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.
After much loitering and a keen enjoyment of the wilder beauties of
Virginia we start on our way to Charleston, one of the oldest historic
cities in America, and doubly interesting to us from its connection with
the old colonial day, when the British flag fluttered over the
inhabitants, and the stars and stripes were things of the future.
Our way lies through wide stretches of uncultivated lands, dotted here
and there by negro huts with black babies and pigs tumbling together in
the mire. In the course of a few hours we emerge from these
uninteresting wilds, and are running through the great swamps which
extend for miles along either side of our iron road, and are strictly
impassable for either man or beast, though it is said that hundreds of
poor human creatures in the old days chafed and fretted and grew
discontented with their condition of life, and in their foolish
endeavour to escape from it were lost in these wilds. Who knows what
cries to God for help and mercy have gone up from the inner gloom of
these dismal swamps?--cries that perhaps the angels heard and came down
from heaven to answer.
Although we are journeying through perfectly flat country, with never an
undulating wave of land in sight, the scenery is ever changing, and
never presents the same picture to the eye for two minutes together.
There is, of course a certain monotony in the character of the natural
pageant that is gliding past us, but the combinations vary both in form
and colour, now advancing, now receding as we flash past them; the air
is full of light, and queer-looking grey birds rise up and wheel in
eddying circles over our heads, flapping their wings, and uttering
strange cries, which our engine’s voice has not strength enough to
smother.
The idea of a swamp had always presented itself to our mind’s eye as a
vast expanse of shiny, slushy soil, half mud, half water, with here and
there a rank undergrowth of bushes and stiff grass, and briers, through
which it must be a melancholy task to travel,--but it is not so. In
travelling through these swampy regions the prospect is neither a dull
nor an uninteresting one; whole forests of grand old trees rise up from
the watery waste, the rich varied foliage growing so luxuriantly, and
in such impenetrable masses that scarce a ray of sunshine comes glinting
through. We feel as though by some strange accident we have been caught
up by some modern magician, clothed in steel with a heart of iron, and
whirled along through the forest primeval.
For hours, nay, for the whole day long we speed through this world of
green, now and again the great trees turning their leafy arms into a
perfect arch above our heads, as we go thundering on.
Some of our fellow travellers go to sleep, others yawn over a book which
they have not energy enough to read, some get out the cards and play
poker or _écarté_, according as the spirit of gambling moves them; we
hear murmured complaints, “There is nothing to see,” and “What a
horribly monotonous journey.”
But to us it is not monotonous; there is life and beauty in the
ever-changing lights and shadows of the forest, sometimes most
Rembrandt-like in their depth and dim obscurity; in the dainty colouring
of the leaves, and the many strange formations of these ancient kings of
the forest, standing in deep rank and file, sentinels and guardians of
the silent land, their green heads lifted to the skies, their gnarled
and knotted feet firmly planted on the earth below. We wonder are they
quite dumb and speechless? Deaf to the low whispering of the wind,
stirred only to a gentle rustle by its balmy breath? Who knows? What to
us is the mere soughing of the wind may be to them a living language
coming straight down from the Great Unknown, with a message cheering
them in their solitude here with a promise of a hereafter, when they
shall bloom in paradise, and angels walk and talk beneath their leafy
shade. They seem so lonely here; they have never heard the sound of a
human voice; no foot has ever strayed among their fallen leaves, no
lovers’ voices made sweet music in the night, no childish babble echoed
through their bended boughs.
We are still lost in contemplation, with our thoughts wandering through
the soft luxuriant beauty of this forest land, when we slowly emerge
from its density into the open country. The landscape changes,
widens,--Charleston is in sight! In a few minutes the cling-clanging of
the engine bell tells us we are nearing the station--another moment, and
we are there.
It is evening now, the lamps are lighted, and but a few scattered groups
are making their way homeward through the quiet streets, for they keep
early hours in Charleston, and by ten o’clock all decent folk are at
home in their beds.
