From Hilton Head to Savannah, an inner passage among the Sea Islands is practicable for all vessels of light draught. General Gillmore, who accompanied us to Savannah with his staff, took our whole party on board his headquarters boat, a spacious side-wheel river steamer; and, about the middle of the afternoon we pushed off from the Hilton Head wharf, and were soon steaming rapidly along Scull Creek. On either side was the lush vegetation and low, flat scenery of the islands. Cultivated plantations were nearly always in sight; but they were mainly given over to the negroes, and but few of the former residences of the planters could now be seen. A magnificent beach on our left extended, apparently, half way from Fort Pulaski to Hilton Head; and the staff officers talked appetizingly of gallops along its entire length. During the whole afternoon we did not see one white man on the plantations; nor, probably, would we if we had searched them carefully. They have all fled to the misty, undefined “interior,” and abandoned the islands to the “niggers.”

It was something to be shown over Fort Pulaski, by the one who had revolutionized gunnery in reducing it. General Gillmore pointed out——by the way, I have neglected to tell what the hero of Pulaski is like. Fancy a fine, wholesome-looking, solid six-footer, with big head, broad, good-humored face, and a high forehead, faintly elongated by a suspicion of baldness, curly brown hair and beard, and a frank, open face, and you have him. A quick-speaking, quick-moving, soldierly man he is, an accomplished engineer, one of the finest practical artillerists in the world, and, withal, a man whose ideas are not limited by the range of his profession, wherein he forms a notable contrast to some other regular officers one might name.

The garrison of Pulaski—apparently a company, with, I believe, a young artillery Captain in command of the post—were on the look-out for the party, and a salute was firing from the barbette guns of the fort before our vessel had rounded to, at the rickety and almost inaccessible wharf. The low, flat ground on which the fort is situated, is grassy and firm as a well-kept lawn; and as the sinking sun, lit up with sloping rays the distant woods and the rippling river, gilded the burst columbiad (which had been set upright over the graves of the soldiers killed in the bombardment, and with its terse inscription, constituted a monument as beautiful as unique,) flashed from the bayonets of the slow-pacing guard on the parapet wall, and brought dimly out beyond the wood the spires of Savannah, one could readily credit the declaration of an engineer officer on General Gillmore’s staff, who had been stationed there for a month or two, that it was the pleasantest place he had found on the whole South Atlantic coast. An hour’s conflict with the mosquitoes, however, would be apt to cause a hasty retraction (and retreat.)

The General led us first around the outer moat to the face fronting Tybee Island, from which he had bombarded it. The breaches have all been thoroughly repaired, but with a different-colored brick; and the pock-marked appearance of the casemates sufficiently attested the efficiency of the fire. Inside the fort there was nothing to see, save that with mosquito-nets, instead of doors and windows, with ample supplies of ice, and by the aid of the thick walls of the fort, our Yankee officers have learned to make garrison duty in the South quite endurable. Beside Sumter and Fisher, Fort Pulaski is contemptible; and the main interest now attaching to the place is, that it taught us, as General Gillmore tersely expresses it, “how any brick or stone fort can be rapidly breached at 1,650 yards distance,” and that, “with guns of my own selection, I would undertake to breach a brick scarp at 2,000 yards.” The fort is now stronger and better every way than when seized by the Rebels; but, as a protection to the harbor of Savannah, against an attack of iron-clads, or the advance of an army, with rifled artillery, it is nearly valueless. Like our other brick and stone forts on the coast, however, it may be made the basis of a powerful defense. Heap up earthworks on the outside, and, so long as its garrison could be provisioned, it would be impregnable.

A sunken vessel lay in the channel, off the fort, and the narrowness Of the passage showed how utterly impossible the fall of Pulaski had made blockade running for Savannah. Realizing the fact, its defenders had taken little pains to keep the river open; and their cribs of logs, firmly bolted together and filled with stones to obstruct the passage of our iron-clads up the stream, had so nearly destroyed the navigation that, even at the time of our visit, after weeks of work in removing them, since the city fell into our hands, our Captain was afraid to attempt the passage in the dark, and we had to lie at anchor, half a mile above Pulaski, all night.

Everybody was awakened, next morning, by the announcement that Jeff. Davis was alongside. If the officer who came hurrying through the cabin to tell it, had said the Prince of Darkness was alongside, in the bodily presence, no one would have been more surprised. Admiral Dahlgren had told us of close watch kept along the west coast of Florida for the fallen Chief, and General Gillmore had, only the day before, been expressing rather faint hopes that, possibly, the vigilance of the land and naval forces in that distant quarter might be rewarded with success. That, in the midst of these expectations, Jeff. Davis should be quietly brought up and lashed alongside our boat, before anybody but the crew was awake, and while we were peacefully steaming up to Savannah, was quite enough to move our special wonder.

