Retrospective.—A critical conductor.—Montgomery.—Train wreckers at work.—Weird scenes in the moonlight.—Silent watchers.—“Wild Cat” train to New Orleans.
Retrospective.—A critical conductor.—Montgomery.—Train wreckers at work.—Weird scenes in the moonlight.—Silent watchers.—“Wild Cat” train to New Orleans.
Inthe light of the early morning we bid adieu to Florida, its fruits, its flowers, its sunshine and its people. We have found our own country-people largely represented in all parts of the state, and everywhere they are doing well, and look healthy, happy, bright and contented; and on all sides we see evidence of their thrift, industry, and general prosperity. We inquire to whom belongs some lovely extensive orange groves, or some picturesque luxurious dwelling, and we are told to “some English settlers,” who perhaps began with a shanty in the wilderness, and have transformed it into an earthly paradise of peace and plenty. Then a thriving farm, with its abundant cattle, its corn or cotton-fields, and peach or pine orchards stretching away till they are lost in the distance; the farmer is a man from the “old country”—in fact, wherever the Anglo-Saxonspirit stirs, prosperity follows: “When he sets his hand to the plough he doeth it with all his might.” There are very few Irish in Florida, in fact so few that when the familiar accent greets our ears it sounds strange to us in these latitudes, and we turn round to look at the speaker. Their scanty numbers is somewhat surprising, as nowhere could the tide of immigration set in with such promise of success; indeed here is a veritable “Tom Tiddler’s ground,” it needs but the shovel and pickaxe to turn over the soil, when all who will may “pick up the gold and silver.” The foreign element is altogether rather conspicuous from its absence, for there is but a poor sprinkling of German settlers, and the Latin races are scarcely represented at all; even the Spaniards who once were rulers in the land have left but here and there a solitary specimen of their races, and they are not often to be found in the great army of workers. A little fruit, a little corn—such as can be obtained by little labour—contents them; they have no ambition, either for the advancement of themselves, or of their children who follow in their footsteps, and live as their parents lived; if they can sit and smoke and dream under their own fig-tree their cup of happiness is full. English and Americans contribute the greater portion of the population; the stream of immigration has set in from every state in the Union, but New Englandappears to be the state most largely represented; nearly all the railroads, steamboats, factories, &c., are the outcome of New England and New York enterprise, brains, and capital.
Coloured labour is generally used, both in the house and in the fields, gardens, and groves, but it is uncertain and unsatisfactory in its results; and the immigration of a few thousand of the quiet, industrious, reliable Chinese would be cordially welcomed throughout the State of Florida. They may have their drawbacks and be undesirable as citizens, but as mechanical or field labourers or house servants they are unsurpassed, being quiet, civil, obedient and obliging; set against these good qualities their propensity for petty pilfering and lying; but these vices once acknowledged, you can prepare for or guard against them; their industry and faithful labour may always be relied on. Many other nations have their vices without their redeeming qualities. There is very little crime, comparatively, in Florida; assaults or robberies are of infrequent occurrence. This is perhaps to be wondered at, as the houses are so few and far between, and every facility exists for the operations of tramps or burglars, but tramps and burglars are almost unknown; if any of that genus ventures to interfere with the honest working population a rough-and-ready kind of popular justice speedily overtakes the evil-doer.
The difference between the people here in the extreme South and those in the extreme West is very remarkable. Here the stream of life flows on in peaceful untroubled calm, it moves with a decorous quiet, is never in a hurry; they till the soil, and sow, and reap, prune, and plant in a leisurely fashion. They have made their homes and settled down there and mean to stay. There is no vexatious hurrying to and fro, no sudden influx of strangers from all lands, pouring in and overspreading the country, bringing with them a whirl of evil passions, with murder in their train, each elbowing the other, trampling down all rule and order in their eager thirst for gold! Here there is no excitement, no mines to develop, no visions of sudden fortunes to be grasped in a lucky hour, no rush of eager anxious men in flannel shirts, top-boots, sombreros, armed with knives and revolvers, such as we often see even in the cities of the west; there is no gambling with fate, no endeavour to cheat fortune’s blind old eyes. Here the dignity of labour, as “when Adam delved and Eve span,” asserts itself supreme. Men know that to conscientious labour will come success, with prosperity and ease in the near distance. Well, we say farewell to this land of promise with regret, and once more we establish ourselves on our pleasant Pullman car, and areen routefor New Orleans.
One of our casual acquaintances accompanies us tothe station, loads us with heaps of good wishes and a basket of beautiful flowers; we exchange a pleasant farewell, and the train moves slowly off. We take our last look at the majestic river, whereon we have passed so many delightful hours; it is clothed with a silver sheen, and ripples and sparkles and flashes in the royal light of the sun. The little Palatka steamer, with a single white sail fluttering from its masthead, puffs fussily on its way, bearing a fresh freight of happy tourists on their way to the wonderful Ocklawaha—as it bore us only a few days ago; for a moment it seems to be racing with us, then we pass out of sight. We take a last look at the pretty embowered city of Jacksonville, and then proceed to decorate our section with flowers, have a table set up, get out our books and a little idle needlework, and settle ourselves comfortably in our travelling home.
The car is almost empty, and the few companions we have are of the masculine order; the touristical element is absent. Our companions, judging from, their conversation, are all Texan farmers who have been on a trip through Florida, combining business with pleasure, investigating the land generally, seeing how they could improve their own possessions; and gathering up hints and facts and scraps for future use. One talked of giving up his cattle ranch in Texas, and migrating to Florida altogether.
