiver has disappeared.
By degrees the clatter of tongues ceases; silence falls over us. Alligators and frogs are croaking in the swamps; I don’t know which croaks loudest; their language seems so similar, I can hardly tell one from the other. Everybody regards the situation with irritating good temper, nobody grumbles. Are the true Americans ever heard to complain, I wonder? They are patient, cheerful always, and stoical and philosophical as Red Indians. Oh, for a good British growl! I lift my voice feebly once or twice, but am shamed into silence by the example of my companions.
Presently we begin to move, and slowly as a royal progress we roll on towards Savannah. When we reach it the small hours of the morning are already far on the march and we go supperless to bed. On taking a survey of our surroundings by daylight we have reason to be very well satisfied with our quarters. We have two large sunny rooms, most comfortably furnished, opening on to a wide verandah overgrown with greenery, which is luxuriant everywhere South.
A few words here concerning the accommodation fortourists which is to be found in all Southern cities. On first setting our faces thitherward we received a mass of gratuitous information—all of which we acceptedcum grano salis. We were neither disposed to be led nor misled by friendly counsels. “There are no decent hotels—nothing but ramshackle old buildings, mere refuges for the destitute.”
“Where you’ll always find lively companionship—especially by night.”
“Perhaps an alligator in the morning, or a comfortable moccasin or black snake coiling round your feet to get themselves warm.”
“A family of young roaches six inches long flying out of your shoe as you go to put your foot into it.”
“Nothing to eat but tough steaks, and hominy fried in fat, or rusty bacon served in its own grease.”
“Alligator soup is a rare dainty.”
“And they’ll dish up a rattlesnake into a tasty ragout. No fresh milk—no fresh meat—nothing but tallow-fried steak; ground beans in your coffee-cup in the morning.”
These fancy sketches, however, bore not the slightest resemblance to the actual truth; they were born of atoolively imagination, with no experience to keep it from rambling into the realms of fiction. Inallthe Southern cities we visited there was most excellent hotel accommodation to be found, though the hotels are not as a rule, either so large or luxurious as those inother portions of the United States. There are fewer grand corridors, less velvet upholstery, less carving and gilding and gorgeous mirrors; but the rooms are large, airy, and conveniently furnished, and nowhere is a comfortable lounge or rocking-chair found wanting. The cuisine is not always such as to tickle the palate of an epicure, or gratify the taste of a gourmet. There is no attempt (and how often in the most pretentious hotels it isonlyan attempt) at French cookery—noentrées, no “high falutin” arrangements at the dinner table; but there is generally good soup, a great variety of excellent fish and vegetables, poultry, fruit, and pies, and puddings, and most delicious crisp salads of all descriptions—and what can a whole-souled, hungry mortal desire more? No one with a healthy appetite and good digestion will complain of Southern fare, to which Southern courtesy imparts perhaps its sweetest savour.
There are plenty of wild fowl, but a scarcity of all such animal food as beef or mutton, in consequence of there being so little grazing land, and that little is of very poor quality; the cattle they do raise is of the most inferior order—Pharaoh’s lean kine; and as they are not able to satisfy their own appetites, are not qualified to gratify ours. The native meats are tough and flavourless. Private families get along very well with the articles of consumption enumerated above. The good sirloin or succulent saddle is rarelyseen upon their tables, though the hotels import largely; indeed, throughout Georgia, Carolina, &c., the substantials are always supplied from the eastern states. Our bill of fare reads thus:—“Tennessee beef,” “Boston pork,” “New York mutton,” and even “New York lamb.”
On a sunny morning we take our first ramble through the “forest city” of Savannah, and how well it deserves the name! It seems to have grown out of the very heart of the “forest primeval,” whose giant progeny still keep guard over the nest of human kind. Whichever way we turn, we look through long vistas of shady streets crossing each other at right angles; at each of these crossings, throughout the entire city, is an open space laid out as a pretty little pleasaunce or toy garden, carpeted with soft turf and tiny beds of bright flowers, and sometimes planted with green shrubberies, while the fine old forest trees, which time and civilisation have left standing, spread their wide branches for colonies of wild birds to build and sing in. These spaces are like slightly improved miniature editions of Paddington Green, but every one, though it be but twelve foot square, is dignified by the name of “park.”
