To-day and the yesterdays.--Richmond.--Its monuments.--Its
surroundings.--The sculptor’s studio.--Andromache.
It is at Richmond we get our first view of the South and the Southern
people. Although we are only twelve hours from the booming, hustling
city of New York, yet we feel we have entered a strange land. The
difference is not so much in mere externals, as that the whole character
of life is changed, and from all sides it is borne upon us that we are
in the land of a “lost cause;” it impregnates the very air we breathe,
and is written on the grave earnest faces of the people; it reveals
itself everywhere and in everything.
A few hours in Richmond, and somehow we feel as though the war was of
yesterday. The victor may forget, but the vanquished, who have tasted
the bitterness worse than death, remember; it is ever “yesterday” with
the mother who mourns her dead. The passion for Virginia glows in every
Virginian breast, and a myriad hearts beating as one mourn with proud
regret for her noblest sons. Not Virginia alone; the generous North and
faithful South unite in yielding due reverence to the indomitable
Jackson and to Lee--the stainless gentleman and pure patriot. Here, in
Richmond, those names are household words, and every day we hear fresh
anecdotes of their lives and deaths. But the South does not waste its
time in lamenting over their graves; there is no greater mistake than to
imagine that it is frittering away its energies in vain regrets. The
past is past, the dead are buried; and on the ruins of the old life the
South is building up a new--in fact, it is recreating itself. New
railways opening, great factories arising on every side, bear witness to
the energy with which the South is throwing itself into the work of
restoration. The reviving South of to-day bears promise of fairer
fruitage, a far nobler future than could ever have been reaped from
their beloved and buried past. Now that the curse of slavery, the
inherited evil--not their crime, but their misfortune--has been torn out
of the fair land, at the root of whose seeming prosperity it lay coiled
like a canker worm--now that the blot is effaced, washed away in the
life blood of the best and bravest of the North and South--their
undaunted spirits are united in one grand effort to lift up their
beautiful land till it shall stand in the foremost rank among many
nations.
No one visiting the South to-day can recognise a single feature of its
ancient self, so complete is the change that has swept over the whole
land, so silent the revolution that has worked in the minds of men and
the arrangement of things. It is like a creature that has been dead,
buried, and resurrected to a higher and nobler state of existence; in
fact, looking back upon its life among the yesterdays it can scarcely
recognise itself; the very atmosphere seems changed from a sultry
enervating air to an invigorating breeze, affecting the spirits as well
as the bodies of the people.
Never was ruin so proudly met, defeat so grandly borne; there is no
useless looking back, no lingering regrets over the irrevocable
past--their eyes and their energies are bent on the onward march. But we
must hasten to take our first view of the city of Richmond.
It is situated something like its namesake, our own English Richmond,
only instead of being laved by our broad familiar Thames, it is girdled
by the grand historic river “James,” which winds in graceful coils in
and out and round and round like a silver serpent gliding through a
paradise of green. The city stands on a series of low-lying softly
undulating hills; the Capitol, a building of pure classical
architecture, stands in the centre of the city silhouetted against the
bright blue sky, and is a landmark for miles round. Standing on this
Capitol Hill, the highest point, we have a magnificent view spread
panoramically before and around us, while on every side the landscape
blends all the softness and brilliant colouring of the lowlands with the
strength and majesty of the highland scenery, variegated by picturesque
near views of land and water, here a white sail flutters in the soft
breeze, and groups of grand old forest trees lift their leafy crowns
high into the cloudland, and are sometimes lost among the fleecy
cloudlets grey and white that are sailing by, leaving the azure blue far
above them; from this point of vantage, we look down, to where the city
fades away in ragged fringes of poor squalid-looking dwellings,
apparently inhabited by our brethren of African descent. The principal
residential streets are certainly fine and wide, with handsome detached
houses in varied styles of architecture, which redeem from any monotony
the quiet, dignified, and emphatically “gentlemanly neighbourhood.”
