Lady Duffus Hardy

To-day and yesterday.—General experience of travel in the South.—The associated Southern Railways.

On first starting Southward everybody warned us of the great discomfort of Southern travel; we were therefore prepared for all kinds of inconvenience and annoyances by the way—partly arising from the alleged dearth of proper meal stations, and the long waits at the little wayside stations, where we expected to be turned out of one train and left disconsolately waiting in the wilderness till we are picked up by another, and we were prepared to resign ourselves to jolting cars and rough roads, indeed to a series of jerky rickety journeys, ill fed by day, ill lodged by night.

Having reached thus far, we have continued to pick up many crumbs of experience by the way, and I think this is a fitting place to pause, and say a few words on this and some few other subjects. First, I have no doubt that my many friendly informants spoke according to the light which illuminated their minds, reflected from the days gone by, when things generally were in a chaotic state, trembling in the balance between order and disorder; or perhaps they thought retrospectively of a time still earlier, when there were few travellers and scarce accommodation—for the one must grow in accordance with the other. Mais nous avons changÉ tout cela. In no country in the world are changes so rapid and complete as in the United States. North and south, east and west—all are animated by the same spirit of progress; always on the onward march; carrying on their social revolutions with a rapidity that astonishes and takes away the breath of the dear old world, which has been working for centuries building up cities, gathering peoples together, making laws, and evolving constitutions from the heart of ages, lopping off and pruning the rotten branches till it has grown tired of its labours, and would fain fold its hands and rest. But the new world has its life before it; like a strong young Samson, it is full of restless energies, it must always be “up and doing,” and trying its strength in all directions—building up on theoretical principles, bombarding and pulling down as practical necessities lead them, changing the features of the land, modelling and remodelling day by day till, were the whole skies turned into a looking-glass, it would not recognise its own face as reflected therein.

The South of to-day is not the South of the yesterdays. It has slept and dreamed through so many generations of beautiful repose beneath sunny skies and soft sweet airs, enjoying an eternal dolce far niente and giving no thought to anything beyond itself. Now it is awake, it has unsealed its eyes, shaken off the luxurious flowery chain that has held it like links of iron, stretched its limbs, and, as a sleeping army springs to life at the sound of the trumpet, it is up and doing; developing its marvellous resources on the earth and under the earth, building factories, opening mines, and utilising its wonderful water power—forcing the quiet river out of its accustomed way, lashing it till, after much foaming, flashing, and groaning, it grinds the corn, crushes the rough ore, and labours at the world’s work like a sentient being.

In the old days there was not much travel through the Southern States. The wealthy planter lived literally under his own vine and fig tree—a life of luxurious ease and sweet contentment. There, on his own domain, he kept a kind of feudal state, surrounded by his dusky subjects. There was no stimulant, because no need for exertion; the refinements and elegances were in a state of high cultivation, and his requirements were gratified by his immediate surroundings; he rarely looked beyond them. Everything bloomed in his own garden, except, perhaps, heartsease, for he always listened for the storm which he knew must arise on some future though indefinite day. Perhaps in due course his sons went the tour of Europe, and then returned to the old homestead to tread in their father’s footsteps, and live through life in the old primitive, luxurious fashion. On the rare occasions when they decided to travel through their own states to and from points out of the beaten path made by the main railway lines, or the steamboats ploughing their watery highways, they had to journey across the country where roads were rough or existed not at all; the arrangement needing much consideration and being attended by considerable expense.

The journey they could take in twelve hours by rail would occupy four or five days, when they must carry their own servants and provisions with them, and also be provided with a supply of tents, and generally camp out from the beginning to the end of the journey. They required to travel very carefully too, not only from the generally swampy state of the country, but from the risk they ran of making acquaintance with slimy reptiles and other odious creations. These considerations rendered the expedition one that could hardly be taken for pleasure; but now, in these later days, it is a delight to travel in this sunny land; travelling is made easy even to the most remote portion of the Southern States, and every day things are everywhere improving and making a royal progress as near perfection as we can ever hope to arrive.

The main line of railway runs, like an iron vertebra, a kind of backbone, from north to south; the directors of the southern line of railway, realising the necessity of extension, and desirous of giving easy access to all parts of the country, have laid down branch lines in all directions, running out like the arms of an octopus, grasping at distant towns and villages, and halting at the most beautiful secluded spots in the inmost quarters of the land. Having due regard to the fact that people will not travel unless they can do so with a tolerable amount of ease and comfort, the projectors of the southern lines of railway have paid due respect to the requirements of the public, and have formed their plans and carried on their operations with a view to the convenience and comfort of their temporary guests.

The lines are carefully laid over level roads with the best steel rails, and are carried through some of the most picturesque as well as the most weird and wild portions of the country. The carriages are new, the drawing-room and sleeping cars elegantly fitted up with luxurious spring seats, mirrors, and gorgeous surroundings.