Some of the widest thoroughfares have four rows of trees planted the entire length, the branches here and there meeting overhead, forming a perfect archway, while the open street cars on the CentralAvenue beneath seem to carry us along through primeval bowers of luxuriant green; we can hardly believe that anything so prosaic as “iron rails” supply part of the motive power.
We find these open street cars a most convenient and pleasant mode of locomotion, and spend much time riding about the city in this democratic fashion, for the streets are ill-kept and dusty, and the roadways sometimes a foot deep with heavy sand, so that it is impossible either to walk or drive in a private vehicle with any comfort. Once we are attracted by big red letters painted on a car side “Concordia,” “Forsyth Park.” Everybody says we must go there; we take everybody’s advice, and, as usual, find “nothing in it.” Concordia is a fine name for a small tea-garden; Forsyth is a pretty shady spot, though it might be railed into a small corner of Kensington Gardens; but the warm southern breeze, and the oleander, orange, lemon, and magnolia—although the latter is not yet in bloom—have made our short expedition a most agreeable one.
There is little architectural beauty anywhere in the city or its surroundings—scarcely any attempt at ornamentation. The houses are made up of doors and windows on the strictest utilitarian principles.
The natural beauties of this Arcadian city are so great they don’t seem to care at all for the embellishments of art. Among the pleasant drives inthe city suburbs, is one to Laurel Grove. We step from the cars at the terminus, and inquire of an old negro our way to the nearest point of interest. He regarded us a moment with his beady black eyes, with his head on one side like an inquisitive old bird. “Why! why! I thought everybody know’d everywheres about Laurel Grove. But maybe you don’t live nigh Savannah—come a long ways, perhaps?” he added curiously.
We explained our nationality.
“My lord! England!” I wish I could paint the expression of astonishment, curiosity, and interest that overspread his good-humoured old monkey face as he added, inspecting us admiringly, “My! Think o’ that! I never spoke to an English lady but once before. It’s a cold country over thar, ain’t it?”
The old man seems inclined to talk, and I am disposed to encourage his loquacity; so much information may be gained in those gatherings by the wayside—one feels the pulse of the spirit of the people, and learns which way their hearts are beating. It is wiser to feed upon such crumbs as chance throws in our way, than to wait till a full banquet of stereotyped facts are spread before us. He asked me many questions, which I answered in the way best suited to his understanding; then I began a short catechism on my side. He was very communicative, and answered me frankly enough. He had been borna slave, he said, on a cotton plantation a few miles from the city, and in the season still worked for his old master.
“But since you are now free,” I inquire, “why don’t you go North, and break all connection with the old life? surely you would find more advantageous employment and opportunities for improvement there?”
“Na, na,” said the old man, “we never go North; the Yankees set’s free and gie’s votes, but it ain’t home-like to us thar. We likes to stay along o’ them as we was raised wi’; ole mass’rs know all ’bout us, n’ we know all about them.”
We found the changes rung to the same tune with but slight variation throughout the South. The coloured people will serve their old masters, will ask their advice and guidance, go to them for consolation in their trouble, and seek their assistance when they are in difficulties; but they will not vote for them, nor in any way serve their political influence. They seem to have a hazy notion that they might be taken back into slavery; they cannot realise that such a thing is impossible, nor can they understand that their masters are glad to be rid of the responsibility which slavery imposed upon them. The masters rejoice in their freedom as much as the slaves do in theirs.
Beautiful in itself, beautiful in its surroundings,Savannah is an ideal city for a summer lounge, with its pleasant shady promenades and myriad miniature parks, thronged with people who are always well dressed but never loud in their attire; there is a quiet refinement and dignity about them which savours of old world conservatism.
