There is a plan adopted at this school which I never saw before, and which Professor Hart told me was most admirable in its results. At the end of every three-quarters of an hour all the doors and windows in the house are opened simultaneously; the bell is then rung twice: at the first sound, all lectures, recitations, and exercises cease, and the students put their books, caps, &c., in readiness to move; at the second sound, all the classes move simultaneously from the room in which they have been studying to the room in which the next course of study is to be followed. The building is so arranged, that in passing from one room to another, they have to pass through the court round the house. This operation takes three minutes, and is repeated about eight times a-day, during which intervals all the doors and windows are open, thus thoroughly ventilating the rooms; but there is a further advantage, which is thus described in the Report,—"These movements are found very useful in giving periodically a fresh impulse both to the bodies and to the minds of the students, and in interrupting almost mechanically the dull monotony which is apt to befall school hours." The Principal told me, that, from careful observation, he looked upon this as one of the most valuable regulations in the establishment, and that it was difficult to rate its advantages too highly, the freshness of mind which it brought infinitely outweighing any loss of time, interruption, &c. I spent three interesting hours in this admirable institution.
The next establishment I visited was of a very different description; i.e., the jail of solitary confinement. I much wished to have seen some of the prisoners who had been confined for a length of time, but from some informality in the letter I brought, the guardian did not feel authorized to break through the regulations. The prisoners are sometimes confined here for twelve years; they are kept totally separate, but they are allowed to occupy themselves at different trades, &c., in their cells. My guide told me he had never seen any of them become the least idiotic or light-headed from long confinement. Their cells were clean and airy, and some had a little eight-feet-square garden attached; their food was both plentiful and good, and discipline was preserved by the rod of diet; "but," says the guide, "if they become very troublesome and obstinate we" ... what d'ye think?... "give them a shower-bath;" criminals here seem to hate fresh water as much as the tenants of the poor-houses in England do. The jail seems very well adapted for escaping; but I suppose the rifle-armed sentries at the angles of the wall keep them in sufficient awe, as I was told they very rarely get away. The number confined was two hundred and eighty.
The last place I visited was the Lunatic Asylum, which appears admirably placed and admirably conducted. The situation commands a view of two public roads, where the bustle and stir of life are continually passing before their eyes, and with no visible fence intervening, the ground being so undulating and wooded as effectually to conceal the barrier. The grounds are pleasantly laid out in walks, gardens, hothouses, &c.; a comfortable reading-room and ten-pin alley[[AF]] are provided on each side, one for the males, the other for the females. The rooms and dormitories are large and airy, and carriages and horses are ready for such as the physician recommends should take that exercise. The comfort of the inmates appeared fully equal to that of any similar establishment I have visited, and the position far superior, for there was no visible barrier between them and the open country.
But Time says to the traveller what the policeman says to the gathering crowd, "Move on, if you please, sir; move on." Obey is the word. Kind friends are left behind, the kettle hisses, the iron horse snorts, the Hudson is passed, New York is gained, the journey is behind me, bread, butter, and Bohea before me. "Go on," says Time. The Charleston steamer, "James Adger," is bursting to be off. Introduced to the agents, they introduced me to the skipper. The skipper seems to think I am his father; he insists upon my occupying his cabin—a jolly room, big enough to polka in—fifteen feet square. Thanks, most excellent skipper, "may your shadow never be less"—it is substantial enough now. Do you ask why I go to New York from Philadelphia to reach Charleston? The reply is simple:—to avoid the purgatory of an American railway, and to enjoy the life-giving breezes "that sweep o'er the ocean wave." The skipper was a regular trump; the service was clean, and we fed like fighting-cocks. The weather was fine, the ship a clipping good one, passengers few, but with just enough 'bacco-juice flying about the decks to remind me where I was.
