Columbia.--Wright’s Hotel.--Variegated scenes.--Past and
present.--A Sabbath city.--The penitentiary.--Sunday service.--A
few last words.
We start for Columbia at half-past eight in the morning; it is dull and
misty during the earlier part, but as the day deepens the weather
clears, and by the time we are running through the great cotton belt of
Georgia, a bright sun is shining, and we enjoy the pretty, peaceful
scenery; which, however, has no especial feature till we reach the Great
Stone Mountain, a vast mass of gray granite, standing bald and bare,
rising far above the tops of the tallest trees, which are grouped round
its base, like a company of dwarfs at the feet of a giant. It is visible
for miles round--a huge, gray dome cut out of the blue skies. The stone
quarry from the base of this mountain is used, and has been used for
years past, in the building of public edifices and churches in the
near-lying cities, without any visible diminution or disfiguration. Here
and there is a deep dentation--as though you had scooped a spoonful
from a mountain of ice cream, nothing more. When it first looms upon the
sight, it looks like a huge globe rising out of the earth, smooth as a
billiard ball, silhouetted against the bright blue skies.
It is nearly eleven o’clock at night when we reach Columbia; here hotel
omnibuses, as usual, are in waiting. Into one of these we get; and the
lumbering, creaky old vehicle leaps, and bumps, playing the game of
pitch and toss with us, as it rattles over the rough, stony way, through
a darkness black as Erebus. We peer out through the windows; there is
nothing but darkness visible--no signs of a city. Presently, rows of
trees, dark, spectral trees, seem to be marching past us--rustling their
leaves, waving their thick branches, stretching their leafy arms on each
side of us, as though they were trying to stop our way! Are we driving
through a forest? we wonder.
There is only one other occupant of the omnibus--a tall, limp young man,
who has flung himself in a heap at the farthest corner. We venture to
inquire of him.
“We seem to be going a long way. Are we far from the city?” and he
answers in a sort of dislocated voice,
“Well--we’re getting along;” which patent fact brings no information to
our inquiring minds.
Presently we catch a glimmer of light shining from among the trees, and
find we are nearing human habitations at last; for tiny lamps are
gleaming from pretty nests of houses, which are hidden away in the
woodland background. The lights gradually grow more and more numerous,
and wide streets develop out of the darkness, and the sounds of tramping
feet and voices reach our ears. Through these we rattle quickly, and in
a very few moments are deposited at our destination, “Wright’s Hotel,”
which, on closer acquaintance, we decide to be one of the cosiest and
pleasantest in all the south. It stands on the principal thoroughfare,
and has a wide and imposing elevation. The rooms are beautifully clean
and comfortably furnished; and the _cuisine_ is excellent. The everyday
cooking is elevated to a fine art: an omelette is as light and airy as a
dream; a broil has a flavour of poetry about it; and a fricandeau
arrives at a state of idyllic perfection. All the arrangements are
essentially English, and we settle down for a few days with a home-like
feeling in our hearts.
The city stands on a lofty plateau--a hill, indeed, of great elevation,
and the surrounding country, sloping away in all directions, lies around
us a perfect panorama of natural beauty. Whichever way we turn our eyes,
they travel downwards and outwards, far away, over wide stretches of
wooded country. There a rapid river runs in and out, amid a paradise of
green; then a sheet of silver water, or placid lake, calm as an infant’s
sleep, dimples in the light of the sun; and wild wildernesses lie
nestling among what look like English fields of buttercups and daisies
and acres of waving grain; while a rich growth of variegated green
fringes the feet or climbs up the sides of the softly swelling distant
hills. Tender lights and shadows are lying restfully everywhere. It all
looks so calm and peaceful--as though nature, hushed to sleep, was
smiling in her dreams.