The gloomy grandeur of the “Charleston House”--and it is really a
handsome stone building--attracts us not; we stop at the “Pavilion,” a
pretty homelike hotel with a verandahed front, and balcony filled with
evergreens and flowers, on the opposite corner of Meeting Street. Our
room has the usual regulation furniture, without any pretensions to
luxury--clean, comfortable beds, chilly-looking marble-topped tables,
and the inevitable rocking chairs, without which the humblest home would
be incomplete. We go to bed and sleep soundly after our twenty-four
hours’ run.
Within all was bright and pleasant enough, but without the prospect was
anything but cheering. Our windows opened upon a dingy courtyard,
surrounded on three sides by dilapidated buildings two stories high; the
rickety doors hung loosely on their rusty hinges, the windows were
broken or patched with paper or old rags, and the venetian blinds swung
outside in a miserably crippled condition--all awry and crooked, every
lath splintered or broken, the paint was worn off in rain-stained
patches everywhere, and the woodwork was worm-eaten, and rotten. The
place had altogether a miserable appearance, as though the ghost of the
old dead days was haunting and brooding over it in the poverty of the
present. It seemed to be deserted too, for as we looked out upon it in
the light of the early morning, we heard no sound, nor saw a human
creature anywhere.
We learned afterwards that these had been the original slave quarters,
and are still occupied by the same inhabitants--the freedmen of to-day,
the slaves of yesterday, in many cases still serving their old masters
in the old way. The servants of the hotel, waiters, chambermaids, etc,
are all coloured, or rather coal-black; for as we go farther South the
mixed breeds are more rarely to be met with; it is only here and there
we come across the mulatto or others of mixed blood, which is rather a
surprise to us, for we expected the half breeds greatly to outnumber the
original race.
In Charleston two thirds of the population are black, and almost without
exception in all Southern cities they largely preponderate over the
whites, whose superiority they tacitly acknowledge, and work under their
direction with amiable contentment.
Their inherent respect for the white race is exemplified in many ways,
especially in the small matters of everyday life. In many of the
coloured churches they have white preachers, and these are always the
most popular. One old “mammy,” who had nursed a friend of mine forty
years ago, and who still occupies her old position in the same family,
is accustomed to walk three miles to and from church, though she is over
seventy years of age. On her mistress inquiring why she went so far,
when one of her own people held service close by, “I’se no sit under no
nigger preacher!” said the old woman, shaking her head contemptuously.
This kind of feeling penetrates even into the nursery. The dark nurse
will be most devoted to the white baby, while she utterly neglects her
own,--hence the great mortality among the dusky brood, which,
comparatively, more than doubles that of the whites. An attempt to
secure the services of a young coloured girl for an infant of her own
race (whose mother was nursing a white child) was met with the scornful
answer, “I’se no tend no nigger babies,” the girl herself being black as
coal!
It is the same in the schools, for though both white and coloured pass
exactly the same examinations, they will not send their children to be
taught by their own people. The rank and file of teachers may be
coloured, but they must be led, and in all their duties superintended,
by the whites! Woe be to the coloured teacher who dares to put a naughty
Topsy in the corner! The maternal virago swoops down upon her with
direst outcries, and lays her case before the authorities with as much
solemnity as could be used in the court-martial of a refractory colonel.
The master mechanics, builders, carpenters, blacksmiths, etc., are
generally white, while the journeymen and labourers are coloured; it is
the same with the shopkeepers and small traders, their employés being of
the opposite race.
The great drawback in the labour market throughout the Southern States
is the uncertainty of the labour supply. The blacks as a rule are
excellent mechanics, but they will not work well unless under strict
supervision, and they will only work while necessity demands they
should. They have no sense of the responsibility which rests upon their
employer, and cannot see that their idle self-indulgence must result in
his ruin and ultimately in their own. So soon as they have earned a few
dollars they enjoy a spell of idleness till they have eaten them up, and
then go to work for more; but this peculiarity is not confined to the
dark race. They are a good-natured and simple, but shiftless and utterly
irresponsible, people; to-day is all; they apply the scriptural text
literally, and “take no thought of to-morrow.” Gay, thoughtless, fond of
pleasure and every kind of self-indulgence, and having led for
generations past a life of dependence on the will and direction of
others, they can exercise no discretion of their own; they are mere
machines to be set in motion by the master hand. Generations must pass
before they can learn the lesson of self-government, and be led to feel
that their own prosperity must be the outcome of their co-operation with
the prosperity of others. I speak of the general character of the
people; of course there are exceptions to this rule, and many of them.
