DOWN SOUTH.
DOWN SOUTH
BY
LADY DUFFUS HARDY
AUTHOR OF
“THROUGH CITIES AND PRAIRIE LANDS”
LONDON: CHAPMAN AND HALL
LIMITED
1883
LONDON
R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR.,
BREAD STREET HILL.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
Two cities.--Our home upon the waters.--Southward bound.--“Only a
brass star.”--At Ford’s Hotel....._Pages 1-13_
CHAPTER II.
To-day and the yesterdays.--Richmond--Its monuments--Its
surroundings.--The sculptor’s studio.--Andromache......_Pages 14-28_
CHAPTER III.
Fire and ruins.--Through sylvan scenes.--The Cave of Lwray.--A
jewelled city underground.--The white savages of Wise
County....._Pages 29-44_
CHAPTER IV.
Through the great swamp.--Charleston.--A memory of the Old
World.--Blacks and whites.--Peculiarities of the coloured folk.--A
ghost of dead days.--Quaint scenes _Page 45-62_
CHAPTER V.
St. Michael’s chimes.--Architectural attraction.--Magnolia
Cemetery.--A philosophical mendicant.--The market.--Aboard the
boat--Fort Sumpter....._Pages 63-83_
CHAPTER VI.
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....._Pages 84-90_
CHAPTER VII.
To-day and yesterday.--General experience of travel in the South.--The
associated Southern railways....._Pages 100-109_
CHAPTER VIII.
_En route_ for Jacksonville.--A few words about Florida--Its
climate.--Its folk--Its productions....._Pages 110-121_
CHAPTER IX.
Pine forests.--Arcadian scenes.--Strange companionship.--We reach
Jacksonville....._Pages 122-131_
CHAPTER X.
Jacksonville.--Our hotel.--Greenleaf’s museum.--Floridian curiosities.
East winds and tropical breezes.--Strawberry packing _Page 132-143_
CHAPTER XI.
Fernandina.--Romance or history?--Dungeness.--To Tocor.--On board the
boat.--Oddities.--A lovely water drive _Page 144-158_
CHAPTER XII.
St. Augustine.--A land of the long ago.--A chat with a Spanish
antiquity.--Quaint streets.--City gate.--Fort Marion.--The old Slave
Market.--The monuments.--The Plaza.--Cathedral and Convent....._Pages
159-179_
CHAPTER XIII.
A chat by the way.--A steam bicycle.--Rough times.--At
Ocala....._Pages 180-188_
CHAPTER XIV.
The “Okeehumkee.”--The Silver Springs.--The weird wonders of the
Ocklawaha....._Pages 189-203_
CHAPTER XV.
Picturesque scenery on St. John’s River.--“Sickening for the fever
ma’am?”--The inland lakes.--A pair of elderly turtle doves.--Sport on
the Indian river....._Pages 204-221_
CHAPTER XVI.
Retrospective.--A critical conductor.--Montgomery.--Train wreckers at
work.--Weird scenes in the moonlight.--Silent watchers.--“Wild Cat”
train to New Orleans....._Pages 222-237_
CHAPTER XVII.
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....._Pages 238-252_
CHAPTER XVIII.
Atlanta.--A wilderness of bricks and mortar.--Lovely
surroundings.--Scarlet woods.--Memorial day.--Scenes in the
cemetery....._Pages 253-262_
CHAPTER XIX.
Columbia.--Wright’s Hotel--Variegated scenes.--Past and present--A
Sabbath city.--The Penitentiary.--Sunday service.--A few last
words....._Pages 263-276_
DOWN SOUTH
CHAPTER I.
Two cities.--Our home upon the waters.--Southward bound.--“Only a
brass star.”--At Ford’s hotel.
A dull haze hangs over the city; St. Paul has put on his cap of clouds,
and the great dome looms dimly on our sight; the mystery of twilight has
taken possession of the city, and shrouds the streets in the open day.