“Steers and heifers, and such-like are well enough raisin’,” he said, “but them cattle lifters are always about, and keep us a little too lively all the time. When we go to bed at night we are never sure we sha’n’t find our cattle driven off in the morning, and then—well, there’s generally a little shootin’ before we can get ’em back. I’ve seen so much of that sort of thing that now I’m getting an old man I’m tired of it. It seems all so quiet and peaceful down Florida, no lifters nor raiders thereabouts. I think,” he added, after a pause, “I shall turn my cattle into orange groves.”
The conversation generally turned upon agricultural matters, in which, of course, they were all deeply interested—in fact, so interested, that they interested us. We could not help observing how much better educated they seem to be than the same class at home. Two lively young fellows entered into a brisk discussion as to the relative superiority of their different States. One, a tall, lanky, loose-jointed specimen, was a landowner in “Alabama”—or “Alabawmer,” as he called it, with a by no means unpleasant drawl; the other was a restless, eager-eyed young Texan, as full of quips and cranks as a young monkey. He seemed to regard life generally as a good joke, and turned everything into a laugh; sometimes the laugh was against himself, but he was shrewd and sensible enough, though he had a queer,quaint way of handling his subject. It was a pleasant journey on the whole; their rough-and-ready talk was amusing, and gave us a new view of life in the wilds. Their account of the various methods of cultivating lands in the different States was most interesting, and we wish we could drop these grains of useful knowledge among those who could benefit by it. The seeds we sow and the harvests we gather have little to do with the agricultural interests.
Our conductor, as usual, when he has leisure from his official duties, lounges across to our section and enters into a pleasant conversation with us. He discusses the social, political, and literary questions of the day with sound good sense and much discrimination. He opens his stores of knowledge freely, and shows us through every department of his mind; as one door shuts he opens another, takes a header, and plunges from one subject to another without any preliminary leading up thereto; he seems determined to make the best use of his time, and show us how much worldly and intellectual gossip can be gathered in the wilds of Alabama. He reminds us of the clever tradesman who conducts you through the warehouse where all his best goods are on exhibition. He embellished his conversation with poetical quotations from Tennyson and Shakespeare, and occasionally fished up from the depths of his memory a mysterious passage of Browning and tried to make sense of it.He endeavoured, but failed, to extract the poet’s meaning from the conglomerated mass of fine phrases and high-sounding words with which he had scrupulously clothed and concealed it, as though he never intended anybody ever should find it out; and, indeed, if he entered on the quest, might have some difficulty in finding it out himself. Our conductor appears to be a devotee of the drama, too, and is not disposed to hide his light under a bushel. He waxed critical on the subject of Modjeska’s Juliet and Bernhardt’s Camille; he had seen both once when he had been travelling East. The time passed so pleasantly that we were sorry when his duties called him away, but they did not very often. Our agricultural companions evidently thought our conversation frivolous and foolish, and occasionally snorted a disapproving snarl about play-acting.
As there are no dining cars attached to this train, meals are served at stated places. At Waycross we get an excellent supper—a thoroughly enjoyable and satisfactory meal. Some of our fellow-travellers, having been deluded into the belief that nothing eatable was to be had on the road, abstracted from the bowels of their baskets stale sandwiches, crumpled buns, and mashed fruits, a delightful provision against starvation, which had got considerably mixed during the journey.
We reach Montgomery about eight o’clock in theevening, and there we have to wait two hours for the New Orleans train. It is not often we have these long dreary waits by the wayside; as a rule the correspondence between the trains is arranged so as to avoid this inconvenience. However, we have to wait now, and had best bear the annoyance patiently. We take a walk through the dimly-lighted town, indulge in a little characteristic gossip with the natives, and the time soon passes; it is useless to fret and fume over the unavoidable—travelling has taught us that much. On our return to the “waiting-room” (so called by courtesy, for it is a mere shed with a few wooden benches), our attention is attracted by a young woman who is seated in a dusky corner; she has a fractious child about a year old in her arms, and in a tired voice is telling somebody of the long weary journey she has had, and—
“Now,” she continues, with a low sob in her voice, “I have to go on a common car all the way to New Orleans. I cannot get a sleeping berth; I have just been to the office, and they say they are all taken.”
I doubt this, as I have just had a choice of two; I volunteer to go and see what I can do in the matter, and succeed in securing for her the last berth. As soon as we enter the car I see that the woman iscoloured; perhaps this is the reason of her failure.One or two of our fellow passengers look on her askant, as coloured people are not generally taken on the Pullman cars, but no one was inhuman enough to take exception to her presence.
There is a stir, a momentary confusion in finding and settling ourselves in our different sections; if we would only be guided by the calm official mind, we should be guided thereto in less time and with less trouble. We are both tired and sleepy, and in an incredibly short time are in our closely-curtained berths fast asleep, wandering through the land of nod.
