The old man seems inclined to talk, and I am disposed to encourage his loquacity; so much information may be gained in those gatherings by the wayside—one feels the pulse of the spirit of the people, and learns which way their hearts are beating. It is wiser to feed upon such crumbs as chance throws in our way, than to wait till a full banquet of stereotyped facts are spread before us. He asked me many questions, which I answered in the way best suited to his understanding; then I began a short catechism on my side. He was very communicative, and answered me frankly enough. He had been born a slave, he said, on a cotton plantation a few miles from the city, and in the season still worked for his old master.
“But since you are now free,” I inquire, “why don’t you go North, and break all connection with the old life? surely you would find more advantageous employment and opportunities for improvement there?”
“Na, na,” said the old man, “we never go North; the Yankees set’s free and gie’s votes, but it ain’t home-like to us thar. We likes to stay along o’ them as we was raised wi’; ole mass’rs know all ’bout us, n’ we know all about them.”
We found the changes rung to the same tune with but slight variation throughout the South. The coloured people will serve their old masters, will ask their advice and guidance, go to them for consolation in their trouble, and seek their assistance when they are in difficulties; but they will not vote for them, nor in any way serve their political influence. They seem to have a hazy notion that they might be taken back into slavery; they cannot realise that such a thing is impossible, nor can they understand that their masters are glad to be rid of the responsibility which slavery imposed upon them. The masters rejoice in their freedom as much as the slaves do in theirs.
Beautiful in itself, beautiful in its surroundings, Savannah is an ideal city for a summer lounge, with its pleasant shady promenades and myriad miniature parks, thronged with people who are always well dressed but never loud in their attire; there is a quiet refinement and dignity about them which savours of old world conservatism.
A host of good fairies seem to have been hovering round at the birth of Savannah. In 1733 the city consisted of only a few tents pitched under the pine trees between what is now Bull and Whitaker Streets, now it is one of the most thriving cities of the South; both wharves and quays are crowded with men and merchandise, for a brisk and flourishing business is carried on in the timber and cotton trade. It is a most important commercial centre, both its imports and exports being on a largely increasing scale.
It is impossible not to enjoy thoroughly a saunter through this Arcadian city, a chat with the natives included. We were constantly amused by finding ourselves playing at a forced game of “cross questions and crooked answers,” our inquiries on any subject never receiving a direct reply. In years gone by I had a passing pleasant acquaintance with a family who lived in Savannah, but who, I afterwards learnt, were then sojourning in England for a time. It would have given me great pleasure to renew the acquaintance, and I inquire of the hotel clerk if Mr. —— is still living in Savannah?
“Ain’t seen him for a long while; think he’s dead or gone to Europe, but I’ll ask.” He telephones the inquiry to some invisible party, and a sepulchral voice answers back—
“Don’t know—but Peter Green he died last week.”
The connection between the deceased Peter Green and my acquaintance, Mr. ——, I have yet to learn. Another time we ask—