“Which is the car for Thunderbolt?” and are promptly answered,
“That red un is startin’ right away for Laurel Grove.” I inquire the way to the railway station, and am directed to the river side. I ask about the morning train, and am answered with detailed information about the evening express. However, on sternly reiterating my question, and emphasising the note of interrogation, I sometimes succeeded in at last receiving the desired information.
No one should leave Savannah without visiting the ancient cemetery of Buonaventura, the former residence of a fine old family, which passed from their hands many years ago, and after undergoing many changes has been at last converted into a cemetery. On entering the noble avenue, and passing beneath the arching glories of the grand old oaks, with their long weird robes of Spanish moss, it is difficult to believe that we are entering a city of the dead, by whom indeed it is very sparsely populated, the graves are so few and far between; one can almost fancy that the dead had wandered thither, and moved by the sublime repose of the place had lain down to rest, while nature wrapped them round about with her soft mantle of green, and showered her sweet-scented wild flowers above them. There is a profound mournfulness too hovering around these silent, solitary avenues, where groups of sombre giant trees stand brooding and wrapped in their grey moss mantles, with drooping arms, and hoary heads bent low together, as though they were whispering mysteries, holding a solemn council, and pronouncing the eternal sentence on the dead below.
There is nothing prosaic or commonplace about Savannah; it is a perfectly idyllic city, primitive and simple in its ways, with no stir of frivolous worldly gaieties to rouse it from its sublime repose. No sound of drums and trumpets runs echoing through its streets; the only music is that which the wind makes as it whistles in many monotones through the tall tree tops, and calls soft melodies from the tremulous leaves, as the ancient god Pan made music by the reedy waterside. It is not grey with age, nor marred and scarred by the hand of time; it seems to luxuriate in eternal youth, and live a dreamy life of unaltered poetry and sunshine. Even that most prosaic of all institutions, the police station, is in perfect unison with the rest of this Arcadian city; it seems to have nothing to do but drone away its hours in one ceaseless dolce far niente, as though the ugly serpent sin crawled low down out of sight—perhaps stirring the hearts, but rarely inciting the acts of the people. There seems to be a great scarcity even of small sinners. It is a low, clean, brick building in a cool shady part of the city; covered with climbing plants and held close in the embrace of an ancient vine, which twines in and out of every nook and cranny as though it could never be torn away but with the life of the building.
Well, our last day in this forest city closes; the mocking bird, that sings only in the dark, holds its last concert on our verandah, and we are sung to sleep by the sharp cutting cries of a family of youthful alligators which some northern tourists are taking home in a tank.
CHAPTER VII.
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.