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—

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.