The fine old trees in the parks and in the squares are losing their
green foliage, and stand half naked, shivering in the damp autumn air,
while their yellow shrunken leaves are swept rustling along the ground,
moaning their melancholy protest against the wandering wind, and even
thus early in the season--for it is only late September--visions of
November fogs are looming in the near future. But we turn our backs upon
the dreary prospect, and send our thoughts onward towards the _City of
Rome_ whither we are fast journeying--not that ancient city which sits
upon its seven hills, like a discrowned queen, still ruling the world of
Art, swaying the minds of men, and, like a gigantic loadstone, drawing
the heart of the world towards herself, grander in her age of ruin than
her youthful pride; the glory of her dead days circles her with a halo
of poetry and romance which renders her immortal. Her ruined
palaces and temples lift their hoary heads and crumbling columns
heavenward--impressive, awe-inspiring, and time-defying, showing only
the footprints of the ages as they have passed solemnly onwards. The
stir and bustle of every-day commonplace life, the cavalcade of
nineteenth-century frivolities and fashions, have failed to drive the
spirit of antiquity from the place; it still sits brooding in the air,
permeating the souls and stirring the hearts of men with a passionate
enthusiasm for the days that are gone. There is no coming and going of
armies, no heathenish maraudings, no slave-trading, war-waging
population nowadays; no centurion guards, no glittering cohorts flashing
their arms and tossing their white plumes in the face of the sun; yet
they seem to have left their ghostly impression on the air, and in the
still evening hours we feel their presence revealed to us through (what
we call) our imagination, and the past marches solemnly hand-in-hand
with the present before our spirit’s eyes; and while we think we are
merely day-dreaming--indulging in pleasant reveries--the subtle essence
of ourselves is mingling with an immortal past. But it is not towards
this ancient city we are fast hastening; our _City of Rome_ is the
creation of to-day, it has nothing to say to the yesterdays; its kingdom
belongs to the to-morrows, which are crowded into the years to come. It
is not throned like its ancient namesake on seven hills, but rides upon
the myriad waves of a limitless ocean, and looks as though it could rule
them too--this floating city, which is to carry us three thousand miles
across the fascinating, fickle, and inconstant sea. Like a strong young
giant our noble vessel lifts its great black bulwarks into the sunlight,
and we climb its steep sides in the full confidence that much of the
nauseating horrors of a sea voyage will be spared to us. The Atlantic
steamers, as everyone knows, are all luxuriously appointed, but this is
the most luxurious; our state room has two windows draped with green
rep, a cosy sofa, and--luxury of luxuries--a reading lamp; one berth is
four feet wide, with a spring mattress, downy pillows, and plenty of
them; the upper berth is the usual size.
It takes us some hours to explore the vessel from end to end, as we are
kindly permitted to do; occasionally we lose ourselves, and are picked
up by a stray hand and set in the right way. We stroll through the grand
saloon, where some frantic musician is already evoking solemn sounds
from the grand organ, while the passengers are clamouring for seats at
special tables, and the bewildered stewards are distracted in their
endeavour to oblige everybody. It is a case of bull-baiting--British
bull-baiting; the poor bull is on the horns of a dilemma; he manages to
extricate himself somehow, and things settle down to general
satisfaction. Descending to the engine-room, we seem to have a glimpse
of the infernal regions--such a rattle and clatter of machinery,
whizzing and whirling amid the blaze of a hundred fires, some lashed to
white heat, others blazing with a steady roar, their red flames leaping
over their fiery bed, lighting up the swarthy faces of the firemen, who
look like dusky gnomes flitting among eternal fires. By the time we
reach the upper deck the tender has departed, the anchor is up, and--are
we moving? We seem to be still stationary, but the shores of England are
receding from us, the long, curving lines of the shore growing dim and
more dim, the forest of shipping with its tall masts and fluttering
sails fades slowly from our sight, and as the twilight closes in we are
almost out of sight of land; it vanishes away till it looks like a bank
of low-lying clouds fringing the horizon; now and then a white sail
flashes out of the darkness and is gone.
The night is simply superb, and the heavens are ablaze with stars, like
a jewelled canopy stretching over us as far as the eye can reach. Such
brilliancy above! Such a soft, hazy atmosphere around us! We seem to be
floating away into dreamland, as our giant vessel glides like a phantom
ship through the drowsy night; but for the phosphorescent waves which
run rippling at the side, or swirl in white feathery foam round the bow,
we should not know that we are moving--yet we are going at the rapid
rate of sixteen knots an hour, so steadily her iron keel treads through
the world of waters. Some of our fellow-passengers group themselves on
the deck, or stroll up and down singing old home songs or catches, and
glees. Lulled by these pleasant sounds and occasional echoes of the
sailors’ voices, we sleep soundly through our first night at sea.
