Presently we begin to move, and slowly as a royal progress we roll on towards Savannah. When we reach it the small hours of the morning are already far on the march and we go supperless to bed. On taking a survey of our surroundings by daylight we have reason to be very well satisfied with our quarters. We have two large sunny rooms, most comfortably furnished, opening on to a wide verandah overgrown with greenery, which is luxuriant everywhere South.
A few words here concerning the accommodation for tourists which is to be found in all Southern cities. On first setting our faces thitherward we received a mass of gratuitous information--all of which we accepted _cum grano salis_. We were neither disposed to be led nor misled by friendly counsels. “There are no decent hotels--nothing but ramshackle old buildings, mere refuges for the destitute.”
“Where you’ll always find lively companionship--especially by night.”
“Perhaps an alligator in the morning, or a comfortable moccasin or black snake coiling round your feet to get themselves warm.”
“A family of young roaches six inches long flying out of your shoe as you go to put your foot into it.”
“Nothing to eat but tough steaks, and hominy fried in fat, or rusty bacon served in its own grease.”
“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.