In order to insure safety, so far as safety can be assured in any branch of human life, the trains are in the command of the most experienced engineers, and are supplied with the patent Westinghouse automatic air brakes, and all other new and improved appliances, so as to reduce the risk of travelling to a minimum degree. Everything is done with leisurely dignity and quietude in the South; there is no bustle or confusion, no general rush, even at the depots. The iron horse, in his bright brass harness, comes up to the platform with a few dignified snorts; there is no puffing, nor blowing, nor demoniacal shrieks, as though a score of fiends were struggling to get free from their fiery prison. He deposits his living freight according to their several desires; then, answering to the call of the engine-bell, as a good steed responds to the spur of his rider, with a stately tramp moves onward, the thin blue smoke curling from his cavernous nostrils, as though he were some metallic monster going for an evening stroll with a gigantic cigar between his iron lips.

Those who take delight in going at express speed must abandon that idea in travelling South. There is no rapid transit there, no “Lightning Express” nor “Flying Dutchman” thunders through those sylvan scenes; but you are carried along at a decorous pace, at the rate of twenty, sometimes thirty, miles an hour. This is a great gain to those who travel for pleasure only, as they are enabled thoroughly to enjoy the scenery of the state they are moving through.

The rich, romantic forest, with its hoary-headed army of grand old trees—grim cedars, lofty pines, and light skirmishing lines of graceful palmettoes, all dressed in their regimentals of varied greens—march slowly and solemnly by, saluting you gravely with their bowing branches as they pass in panoramic review before your eyes; you have time to take in the individual character of these glorious hummocks and savannahs as you pass them by. For personal enjoyment it is surely better to travel in this leisurely fashion than to fly through the air, hurled and whirled along at express speed, till earth and sky seems blended together in one blurred mass of mingled blue and green.

There are well-provisioned restaurants stationed at certain intervals all along the road. The excellence of these, of course, varies according to the management; at most you may enjoy the luxury of a thoroughly well cooked meal—the universal steak, fried chicken, varied vegetables, dessert, and milk and coffee ad libitum. At some you get a dainty meal that even an epicure might enjoy; I call to mind one perfectly luxurious entertainment. The train drew up at a secluded wayside spot; it was no station at all, only a few pretty cottages embowered in trees were scattered about in sight. We were convoyed by our polite train conductor through a blooming garden to one of these, with the porch overgrown with honeysuckle and a wealth of white roses; here, in a simply furnished dining-room, preparations had been made for our entertainment. We were a party of about twenty, including the engineer and conductors; and while the brown bees were droning at their pleasant work outside, the brilliant-hued flowers peeped in at the windows, nodded their plumed heads at us, and kept up a whispering concert while we regaled ourselves on the good things set before us. It was a dainty feast, fit for the gods; there was no vulgar display of huge underdone joints—the very sight of which is apt to chase away the appetite without cost to its owner; there were broiled chickens with mushrooms, delicate lamb, crisp salad, new potatoes stewed in cream, new laid eggs, strawberries, dainty omelets, and other tempting dishes. A steaming cup of fragrant coffee was handed round as, our twenty minutes having expired, we were summoned to depart by the stentorian cry of “All aboard! All aboard!” Everybody complimented our hostess—a widow lady—on her pleasant entertainment, and promised to advise everybody to stop there and taste her hospitality.

The train only stops here once in the twenty-four hours; the rest of the time the cottage and its inhabitants are left to enjoy their sweet seclusion. Of course this kind of thing is an exception, though at several stations we enjoyed excellent meals well worth the tourist’s while to remember. As the happiness of a human being largely depends on the state of his stomach, if that portion of machinery is judiciously treated it helps to keep the rest in order, and is an aid to general good spirits.

At one place—Smithville in Georgia—a capital home-made wine, “Scuppernong,” was supplied liberally and without extra charge. The cost of a meal was sometimes fifty cents, but more usually seventy-five cents. Occasionally the steak may be tough, the “rooster” have outgrown his early youth, but with plenty of fresh eggs and bacon, vegetables, salad, and bread and butter, the hungry may be well satisfied.

I have perhaps dwelt on this subject more than it was necessary I should have done; but so many misapprehensions exist, so many false reports (no doubt ignorantly) circulated concerning Southern travel, that I have thought it well to give my slight experience on the subject, and I am sure my testimony will be supported by all who have followed or may follow in my footsteps. Of course, in the great army of tourists there is always a contingent of native-born grumblers who are never satisfied, and wander through the sullen groves of discontent and fret the very air with their endless complaining; and even when they enter the gates of heaven they will complain, like the dissatisfied cherub, that “their halo doesn’t fit.”