The streets of the city are wide, and of course arranged as usual to run
at right angles; there has been no hurry or confusion in the building of
it, the spirit of the designer is visible everywhere, and the design has
been carefully carried out with harmonious effect; every vista is
pleasant and refreshing to the eye. Like most other southern cities the
thoroughfares are shaded with magnificent old trees, thickly planted,
and of prodigious size, on both sides of the road; and yet Columbia has
a character peculiarly its own. It is like an oasis lifted up and out of
the great world round it; a serene and silent city it sits apart, with a
life and story all its own; there is no noise or bustle, no hurrying
throngs of people streaming through the vacant streets, no jingling
bells of cars, no rattling of carriages passing over the stony
roads--only at certain hours the hotel omnibuses crawl to and from the
station--a drowsy hum is in the air, the shops have opened their glassy
eyes and are blinking in the morning light; they might as well go to
sleep again--nobody seems to want to buy anything--only a few stragglers
are wandering aimlessly about, everything moves leisurely, nobody seems
in a hurry about anything. Life itself seems to move onward with slow
and solemn footstep, scarce making a single echo on the shores of time.
So stands this lovely city steeped in the southern sunshine, robed in
fair green garlands, with blooming gardens clinging about her skirts;
there is a refreshing sweetness in the air, a purity and harmony mingled
with a Sabbath stillness everywhere.
A patriarchal simplicity pervades the atmosphere, the people seem to
know we are strangers, and as strangers greet us with a recognising
smile or pleasant word; the coloured folks relapse into a broad grin;
there is a gentle courtesy, an air of good breeding, even among the
loafers gathered at the street corners as they lift their ragged caps
and make way for us to pass. We turn down a pretty, shady thoroughfare
and as we are rambling along in a state of sweet contentment, imbued
with the brooding spirit of the place, a cheery voice bids us “Good
morning.” We look up and two black faces with laughing eyes and gleaming
teeth look down upon us from a perfect nest of roses, the two women are
sitting in their balcony with their dusky children rolling at their
feet; a game at questions, answers, and observations follows, and we
enjoy quite a pleasant characteristic conversation; one comes down and
brings us a handful of sweet-smelling flowers as we pass on our way.
We wander through this idyllic city as through a land of dreams, and
have some difficulty in finding our way back to our hotel, as the
streets are all verbally christened but none have their names written
up, the houses too are unnumbered. I remarked that this is an awkward
arrangement or want of arrangement.
“Not at all,” is the answer, “everybody knows everybody here.”
“But it is certainly puzzling for strangers.”
“Oh, strangers have only got to ask, they find their ways wherever they
wish to go, and get along well enough.”
We “got along,” and one bright morning found our way to the university,
a fine old, red-brick building, standing back far away from the shady
street, in a quadrangle surrounded by tall red-brick houses, with rows
of trees planted before and blooming gardens behind them; a few
marauding geese are gobbling on the green, but there are no other signs
of life, not even a stray dog in the inclosure, the wide quadrangle is
empty of humanity; a soft breeze stirs the tall tree tops, rustling the
leaves with a whispering sound, as though they had brought a message
from some far-off lands. A cloistered stillness is about the place which
is almost oppressive as we wander to and fro, looking up at the tall
closed houses and pondering on the special history we know of some of
them. We cannot gain admission to the college, as the doors are barred
and we see no one to whom we could address an inquiry, so we turn away,
and with echoless footsteps pass over the green sward out into the
public high-road.
The next morning we drive out, in a rather rickety, shandrydan vehicle,
over the broad sandy roads, past a pretty little valley or wild wooded
basin, so called a “park,” to the penitentiary or State prison. We are
received by a dignified-looking gentleman, the governor, and by him
handed over to the military guard, who conducts us through the different
wards.
