Two cities.—Our home upon the waters.—Southward bound.—“Only a brass star.”—At Ford’s hotel. A dull haze hangs over the city; St. Paul has put on his cap of clouds, and the great dome looms dimly on our sight; the mystery of twilight has taken possession of the city, and shrouds the streets in the open day. The fine old trees in the parks and in the squares are losing their green foliage, and stand half naked, shivering in the damp autumn air, while their yellow shrunken leaves are swept rustlin

To-day and the yesterdays.—Richmond.—Its monuments.—Its surroundings.—The sculptor’s studio.—Andromache. It is at Richmond we get our first view of the South and the Southern people. Although we are only twelve hours from the booming, hustling city of New York, yet we feel we have entered a strange land. The difference is not so much in mere externals, as that the whole character of life is changed, and from all sides it is borne upon us that we are in the land of a “lost cause;” it impregnates

Fire and ruins.—Through sylvan scenes.—The cave of Luray.—A jewelled city underground.—The white savages of Wise County. After spending a delightful week in Richmond, we begin to think it is time to be “moving on.” So anxious are we to resume our journey southward, we decide to go by the evening train, but unfortunately about mid-day a thick smoke fills the air, and over-spreads the city like a funeral pall. We learn that the railway bridge is on fire, burning so furiously, and spreading so rapi

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

St. Michael’s chimes.—Architectural attraction.—Magnolia Cemetery.—A philosophical mendicant.—The market.—Aboard the boat.—Fort Sumter. A closer acquaintance with Charleston, its surroundings, and its people, deepens our first impression. A dignified gravity seems to be set like a seal upon their lives, whence all light frivolous things have been cast out, and replaced by high hopes and noble aspirations, born of a past sorrow. There is a look of preoccupation on their faces, as though their tho

The great Salt Marsh.—A break down.—We reach Savannah.—Fancy sketches.—The forest city.—A Gossip with the Natives.—Cross questions and crooked answers. On the sweetest of spring mornings, when the sunshine seems to reach down into our hearts, and the soft breeze stirs our pulse and sets our thoughts playing a jubilant melody, while our hearts sing a soft sweet song that the ears hear not, and that our own spirits can but dimly comprehend—we turn our back on the quaint old city of Charleston, and

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

En route for Jacksonville.—A few words about Florida.—Its climate.—Its folk.—Its productions. When the associated Southern railways cease to exist the Florida Transit takes up the matter, and conveys you with equal comfort to some of the most attractive points of the state. We are soon en route for Florida, which is the kind of Mecca of our hearts’ desires. Florida! The very name is suggestive of sunshine and flowers, orange groves, and the sweet-scented air of “Araby the blest.” I have but litt

Pine forests.—Arcadian scenes.—Strange companionship.—We reach Jacksonville. Our road still lies through cities of silent pines, stirred only by the voice of the moaning wind; whole armies of them are drawn up on either side, stretching away as far as the eye can reach. They look as though they have just come out of a great battle: some are crippled and stand tottering on their roots, others hang their lank limbs as though they have not strength to upbear their weight of leaves, and some are sta

Jacksonville.—Our hotel.—Greenleaf’s museum.—Floridian curiosities.—East winds and tropical breezes.—Strawberry packing. We shake the dust from our garments and wash our travel-stained faces, and by the time we descend to the dining-room we find that the regular table-d’hôte dinner is over, but the tables are still laid for the accommodation of late comers. Some of the lights are out, the rest are turned low, and scores of dusky shadows seem to be hiding in the distant corners of the big room. T

Fernandina.—Romance or history?—Dungeness.—To Tocor.—On board the boat.—Oddities.—A lovely water drive. A pleasant , slow, jog-trotting, line of railway connects Jacksonville with Fernandina, about fifty miles distant. It is a delightful old city situated on the shores of the Atlantic Ocean, first founded by the Spaniards in 1632, and has a most romantic history, on which, in my glimpse of these sunny lands, I have no time to dwell; but then every city throughout these regions has an interesting

St. Augustine.—A land of the long ago.—A chat with a Spanish antiquity.—Quaint streets.—City gate.—Fort Marion.—The old Slave Market.—The monuments.—The Plaza.—Cathedral and Convent. Another morning breaks, a worthy successor to the last; it seems made up of some heavenly alchemy—a tissue of golden glory and shimmer of silver sheen. Over the silent sea and yet more silent land a supreme stillness reigns, unbroken by the rustle of leaves or whirr of the invisible insect world. The great sun hangs

A chat by the way.—A steam bicycle.—Rough times.—At Ocala. The boat is waiting, bobbing up and down at the little rustic pier at Tocoi. The sun is laughing down upon us, with a face of shining gold, and the sweet east wind is fanning our cheeks with its breath of balm; a sweep of sunny water lies before us, sea-gulls and strange birds are wheeling over our heads as we step on board, and are soon on our way to Palatka. We pass by pretty little hamlets and endless groves of orange and lemon trees,

The “Okeehumkee.”—The Silver Springs.—The weird wonders of the Ocklawaha. A queer-looking stumpy boat yclept the “Okeehumkee” was waiting for us at the head of the “Silver Springs.” The vessel was short and broad, like a monstrous beetle with its legs cut off; it was made to fit and float on the “Ocklawaha” river and nowhere else. We stepped first on to a lower deck—crowded with coils of ropes and poles, and the miscellaneous belongings of the queer little craft—which was occupied by the enginee

Picturesque scenery on St. John’s river.—“Sickening for the fever, ma’am?”—The inland lakes.—A pair of elderly turtle doves.—Sport on the Indian river. In the morning we wake early, and find ourselves on the vast expanse of the St. John’s river, which curves and circles round and about the level land, stretching away before and behind us till it sheathes itself like a silver lance in the horizon. It is a glorious day, with the bluest of blue skies, and the sun pouring down a flood of silver ligh

Retrospective.—A critical conductor.—Montgomery.—Train wreckers at work.—Weird scenes in the moonlight.—Silent watchers.—“Wild Cat” train to New Orleans. In the light of the early morning we bid adieu to Florida, its fruits, its flowers, its sunshine and its people. We have found our own country-people largely represented in all parts of the state, and everywhere they are doing well, and look healthy, happy, bright and contented; and on all sides we see evidence of their thrift, industry, and ge

New Orleans, “The Paris of the South.”—French quarters.—Tropical street scene.—To Carrolton.—The Levées.—Classical architecture.—A coloured funeral.—The dismal swamp.—Lake Ponchartrain.—A gambling population. The Hotel St. Charles is a very fine impressive building in the centre of the city of New Orleans. It is of white stone, and the simple colonnaded front, with its tall straight fluted columns, gives it quite a classical appearance. It is the best hotel in the town, but it might be better; i

Atlanta.—A wilderness of bricks and mortar.—Lovely surroundings.—Scarlet woods.—Memorial day.—Scenes in the cemetery. About five o’clock on a sultry afternoon we start on the cars for Atlanta. The train is crowded, the day is bright, the spiritual thermometer stands high, and everybody seems resolved to be social with everybody else; they commence with a running fire of casual gossip, and proceed to give gratuitous information of a confidential character concerning themselves and their families.