Looking to the left we see the shabby one-horse cars crawling along the
crazy up-and-down streets, running hither and thither, stretching away
till they are hidden in a wilderness of green or lost in the pale blue
mist of the distant horizon, and the public buildings, cathedral, and
many-spired churches are prominent features therein. The river
stretching away to the right widens and hides among the foothills, then
reappears again and again till it dwindles into a narrow thread,
seeming to sew the land and skies together. Looking round on this
imposing scene, so rich in memories of bygone days, our thoughts
naturally connect the present with the past, and wander through the long
line of dead years to a time more than two centuries ago, when the great
ships ploughed the breast of this river, and brought the first freight
of civilisation to what was then a wilderness.
Away to the left, about two miles along the banks of the river, we
descry the spot where Powhatan wielded his sceptre and ruled his dusky
tribe as kings rule not in these days; we can almost fancy we see
Pocahontas launch her frail skiff upon the bosom of the placid water.
All trace of the tribe and of their dwelling is swept away; only the
grand old trees marked by the finger of passing ages still stand, with
gnarled and knotted trunks, quivering leaves, and withering branches, as
though they were struggling in their death agony, and must soon lie low,
with the rest of earth’s perishable things. Only a stretch of fancy, and
we see Captain Smith surrounded by swarms of threatening faces, passing
under their green vigorous branches, as he believes, to a barbarous
death.
Before descending the hill, we make a tour of inspection around the
splendid groups of statuary which adorn the gardens. First in public
favour and in general interest stands the Washington monument; a
gigantic and finely executed equestrian figure of George Washington,
mounted on an imposing granite column, rising from a star-shaped base;
beneath and around him, standing on separate pillars, are the full sized
figures of Patrick Henry, Thomas Jefferson, and sundry other heroes and
statesmen of past days; but of later and fresher interest, is the bronze
statue said to be a life-like portrait of Stonewall Jackson. This fine
production is believed to be the last and best work of the celebrated
English sculptor Foley; it bears the following inscription:--
“Presented by English gentlemen as a tribute of admiration for the
soldier and patriot, Thomas J. Jackson, and gratefully accepted by
Virginia in the name of the Southern people. Done A.D. 1875, in the year
of the Commonwealth.” “_Look! There is Jackson, standing like a stone
wall._”
Yes; there he stands to-day, in dark and strong relief against the
burning blue of his own Virginian skies! Stands, every inch a chief, as
he will stand for ever shrined in the hearts of the Southern people--a
monument of all that is staunch and true in human kind; not more
immovable now upon his marble pedestal, than at that hour when the ranks
of his men in grey stood like granite under the Federal fire. In the
Capitol library hangs the Confederate flag, dusty and battle-worn,
proudly pointed out to strangers, and regarded with reverence by those
who followed it, and saw it flutter through the smoke of battle. Round
the library walk are ranged the portraits of the great Southern leaders.
Here is the noble and thoughtful face, “the good grey head that all men
knew,” of General Lee, and there the dark stern brow of Stonewall
Jackson; and here is Jefferson Davis, and many other statesmen and
patriots of the fallen Confederacy.
An ardent Virginian accompanied us on our tour through his beloved city;
with lingering eyes, he gazed tenderly upon the figure of the general
who had led them through so many fires.
“Ah!” said he, shaking his head regretfully, “there’ll never be another
Stonewall, he was popular even with the union men; they all admired our
dashing commander.” He added with kindling eyes, “I remember one day,
when our troops were camped on the south bank of the Rappahannock about
a mile from the shore, the Federal troops occupied the opposite side;
both encampments extended for several miles, a line of pickets was
stretched along both banks, and though within easy rifle shot of each
other, firing was by tacit agreement for a while suspended. Although
talking across the river was strictly prohibited, the orders were not
heeded, and lively wordy skirmishing was carried on. One day, loud
cheering was heard on the left of the Confederate line, and as brigade
after brigade took it up, the sound rolled down the southern side of the
river.
“‘What’s all that cheering about, boys?’ asked the Federal pickets.
“‘It’s old Stonewall riding along the line,’ was the reply, shouted
across the water; and the pickets on both sides of the river took up the
cry, and foes and friends together were waving their hats and shouting--
“‘Hurrah! hurrah! for old Stonewall!’”