To some this voyage is a new experience, and to them everything is a
pleasure and delight; their senses are on the _qui vive_, and they
extract a keen enjoyment from the slightest matter; whether they are
watching the shifting colours of the sea and skies, strolling idly up
and down, or leaning over the bulwarks, straining their eyes over the
vast expanse, eagerly expecting a school of whales to go spouting past,
they are equally happy and content, seeing mountains where never a
molehill exists; the atmospheric changes interest them, the whistling of
the wind through the shrouds makes a new music to their ears, and the
life on board ship with all its variations has the charm of novelty. But
the novelty soon wears off and they gradually awake to the fact that a
sea-voyage is a most monotonous affair. This the _habitués_, to whom the
voyage is as an oft-told tale, realise from the first moment; they know
precisely how the next ten days are likely to pass, and at once set
their minds to enliven the monotony, every one contributing something to
the amusement of the whole. We are especially fortunate on the present
occasion, there being several of Colonel Mapleson’s company on board,
who are most amiable in their endeavours to amuse their
fellow-passengers. There is also an unusual amount of amateur musical
and dramatic talent on board, and they combine together and organise a
concert or some kind of dramatic entertainment every evening.
About eight o’clock everybody turns out in pretty, simple toilettes, and
the stream sets towards the music-room. Great Britain is sparsely
represented, and I don’t think with the best specimens; the scanty few
seem manufactured for foreign travel only, and are not of the finest
workmanship, either of art or nature.
On the evening of the first entertainment a gorgeous apparition appeared
in the shape of the master of the ceremonies, the only evident reason
for his filling that position being his possession of a swallow-tail
coat. He was a fair, slim young man, with his hair parted down the
middle. He was in full evening dress, with a huge artificial flower--a
sunflower--in his buttonhole, and white gloves too long for his fingers.
He was a British-Australian, we learned. When he opened his mouth he
dropped, not pearls, but _h_’s; he dropped them in one place and picked
them up in another, and in his attempt to announce the different
operatic airs he mangled the soft Italian language till it fell upon the
ear a mass of mutilated sounds. He had to run the gauntlet of a good
deal of masculine chaff, which he bore with a stolid equanimity born of
self-contentment; however, he unconsciously contributed to the general
amusement, and gave rise to some humorous illustrations which served to
beguile the time.
The weather continues delightful, a balmy atmosphere brooding over a
smooth, grey sea. In quiet uninteresting calm the days pass by, but at
night nature rallies her forces and gives us some glorious sunsets,
filling the pale skies with cloud islands of golden light, while white
and crimson feathery plumes, like spectral palms, float hither and
thither across the sea-green sky. But nobody cares for a second-hand
sunset, it must be seen to be appreciated--no word-painting or most
brilliant colouring on canvas can convey an idea of it.
About mid-ocean we fall into foul weather, and a violent game of pitch
and toss ensues; a clatter of broken china, contused limbs, and half a
score of black eyes are the result. There is a tough-fibred,
strong-brained missionary on board, whose very face in its stern
rigidity is suggestive of torments here and hereafter. He takes
advantage of the occasion and lifts up his eyes and voice in violent
denunciation of all miserable sinners, exhorts everybody to repent upon
the spot as the day of doom is at hand--the Lord has come in storm and
tempest to break up the good ship and bury her living freight at the
bottom of the sea! He aggravates the fear, and tortures the nerves, of
the weaker vessels, till several ladies are carried to their berths in
violent hysterics. Some few husbands, fathers, and lovers, expressed a
strong desire to have that missionary “heaved overboard.” We pitied the
poor heathens who would presently benefit by his ministrations.
We pass out of the storm into genial American weather--blue skies, soft,
ambient air, and brilliant sunshine. A foretaste of the lovely Indian
summer greets us long before we reach the shore. Our vessel, owing to
its gigantic size, is a long time swinging round and entering its dock.
We are in sight of New York at three in the afternoon, but it is late in
the evening before we are able to effect a landing.
Everybody knows what a New York winter is like. We plunge at once into
the hurly-burly, and for the next few months we “do as the world
doth--say as it sayeth,” and being bound to the wheel whirl with it
till the hard king, frost, melts and disappears under the genial breath
of a somewhat humid spring; then we turn our faces southward.
It is impossible for the best disposed person to extract much pleasure
from a dismal drive across the plains of Pennsylvania, while the heavens
are weeping copiously, drenching the sick earth with their tears, and
dropping a grey cloud mantle over it. A heavy mist is hiding everything,
and moves like a shrouded funeral procession among the tall trees, as
though it had wrapped the dead winter in its grave-clothes, and was
carrying it away for burial in some invisible world we know not of. A
damp chillness clings and crawls everywhere; it finds its way to our
very bones; we shiver, and draw our wraps closer round us. The whole
world seems veiled in mourning for the sins of our forefathers; even the
buoyant spirits of the famous Mark Tapley must have gone down under
these dreary surroundings.
