It is perhaps here in Columbia more than in any other city that we realise to the fullest extent the ruin and desolation that has been; for though, as a rule, throughout the main streets the houses in a scrambling sort of way are built up again, yet there are wide gaps and ruins of crumbling stone and charred wood, partly covered now with soft moss or a rank growth of tall weeds. Here, round an extensive corner a hoarding is raised to hide the utter desolation that lies where once were lovely homes, now levelled to the dust, and blooming gardens, now a wilderness of thorns and thistles, scattered over with the mute signs of broken lives. These ugly features come upon us in the midst of perfect peace—a calm repose lies over the land; but still they point with spectral finger to the scar left by cruel wounds. And over the sweet golden sunshine of that still Sabbath morning a shadow seems to fall. In fancy we see the darkness of one awful night close over Columbia, the signal rockets shoot up from that State House on the hill, the fiery tongues of flame leap from crumbling homes and devastated hearths. But these things are not to be thought of now. The “dark hour” of Columbia is past, and we see her lying peacefully to-day in the light of the rosy dawn.
Our southern trip is over, and we turn our faces eastward, leaving many regrets behind, and carrying many pleasant memories away with us. We have seen the south, not in its full flush of prosperity, its hour of pride, but in its struggles to rise up to a higher and nobler height than it has ever yet reached. Industry and thrift have taken the place of luxury and ease. Scarce twenty years ago and the whole land was drowsily dreaming away its life, with only a sybaritish enjoyment of the present; no ambition for coming years, no sowing the good seed for the future harvest of mankind. The whole world’s centre was in themselves and their own immediate surroundings; they gave no thought or care to anything beyond; like the gorgeous butterflies, they rather looked down on the working bees, who have the building up and are the mainsprings of this world’s well-being.
Cradled in sunshine, girdled by all that is lovely in creation, wrapped in fine raiment, but with the earthworm Slavery curled about its roots, sapping its nobler instincts, eating its heart away, and binding its invisible soul with chains stronger than those which bind its own miserable body, the South slept the sleep of a most baneful peace, till the sleep was broken, and the thunder of war echoed through the silent land. Then how grandly she awoke, shook off her rosy chains, and rose up like a god, with her latent fires blazing, her energies new strung, and—but everybody knows what followed. Never was desolation so great as that which fell upon this beautiful land; never was ruin more proudly met, more grandly borne. It is nobler, far nobler now than in its hour of pride; there are no puerile regrets, no rebellious utterings, no useless looking back; their motto is “Excelsior!” and with undaunted spirit, men and women too (for the Southern women are “the souls of men”) are striving to build up a glorious future upon the ruins of the past. Every man puts his hand to the plough and devotes his life, and uses his best energies as a kind of lever to lift up his country to the “old heroic height.” Passionate devotion and fervent patriotism is aglow through all the south, but every man is devoted to his own special State rather than to the united whole; and everywhere they are at work, immense factories are in full operation, mines are being opened, railways built, and through the whole length and breadth of the South a general stir and bustle of business prevails. Everywhere prosperity is present, and the prospect widens of a growing prosperity in the future. Meanwhile, new industries and new inventions crowd the market. One new industry is the making of “olive butter,” which is a very fine oil, extracted from the cotton seeds, which in the old days were regarded as useless and thrown away. Many thousands of persons are employed in carrying on this business, which brings (and is probably on the increasing scale) to the Southern States annually the sum of fifteen millions of dollars.
Northern capital has generously outstretched a friendly hand, and poured its wealth into the empty coffers, and given the means of general rehabilitation; and the awakened South has brains to plan, and pluck and energy to carry on its noble campaign, while the world looks on with silent respect and expectation for the days that are to come.
LONDON: R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS, BREAD STREET HILL