Atlanta.--A wilderness of bricks and mortar.--Lovely
surroundings.--Scarlet woods.--Memorial day.--Scenes in the
cemetery.
About five 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 no regular 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 attractive in 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 or
thickets 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 of God 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
(patriots _all_; 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 the porch 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.