Suddenly we are violently shaken out of our sleep. Jerk! crash! and we stand still. Doors open and shut, men pass hastily to and fro, the gentlemen tumble out of their berths; soon everybody is astir, and mysterious whispers and wonderings pass from one to another. “We’re off the line,” says one; “The train’s wrecked;” “Any body hurt?” “It’s brigands,” etc. We are in the last car, fortunately for us, and we step out on to the platform to ascertain for ourselves what is really the matter. A polite unknown voice issues from the darkness—
“Would you like to see the wreck?” it inquires. Yes, we would like it very much; and two chivalrous but invisible escorts receive us as we alight in a mud bank (where we nearly leave our shoes), and half lead and half support us as we stumble along the track.There lies the engine—a wreck among its expiring fires—the tender smashed beside it; the two foremost cars are off the line, toppling sideways but not absolutely turned over. Our car, the last, was the only one that kept the rails—this accounts for the mere shaking the accident caused us. The occupants of the forward cars were very much shaken; the baggage master had his shoulder dislocated, but no one was seriously hurt. We were all indebted for our providential escape to the presence of mind of our engine driver, who, on feeling his engine jerk off the line, reversed it, whistled “down brakes,” and having done all that could be done for saving us, jumped from the engine and saved himself. On farther inquiry we learn that our accident is believed to be no accident at all, but the work of “train wreckers,” who have removed the rails, and are no doubt lurking in the surrounding wilds, biding their time to swoop down and rob the train—a little game they are rather fond of playing in this part of the country. We are prepared for them, however. The gentlemen, who are all well armed, turn out of the train, every one of them, join the officials, and watch with them through the night. Meanwhile we are locked into the cars, assured of safety, and solemnly adjured to retire to rest, as we shall have to be astir at four o’clock in the morning.
A great fire of pine logs is kindled on the track,and the dusky figures of our volunteer guard pass to and fro, now illuminated by the red glare of light, then vanishing like shadowy spectres into the darkness, and the white watery moon peering out from a ragged mass of leaden clouds, or hiding behind them, gives the whole scene a weird look, like a living illustration torn out from some dead romance. There is no talking, no sound, only the solitary figures of the watchers stalking to and fro in the mysterious gloom. In the soft grey dawn of the morning we are roused (though indeed few of us need rousing, we too have been silent watchers through the night). We make a hasty toilet, gather our belongings together, descend from the cars, and walk along the line to meet the New Orleans train which has been signalled to stop, and is already disgorging its living freight. The alighting passengers meet us face to face with scared inquiring looks, as wondering why they have been roused from their sleep so early. The sight of our dilapidated train explains the mystery, and our sleepy melancholy processions pass each other by; they go east by the train which has been sent from Montgomery to meet them, and we enter the cars they have vacated. On viewing our wrecked train by the morning light we realise more completely the danger we have passed through.
The transfer of baggage and passengers is soon made, and by the time the beautiful sun has openedlike a rich red rose in the east, we are once more on our way towards New Orleans.
All the usual transit arrangements have been thrown out of gear by our accident, and we have to run on what is called “a wild cat train,” that is to say, we have no time of our own, and have to get along as well as we can, without any legitimate chum to the “right of the road.” We shriek and whistle, and wriggle along for a few minutes, and then are ignominiously shunted; our engine gasps, and swallows its own smoke, and droops its iron wings in a most forlorn condition; even the fireman hides his face, as the triumphant express dashes joyously by, as though rejoicing in our humiliating condition. Even the usually despised freight train passesus. We are something lower than an “immigrant train”—we are a “wild cat.” We struggle on a little farther and then are signalled out of the way again; we are always backing, pulling up short, and being shunted into unexpected sidings—never knowing what we are going to do from one moment to another, or where we shall get anything to eat, or whether we shall have to starve till we get to New Orleans. Sometimes during this weary waiting we get out and promenade the track; it is rather rough walking, and we don’t do too much of it. Or if we are brought to a standstill in the wilderness, we ramble for half-an-hour through the sweet wet woods, for the gentlerain has bathed the tall trees and brought out the perfume of the wild flowers, and clothed all the wooded wonders with a dainty freshness. Who cares to wander through the hot dry woods in the scorching summer time, when the thirsty trees droop their long branches as though trying to reach the running water, whose gentle gurgling they hear from afar off; and the pale flowers, sick and sorely laden with their own perfumes, open their parched lips prayerfully and wait for the freshening rain? Well, it has fallen to-day, and the wild woods are chirping with vigorous life—birds, and shrubs, and flowers, and all the insect world, fresh from their showery bath, are waking and whirring joyously in the soft sunshine; then we come upon a clump of magnolia trees, whose long buds are slowly opening into flower, and somebody presents me with a magnolia as large as a young cabbage.
About twelve o’clock we pull up at a desolate-looking village; people come out of their cottages, pigs and children tumbling one over the other, to stare at this sudden irruption of humanity, at this hour when no respectable train is expected to be on the road. We alight, and are marshalled through numerous tumble-down cottages to a dilapidated hotel—a cross between an Irish shanty and a low class refreshment bar. Here we get a meal, or at least a substitute for one; we are all too hungry to pay much attention to the qualityof the food, provided we get enough of it. The landlady, in large hoop earrings and a draggled print gown, received us at the stair-head, and with apologies for the poor entertainment she is able to afford us, on the ground of the exceptional nature of the occasion; it is the very first time a train has come to a standstill in this primitive part of the country.
There is a general clatter and chatter; two or three small negroes flutter round like a flock of frightened geese; everybody seems to get in everybody else’s way—they tumble over each other, tumble over us. There is a general scrimmage and rush for such eatables as are here attainable; one gets a cup of steaming coffee while the milk vanishes in the distance; another is refreshed with a bowl of sugar; one gets proud possession of a yard of corn bread, another grasps a dish of rancid butter—but the difficulty is getting the two together; fresh eggs are plentiful, and are piled like mountains of white cannon balls upon the table. A trio of adventurous gentlemen make a raid upon the kitchen, and reappear proudly bearing their spoils aloft; by degrees things shake down and we manage to fill the vacuum within us. Our damaged baggage master, with his dislocated shoulder bound up by amateur hands, is cheerful, albeit in pain, and receives the attentions of the ladies with great placidity; he has to be fed like a big baby, for he can’t use his right hand, and his left is sprainedand swollen. Everybody is laughing, chatting, and grumbling all in a breath; as for us we never enjoyed a thoroughly British growl at so small a price—twenty cents a head!
