Retrospective.--A critical conductor.--Montgomery.--Train wreckers at work.--Weird scenes in the moonlight.--Silent watchers.--“Wild Cat” train to New Orleans....._Pages 222-237_ CHAPTER XVII. 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....._Pages 238-252_ CHAPTER XVIII. Atlanta.--A wilderness of bricks and mortar.--Lovely surroundings.--Scarlet woods.--Memorial day.--Scenes in the cemetery....._Pages 253-262_ CHAPTER XIX. Columbia.--Wright’s Hotel--Variegated scenes.--Past and present--A Sabbath city.--The Penitentiary.--Sunday service.--A few last words....._Pages 263-276_ DOWN SOUTH CHAPTER I. 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 rustling along the ground, moaning their melancholy protest against the wandering wind, and even thus early in the season--for it is only late September--visions of November fogs are looming in the near future. But we turn our backs upon the dreary prospect, and send our thoughts onward towards the _City of Rome_ whither we are fast journeying--not that ancient city which sits upon its seven hills, like a discrowned queen, still ruling the world of Art, swaying the minds of men, and, like a gigantic loadstone, drawing the heart of the world towards herself, grander in her age of ruin than her youthful pride; the glory of her dead days circles her with a halo of poetry and romance which renders her immortal. Her ruined palaces and temples lift their hoary heads and crumbling columns heavenward--impressive, awe-inspiring, and time-defying, showing only the footprints of the ages as they have passed solemnly onwards. The stir and bustle of every-day commonplace life, the cavalcade of nineteenth-century frivolities and fashions, have failed to drive the spirit of antiquity from the place; it still sits brooding in the air, permeating the souls and stirring the hearts of men with a passionate enthusiasm for the days that are gone. There is no coming and going of armies, no heathenish maraudings, no slave-trading, war-waging population nowadays; no centurion guards, no glittering cohorts flashing their arms and tossing their white plumes in the face of the sun; yet they seem to have left their ghostly impression on the air, and in the still evening hours we feel their presence revealed to us through (what