It is a bright sunny day, with a cool fresh breeze blowing, not at all the sort of weather we ought to have considering the season; instead of the hot sun blazing and burning in vindication of its Southern character, compelling us to creep along every inch of shade, and melting us even then, it simply looks down upon us with a kind, genial eye, occasionally winking and playing bo-peep with the woolly white clouds which come sailing across the azure sky, and the balmy breath of the wind is sufficiently cool to render our wraps not only comfortable but absolutely necessary.
Before we have gone many steps on our way we come upon a pleasant party of some half dozen negroes, sitting on a fence like a gathering of black crows, each one whittling a stick and chewing tobacco in solemn silence—not the silence of thought, but the silence of emptiness, their great shining eyes staring at nothing, thinking of nothing, like lazy cattle basking in the sunshine in supreme idleness.
On returning some hours later, we find them in exactly the same place, whittling the same stick and chewing the same quid; they do not seem to have stirred an inch. In odd nooks and corners, entangled in the ragged edges of the city, we come upon similar groups, and I believe if we had returned in six days instead of six hours we should have found them in precisely the same condition.
The aspect Charleston presents at the first glance to the stranger’s eye is impressive in the extreme; apart from the historical and romantic interest which clings to the place, it has a character peculiarly its own, and bears slight resemblance to any other city we have seen. It seems to have stood still during the last century, and is strictly conservative in its appearance and in its ways.
Quaintly tangled streets and alleys cling to the main thoroughfares, running up and down, in and out, in a sort of thread-my-grandmother’s-needle fashion; making a loop here, tying themselves into knots there, and resolving themselves into a perfect puzzle which the pedestrian has hard matter to piece together with his weary feet.
The houses in these out-of-the-way parts of the town are old-fashioned, odd-looking places, some so crippled in their lower limbs as to need the support of strong oaken beams, or patches of bricks and mortar; some are rickety in their upper stories, and lean affectionately on one side so as to support themselves on the strength of their neighbours, as weaker human creatures are apt to do. Everything seems pining for a fresh coat of paint; but they do their best to conceal their need of it, covering themselves with creeping plants or tawdry hangings, hiding their discolorations and bruises with gorgeous hued flowers, and clasping their green mantle round them as we may have seen an aristocratic beggar draw his robe across his breast to hide his rags and tatters. Occasionally, in some obscure corner of the city, we come upon a rambling old mansion of quaint, picturesque architecture, once the home of refinement and wealth, where the great ones of the country lived in a state of ease, luxury, and almost feudal splendour. It is occupied now by hosts of coloured folk; swarms of black babies crowd the verandahs or climb and tumble about the steps and passages, while the dilapidated balconies are filled with lines of clothes to dry; the negro smokes his pipe beneath the eaves, and the women folk, with their heads turbanned in gay-coloured handkerchiefs, laugh and chatter from the windows and lounge in the doorways. How long ago is it since the clank of the cavaliers’ spurs rang upon the crumbling pavement, and sweet ladies with their pretty patched faces laughed from the verandahs, while merry voices and music and hospitality echoed from the now dingy, time-dishonoured halls, and stately dames in the decorous dress and manners of the old days walked to and fro, adding by their gracious presence to the attraction of the festive scene? But these good old days are over; no imperious dames, in stiff brocades and jewelled slippers, pace the wide corridors, or dance the graceful minuet upon the floor; there is no sound of flute and tabor now, but the many sounding notes of labour, the tramp of busy hives of working men and women, and the plaintive voices of the negroes singing is heard instead of it, and who shall say which makes the better music?
It was on the balcony of one of those houses Jane Elliot stood to see her lover, William Washington, march past with his cavalry regiment on their way to the war, more than a century ago. Drums beat and bugles sounded, and as the gallant men marched on she observed they had no flag! For a few brief moments they halted beneath her window while with her own hands she tore the crimson brocade back from one of her drawing-room chairs, and improvised a banner, which they triumphantly bore away, marching double quick time to the tune their hearts were playing.
Years after, in 1827, when she was widowed and old and grey, she stood on the same spot and gave this, her dead husband’s battle banner, to the Washington light infantry of Charleston. It is now held by them almost as a sacred relic, and is only carried on days of grand parade or other special occasions. We may catch a glimpse of life as it was in this Charleston of old times from a writer in 1763, who says:—
“The inhabitants of this Carolina province are generally of a good stature and well made, with lively and agreeable countenances. The personal qualities of the ladies are much to their credit and advantage; they are genteel and slender, they have fair complexions—without the aid of art—and regular, refined features, their manners are easy and natural, their eyes sparkling and enchantingly sweet. They are fond of dancing; many sing well, and play upon the harpsichord and guitar with great skill. In summer riding on horseback or in carriages—which few are without—is greatly practised. In the autumn, winter, and spring, there is variety and plenty of game for the gun or dogs; and the gentlemen are by no means backward in the chase. During the season, once in two weeks, there is a dancing assembly in Charleston, where there is always a brilliant appearance of lovely and well dressed women: we have likewise a genteel playhouse, where a very tolerable set of actors, called ‘The American Company of Comedians,’ exhibit. Concerts of instrumental music are frequently performed by gentlemen. Madeira wine and punch are the common drinks of the inhabitants, but few gentlemen are without claret, port, Lisbon, and other wines of Spanish, French, or Portugal vintages. The ladies are very temperate, and only drink water, which in Charleston is very unwholesome. There are about 1,100 houses in the town, some of wood, some of brick; many of them have a genteel appearance, though generally encumbered with balconies or piazzas, and are all most luxuriously furnished. The apartments are arranged for coolness, which is very necessary.”
Charleston, as I have said before, is strictly conservative in its principles, and in many respects is much the same to-day as it was then. In spite of all its reverses—the internal struggles of the Cavaliers and Puritans, who brought hither their old quarrels and prejudices along with their household gods, from over the sea, its strife with the Indians, its troubles during the British occupation, and its terrible disasters during the late four years’ conflict—it still retains many of its old characteristics; its features are the same, though cruelly scarred with the flames and sword of war. We pass on our way through Meeting Street, one of the chief thoroughfares of the city; it is a long, straight, not overwide, shady street, with beautiful trees on either side, and has a look of almost cloistered quiet about it. There are several handsome churches embosomed in bowers of green, and the ruins of an ancient cathedral, which was burned by accident more than twenty years ago; they point this out as proudly, and cherish it as fondly, as though it were a legitimate ruin, a wreck that old time had left upon their shores.