On our way to the station we meet a wicked-looking little Topsy, with a huge brown jug of new milk, just fresh from the cow; we speedily relieve her of this responsibility, and in the twinkling of an eye change the stone jug and its contents into a shower of “nickels.”
Re-entering the car we are again on our way, and enjoy a series of dissolving views of some of the most charming scenery of the South—through plantations of cotton trees, and red and white blossomed dogwood. Slowly the world of green disappears beneath the grey twilight shadows; the sun, which has been blazing like a ball of burnished gold all day, seems suddenly to grow tired of shining, and draws his crimson curtains round him and sinks suddenly to rest. Soon the lights of New Orleans loom upon our sight.
Omnibuses and cars of all description are in waiting at the station, and in a very short time we are driving through the up and down streets of this quaint old city to the Hotel St. Charles, where we take our rest.
New Orleans, “The Paris of the South.”—French quarters.—Tropical street scene.—To Carrolton.—The Levées.—Classical architecture.—A coloured funeral.—The dismal swamp.—Lake Ponchartrain.—A gambling population.
New Orleans, “The Paris of the South.”—French quarters.—Tropical street scene.—To Carrolton.—The Levées.—Classical architecture.—A coloured funeral.—The dismal swamp.—Lake Ponchartrain.—A gambling population.
TheHotel St. Charles is a very fine impressive building in the centre of the city of New Orleans. It is of white stone, and the simple colonnaded front, with its tall straight fluted columns, gives it quite a classical appearance. It is the best hotel in the town, but it might be better; it has spacious corridors, and handsomely furnished rooms, but the cuisine is not so good as it should be in an hotel of such pretensions, the table is poorly served, and it is wanting in that liberality which is characteristic of the South. The service is very scanty; one servant seems to have to do the work of six. Our waiter was a simple biped—a mere man, when he ought to have had as many arms and legs as a devil fish; he had need of them, he was always wanted here, there, and everywhere, and seemed to flash about on invisible telegraph wires.
We start in the early morning on a pedestrian excursion through this “Paris of the South.” We almost fancy that we have gone to sleep in the new world, and woke up in the old fair and familiar city across the sea. It is the same, yet not the same; there is a similarity in the general features, especially in the vicinity of Canal Street, to which I shall allude more fully by and by, and an insouciant gaiety in the aspect of the people, which pervades the very air they breathe; an electric current seems always playing upon their spirits, moving their emotional nature, sometimes to laughter, sometimes to tears. It seems as though the two cities had been built on the same model, only differently draped and garnished, decorated with different orders, and stamped with a different die. Coming down a narrow lane, we met a typical old Frenchwoman, her mahogany coloured face scored like the bark of an old tree scarcely visible beneath her flapping sun-bonnet. She wore short petticoats, and came clattering along over the rough stones in her wooden sabots, while her tall blue-bloused grandson carrying her well-filled basket strode beside her; and a meek eyed sister of charity bent on her errand of mercy passed in at a creaking doorway. These were the only signs of life we saw as we first turned on our way to the French quarter of the town, which still bears the impress of the old colonial days. This is the mostancient portion of the city, and full of romantic traditions of the days that are dead and gone. The long, narrow, crooked streets, running on all sides in a spidery fashion, with rows of shabby-looking houses, remain exactly as they were a hundred years ago. Strict conservatism obtains here; nothing has been done in the way of improvement; the old wooden houses are bruised and battered as though they had been engaged in a battle with time and been worsted; they are covered with discolorations and patches, naked and languishing for a coat of new paint. There are no dainty green sun blinds here, but heavy worm-eaten wooden shutters, and queer timber doors hung on clumsy iron hinges; here and there we get a glimpse of the dingy interiors while a few bearded men are lounging smoking in the doorways, and a few children, chattering like French magpies, are playing on the threshold. Everything is quiet and dull—a sort of Rip Van Winkle-ish sleep seems drooping its drowsy wings and brooding everywhere, till a lumbering dray comes clattering over the cobble stones, and sends a thousand echoes flying through the lonely streets.
From these stony regions, past the little old-fashioned church where the good Catholics worshipped a century ago and we emerge upon Canal Street, the principal business thoroughfare of the city; it is thronged with people at this time of day, busy crowdsare passing to and fro, the shop windows are dressed in their most attractive wares, temptingly exposed to view. Confectioners, fruit, and fancy stores overflow into open stalls in front and spread along the sidewalk; huge bunches of green bananas, strawberries, peas, pines, cocoa-nuts and mangoes, mingled with dainty vegetables, are lying in heaps. We are tempted to try a mango, the favourite southern fruit, of whose luscious quality we have so often heard, but the first taste of its sickening sweetness satisfies our desires. The street is very wide, and the jingle-jangle of the car-bells, the rattling of wheels, and the spasmodic shriek and whistle of the steam engine—all mingle together in a not unsweet confusion. Lumbering vehicles, elegant carriages, street-cars, and a fussy little railway, all run in parallel lines along the wide roadway. This is the great backbone of the city, whence all lines of vehicular traffic branch off on their diverse tracks into all the highways and by-ways of the land. Here we get on to a car which carries us through the handsomest quarter of the city. Quaint, old-fashioned houses, surrounded by gardens of glowing flowers, and magnificent magnolias, now in full bloom, stand here and there in solitary grandeur, or sometimes in groups like a conclave of green-limbed giants, clothed in white raiment, and perfumed with the breath of paradise. Past lines of elegant residences, where theéliteofthe city have their abode, and we soon reach a rough wooden shed yclept a “depot.” Here the horses are unhitched, and a steam dummy attached to carry us on our way. The little dummy looks like a big-bellied coffee-pot as it puffs fussily along, on its way, but it does its work well, and in a little time lands us at “Carrolton.”
