Through the great swamp.—Charleston.—A memory of the old world.—Blacks and whites.—Peculiarities of the coloured folk.—A ghost of dead days.—Quaint scenes.
After much loitering and a keen enjoyment of the wilder beauties of Virginia we start on our way to Charleston, one of the oldest historic cities in America, and doubly interesting to us from its connection with the old colonial day, when the British flag fluttered over the inhabitants, and the stars and stripes were things of the future.
Our way lies through wide stretches of uncultivated lands, dotted here and there by negro huts with black babies and pigs tumbling together in the mire. In the course of a few hours we emerge from these uninteresting wilds, and are running through the great swamps which extend for miles along either side of our iron road, and are strictly impassable for either man or beast, though it is said that hundreds of poor human creatures in the old days chafed and fretted and grew discontented with their condition of life, and in their foolish endeavour to escape from it were lost in these wilds. Who knows what cries to God for help and mercy have gone up from the inner gloom of these dismal swamps?—cries that perhaps the angels heard and came down from heaven to answer.
Although we are journeying through perfectly flat country, with never an undulating wave of land in sight, the scenery is ever changing, and never presents the same picture to the eye for two minutes together. There is, of course a certain monotony in the character of the natural pageant that is gliding past us, but the combinations vary both in form and colour, now advancing, now receding as we flash past them; the air is full of light, and queer-looking grey birds rise up and wheel in eddying circles over our heads, flapping their wings, and uttering strange cries, which our engine’s voice has not strength enough to smother.
The idea of a swamp had always presented itself to our mind’s eye as a vast expanse of shiny, slushy soil, half mud, half water, with here and there a rank undergrowth of bushes and stiff grass, and briers, through which it must be a melancholy task to travel,—but it is not so. In travelling through these swampy regions the prospect is neither a dull nor an uninteresting one; whole forests of grand old trees rise up from the watery waste, the rich varied foliage growing so luxuriantly, and in such impenetrable masses that scarce a ray of sunshine comes glinting through. We feel as though by some strange accident we have been caught up by some modern magician, clothed in steel with a heart of iron, and whirled along through the forest primeval.
For hours, nay, for the whole day long we speed through this world of green, now and again the great trees turning their leafy arms into a perfect arch above our heads, as we go thundering on.
Some of our fellow travellers go to sleep, others yawn over a book which they have not energy enough to read, some get out the cards and play poker or écarté, according as the spirit of gambling moves them; we hear murmured complaints, “There is nothing to see,” and “What a horribly monotonous journey.”
But to us it is not monotonous; there is life and beauty in the ever-changing lights and shadows of the forest, sometimes most Rembrandt-like in their depth and dim obscurity; in the dainty colouring of the leaves, and the many strange formations of these ancient kings of the forest, standing in deep rank and file, sentinels and guardians of the silent land, their green heads lifted to the skies, their gnarled and knotted feet firmly planted on the earth below. We wonder are they quite dumb and speechless? Deaf to the low whispering of the wind, stirred only to a gentle rustle by its balmy breath? Who knows? What to us is the mere soughing of the wind may be to them a living language coming straight down from the Great Unknown, with a message cheering them in their solitude here with a promise of a hereafter, when they shall bloom in paradise, and angels walk and talk beneath their leafy shade. They seem so lonely here; they have never heard the sound of a human voice; no foot has ever strayed among their fallen leaves, no lovers’ voices made sweet music in the night, no childish babble echoed through their bended boughs.
We are still lost in contemplation, with our thoughts wandering through the soft luxuriant beauty of this forest land, when we slowly emerge from its density into the open country. The landscape changes, widens,—Charleston is in sight! In a few minutes the cling-clanging of the engine bell tells us we are nearing the station—another moment, and we are there.
It is evening now, the lamps are lighted, and but a few scattered groups are making their way homeward through the quiet streets, for they keep early hours in Charleston, and by ten o’clock all decent folk are at home in their beds.