Having duly admired all we ought to admire, we descend the hill and
commence our explorations of the town. We thread the pretty shady
streets, pass the Monumental Church, erected above the ruins of the
Richmond Theatre, which was destroyed by fire in 1811 during the
performance of _The Bleeding Nun_, when scarcely a dozen of the audience
were saved, and many of the most influential families of the town
perished in the flames. We pause a moment before the “Allan House,”
where that strange mystical genius, Edgar Allan Poe, passed the early
years of his most troublous self-tormented life. It is a square,
old-fashioned, brick building, with a high sloping roof, surrounded by
ragged, forlorn-looking weedy grounds; ruin is fast working its will
with the old house, and desolation seems to flap its wings from the
tumbling chimney stacks, while memories of brighter days are brooding
behind the shuttered windows. Presently we pass the Libby Prison--a
large, low, melancholy-looking building on the banks of the river. We
shudder as we remember the tales of bygone sufferings there, and pass
quickly on our way to visit the tobacco factory of Messrs. Mayo and Co.
No overpowering odour such as we had apprehended greets us there as we
enter the premises, but a sweet pleasant fragrance, like that of Spanish
liquorice or some agreeable confection, pervades the atmosphere. We
arrive at the busiest business hour of the day, and the “hands,”
consisting of several hundred negroes, are industriously at work,
weighing, sorting, sifting, and pressing with all their might; a hive of
the busiest of human bees, singing their quaint songs, but never for a
moment relaxing in their labours--their melancholy, melodious voices
rising and falling, swelling and rolling, in waves of harmonious sounds.
As, one after the other, they become conscious of the presence of
strangers, their voices die away, and a hush gradually falls over the
entire mass.
Seeing how much we are struck by those peculiarly sweet negro voices,
Mr. Mayo courteously desires a select number to gather at one end of the
extensive room, and sing for our special benefit. Chairs are brought, an
impromptu auditorium formed, the dusky troop assemble, and a tall,
coal-black negro, with white gleaming teeth and shining eyes, steps
forward, strikes the first note, and leads his fellows through the
musical maze. They wander away from the fields of their own quaint
melodies, and, I presume in deference to our presence, start at a run
into the realms of religious poetry, and sing some of their stirring
revivalist hymns, characteristic of their race and reflecting their tone
of mind.
Before we leave, however, they descend from their heights, and ring out
some catching popular airs, winding up with an old favourite, “The
Suwanee River.” After a most pleasant hour we take our leave, and carry
with us an impression we shall not easily forget. Down on the main
street we pass the “old stone house,” the most ancient building in the
city. Tradition connects it with the names of Washington, Lafayette, and
many other celebrities of bygone days; there are several other roomy
old-fashioned houses scattered about the city, more interesting from
their historical association than their architectural beauty.
Progressing still downwards, we cross the bridge which connects Richmond
with the suburb of Manchester, a dreary-looking, scattered town on the
opposite bank of the river. We stand for many minutes on the centre of
the bridge, and gaze round in simple awe and admiration. The river, no
longer a tranquil stream, boils and bubbles in whirling eddies beneath
our feet, rushing in roaring rapids on its tempestuous way, leaping in
white foam flecks over the rough boulders, and hissing round the base
of the beautiful islands which rise from its stormy breast--not bald or
barren islands, but covered with a rich growth of variegated shrubs and
trees, which spread their green branches, like blessing hands, over the
face of the stormy waters. It is a wonderfully fine view, full of
suggestive poetry and romance, and for many moments holds us
spell-bound; this rich woodland, growing out of the depths of the
turbulent water in serene loveliness, contrasting with the white
gnashing teeth of the foaming wave-crests below. On our left rises the
city of Richmond, seated like a queen upon her throne, clasped by her
girdle of green, and living waters flowing at her feet. On our right
stands the homely city of Manchester, a foil to the grace and loveliness
of the fair city on the opposite shore; before us lie the ancient
hunting grounds of Powhatan; around us the land-locked waters rush
foaming and roaring on, winding through banks of glorious green till
they fall into the quiet far-off bay and there find peace, like unquiet
spirits sinking to eternal rest. Low-lying upon the shore close by are
the Tredegar Iron Works, belching forth flames and smoke, flinging their
lurid light in the face of the summer sun.