We alight at the railway terminus, at the foot of the levées, the Mecca of our morning pilgrimage. We ascend a dozen cranky steps, and stand on the top of the levée, with the coffee-coloured flood of the great Mississippi rolling at our feet, and look back upon the low-lying city behind us.
This king of rivers is here wide and winding, but drowsy and sluggish; its vast waters rolling down from the north seem to languish here in the indolence of the South; it stretches its slow length along, like a sleeping giant with all its wondrous strength and power hushed beneath the summer sun.
The levées form a delightfully cool promenade, and are thronged with people on summer evenings. Cosy benches shaded by wide spreading green trees are placed at certain distances, and glancing across the broad brown lazy river to the opposite side the view is picturesque in the extreme.
The architectural beauty of New Orleans is unique, and wholly unlike any other Southern city; the avenues are wide and beautifully planted, a generousleafy shade spreads every way you turn. The dwelling houses which line St. Charles’s Avenue are graceful, classical structures; there are no Brummagem gingerbread buildings, no blending together of ancient and modern ideas, and running wild into fancy chimney-pots, arches, points, and angles like a twelfth-cake ornament. Some are fashioned like Greek temples, most impressive in their chaste outline and simplicity of form; others straight and square, with tall Corinthian columns or fluted pillars, sometimes of marble, sometimes of stone. The severe architectural simplicity, the pure white buildings shaded by beautiful magnolias and surrounded by brilliant shrubs and flowers, form a vista charming to the eye and soothing to the senses, and all stands silhouetted against the brightest of blue skies—a blue before which the bluest of Italian skies would seem pale.
The aspect of the city changes on every side; we leave the fashionable residential regions, and enter broad avenues lined with grand old forest trees, sometimes in double rows, the thick leaved branches meeting and forming a canopy overhead. The ground is carpeted with soft green turf, and bare-legged urchins, black and white, are playing merry games; a broken down horse is quietly grazing, and a cow is being milked under the trees, while a company of pretty white goats, with a fierce looking Billie at their head, are careering about close by. Pretty pastoralbits of landscape on every side cling to the skirts, and fringe the sides of this quaint city. As we get farther away from St. Charles’s Avenue the better class of residences grow fewer and fewer, till they cease altogether, and we come upon pretty green-shuttered cottages, with their porches covered with blossoms, and rows of the old-fashioned straw beehives in front. Here and there are tall tenement houses built of cherry-red bricks, which are let out in flats to the labouring classes.
We happen to be the only occupants of the car, and our driver, glancing back at us through the sliding door, and realising that we are strangers in the land, divides his attention between his horses and his passengers. He has a pale, fair, melancholy face and dreamy eyes—a kind of blond Henry Irving—and we cannot get rid of an idea that Hamlet the Dane has followed his lamented father’s custom of “revisiting the glimpses of the moon,” and is doing us the honour of driving our car.
Presently we come upon a procession that attracts our interest. A party of people, chiefly of the gentler sex—I cannot in this case say the fairer, as they are all black as coals—are slowly parading the sidewalk, the girls, even down to little children three or four years old, all clad in white. It has been raining and the streets are still wet; they are tramping over muddy crossings in white satinslippers, their white dresses draggling in the damp, while their brown or black faces and black shining eyes beam with a kind of grotesque incongruity through their white veils.
“A bridal party?” we remark interrogatively to our Hamlet. The Prince of Denmark shakes his head, and vouchsafes a grave and dreamy smile as he corrects our mistake: “No, ma’am. It’s a coloured funeral.”
Turning into Claiborne Street we fancy it must be the entrance-gate to the forest primeval; as far as the eye can reach we gaze through long vistas of ancient trees, whose huge trunks are gnarled and knotted and scarred by the passing ages. This delightful avenue has four rows of these glorious trees, with double car-tracks running under their cool and welcome shade; down the centre, and crossed by rude rustic bridges, runs what we supposed to be a narrow canal or natural running stream, but we learn that it is an open sewer, the peculiar soil and sanitary arrangements of the city necessitating a system of open drainage—which is, however, by no means unsightly or offensive; and through the arteries of the city there run these narrow sewers, carrying all the impurities and refuse as a kind of tributary offering to the glorious Mississippi.
The burial grounds or cemeteries we pass on our way have a strange appearance, as in consequence ofthe peculiarities of the soil and climate, the dead are not buried under the earth, but are laid upon its surface with the stone monument raised above them.
Another day we have a light springy carriage, and avoiding the car-tracks bowl over the soft green turf, beneath the arching trees, with the sunlight glinting through. We drive out of the city, and wind about among its picturesque suburbs—a charming drive, though the air is moist and warm, and our strength seems oozing from our finger-tips. We can imagine what New Orleans must be in summer time, when even in these April days our vital forces grow faint and feeble.
The public buildings, state offices, and churches, are remarkably fine architectural features of the city. There is no need to describe them here, for the written description of one church, unless indeed there is some special history connected therewith, sounds much the same as another; and any visitor to the city can get an excellent guide thereto and familiarise himself with their appearance so far as he desires, and some are interesting enough to repay him for his trouble.
