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?” 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.