The long stretch of houses on either side are not of any specially varied or picturesque style of architecture; they are three stories high, and have a rather curious appearance, as they turn their backs upon the streets, or rather stand sideways like pews in a church, their fronts facing seaward, to catch the cool sea breeze which blows down from the battery above. The three-storied piazzas running round every house, the green venetians wholly or partly closed, not a soul in sight, either from within or without, give an appearance of almost oriental seclusion to the place; one half expects to see some dark, laughing beauty peeping out from among the flowers. The dear old city is full of romance and beauty everywhere, and as we pass through the silent street—silent, yet speaking with an eloquence that surpasses speech—the ghost of the dead days seems marching with muffled feet beside us, and the very stones seem to have a story to tell. We feel as though we have fallen upon an enchanted land, where time is standing still, and the years have grown grey with watching. Here and there we come upon a large empty mansion, one of the grand dwellings of old colonial days, whence the tenants have been driven by adverse circumstances; it stands staring down upon the street with blank, glassy eyes, perhaps with a rent in its side, and its face bruised and battered, its discoloured, painted skin peeling off, and slowly rotting. People have neither time nor money to rehabilitate these ancient mansions; they must needs be deserted by their owners, who have gone to seek their fortunes in the eastern cities, while the old homes are left to decay.
From this pretty shady street we come out upon the Battery, and stand for a moment to look round upon the peaceful scene, and enjoy the balmy breeze which sweeps straight from the near Gulf Stream. This is a delightful promenade and pleasure ground, where the good Charlestonians from time immemorial have come for their evening stroll, or to sit under the leafy shade of the scrub-oaks, gossiping with their neighbours. The Battery grounds front the land-locked bay—a sheet of crystal water about three miles wide—around which, and on the opposite side, lies a perfect garland of softly-swelling green islands, which stretch far away out of our sight. On each side, running like arms from the bay, are the Ashley and Cooper rivers, holding the town in their watery embrace. Around three sides of the Battery there runs an elevated promenade, raised about two feet from the grounds, which are beautifully laid out in pretty, white shell walks, grassy turf, and gorgeous flower beds, while groups of fine old forest trees, that have heard the whispering of many centuries, spread their leafy branches far and wide. Turning their backs upon the town and facing this lovely land-and-water scene, stands a variegated collection of fine old-fashioned houses of quaint architecture. Some are landmarks of the old colonial days; each one differs in form and colour from the other, but all are fanciful structures with elaborate ornamentation; some are circular, some flat fronted, some curving in a fantastic fashion, and seeming to look round the corner on their friends and neighbours, to assure them they are not proud though they have turned their backs upon them; some have wide balconies of stone, some light verandahs with green venetian blinds or graceful ironwork clinging to their front; but everywhere creeping plants and brilliant flowers are growing.
The view on all sides is most picturesque and lovely, and the fragrant air is a delight to the senses. Here is the real aristocratic part of the city, and here to this day, in spite of the many freaks of fortune, the descendants of the old Huguenot and Cavalier families inhabit the homes of their ancestors, whose familiar names still echo on the ears of the town. With lagging footsteps we take our way homeward through the city, losing ourselves and finding ourselves more than once. Altogether we come to the conclusion that Charleston is a sober suited, gentlemanly city strongly impregnated with the savour of old days; somewhat worn and grey, but thoroughly dignified and pleasant, full of old-world prejudices and decorum that no flighty tourist would care to outrage.
We have merely glanced at the outer aspect of the city, to-morrow we must visit some interiors and the more definite features within and around it. As we enter our chamber after our long ramble we hear the sounds of merry voices, and the passing of people to and fro in the courtyard; then suddenly amid the shouting and the laughter there rises a choir of voices, a hush falls everywhere—they are singing “The sweet by and by.” We approach the window and look out. A group of coal-black negroes are sitting round one table piling up rich ripe strawberries for our dessert; close by is another party shelling peas. It is these groups who are singing. Their plaintive melancholy voices affect us solemnly; but even as the last notes are trembling on their lips they begin to play monkey tricks on one another, turning somersaults in the air, grinning from ear to ear, and chattering like magpies!