There is one very favourite excursion, largely patronised by the inhabitants of the city on warm summer evenings, and one which the most casual tourist should not fail to take. We enter the little railway train in Canal Street, the very heart of thecity, and steaming leisurely along we soon reach the outskirts, and run through pretty woodland scenery, with dainty dwellings scattered here and there among the full-foliaged trees. Presently we come upon a long stretch of open country; on one side is the canal, with a wide roadway and spacious tracts of cultivated lands beyond it. On the other side of the railway track, on our right, there runs a similar carriage road and footway running along the edge of a luxuriant thicket of green low-lying bushes, which seem like the ragged fringe of the virgin forest; then there rises clusters of slight willowy slips; a part of the pristine family of oaks and alders which have grown and developed into gigantic trees, thickening and twining their long arms together till they form an impenetrable mass of green, but instead of a bit of forest primeval, we are told that this is a most dismal swamp of many miles extent, utterly impassable for either man or beast, and varying from two to eight or ten feet deep, the abode of repulsive reptiles and other obnoxious creatures. They say that it is no uncommon thing at certain seasons of the year for a huge black or green snake to wriggle out of its home of slush and slime and coil itself up on the pathway, or an alligator will sometimes be found stretched along the railway track, its lidless eyes staring stupidly at the sun.
The whole of this part of New Orleans has beenreclaimed from these extensive swamps, and no doubt, if the necessity should arise, the whole ground may be reclaimed and cultivated or built over; but such a proceeding could only be carried out at an almost fabulous expense, and as the great lungs of the city have plenty of breathing room in other directions, it will no doubt be left, for this century at least, in the occupation of noisome reptiles, the refuse of God’s creatures.
Lake Ponchartrain, where we are presently safely deposited, is one of the most picturesque spots in all this region; a silver shining sheet of water, on whose surface the passing clouds seem softly sailing, for the skies are reflected therein as in a mirror. We look across the water upon wide stretches of undulating cultivated lands, “with verdure clad,” a soft mossy carpet with purple flags and long lance-like grasses reaching down to the water’s edge. A lovely garden, artistically arranged with tropical flowers, fully half a mile long, runs along this side of the lake, and among the beds of gorgeous blossoms there are pretty winding walks, and rustic benches are arranged beneath wide-spreading shady trees. A glorious promenade runs like a golden band along the borders, and a pretty fancifully-built hotel and restaurant stands at the head of the lake. It is a perfect nest of a place, hung round with balconies and covered with climbing plants, the luxuriousVirginian creeper with its wealth of purple bloom with white star-like flowers mingling between. Surrounding the hotel is a wide space studded with little marble-topped tables, dedicated to the convenience of the hungry and thirsty multitudes who flock thither up from the hot, dusty town on summer evenings, to breathe the fresh cool air which blows across the surface of the lake.
Tables and chairs are set in all kinds of shady nooks and corners, and merry parties are sipping sherbet, lemonade, and ice-cream; even the democratic “lager beer” is served in foaming goblets, and while the band is playing people stroll to and fro or group under the trees eating ices, and not always confining themselves to the above harmless beverages. They enjoy themselves each after his own fashion, and it is generally midnight before the last train returns with its living freight towards the town.
We take our last evening stroll through the streets of New Orleans, which have a fascination unknown to them by day. They are everywhere brilliantly illuminated; we fancy it must be some special occasion, but it is always the same; electric lights and gas-jets in quaint devices are flaring everywhere, strains of music are floating on the air, the shops and stalls are ablaze with brilliant colouring, and appear in fancy dress—as a lady throws off her morning robes and appearsen grande toilettefor the evening festivities;open air performances, shows, and theatres are in full swing. Strange to say, places that have seemed quiet and harmless, even dingy, during the daytime, bloom out into gambling dens, where the rattling of dice and the rolling of billiard balls make deadly music through the night. How often some haggard form, hunted by ruin and despair, slips like a shadow from these lighted halls; a pistol-shot, a groan, and he vanishes into a darker night, “where never more the sun shall rise or set.” There are no laws against gambling; they are a free people here, and are allowed to choose each his own road to ruin, consequently gambling is carried on to a frightful extent, and by all kinds and conditions of men. It seems indigenous to the soil, for while men stake houses and lands, nay, the very last coin from their pockets, the very children gamble over their tops and marbles or dirt pies in the gutter.
The inhabitants of New Orleans are never tired of expatiating on the beauties of their city, and dilating on the golden history of its romantic past, or the prosperous record of its present day. Their devotion further insists on the general healthiness of its climate; they admit there are occasional epidemics, but then at certain seasons epidemics rage everywhere, they are not specially improvised for New Orleans, and the black population suffers always more than the white.
Lovely though it be—a most quaint, picturesque old city, with its bright skies and gorgeous growth of tropical flowers—no sane person could have faith in its sanitary perfections. A beautiful human nest it is; low-lying, as in a hole scooped out of the solid earth, many feet below the waters of the Mississippi, partially surrounded by swamps of the rankest kind, and girdled by silver streams and deep flowing rivers, it must necessarily be the favourite resort of the malarial fiend. Here that scourge of the South, the yellow fever, too, rising from sweltering earth, sends forth his scorching, blighting breath, and clothes the land in mourning. But every man clings to his own soil; no matter whether it brings forth thorns or roses, he is satisfied with the gathering thereof.
“Well,” exclaimed a devoted citizen as he cheerfully discussed the subject with us, “in every country there is an occasional force which carries off the surplus population; sometimes it is fire, or flood, earthquakes or mining explosions. Nature sends us the yellow fever; of course it is not a pleasant visitor, but it does its work well enough, and I don’t know but it is as well to get out of the world that way as any other.”