The Colonel in charge of the prisoner had been directed to report to General Gillmore, and await orders, which were promptly given. It was thought best, under all the circumstances, that there should be no other intercourse between the boats. The story of the capture, in a semi-female disguise, was fully told by the captor; and so, fresh from this final illustration of the absolute collapse of the rebellion, we landed, in the gray morning, at the Savannah wharves. To our left, across a narrow and rather turbid stream, stretched away to the sea a level marsh, flat as a Western prairie, and green with the lush vegetation of the rice swamp; on the right were rows of fine warehouses, that for four years had known neither paint nor repairs; wharves, through the broken planks of which a careless walker might readily make an unwelcome plunge into not over-cleanly water; and, back of the warehouses, high stone walls, up which, at infrequent intervals, rude staircases conduct the pedestrian to the level of the city proper.

To the Northern reader, Savannah, Charleston, Wilmington, Richmond, have always seemed important names; and while never unconscious that none of them were New York, or Boston, or even Baltimore, yet he has nearly always associated with them the idea of large population, fine architecture and general metropolitan appearance. Nothing better illustrates the pretentious policy of this latitude, which has been always successful in being accepted at its own valuation. Savannah, for example, which is a scattered, tolerably well-built town of twenty thousand inhabitants, about the size of Oswego or Utica, in New York, or Dayton or Columbus, in Ohio, has aspired to be the “metropolis of the South Atlantic coast” and by dint of their perpetual boasts, Georgians had actually succeeded in making us all regard it very nearly as we do Cincinnati, or Chicago, or St. Louis. A Savannah shopkeeper was indignant, beyond description, at a careless remark of mine. I had asked the population of the place, and, on being told, had answered wonderingly, “Why, that isn’t more than a thousand ahead of Lynn, the little town in Massachusetts, where they make shoes and send Henry Wilson to the United States Senate.” The shopkeeper swept off the counter the articles he had been showing me, and, with an air of disdain, said he would like to count profits on goods by the arithmetic Yankees used in estimating the population of their nasty little manufacturing holes.

But the people in general were exceedingly polite, though one could now and then detect the sullen air which showed how hard it was to bear the presence of the Yankees. It was evident that they felt conquered, and stood in silent and submissive apprehension, awaiting whatever course the victors might see fit to pursue, and ready to acquiesce, with such grace as they might, in whatever policy the Government should adopt. Surely, now is the golden opportunity for a statesman to shape and mold these Southern institutions as he will. Shall it not be improved?

The little squares at the intersection of the principal streets, with their glimpse of sward, their fountains, live-oaks, magnolias and pride-of-India trees, make up, in part, for the absence of the elegant residences, embowered in luxurious shrubbery, which form so attractive a feature of Charleston. One strolls from square to square, seeing here children and their nurses playing under the trees, and there groups of negroes idly enjoying the shade; and scarcely realizes, till he sets foot again in the unpaved streets, and sinks in the burning sand, that he is in the heart of a “great Southern metropolis,” the chief city of “the Empire State of the South.” A little shopping for some members of our party showed that the old merchants still had certain lines of goods in abundance. Jewelry stores had large remnants of the stocks laid in during the winter of 1860-’61; coarse dry goods were plenty, and so were what, I believe, are technically called “wet groceries.” Execrable soda water gurgled at almost every corner; large and gay-looking drug stores seemed to laugh at our impotent blockade on calomel; and what the native traders could not supply in the way of the fashions for the last four years, a dozen sutlers’ establishments, already in full blast, were ready to furnish. Rebel currency had wholly vanished; and small pieces of gold and silver were gradually making their appearance, particularly in the hands of persons from the interior.

The streets of Savannah present the most striking contrast to those of Charleston. There, scarcely a white inhabitant of the city was to be seen. The merchants, the small shopkeepers, the restaurateurs were all gone, and, where the soldiers had not taken possession, shutters, barred and bolted, closed in their establishments. Here, on the contrary, the town had been taken, inhabitants and all. The difference is about that between having a watch and a watch case. As a smart sailor from the Wayanda said, “this town isn’t dead; it’s wound up and running.” The stores were all open; business of every sort progressed precisely as usual. Save that the schools were filled with negroes, and the rebel newspapers had been succeeded by loyal ones, and guards in blue, instead of gray, stood here and there, it was the rebel Savannah unchanged. The streets were filled with the inhabitants, dressed somewhat antiquely, but giving no signs of suffering; little knots gathered in the public squares, or around the saloons and shops, to discuss the news and their prospects; and curious eyes followed us at every corner, as if to say, “There go some more of the Yankees.” Every house was occupied; the front windows were open as usual; and the ladies seemed to have no particular prejudice against being seen—old clothes and all.

Some of us went to the hotel, nearly opposite the plain, square shaft erected in honor of Pulaski, and, as an experiment, tried their breakfast. As an experiment it was quite successful; as a breakfast, very poor; but we had a dozen rebel officers as neighbors, and passed salt and broke bread with them as indifferently as though they were not yet wearing the very uniform and side arms that proclaimed their treason. The furniture of the hotel had grown shabby with four years’ use; dishes had been broken and forks stolen, and there had been no means of supplying the loss; even napkins were scarce, but negro waiters were abundant, and as polite as ever. The bar was doing a thriving business; swarthy and ringleted cavaliers in gray were pledging each other in bumpers of liquors altogether too strong for the climate, and old acquaintances were producing their hoarded rolls of greenbacks to “treat” the returning braves. “Well, Colonel, you don’t come back victorious, but I’m d——d glad to see you, any way. Your old friends are proud of you. Come and have a drink.” “Sorry about that ugly wound, Captain. A hand is a bad thing to lose, but it wont hurt you among the ladies of Savannah. There are plenty that you can persuade to give you one. What’ll you drink?”