CHAPTER V.
St. Michael’s chimes.—Architectural attraction.—Magnolia Cemetery.—A philosophical mendicant.—The market.—Aboard the boat.—Fort Sumter.
A closer acquaintance with Charleston, its surroundings, and its people, deepens our first impression. A dignified gravity seems to be set like a seal upon their lives, whence all light frivolous things have been cast out, and replaced by high hopes and noble aspirations, born of a past sorrow. There is a look of preoccupation on their faces, as though their thoughts and desires have outstripped their powers of action, and they are pushing the world’s work forward that they may come up with them and realise the state of their holy ambitions. They dress sombrely, in dark neutral tints, with a quiet elegance and simplicity. They are as the sober setting to a brilliant picture, where the coloured folks supply the flaunting figures and gaudy colouring—the blacker they are the more gorgeous are their personal adornments.
Passing up the long shady Meeting Street, with its rows of tall trees on either side of it, the most prominent object in view is the old Church of St. Michael, which is a great point of interest to visitors. It was built more than a century and a half ago; the quaint and somewhat sombre interior, with its high box pews, groined roof, and dainty columns is impressive as only such ancient places of worship can be. The tall, graceful, steeple towers high above all other spires and is a landmark for miles round. It has a wonderfully fine peal of bells, too, with a most romantic history. In 1782 when the British vacated Charleston they seized these bells and shipped them to England, considering them as a military perquisite. However, in the space of a few weeks, they were re-shipped to Charleston, and replaced in the belfry. In 1861 they were sent to Columbia for safety, and in the terrible conflagration which destroyed that city they were so much damaged by fire as to be perfectly useless. They were then sent once more to England to be recast, and, strange to say, this delicate piece of work was performed by the descendants of the same firm which made them nearly a century and a half ago! They were recast from the same model, and perfected as nearly like the original as possible, and when finished were returned to Charleston, where they were detained in the custom-house for some time, the authorities being too poor to pay the duty, which amounted to several thousand dollars! These public boards are seldom public-spirited—red tapeism seems to tie down their sympathies, and strangle their patriotism. However, after all their vicissitudes, the bells were reinstated in their old place, and all Charleston went wild with excitement when the musical chimes rang out once more, seeming to tell their story in rhythmical rhyme! And when their brazen tongues again clashed out upon the ears of the people, who knows what other tales they told, or what mournful memories they sent echoing through the city, stirring all hearts like the roll of a muffled drum?
Both within and without, St. Michael’s is perhaps the most interesting of all the churches. Its preachers have always been men of note; enrolled among them are many who are now world-famous. There are places of worship for all denominations of sinners, who can choose their own road, through highways or by-ways, from this world to the next.
They can travel express through the mystic musical region of the highest of high churches, where the spiritual leader takes the train in hand and is answerable for all accidents by the way; or they may wander through quiet, peaceful meadow-lands, where only the voice of the shepherd calls their attention to the tinkling bells of salvation in the distance, whose music will ring out clearer and sweeter as they near the great beyond. Indeed, people may take their religion in any form they please; the means are abundantly supplied, from the undiluted draught of simple faith to the modest mixture of half-and-half measures, where soft music is falling, candles faintly burning—and always extinguished at the right moment—and on to the hottest, strongest spiritual essence, with incense burning, banners flying, and—why not?—drums, fifes, and trumpets playing on the march to celestial glory! And no doubt the Salvation Army will soon come streaming from the east, laden with patent piety warranted to cure the most diseased soul, and secure a front seat in the halls of heaven in a single day!—not without payment, though, for the “almighty dollar” plays a prominent part in these spiritual proceedings.