It is impossible to enumerate half the pleasant excursions which may be taken from New Orleans. Its wonderful watery highways are among the finestin the world, and wind through the land in all directions. By them you may travel anywhere and everywhere through the loveliest scenery of the South, as pleasantly as though the panorama were passing the windows of your own drawing-room.
Splendid steamers—floating palaces indeed of gigantic proportions, luxuriously upholstered, and fitted with all the carving and gilding so dear to some travellers’ hearts—are eternally passing to and fro. We were strongly disposed to take a trip on the “Natchez,” the sovereign vessel, but time pressed, and we were compelled to move on.
Atlanta.—A wilderness of bricks and mortar.—Lovely surroundings.—Scarlet woods.—Memorial day.—Scenes in the cemetery.
Atlanta.—A wilderness of bricks and mortar.—Lovely surroundings.—Scarlet woods.—Memorial day.—Scenes in the cemetery.
Aboutfive o’clock on a sultry afternoon we start on the cars for Atlanta. The train is crowded, the day is bright, the spiritual thermometer stands high, and everybody seems resolved to be social with everybody else; they commence with a running fire of casual gossip, and proceed to give gratuitous information of a confidential character concerning themselves and their families. One gentleman is returning from Texas, and fondly cherishes a banana tree, which he is carrying home to his wife in Atlanta, intending to try and coax it into growing in the garden there. He has tried the experiment before, he tells us, but the banana will not take kindly to the soil; in spite of all care hitherto it has invariably drooped and died. Still, he does not despair; like the lonely scion of a sickly family he will cherish this last, and endeavour to raise a new family on his native soil.
We fare well on this journey; though there are noregular eating stations erected on the way yet we are well provided for. People come on the cars at certain places, bringing plates of broiled chicken and meats, with delicious little brown crisp rolls of bread, hard boiled eggs, and tarts, covered with snow-white napkins, and daintily arranged so as to tempt the appetite; and baskets of delicious grapes and peaches with the tender bloom upon them, and every kind of fruit that is in season. Glasses of iced milk, a delicious beverage, may also be obtained.
We reach Atlanta the next day about two o’clock, and take up our abode at Markham House, which is conveniently situated opposite the railway station. This is an extremely comfortable and homelike hotel, without any pretence to luxurious entertainment or upholstered grandeur; but we find there a capital table liberally served.
We are, however, somewhat dismayed on going to perform our customary ablutions when we find our ewer filled with something strongly resembling pea-soup. We demand water, and learn that this obnoxious liquid is all the water we are likely to get for ablutionary purposes. The table is supplied with something drinkable of a less soupy description, though far removed from the “bright waters of the sparkling fountain;” but for a few days we must perforce be content, and take our mud bath with what appetite we may.
There is nothing picturesque or attractive in either of the Atlanta hotels; ours, we are told, is considered second rate, but there is really little difference between them. Both are situated in crowded thoroughfares, and both are within a stone’s throw of the railway station, and are simple structures with no architecture to speak of. The city is built in a rambling labyrinthine fashion, as though it had grown up in a wild way of its own, straggling along here and there, without any set plan or design beyond the convenience of the day. It has pushed itself out in all directions, here pranking itself out in glowing gardens and garlands of green, there rising up in huge brick buildings seven stories high, massed together in blocks, or stretched in long rows, lifting their stony heads high in the air, looking down threateningly and frowningly as though they meant some day to topple over into the narrow street below. It has grown large and strong, and no longer runs in leading-strings, but asserts itself as one of the most important cities of the South.
The resources of the surrounding country are developing day by day, being especially rich in the production of cotton of the finest kind, quite equal to that grown on the famous Sea-islands of Carolina. All the varied wealth of the country for hundreds of miles round pours into Atlanta, which in turn distributes it to all parts of the world. This conglomeration of bricks and mortar is not attractivein itself, but is most interesting in its early history, its gradual growth and marvellous development; all within the city limits is full of the stir and bustle of commonplace life, its surroundings are simply lovely and most romantic.
A short car drive through the up-and-down stony streets, a ramble through a winding lane, and we are in the midst of a beautiful wild wood flaming with scarlet honeysuckle, creeping up, twining round, and seeming to strangle the great strong trees in its close embrace, drooping its bright blooms like a canopy above our heads; they are lovely to the eye, but, like so many beautiful things, are poisonous and scentless. We wander for hours, but do not get to the end of the crimson woods. Every man, woman, or child we meet—black, white, or brown—have their hands full of the gorgeous rose-red flowers of this Southern honeysuckle, so far richer than its northern sister. Some are carrying them home in baskets for domestic decoration, others make them into wreaths, or wear them on their hats or on their breasts.
No matter in what direction you turn on leaving the labyrinths of bricks and mortar, you are at once plunged into a wealth of lovely scenery, fringed on one side with the blazing woods; on one side it is skirted by richly-timbered, well-cultivated lands, jewelled with wild flowers of every hue and colour. Then we come upon a tangle of forest scenery orthickets varying from a few to thousands of acres. These consist of a dense growth of live and water oaks, dog wood, hickory, and pine, hung with garlands of moss, or close clinging draperies of purple blooms, birds are peeping and twittering in and out, butterflies and insects humming, and a whole colony of frogs croaking joyously throughout this luxuriant wilderness. We should not be much surprised to find a fairy city hidden away in this labyrinthine mass of leaves and timbers; who knows but when the evening shadows fall, and a thousand tiny twinkling lights flash hither and thither, we think the fireflies are abroad, when in reality it is the elfin army of lamplighters illuminating their fairy city with wandering stars.