Whoever goes to Savannah must see the city cemetery. There is nothing else to show; so we all made the most of what there was, and drove heroically through the sand to Bunoaventua. From a street of well-built frame houses we plunged square off into the squalid country. Elegant suburbs and fine country residences seem a thing unknown. The shell road was once the pride of Savannah, but its glory, too, was departed; and our carriage wheels powdered us with sand, till, chameleon like, we had taken the hue of our surroundings, and seemed clad in Confederate gray. The few houses to be seen were forlorn-looking shanties, belonging to the poor white trash, with rotten steps and doors awry, and foul passages and oozy back yards. Here and there we met a creaking cart, drawn by an ox or a broken-down horse, laden with rickety pine furniture, and guided by the lank, lantern-jawed, stubby-bearded, long-haired owner. He was “toting” his goods in from some house which Sherman’s “bummers” had burned or plundered. If his “woman” trudged on foot behind him, be sure she assuaged the fatigues of the journey with great quids of tobacco and profuse expectoration; while the ragged, frowzy children were kept busy with the vagaries of the cow. The Yankee soldiers “had taken his corn, and spiled his crop, and he’d heern that the Government was a givin’ out rations in Savannah.”

But our drivers presently left the main road, for one which led through sandy barrens, covered with a stunted undergrowth, and seemed to be better in that the sand was a little firmer. Here and there a brilliant flower enlivened the barren scene; but the expected profusion of glowing colors we had all been led to look for about Savannah was wanting. At last, after a ride, which, in the melting sun and abounding sand, entitled one to a sight of something beautiful, we reached a rustic gate, and decayed lodge by its side; and, passing through, were at once in a scene for the possession of which New York might well offer a large fraction of what she has expended on her Central Park.

The finest live-oak trees I have yet seen in the South, stretched away in long avenues on either hand, intersected by cross avenues, and arched with interlacing branches, till the roof over our heads seemed, in living green, a graining, after the pattern of Gothic arches, in some magnificent old cathedral. It is the finest material in the country for the elaboration of the most beautiful cemetery. But, as in most places in the South, everything has stopped where nature stopped. One of the Tatnalls, probably an ancestor of the Commodore of our navy, of Chinese and Rebel note, long ago selected this site for his residence, builded his house, and laid out the grounds in these stately avenues. The house was burned down during some holiday rejoicings. An idea that the place was unhealthy possessed the owners, and, with a curious taste, what was too dangerous for men to live in was straightway selected for dead men to be buried in. We would hardly choose a malarious bottom, or a Northern tamarack swamp for a burying ground, beautiful as either might be, but what matters it? After life’s fitful fever, the few interred here sleep, doubtless, as sweetly beneath the gigantic oaks in the solemn avenues, as if on breeziest upland of mountain heather.

Even into this secluded gloom have come the traces of our civil wars. The only large monument in the cemetery is that bearing the simple inscription of “Clinch,” and within it lie, I am told, the bones of the father-in-law of “Sumter Anderson,” as in all our history he is henceforth to be known. Some vandal has broken down the marble slab that closed the tomb, and exposed the coffins within.

This very barbarism, with the absence of the rows of carefully-tended graves, and the headstones with affectionate inscriptions that mark all other cemeteries, increases the impressive gloom of the lonely place. The sun struggles in vain to penetrate the Gothic arches overhead. Here and again a stray beam struggles through, only to light up with a ghostly silver radiance, the long, downward-pointing spear point of the Tillandsia or Spanish Moss. The coolness is marvelous; the silence profound—or only broken by the gentle ripplings of the little stream by which the farther side of the cemetery is bounded. Everywhere the arches are hung—draped, perhaps, I should better say—with the deathly festoons of the Spanish Moss, slowly stealing sap and vigor—fit funeral work—from these giant oaks, and fattening on their decay. Drive where you will, the moss still flutters in your face, and waves over your head, and, lit with the accidental ray from above, points its warning, silvery light toward the graves beneath your feet; while still it clings, in the embrace of death, to the sturdy oaks on which it has fastened, and preaches and practices destruction together. Noble and lusty oaks are these; glorious in spreading boughs, and lofty arches, and fluttering foliage, but dying in the soft embrace of the parasite that clings and droops, and makes yet more picturesque and beautiful in decay—dying, even as Georgia was dying in the embrace of another parasite, having a phase not less picturesque, and a poisonous progress not less subtly gentle.

Some day, when Georgia has fully recovered, this spot too, will feel the returning tide of her generous, healthy blood. The rank undergrowth will be cleared away, walks will be laid out among the tombs where now are only tangled and serpent-infested paths; shafts will rise up to the green arches to commemorate the names of those most deserving in the State, and the Tillandsia, still waving its witchery of silver, will then seem only like myriad drooping plumes of white, forever tremulously pendant over graves at which the State is weeping.