Lady Duffus Hardy

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