No idling here--shoemakers, carpenters, blacksmiths, all hard at work,
amidst profound silence so far as the human voice is concerned, for
prisoners are not permitted to speak, even in answer to the visitors’
remarks addressed to them. The majority of both sexes are coloured,
there is but a mere sprinkling of white convicts. Some Boston tourists,
who have joined our party, sigh as they observe this. “Evidently the
white man’s offences are condoned, while the poor negro is invariably
convicted,” they say, shaking their heads deploringly. A good-natured,
cheery-looking matron takes us through the women’s quarters, where all
are busily engaged at sewing, stitching, or machine work; here, too,
strict silence is preserved, they make their requirements known by dumb
show; most of them keep their heads bent downwards as we enter, but one
or two look up, and a smile, like a gleam of sunshine, breaks over their
clouded faces, their eyes speak though their lips are mute, as they
recognise their matron’s kindly face,--no need of words to tell of her
popularity, for grateful glances follow her wherever she goes, even the
brush of her skirts as she passes seems to do them good; she gives an
encouraging pat here, a smile or kindly word there, and who knows but
the seed one kind heart scatters among their barren lives may take root
and help them to bear something better than prison fruit in the future.
She passes on, doing a true Christian’s duty in smoothing the way of the
unfortunate, who have fallen beyond the pale of human law, but not
beyond the reach of God’s mercy.
The workrooms where they pass their days are light and airy, but the
small, bare, white, vaulted cells, where they spend their time from six
in the evening till six in the morning, look barren, cold, and silent as
so many narrow graves. There are no windows, they are honeycombed into
the wall, and air and light are only admitted through the iron-grated
entrance door, which gives on to a wide whitewashed corridor, where the
warder in charge keeps watch during the night.
The penitentiary is surrounded by very extensive grounds, laid out to
supply the prison with vegetables, here a score or two of prisoners in
striped, zebra-like clothing are at work digging potatoes or cultivating
cabbages. A high wall surrounds this open space, a turret or watch-box
stands in the centre on the top of each section, commanding every inch
of the ground. These are occupied night and day by an armed guard, who
have orders to shoot down any prisoner who attempts to escape.
“They don’t often miss their aim either,” observes our guide
complacently.
On Sunday we attend service here. The barn-like building dedicated to
divine worship is not nearly large enough to hold half the prisoners;
they overflow outside the doors, swarm on the steps, and cling in groups
outside the windows. Nearly all are coloured, some pure black. The
leader of the choir, a tall, good-looking young fellow, we are told is a
“lifer,” in for arson, a very common crime among the negroes. The
southern laws seem to be far more rigorous than those of the north,
capital punishment being enforced for some offences which are met only
by imprisonment in the northern States. Amongst the crowd of coloured
folk, we notice there are three or four white women, who, according to
general custom, take precedence of the dark race; they enter first in
the procession, and sit in the front row. One keeps her head
determinedly bent down; we just see under the shadow of her calico
poke-bonnet a young rounded chin, a fair smooth cheek with a peach-like
bloom upon it; but her eyes and brow we never catch a glimpse of; she
sits through the whole service with eyes and head bowed resolutely down
out of our range of sight. What is her story? Somehow we feel it must be
a pitiful one, and our sympathies go out to her. Does the sight of us
“remind her of the state from which she fell?”--the descent so easy, the
return so hard and almost impossible! Next her sits another woman, a
striking contrast, an older woman with a powerful characteristic face,
dark defiant eyes, close thin lips, she seems to look her fate in the
face boldly, as though she had “dreed her weird,” and took her
punishment without shrinking; a hard Ishmaelitish face it is; she looks
as though _she_ was against all the world, and the world was against
_her_; no softening line, no gleam of sorrow or regret rested thereon.
Whatever crime she had committed, she looks ready to go out and commit
it again. Her hard cold eyes glare at us angrily, as though resenting
our presence.
“What right have you to come out of your free sunny world to see us in
our home of shame and misery?” they seem to say. We feel quite restless
and uncomfortable beneath her stony gaze; we cannot avoid it, we cannot
get away from it; it has a sort of magnetic attraction, a fascination
for us; we turn our eyes away, and try to fix our attention on the
preacher, but it is no use; there is some disturbing element in the air,
and against our will our eyes are drawn back to that powerful face, with
its lowering brow and rebellious lips.
We are glad when the service is over, and we get out into heaven’s
sunshine and breathe the pure fresh air again. Still that face haunts us
and casts a shadow on the sunlight, and at night those pale steely eyes
flash out between the darkness and our dreams. Somehow, on that glorious
Sabbath morning, we wish we had left our devotions undone. We feel that
somewhere and at some future time we shall see that face again--we
should know it, years hence, among a thousand.