A host of good fairies seem to have been hovering round at the birth of Savannah. In 1733 the city consisted of only a few tents pitched under the pine trees between what is now Bull and Whitaker Streets, now it is one of the most thriving cities of the South; both wharves and quays are crowded with men and merchandise, for a brisk and flourishing business is carried on in the timber and cotton trade. It is a most important commercial centre, both its imports and exports being on a largely increasing scale.
It is impossible not to enjoy thoroughly a saunter through this Arcadian city, a chat with the natives included. We were constantly amused by finding ourselves playing at a forced game of “cross questions and crooked answers,” our inquiries on any subject never receiving a direct reply. In years gone by I had a passing pleasant acquaintance with a family who lived in Savannah, but who, I afterwards learnt, were then sojourning in England for a time. It would have given me great pleasure to renew the acquaintance, and I inquire of the hotelclerk if Mr. —— is still living in Savannah?
“Ain’t seen him for a long while; think he’s dead or gone to Europe, but I’ll ask.” He telephones the inquiry to some invisible party, and a sepulchral voice answers back—
“Don’t know—but Peter Green he died last week.”
The connection between the deceased Peter Green and my acquaintance, Mr. ——, I have yet to learn. Another time we ask—
“Which is the car for Thunderbolt?” and are promptly answered,
“That red un is startin’ right away for Laurel Grove.” I inquire the way to the railway station, and am directed to the river side. I ask about the morning train, and am answered with detailed information about the evening express. However, on sternly reiterating my question, and emphasising the note of interrogation, I sometimes succeeded in at last receiving the desired information.
No one should leave Savannah without visiting the ancient cemetery of Buonaventura, the former residence of a fine old family, which passed from their hands many years ago, and after undergoing many changes has been at last converted into a cemetery. On entering the noble avenue, and passing beneath the arching glories of the grand old oaks, with their long weird robes of Spanish moss, it is difficult to believe that we are entering a city of the dead, by whom indeed it is very sparsely populated, the gravesare so few and far between; one can almost fancy that the dead had wandered thither, and moved by the sublime repose of the place had lain down to rest, while nature wrapped them round about with her soft mantle of green, and showered her sweet-scented wild flowers above them. There is a profound mournfulness too hovering around these silent, solitary avenues, where groups of sombre giant trees stand brooding and wrapped in their grey moss mantles, with drooping arms, and hoary heads bent low together, as though they were whispering mysteries, holding a solemn council, and pronouncing the eternal sentence on the dead below.
There is nothing prosaic or commonplace about Savannah; it is a perfectly idyllic city, primitive and simple in its ways, with no stir of frivolous worldly gaieties to rouse it from its sublime repose. No sound of drums and trumpets runs echoing through its streets; the only music is that which the wind makes as it whistles in many monotones through the tall tree tops, and calls soft melodies from the tremulous leaves, as the ancient god Pan made music by the reedy waterside. It is not grey with age, nor marred and scarred by the hand of time; it seems to luxuriate in eternal youth, and live a dreamy life of unaltered poetry and sunshine. Even that most prosaic of all institutions, the police station, is in perfect unison with the rest of this Arcadian city; it seemsto have nothing to do but drone away its hours in one ceaselessdolce far niente, as though the ugly serpent sin crawled low down out of sight—perhaps stirring the hearts, but rarely inciting the acts of the people. There seems to be a great scarcity even of small sinners. It is a low, clean, brick building in a cool shady part of the city; covered with climbing plants and held close in the embrace of an ancient vine, which twines in and out of every nook and cranny as though it could never be torn away but with the life of the building.
Well, our last day in this forest city closes; the mocking bird, that sings only in the dark, holds its last concert on our verandah, and we are sung to sleep by the sharp cutting cries of a family of youthful alligators which some northern tourists are taking home in a tank.