of the Southern people. Done A.D. 1875, in the year of the Commonwealth.” “Look! There is Jackson, standing like a stone wall.”
Yes; there he stands to-day, in dark and strong relief against the burning blue of his own Virginian skies! Stands, every inch a chief, as he will stand for ever shrined in the hearts of the Southern people—a monument of all that is staunch and true in human kind; not more immovable now upon his marble pedestal, than at that hour when the ranks of his men in grey stood like granite under the Federal fire. In the Capitol library hangs the Confederate flag, dusty and battle-worn, proudly pointed out to strangers, and regarded with reverence by those who followed it, and saw it flutter through the smoke of battle. Round the library walk are ranged the portraits of the great Southern leaders. Here is the noble and thoughtful face, “the good grey head that all men knew,” of General Lee, and there the dark stern brow of Stonewall Jackson; and here is Jefferson Davis, and many other statesmen and patriots of the fallen Confederacy.
An ardent Virginian accompanied us on our tour through his beloved city; with lingering eyes, he gazed tenderly upon the figure of the general who had led them through so many fires.
“Ah!” said he, shaking his head regretfully, “there’ll never be another Stonewall, he was popular even with the union men; they all admired our dashing commander.” He added with kindling eyes, “I remember one day, when our troops were camped on the south bank of the Rappahannock about a mile from the shore, the Federal troops occupied the opposite side; both encampments extended for several miles, a line of pickets was stretched along both banks, and though within easy rifle shot of each other, firing was by tacit agreement for a while suspended. Although talking across the river was strictly prohibited, the orders were not heeded, and lively wordy skirmishing was carried on. One day, loud cheering was heard on the left of the Confederate line, and as brigade after brigade took it up, the sound rolled down the southern side of the river.
“‘What’s all that cheering about, boys?’ asked the Federal pickets.
“‘It’s old Stonewall riding along the line,’ was the reply, shouted across the water; and the pickets on both sides of the river took up the cry, and foes and friends together were waving their hats and shouting—
“‘Hurrah! hurrah! for old Stonewall!’”
Having duly admired all we ought to admire, we descend the hill and commence our explorations of the town. We thread the pretty shady streets, pass the Monumental Church, erected above the ruins of the Richmond Theatre, which was destroyed by fire in 1811 during the performance of The Bleeding Nun, when scarcely a dozen of the audience were saved, and many of the most influential families of the town perished in the flames. We pause a moment before the “Allan House,” where that strange mystical genius, Edgar Allan Poe, passed the early years of his most troublous self-tormented life. It is a square, old-fashioned, brick building, with a high sloping roof, surrounded by ragged, forlorn-looking weedy grounds; ruin is fast working its will with the old house, and desolation seems to flap its wings from the tumbling chimney stacks, while memories of brighter days are brooding behind the shuttered windows. Presently we pass the Libby Prison—a large, low, melancholy-looking building on the banks of the river. We shudder as we remember the tales of bygone sufferings there, and pass quickly on our way to visit the tobacco factory of Messrs. Mayo and Co. No overpowering odour such as we had apprehended greets us there as we enter the premises, but a sweet pleasant fragrance, like that of Spanish liquorice or some agreeable confection, pervades the atmosphere. We arrive at the busiest business hour of the day, and the “hands,” consisting of several hundred negroes, are industriously at work, weighing, sorting, sifting, and pressing with all their might; a hive of the busiest of human bees, singing their quaint songs, but never for a moment relaxing in their labours—their melancholy, melodious voices rising and falling, swelling and rolling, in waves of harmonious sounds. As, one after the other, they become conscious of the presence of strangers, their voices die away, and a hush gradually falls over the entire mass.
Seeing how much we are struck by those peculiarly sweet negro voices, Mr. Mayo courteously desires a select number to gather at one end of the extensive room, and sing for our special benefit. Chairs are brought, an impromptu auditorium formed, the dusky troop assemble, and a tall, coal-black negro, with white gleaming teeth and shining eyes, steps forward, strikes the first note, and leads his fellows through the musical maze. They wander away from the fields of their own quaint melodies, and, I presume in deference to our presence, start at a run into the realms of religious poetry, and sing some of their stirring revivalist hymns, characteristic of their race and reflecting their tone of mind.
Before we leave, however, they descend from their heights, and ring out some catching popular airs, winding up with an old favourite, “The Suwanee River.” After a most pleasant hour we take our leave, and carry with us an impression we shall not easily forget. Down on the main street we pass the “old stone house,” the most ancient building in the city. Tradition connects it with the names of Washington, Lafayette, and many other celebrities of bygone days; there are several other roomy old-fashioned houses scattered about the city, more interesting from their historical association than their architectural beauty. Progressing still downwards, we cross the bridge which connects Richmond with the suburb of Manchester, a dreary-looking, scattered town on the opposite bank of the river. We stand for many minutes on the centre of the bridge, and gaze round in simple awe and admiration. The river, no longer a tranquil stream, boils and bubbles in whirling eddies beneath our feet, rushing in roaring rapids on its tempestuous way, leaping in white foam flecks over the rough boulders, and hissing round the base of the beautiful islands which rise from its stormy breast—not bald or barren islands, but covered with a rich growth of variegated shrubs and trees, which spread their green branches, like blessing hands, over the face of the stormy waters. It is a wonderfully fine view, full of suggestive poetry and romance, and for many moments holds us spell-bound; this rich woodland, growing out of the depths of the turbulent water in serene loveliness, contrasting with the white gnashing teeth of the foaming wave-crests below. On our left rises the city of Richmond, seated like a queen upon her throne, clasped by her girdle of green, and living waters flowing at her feet. On our right stands the homely city of Manchester, a foil to the grace and loveliness of the fair city on the opposite shore; before us lie the ancient hunting grounds of Powhatan; around us the land-locked waters rush foaming and roaring on, winding through banks of glorious green till they fall into the quiet far-off bay and there find peace, like unquiet spirits sinking to eternal rest. Low-lying upon the shore close by are the Tredegar Iron Works, belching forth flames and smoke, flinging their lurid light in the face of the summer sun.
We are travelling with flying feet, and have little time to loiter on our way; having taken in the chief points of interest in the city of Richmond, we drive out to the beautiful cemetery of Hollywood; this is rather a melancholy pleasure, for on every side are monuments raised to the illustrious dead, whose names are familiar to our ears as household words; they are written in emblazoned letters on the scroll of fame, and will be read by trumpet-tongue when they are unrolled in the light of heaven. Here is the invariable monument to the “Confederate dead;” it is the first we see, but not the last, by many. No Southern city is so poor but it can afford to lavish its tribute of honour to its loved and lost.
Before leaving Richmond we pay a visit to the studio of the well-known sculptor, E. V. Valentine, of whom Virginia is so justly proud. The studio is full of minor works of art; hands and feet, as though they were lately amputated, are flung in dusty corners; masks and faces frown or smile from the walls, and many-winged cherubs are flying over our heads. Some have flown away, and are fixed in monumental marble in some far-away graveyard; and bygone beauties, some robed in white, some in the salmon-coloured glory of terra-cotta, are crowded on the shelves, face downward or upward, tumbled one over the other without the slightest regard to their dignity. On one side of the room stands a dwarfed equestrian figure of General Lee; he appears to have been arrested sword in hand as he was galloping to the front, the look and attitude are startlingly life-like; we can almost fancy we hear the word of command issuing from the stony lips; one touch of the magic wand would make the marble palpitate and live; but the living must die, and this piece of sculptured stone will stand for ages to come; long after generation on generation has passed away, he will still stand