One of our company was a charming rarity in his way. He was an Irish Yankee, aged eighty-three. A more perfect Paddy never existed; and so, of course, he talked about fighting, and began detailing to me the various frays in which "we whipt the Britishers." By way of chaffing him, I said, "No wonder; they were Anglo-Saxon blood, brought their courage from England, and were not only fighting at home, but with a halter round their necks." The old veteran got furious, cursed England and the Saxon blood, from Harold to the present hour; he then proved to his own satisfaction that all the great men in America, and all the soldiers, were Celts. "It was the Celts, sir, that whipt the Britishers; and, ould as I am, sure I'd like to take 20,000 men over to the ould counthree, and free it from the bloodthirsty villins, the Saxon brutes." If poor O'Brien had had half the fire of this old Yankee Paddy, he never would have been caught snoozing among the old widow's cabbages. I really thought the old gentleman would have burst outright, or collapsed from reaction; but it passed over like a white squall, and left the original octogenarian calm behind. The darkness of the third evening has closed in upon us, the struggling stream is bellowing for release, hawsers are flying about, boys running from them, and men after them; the good "James Adger" is coquetting about with those well-known young ladies, the Misses "Bakkur and Ternahed;" James seems determined to enjoy it for an unusually prolonged period this evening; but, like everything else, it must have an end, and at last good James lies snugly in his berth, alongside the wharf at Charleston. Cabmen and touters offer an infinity of services; passengers radiate—my Yankee Paddy, it is to be hoped, went to an ice-saloon. Your humble servant went to a boarding-house kept by a most worthy old lady, but where flies occupied one half the house, and the filthiest negro-boys the other. Several respectable people, out of regard to the old lady, were performing the penance of residing in her house: a trip on hot ashes from Dan to Beersheba would have been luxury by comparison. I resigned myself and got reconciled, as I saw the sincere desire of the dear old girl to make me as comfortable as she could; and by learning to eat my meals with my eyes shut, I got on tolerably well. But scarce had I set foot in this establishment which I have been describing, ere kind friends sprang up to greet me and offer me the use of their club-room, which was just opposite my boarding-house; and as this was only the prelude to endless other civilities, my lodging saw very little of me; which may be easily imagined, when it is recollected how famous Charleston is, not only for the good living which it affords, but for the liberal hospitality with which it is dispensed. A letter to one gentleman becomes, like magic, an "Open Sesame" to all the cellars and society in the place; and the only point in dispute is, who can show you most kindness.
The town is conveniently situated between the Ashley and Cooper rivers, with a population of 25,000 whites and the same number of blacks; it is a mixture of all that is lovely and annoying. The houses have mostly little gardens attached to them, sparkling with tropical flowers, and the streets are shaded with avenues of trees. This is all very lovely to look upon; but when you go out to enjoy a stroll, if the air is still, a beefsteak would frizzle on the crown of your hat; and if there is the slightest breeze, the sandy dust, like an Egyptian khamseen, laughs at all precautions, blinding your eyes, stuffing your nose, filling your mouth, and bringing your hide to a state which I can find no other comparison for but that of a box intended to represent a stone pedestal, and which, when the paint has half dried, is sprinkled with sand to perfect the delusion. Thus you can understand the lovely and the annoying of which I have spoken. When the inhabitants wish to take a drive, there is a plank road about six miles long, which enables them to enjoy this luxury. If they are not content with this road, they must seek their pleasure with the carriages up to their axles in sand. There are three old royalist buildings still standing—viz., the Episcopal church, the Court-house, and the Exchange. The first reminds one warmly of the dear old parish church in England, with its heavy oak pulpit and the square family pews, and it sobers the mind as it leads the memory to those days when, if the church was not full of activity, it was not full of strife—when parishioners were not brought to loggerheads as to the colour of the preacher's gown—when there was no triangular duel (vide Marryat) as to candles, no candles, and lit candles—when, in short, if there was but moderate zeal about the substance, there was no quarrelling about the shadows of religion; and if we were not blessed with the zeal of a Bennet, we were not cursed with the strife of a Barnabas. At the time the colonists kicked us out of this place, by way of not going empty-handed, we bagged the church-bells as a trophy—(query, is not robbing a church sacrilege?)—and they eventually found their way into a merchant's store in England, where they remained for years. Not long since, having been ferreted out, they were replaced in their original position, and now summon the Republicans of the nineteenth century to their devotions as lustily as they did the Royalists in the eighteenth. There is nothing remarkable in the two other buildings, except their antiquity, and the associations arising therefrom.[[AG]]
One of the most striking sights here is the turn-out of the Fire Companies on any gala day. They consist of eight companies, of one hundred each; their engines are brilliantly got up, and decorated tastefully with flowers; banners flying; the men, in gay but business-like uniform, dragging their engines about, and bands playing away joyously before them. The peculiarity of the Charleston firemen is that, instead of being composed of all the rowdies of the town, as is often the case in the large eastern cities, they are, generally speaking, the most respectable people in the community. This may partly be accounted for by the militia service being so hard, and the fines for the neglect of the same so heavy, from which all those serving in the Fire Companies are exempt.[[AH]] The South Carolinians, in anticipation of any insurrection among the negroes, or in case of being driven into secession by success attending the efforts of the Abolitionists, have very prudently established a little miniature West Point institution,[[AI]] where lads from fifteen to twenty receive a thorough military education, and then retire into private life and follow any pursuits they choose. By this means the nucleus of military officers requisite for an army is obtained, and the frequent drilling of the militia forms a solid groundwork for that latter, should the hour of necessity unfortunately arrive. The gay time of Charleston is during the races, which take place in February, and have a considerable reputation, although, perhaps, not quite so high as they had some few years back. I have never seen any of their racing studs; but, as they import from England some of the finest stallions that come into the market, and as the breed of horse in America is very active and enduring, their racers, it is to be presumed, make a very good show.