Education is doing its work slowly but surely; there are schools
everywhere, where they receive exactly the same training as the whites,
and consequently the coloured population of to-day is a great advance
on the enslaved race of twenty years ago.
We spend our first day in Charleston in a rambling promenade through the
city, so gathering a general view of the whole before we take the
special points of interest.
It is a bright sunny day, with a cool fresh breeze blowing, not at all
the sort of weather we ought to have considering the season; instead of
the hot sun blazing and burning in vindication of its Southern
character, compelling us to creep along every inch of shade, and melting
us even then, it simply looks down upon us with a kind, genial eye,
occasionally winking and playing bo-peep with the woolly white clouds
which come sailing across the azure sky, and the balmy breath of the
wind is sufficiently cool to render our wraps not only comfortable but
absolutely necessary.
Before we have gone many steps on our way we come upon a pleasant party
of some half dozen negroes, sitting on a fence like a gathering of black
crows, each one whittling a stick and chewing tobacco in solemn
silence--not the silence of thought, but the silence of emptiness, their
great shining eyes staring at nothing, thinking of nothing, like lazy
cattle basking in the sunshine in supreme idleness.
On returning some hours later, we find them in exactly the same place,
whittling the same stick and chewing the same quid; they do not seem to
have stirred an inch. In odd nooks and corners, entangled in the ragged
edges of the city, we come upon similar groups, and I believe if we had
returned in six days instead of six hours we should have found them in
precisely the same condition.
The aspect Charleston presents at the first glance to the stranger’s eye
is impressive in the extreme; apart from the historical and romantic
interest which clings to the place, it has a character peculiarly its
own, and bears slight resemblance to any other city we have seen. It
seems to have stood still during the last century, and is strictly
conservative in its appearance and in its ways.
Quaintly tangled streets and alleys cling to the main
thoroughfares, running up and down, in and out, in a sort of
thread-my-grandmother’s-needle fashion; making a loop here, tying
themselves into knots there, and resolving themselves into a perfect
puzzle which the pedestrian has hard matter to piece together with his
weary feet.
The houses in these out-of-the-way parts of the town are old-fashioned,
odd-looking places, some so crippled in their lower limbs as to need the
support of strong oaken beams, or patches of bricks and mortar; some are
rickety in their upper stories, and lean affectionately on one side so
as to support themselves on the strength of their neighbours, as weaker
human creatures are apt to do. Everything seems pining for a fresh coat
of paint; but they do their best to conceal their need of it, covering
themselves with creeping plants or tawdry hangings, hiding their
discolorations and bruises with gorgeous hued flowers, and clasping
their green mantle round them as we may have seen an aristocratic beggar
draw his robe across his breast to hide his rags and tatters.
Occasionally, in some obscure corner of the city, we come upon a
rambling old mansion of quaint, picturesque architecture, once the home
of refinement and wealth, where the great ones of the country lived in a
state of ease, luxury, and almost feudal splendour. It is occupied now
by hosts of coloured folk; swarms of black babies crowd the verandahs or
climb and tumble about the steps and passages, while the dilapidated
balconies are filled with lines of clothes to dry; the negro smokes his
pipe beneath the eaves, and the women folk, with their heads turbanned
in gay-coloured handkerchiefs, laugh and chatter from the windows and
lounge in the doorways. How long ago is it since the clank of the
cavaliers’ spurs rang upon the crumbling pavement, and sweet ladies with
their pretty patched faces laughed from the verandahs, while merry
voices and music and hospitality echoed from the now dingy,
time-dishonoured halls, and stately dames in the decorous dress and
manners of the old days walked to and fro, adding by their gracious
presence to the attraction of the festive scene? But these good old days
are over; no imperious dames, in stiff brocades and jewelled slippers,
pace the wide corridors, or dance the graceful minuet upon the floor;
there is no sound of flute and tabor now, but the many sounding notes of
labour, the tramp of busy hives of working men and women, and the
plaintive voices of the negroes singing is heard instead of it, and who
shall say which makes the better music?
