“And they’ll dish up a rattlesnake into a tasty ragout. No fresh milk—no fresh meat—nothing but tallow-fried steak; ground beans in your coffee-cup in the morning.”
These fancy sketches, however, bore not the slightest resemblance to the actual truth; they were born of a too lively imagination, with no experience to keep it from rambling into the realms of fiction. In all the Southern cities we visited there was most excellent hotel accommodation to be found, though the hotels are not as a rule, either so large or luxurious as those in other portions of the United States. There are fewer grand corridors, less velvet upholstery, less carving and gilding and gorgeous mirrors; but the rooms are large, airy, and conveniently furnished, and nowhere is a comfortable lounge or rocking-chair found wanting. The cuisine is not always such as to tickle the palate of an epicure, or gratify the taste of a gourmet. There is no attempt (and how often in the most pretentious hotels it is only an attempt) at French cookery—no entrées, no “high falutin” arrangements at the dinner table; but there is generally good soup, a great variety of excellent fish and vegetables, poultry, fruit, and pies, and puddings, and most delicious crisp salads of all descriptions—and what can a whole-souled, hungry mortal desire more? No one with a healthy appetite and good digestion will complain of Southern fare, to which Southern courtesy imparts perhaps its sweetest savour.
There are plenty of wild fowl, but a scarcity of all such animal food as beef or mutton, in consequence of there being so little grazing land, and that little is of very poor quality; the cattle they do raise is of the most inferior order—Pharaoh’s lean kine; and as they are not able to satisfy their own appetites, are not qualified to gratify ours. The native meats are tough and flavourless. Private families get along very well with the articles of consumption enumerated above. The good sirloin or succulent saddle is rarely seen upon their tables, though the hotels import largely; indeed, throughout Georgia, Carolina, &c., the substantials are always supplied from the eastern states. Our bill of fare reads thus:—“Tennessee beef,” “Boston pork,” “New York mutton,” and even “New York lamb.”
On a sunny morning we take our first ramble through the “forest city” of Savannah, and how well it deserves the name! It seems to have grown out of the very heart of the “forest primeval,” whose giant progeny still keep guard over the nest of human kind. Whichever way we turn, we look through long vistas of shady streets crossing each other at right angles; at each of these crossings, throughout the entire city, is an open space laid out as a pretty little pleasaunce or toy garden, carpeted with soft turf and tiny beds of bright flowers, and sometimes planted with green shrubberies, while the fine old forest trees, which time and civilisation have left standing, spread their wide branches for colonies of wild birds to build and sing in. These spaces are like slightly improved miniature editions of Paddington Green, but every one, though it be but twelve foot square, is dignified by the name of “park.”
Some of the widest thoroughfares have four rows of trees planted the entire length, the branches here and there meeting overhead, forming a perfect archway, while the open street cars on the Central Avenue beneath seem to carry us along through primeval bowers of luxuriant green; we can hardly believe that anything so prosaic as “iron rails” supply part of the motive power.
We find these open street cars a most convenient and pleasant mode of locomotion, and spend much time riding about the city in this democratic fashion, for the streets are ill-kept and dusty, and the roadways sometimes a foot deep with heavy sand, so that it is impossible either to walk or drive in a private vehicle with any comfort. Once we are attracted by big red letters painted on a car side “Concordia,” “Forsyth Park.” Everybody says we must go there; we take everybody’s advice, and, as usual, find “nothing in it.” Concordia is a fine name for a small tea-garden; Forsyth is a pretty shady spot, though it might be railed into a small corner of Kensington Gardens; but the warm southern breeze, and the oleander, orange, lemon, and magnolia—although the latter is not yet in bloom—have made our short expedition a most agreeable one.
There is little architectural beauty anywhere in the city or its surroundings—scarcely any attempt at ornamentation. The houses are made up of doors and windows on the strictest utilitarian principles.
The natural beauties of this Arcadian city are so great they don’t seem to care at all for the embellishments of art. Among the pleasant drives in the city suburbs, is one to Laurel Grove. We step from the cars at the terminus, and inquire of an old negro our way to the nearest point of interest. He regarded us a moment with his beady black eyes, with his head on one side like an inquisitive old bird. “Why! why! I thought everybody know’d everywheres about Laurel Grove. But maybe you don’t live nigh Savannah—come a long ways, perhaps?” he added curiously.
We explained our nationality.
“My lord! England!” I wish I could paint the expression of astonishment, curiosity, and interest that overspread his good-humoured old monkey face as he added, inspecting us admiringly, “My! Think o’ that! I never spoke to an English lady but once before. It’s a cold country over thar, ain’t it?”