Having impregnated my system with turtle, terrapin, mint-julep, and Madeira—the latter such as only America can show—I bade adieu to my kind and hospitable friends, and started for Virginia. The first part of the journey—i.e., as far as Wilmington—I performed in a wretched little steamer, anything but seaworthy, with horrid cribs, three one above the other, to sleep in, and a motley mixture of passengers, as usual. No particular incident occurred; and having fine weather, we escaped wrecking or putting back. On ascending the river to Wilmington, you see royal—I beg pardon, republican—sturgeons jumping about in all directions, and of all sizes, from three to five feet in length. We reached the town in time to catch the train, and off we started. When about six miles on our journey, a curious motion of the carriages, added to their "slantingdicular" position and accompanied by a slight scream, proclaimed that we were off the rails. Thank God! no lives were lost or limbs broken. The first person that I saw jump from the train was a Spanish colonel, who shot out with an activity far beyond his years, hugging to his bosom a beloved fiddle, which was the joy of his heart, and about the safety of which he was evidently as anxious as about his own. He sat down by the side of the carriages, a ludicrous picture of alarm and composure combined. He was on his way to England with the intention of presenting some musical compositions to the Queen, and possibly had a floating idea he might do a bit of Paganini before Her Gracious Majesty. Gradually, all the party unkenneled; and it was then discovered that, had we run off the rails a few yards further on, we should have had a nasty cropper down a thirty-feet bank; fortunately, we ran off on the level, and merely stuck in the sand.
Upon inquiry as to the cause of the accident, I ascertained that it was in consequence of a point for turning off on to another set of rails being broken. Upon examining the said point, I found it was as worn and rotten as time could make it. I mentioned this to the engineer, who told me he was perfectly aware of it, and had reported it to the superintendent a fortnight before, but that he—the superintendent—had guessed it would do very well for some time yet; consequently, the engineer always went slower when approaching the spot, to avoid, if possible, an accident. By this precaution we had been saved the capsize over the bank, which otherwise would inevitably have been our fate. Thus, for the sake of twenty shillings, they had smashed an engine, doing damage to the amount of twenty pounds at least, besides risking the lives of all the passengers. What was to be done? There was nothing for it but to go back to Wilmington, chew the cud of disgust, and hope the rascally superintendent might break every bone in his body the first favourable opportunity. This done, and a night's rest over, we again tempted fate, and continued our journey, which for a long time ran through large pine-forests, every member of which community was a victim of laceration, inflicted on him for the purpose of drawing off his life's blood, which dribbled into a box at the root, and, when full, was carried off to make turpentine.
Arrived at Peterborough, we found the population so far behind the American age, that they would not allow a railroad to pass through their town; we were consequently constrained to shift into omnibuses, and drive some three miles to the station on the other side. As this trip was peculiarly barren of incident, it may gratify the reader to be informed, that in the confusion of shifting from one station to the other I lost my best and only hat. I hope this simple record will be received as conclusive evidence of the monotony and dullness of the journey. I do not mention it to excite sympathy, for I am happy to say that I have since purchased a new and a better one; and in case my old one is found, I hereby will and bequeath the same to the mayor of Peterborough, his heirs and successors, hoping that they may wear no other until a railroad round or through the town connects the termini. Again we mount the iron horse—time flies—light mingles with darkness—and at nine o'clock I alight at the Royal Exchange Hotel, Richmond. Soap and water, tea and bed, follow in quick succession, and then comes the land of dreams and oblivion.