It was on the balcony of one of those houses Jane Elliot stood to see
her lover, William Washington, march past with his cavalry regiment on
their way to the war, more than a century ago. Drums beat and bugles
sounded, and as the gallant men marched on she observed they had no
flag! For a few brief moments they halted beneath her window while with
her own hands she tore the crimson brocade back from one of her
drawing-room chairs, and improvised a banner, which they triumphantly
bore away, marching double quick time to the tune their hearts were
playing.
Years after, in 1827, when she was widowed and old and grey, she stood
on the same spot and gave this, her dead husband’s battle banner, to the
Washington light infantry of Charleston. It is now held by them almost
as a sacred relic, and is only carried on days of grand parade or other
special occasions. We may catch a glimpse of life as it was in this
Charleston of old times from a writer in 1763, who says:--
“The inhabitants of this Carolina province are generally of a good
stature and well made, with lively and agreeable countenances. The
personal qualities of the ladies are much to their credit and advantage;
they are genteel and slender, they have fair complexions--without the
aid of art--and regular, refined features, their manners are easy and
natural, their eyes sparkling and enchantingly sweet. They are fond of
dancing; many sing well, and play upon the harpsichord and guitar with
great skill. In summer riding on horseback or in carriages--which few
are without--is greatly practised. In the autumn, winter, and spring,
there is variety and plenty of game for the gun or dogs; and the
gentlemen are by no means backward in the chase. During the season, once
in two weeks, there is a dancing assembly in Charleston, where there is
always a brilliant appearance of lovely and well dressed women: we have
likewise a genteel playhouse, where a very tolerable set of actors,
called ‘The American Company of Comedians,’ exhibit. Concerts of
instrumental music are frequently performed by gentlemen. Madeira wine
and punch are the common drinks of the inhabitants, but few gentlemen
are without claret, port, Lisbon, and other wines of Spanish, French,
or Portugal vintages. The ladies are very temperate, and only drink
water, which in Charleston is very unwholesome. There are about 1,100
houses in the town, some of wood, some of brick; many of them have a
genteel appearance, though generally encumbered with balconies or
piazzas, and are all most luxuriously furnished. The apartments are
arranged for coolness, which is very necessary.”
Charleston, as I have said before, is strictly conservative in its
principles, and in many respects is much the same to-day as it was then.
In spite of all its reverses--the internal struggles of the Cavaliers
and Puritans, who brought hither their old quarrels and prejudices along
with their household gods, from over the sea, its strife with the
Indians, its troubles during the British occupation, and its terrible
disasters during the late four years’ conflict--it still retains many of
its old characteristics; its features are the same, though cruelly
scarred with the flames and sword of war. We pass on our way through
Meeting Street, one of the chief thoroughfares of the city; it is a
long, straight, not overwide, shady street, with beautiful trees on
either side, and has a look of almost cloistered quiet about it. There
are several handsome churches embosomed in bowers of green, and the
ruins of an ancient cathedral, which was burned by accident more than
twenty years ago; they point this out as proudly, and cherish it as
fondly, as though it were a legitimate ruin, a wreck that old time had
left upon their shores.