There is nothing to be seen, nothing to be heard, but the pattering rain
upon the windows, and the snort or occasional scream of our engine, like
the shriek of a bird of prey, as it sweeps on its iron road. We look
round us; everything and everybody seems in a state of depression,
wrapped in a general gloom. The whimpering cries of the children sink
into a dismal rhythmical wail, as though they wrangled by arithmetic,
and wept according to rule.
There was a small family of these human fledglings aboard, and the
parent bird was sorely tried in her endeavour to keep within bounds the
belligerent spirits of her flock; in vain she called their attention to
imaginary “gee-gees” and the invisible wonders outside--they stared out
into the blankness, discovered the deception, and howled louder than
ever. The cock-horse limped on its way to Banbury Cross, and even the
lady with rings on her fingers and bells on her toes made music in vain.
At last a mysterious voice issued from a muffled man in a corner,
offering “ten dollars to anybody who would smother that baby.”
We all sympathised with the spirit of the offer, but perhaps the fear of
after-consequences prevented anybody from accepting it. The mother dived
into a boneless, baggy umbrella, which apparently served as luncheon
basket, wardrobe, and, I verily believe might have been turned into a
cradle; thence she abstracted crackers, apples, and candies--and cotton
handerchiefs which she vigorously applied to their little damp noses.
This interesting family got off at Baltimore and left us for diversion
to our own resources, to feed upon our own reserve fund of spirits,
which afforded but poor entertainment.
As we reached Washington there was a rift in the clouds overhead, and a
brilliant ray of sunlight darted through, lighting up the city, and
gilding the great dome of the Capitol with heavenly alchemy; it might
have been that some immortal eye had opened suddenly, winked upon this
wicked world, and shut again, for in a moment it was as dark and
cheerless as before.
Here we change cars, and as we pass through the little waiting-room
there is a general rush, a clustering at one spot, and a babel of voices
clash one with another; we catch a few wandering words--“Here’s where he
fell, right here,” “Carried out that way,” “The wretch, I hope he’ll be
hung,” &c. We look down and see a small brass star let into the ground,
which marks the spot where poor Garfield fell; women prod it with their
parasols, men assault it with their walking-sticks. We have no time to
shed the “tributary tear”; the bell rings “All aboard, all aboard,” and
in another moment we are on our way to Richmond. The weather clears, a
few glancing gleams of golden sunlight stream through the broken clouds,
then the sun closes its watery eye and goes to sleep, with a fair
promise of a bright to-morrow.
We roll on through the fresh greenery of Maryland till the evening
shadows fall and the death of the day’s life goes out in gloom and
heaviness. We spend the hours in anticipatory speculations till we reach
Richmond about ten o’clock; we drive at a rapid pace through the rough
stony streets till we pull up at Ford’s hotel, where we intend taking up
our quarters. A night arrival at a strange hotel is always more or less
depressing--on this occasion it is especially so; we pass from the dim
obscurity of the streets without to a still greater obscurity within.
Preceded by a wisp of a lad we ascend the stairs and pass through a
dimly-lighted corridor; not the ghost of a sound follows us, the echo of
our footsteps is muffled in the thick carpet, and swallowed up in the
brooding silence.
Our attendant unlocks and throws open a door, flourishes a tiny lamp
above his head, then, with an extra flourish, sets it on the table,
inquiring with a hoarse voice, as though he had just made a meal of
sawdust, “do we want anything more”; as we had had nothing we could not
very well require any more of it. By the light of our blinking lamp we
inspect our apartment, which is at least amply supplied with beds; there
are three of them, each of Brobdignagian proportions--rivals to the
great bed of Ware--they fill the room to overflowing and seem struggling
to get out of the window. We are soon lost in a wilderness of feathers
and wandering through the land of Nod. It seems to me that the worst
room in the house is always reserved for the punishment of late
arrivals, which is bad diplomacy on the part of hotel proprietors, as it
frequently drives their guests away in search of better quarters. It
might have been so with us; but the next morning our smiling host
appears and ushers us into a delightful suite of rooms on the ground
floor, opposite the gardens of the Capitol, where the playful squirrels
are so numerous and so tame that they will come jumping across the road
to your windows to be fed, take nuts from your hand, and sit demurely by
your side and crack them.