We are travelling with flying feet, and have little time to loiter on
our way; having taken in the chief points of interest in the city of
Richmond, we drive out to the beautiful cemetery of Hollywood; this is
rather a melancholy pleasure, for on every side are monuments raised to
the illustrious dead, whose names are familiar to our ears as household
words; they are written in emblazoned letters on the scroll of fame, and
will be read by trumpet-tongue when they are unrolled in the light of
heaven. Here is the invariable monument to the “Confederate dead;” it is
the first we see, but not the last, by many. No Southern city is so poor
but it can afford to lavish its tribute of honour to its loved and lost.
Before leaving Richmond we pay a visit to the studio of the well-known
sculptor, E. V. Valentine, of whom Virginia is so justly proud. The
studio is full of minor works of art; hands and feet, as though they
were lately amputated, are flung in dusty corners; masks and faces frown
or smile from the walls, and many-winged cherubs are flying over our
heads. Some have flown away, and are fixed in monumental marble in some
far-away graveyard; and bygone beauties, some robed in white, some in
the salmon-coloured glory of terra-cotta, are crowded on the shelves,
face downward or upward, tumbled one over the other without the
slightest regard to their dignity. On one side of the room stands a
dwarfed equestrian figure of General Lee; he appears to have been
arrested sword in hand as he was galloping to the front, the look and
attitude are startlingly life-like; we can almost fancy we hear the word
of command issuing from the stony lips; one touch of the magic wand
would make the marble palpitate and live; but the living must die, and
this piece of sculptured stone will stand for ages to come; long after
generation on generation has passed away, he will still stand in the
light of the world’s eyes even as he is standing before us now, with the
“light of battle on his face” and the word of command upon his lips. On
the opposite side of the room lies the reverse figure; there the patriot
chief is stretched full length upon his bier as on a bed of rest, the
noble face set in a mighty calm, the left arm thrown across his breast,
the right straightened at his side, grasping his sword, “the attitude in
which he always slept upon the battle-field.” So one of his faithful
followers tells us as he looks down on the recumbent figure.
“Why represent him in _repose_?” he demurs. “To me, who have seen him so
often in _action_, it is not the attitude in which he should have been
immortalised.”
We think otherwise as we gaze on the serene and noble face set in the
calm of--is it sleep? or death? After action, repose; after the
battle-fever, rest. To us it is sweet, not sad, to think how--
“To the white regions of eternal peace
The General has gone forward!”
In the centre of the room a huge calico extinguisher has descended from
the ceiling, and hides something we are about to see; some invisible
machinery upraises the extinguisher, and reveals a muffled group,
swathed in wet linen, which is slowly unwound--and we gaze upon the
sculptor’s masterpiece, _Andromache_, modelled in clay. He has chosen no
moment of tragic agony for his work; but a still scene of home life.
Hector has gone to the war--the pain of parting is over, and Andromache
sits at her spinning-wheel, her hands lying listlessly in her lap, the
thread still between her fingers, her eyes looking forward but seeing
nothing. Her thoughts have wandered after her hero, and are lost on the
battle-field. The attitude, full of grace, is one of utter despondency,
the lovely face is full of sadness and longing, shadowed by a weariness
that tells of almost helpless despair. A lizard, the emblem of death, is
stealing out from among the folds of her drapery, to snap the thread
that lies so loosely in her hand. Her child, a sunny-faced, smiling
cherub, has climbed upon her lap, and is playing with her neck ornament,
trying in vain to attract her attention, and watching for the smile of
recognition to dawn upon her lips.
The work is still in an unfinished state; the artist being occupied in
arranging the draperies and carrying out other details of his work. It
is exquisite in design and finely executed. I have no doubt that this
rare work of art, will, when completed, find its way into the European
galleries. Meanwhile the artist turns a shower of spray upon the
beautiful group, wraps her again in her damp swathing clothes, the
calico extinguisher descends, and Andromache is lost to view.