The long stretch of houses on either side are not of any specially
varied or picturesque style of architecture; they are three stories
high, and have a rather curious appearance, as they turn their backs
upon the streets, or rather stand sideways like pews in a church, their
fronts facing seaward, to catch the cool sea breeze which blows down
from the battery above. The three-storied piazzas running round every
house, the green venetians wholly or partly closed, not a soul in sight,
either from within or without, give an appearance of almost oriental
seclusion to the place; one half expects to see some dark, laughing
beauty peeping out from among the flowers. The dear old city is full of
romance and beauty everywhere, and as we pass through the silent
street--silent, yet speaking with an eloquence that surpasses
speech--the ghost of the dead days seems marching with muffled feet
beside us, and the very stones seem to have a story to tell. We feel as
though we have fallen upon an enchanted land, where time is standing
still, and the years have grown grey with watching. Here and there we
come upon a large empty mansion, one of the grand dwellings of old
colonial days, whence the tenants have been driven by adverse
circumstances; it stands staring down upon the street with blank, glassy
eyes, perhaps with a rent in its side, and its face bruised and
battered, its discoloured, painted skin peeling off, and slowly rotting.
People have neither time nor money to rehabilitate these ancient
mansions; they must needs be deserted by their owners, who have gone to
seek their fortunes in the eastern cities, while the old homes are left
to decay.
From this pretty shady street we come out upon the Battery, and stand
for a moment to look round upon the peaceful scene, and enjoy the balmy
breeze which sweeps straight from the near Gulf Stream. This is a
delightful promenade and pleasure ground, where the good Charlestonians
from time immemorial have come for their evening stroll, or to sit under
the leafy shade of the scrub-oaks, gossiping with their neighbours. The
Battery grounds front the land-locked bay--a sheet of crystal water
about three miles wide--around which, and on the opposite side, lies a
perfect garland of softly-swelling green islands, which stretch far away
out of our sight. On each side, running like arms from the bay, are the
Ashley and Cooper rivers, holding the town in their watery embrace.
Around three sides of the Battery there runs an elevated promenade,
raised about two feet from the grounds, which are beautifully laid out
in pretty, white shell walks, grassy turf, and gorgeous flower beds,
while groups of fine old forest trees, that have heard the whispering of
many centuries, spread their leafy branches far and wide. Turning their
backs upon the town and facing this lovely land-and-water scene, stands
a variegated collection of fine old-fashioned houses of quaint
architecture. Some are landmarks of the old colonial days; each one
differs in form and colour from the other, but all are fanciful
structures with elaborate ornamentation; some are circular, some flat
fronted, some curving in a fantastic fashion, and seeming to look round
the corner on their friends and neighbours, to assure them they are not
proud though they have turned their backs upon them; some have wide
balconies of stone, some light verandahs with green venetian blinds or
graceful ironwork clinging to their front; but everywhere creeping
plants and brilliant flowers are growing.
The view on all sides is most picturesque and lovely, and the fragrant
air is a delight to the senses. Here is the real aristocratic part of
the city, and here to this day, in spite of the many freaks of fortune,
the descendants of the old Huguenot and Cavalier families inhabit the
homes of their ancestors, whose familiar names still echo on the ears of
the town. With lagging footsteps we take our way homeward through the
city, losing ourselves and finding ourselves more than once. Altogether
we come to the conclusion that Charleston is a sober suited, gentlemanly
city strongly impregnated with the savour of old days; somewhat worn and
grey, but thoroughly dignified and pleasant, full of old-world
prejudices and decorum that no flighty tourist would care to outrage.
We have merely glanced at the outer aspect of the city, to-morrow we
must visit some interiors and the more definite features within and
around it. As we enter our chamber after our long ramble we hear the
sounds of merry voices, and the passing of people to and fro in the
courtyard; then suddenly amid the shouting and the laughter there rises
a choir of voices, a hush falls everywhere--they are singing “The sweet
by and by.” We approach the window and look out. A group of coal-black
negroes are sitting round one table piling up rich ripe strawberries for
our dessert; close by is another party shelling peas. It is these groups
who are singing. Their plaintive melancholy voices affect us solemnly;
but even as the last notes are trembling on their lips they begin to
play monkey tricks on one another, turning somersaults in the air,
grinning from ear to ear, and chattering like magpies!