In these sweet solitudes the morning passes quickly, and in the afternoon we go to the cemetery, which is about three miles from the town, to witness the decoration of the soldiers’ graves—for it is Memorial Day—the one day set apart in every year now and for all time for people to come to do honour to the dead who fell in the lost cause; nay, for the dead who fell on either side. Streams of people crowd the highways and byways, all flowing in one direction, and all mass together at the wide-open gates of the cemetery. The ground is kept by sundry mutilated remnants of the war; some with one arm, some with one leg, but none have the right complement of limbs,while some are mere mutilated crippled specimens of humanity, with bent bodies and limbs twisted out of their natural form. We wonder how they have had courage to crawl so far towards the end of their days, and to bear themselves cheerfully too. But the great God who “tempers the wind to the shorn lamb” has not forgotten them. He sends them an invisible support and comforter we know not of; He lays His blessed hand upon their heart-strings and makes a music in their lives, grander and sweeter than is the blare of victorious trumpets to the conqueror’s ear. They live their lives out in this city of the dead, and through the sunny days or evening shadows, sleeping or waking, are always there surrounded by their silent brotherhood, who wait for them in the great beyond. They lie here under the green sod with upturned faces and hands crossed upon their breasts. “After life’s fitful fever they sleep well.”
We arrive an hour before the ceremonial commences, and walk about the pretty grave-garden and read the names upon the monuments, and listen to anecdotes of those who rest below. The old soldiers seem to love to talk of their dead comrades, to fight their battles over again. They tell us how this one, “such a fine, handsome young fellow,” rode always into battle whistling a merry tune as he dashed into the thick of it; and how this one with the spirit of the ancient Puritans uplifted his voice to the glory ofGod as he brandished his sword and rushed to the front.
Presently a slow solemn strain of music with the roll of the muffled drum reaches our ears. It comes nearer and nearer. There is a trampling of feet, “the tramp of thousands sounding like the tread of one,” and the committee, escorted by a detachment of soldiers with their arms reversed and followed by a multitude of people, make their way across the hilly ground, and through the winding pathways till they reach a wide grassy slope, where, railed in and reached by a flight of marble steps, there stands a huge plain shaft of granite, with the inscription in large gold letters, “To our Confederate Dead,” engraved thereon. A platform is raised in front of this, which is now occupied by some score or two of ladies, all dressed in deep mourning, each carrying a basket of flowers, which may be replenished from the miniature mountain of violets and pale wild roses which are heaped upon the ground. Lying around, spreading in all directions, are myriad nameless graves. Some have a white headstone a foot high, some have wooden crosses, some have but the green turf to cover them. Here Federals and Confederates lie side by side, no enmity between them now. The treaty of eternal peace has been signed by the sovereign lord, Death; all are now gathered together and are marching through the silent land, under the banner of their great Captain, Christ.
There was a slight stir and a few elderly gray-headed men, accompanied by a minister of the church, ascended the platform. A hush fell upon the multitude, and all listen reverently and bareheaded while an earnest simple prayer is offered up.
Then a tall, soldier-like man, a well-known general, who had faced a hundred fires, stepped forward and made a most touching and eloquent address—to which friend or foe, victor and vanquished, might listen with equal feeling of interest and respect,—glorifying the heroic qualities of those who fought and fell in the lost cause, but, while giving honour to the dead, detracting nothing from the living. The keynote running through the whole discourse was like a prayer that the seed sown amid fire and sword, and watered by the blood of patriots (patriotsall; no matter on which side they fought, each believed they were fighting for their rights), might take root, grow, flourish, and yield a glorious harvest for the gathering of this great country, her unity never again to be disturbed and torn by the children of her love and pride.
At the conclusion of the address a hymn, “Nearer, my God, to Thee,” was sung by the uplifted voices of the whole multitude, even to the outermost edge they caught up the sweet refrain, and it rose and fell, swelled and softened, till it rolled back upon our ears in waves of melodious music, which stirred our hearts and sent a mist floating before our eyes.
Now the ladies descend from the platform and scatter themselves over the ground, their mourning figures passing to and fro among the graves: on every mound they lay a bunch of flowers, regardless on which side they fought,—the “boys in blue” and the “boys in gray” are all arrayed in one common raiment now. Who knows but a spirit army may be bending down from the skies above, watching the pious work, and no longer seeing through a glass darkly, longing to whisper, “All is well,” to the hearts which are still sorrowing below.
The solemn ceremonial over, drums beat, the soldiers resume their arms, form in line, the band plays a stirring military air, and they march quickly off the ground. We watch the crowd melt away, but do not feel disposed to join the busy, chattering stream on its homeward road, especially as by this time quite a miniature fair has risen up outside the cemetery gates; and roast; peanuts, fruit, cake, and iced drinking stalls are surrounded by thirsty multitudes, who keep up a lively rattle among themselves; while the tag-rag of the gathering run after the military procession, and follow it on its way back to the dusty town. We wander for a while through the deserted cemetery, reading the strange medley of mottoes, and the sometimes ludicrous and always commonplace chronicles of the virtues of the sleeper. We are presently invited to sit down and rest in theporch of a rustic dwelling, the home of one of the crippled guardians of the place—a grand old man he was, with gray hair and a face bronzed by exposure to many weathers, and scored and wrinkled by the hand of time. He brought us a jug of deliciously cool milk, and sat down and talked, as old men love to talk, of “the days that are bygone”; and told us many pleasant anecdotes of “how we lived down south forty years ago.”
The evening shadows were lengthening, and lying like long spectral fingers on the dead men’s graves, as we rose up and made our way hurriedly to the horse-car which was to carry us back to Atlanta.