It is perhaps here in Columbia more than in any other city that we
realise to the fullest extent the ruin and desolation that has been; for
though, as a rule, throughout the main streets the houses in a
scrambling sort of way are built up again, yet there are wide gaps and
ruins of crumbling stone and charred wood, partly covered now with soft
moss or a rank growth of tall weeds. Here, round an extensive corner a
hoarding is raised to hide the utter desolation that lies where once
were lovely homes, now levelled to the dust, and blooming gardens, now
a wilderness of thorns and thistles, scattered over with the mute signs
of broken lives. These ugly features come upon us in the midst of
perfect peace--a calm repose lies over the land; but still they point
with spectral finger to the scar left by cruel wounds. And over the
sweet golden sunshine of that still Sabbath morning a shadow seems to
fall. In fancy we see the darkness of one awful night close over
Columbia, the signal rockets shoot up from that State House on the hill,
the fiery tongues of flame leap from crumbling homes and devastated
hearths. But these things are not to be thought of now. The “dark hour”
of Columbia is past, and we see her lying peacefully to-day in the light
of the rosy dawn.
Our southern trip is over, and we turn our faces eastward, leaving many
regrets behind, and carrying many pleasant memories away with us. We
have seen the south, not in its full flush of prosperity, its hour of
pride, but in its struggles to rise up to a higher and nobler height
than it has ever yet reached. Industry and thrift have taken the place
of luxury and ease. Scarce twenty years ago and the whole land was
drowsily dreaming away its life, with only a sybaritish enjoyment of the
present; no ambition for coming years, no sowing the good seed for the
future harvest of mankind. The whole world’s centre was in themselves
and their own immediate surroundings; they gave no thought or care to
anything beyond; like the gorgeous butterflies, they rather looked down
on the working bees, who have the building up and are the mainsprings of
this world’s well-being.
Cradled in sunshine, girdled by all that is lovely in creation, wrapped
in fine raiment, but with the earthworm Slavery curled about its roots,
sapping its nobler instincts, eating its heart away, and binding its
invisible soul with chains stronger than those which bind its own
miserable body, the South slept the sleep of a most baneful peace, till
the sleep was broken, and the thunder of war echoed through the silent
land. Then how grandly she awoke, shook off her rosy chains, and rose up
like a god, with her latent fires blazing, her energies new strung,
and--but everybody knows what followed. Never was desolation so great as
that which fell upon this beautiful land; never was ruin more proudly
met, more grandly borne. It is nobler, far nobler now than in its hour
of pride; there are no puerile regrets, no rebellious utterings, no
useless looking back; their motto is “Excelsior!” and with undaunted
spirit, men and women too (for the Southern women are “the souls of
men”) are striving to build up a glorious future upon the ruins of the
past. Every man puts his hand to the plough and devotes his life, and
uses his best energies as a kind of lever to lift up his country to the
“old heroic height.” Passionate devotion and fervent patriotism is
aglow through all the south, but every man is devoted to his own special
State rather than to the united whole; and everywhere they are at work,
immense factories are in full operation, mines are being opened,
railways built, and through the whole length and breadth of the South a
general stir and bustle of business prevails. Everywhere prosperity is
present, and the prospect widens of a growing prosperity in the future.
Meanwhile, new industries and new inventions crowd the market. One new
industry is the making of “olive butter,” which is a very fine oil,
extracted from the cotton seeds, which in the old days were regarded as
useless and thrown away. Many thousands of persons are employed in
carrying on this business, which brings (and is probably on the
increasing scale) to the Southern States annually the sum of fifteen
millions of dollars.
Northern capital has generously outstretched a friendly hand, and poured
its wealth into the empty coffers, and given the means of general
rehabilitation; and the awakened South has brains to plan, and pluck and
energy to carry on its noble campaign, while the world looks on with
silent respect and expectation for the days that are to come.
LONDON: R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS, BREAD STREET HILL