Then a tall, soldier-like man, a well-known general, who had faced a hundred fires, stepped forward and made a most touching and eloquent address—to which friend or foe, victor and vanquished, might listen with equal feeling of interest and respect,—glorifying the heroic qualities of those who fought and fell in the lost cause, but, while giving honour to the dead, detracting nothing from the living. The keynote running through the whole discourse was like a prayer that the seed sown amid fire and sword, and watered by the blood of patriots (patriots all; no matter on which side they fought, each believed they were fighting for their rights), might take root, grow, flourish, and yield a glorious harvest for the gathering of this great country, her unity never again to be disturbed and torn by the children of her love and pride.
At the conclusion of the address a hymn, “Nearer, my God, to Thee,” was sung by the uplifted voices of the whole multitude, even to the outermost edge they caught up the sweet refrain, and it rose and fell, swelled and softened, till it rolled back upon our ears in waves of melodious music, which stirred our hearts and sent a mist floating before our eyes.
Now the ladies descend from the platform and scatter themselves over the ground, their mourning figures passing to and fro among the graves: on every mound they lay a bunch of flowers, regardless on which side they fought,—the “boys in blue” and the “boys in gray” are all arrayed in one common raiment now. Who knows but a spirit army may be bending down from the skies above, watching the pious work, and no longer seeing through a glass darkly, longing to whisper, “All is well,” to the hearts which are still sorrowing below.
The solemn ceremonial over, drums beat, the soldiers resume their arms, form in line, the band plays a stirring military air, and they march quickly off the ground. We watch the crowd melt away, but do not feel disposed to join the busy, chattering stream on its homeward road, especially as by this time quite a miniature fair has risen up outside the cemetery gates; and roast; peanuts, fruit, cake, and iced drinking stalls are surrounded by thirsty multitudes, who keep up a lively rattle among themselves; while the tag-rag of the gathering run after the military procession, and follow it on its way back to the dusty town. We wander for a while through the deserted cemetery, reading the strange medley of mottoes, and the sometimes ludicrous and always commonplace chronicles of the virtues of the sleeper. We are presently invited to sit down and rest in the porch of a rustic dwelling, the home of one of the crippled guardians of the place—a grand old man he was, with gray hair and a face bronzed by exposure to many weathers, and scored and wrinkled by the hand of time. He brought us a jug of deliciously cool milk, and sat down and talked, as old men love to talk, of “the days that are bygone”; and told us many pleasant anecdotes of “how we lived down south forty years ago.”
The evening shadows were lengthening, and lying like long spectral fingers on the dead men’s graves, as we rose up and made our way hurriedly to the horse-car which was to carry us back to Atlanta.
CHAPTER XIX.
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.