I gave him one; and wondered what use he could put it to, that would not hurt it. He opened it to a folio, and spread it before the grate, so the draft held it in place, and it acted as a blower. I asked if there were no blowers? “No.” “But haven’t you got any brush or shovel?” I inquired, seeing him get down upon his knees again and sweep the cinders and ashes he had thrown upon the floor with the sleeve of his coat, and then take them up with his hands;—No, he said, his master did not give him such things.
“Are you a slave?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you belong to Mr. Dexter?”
“No, sir—he hires me of de man dat owns me. Don’t you tink I’se too ole a man for to be knock roun at dis kind of work, massa?—hundred gemmen all want dair fires made de same minute, and caus de old nigger can’t do it all de same minute, ebbery one tinks dey’s boun to scold him all de time; nebber no rest for him, no time.”
Washington, Dec. 14th.—I called to-day on Mr. C., whose fine farm, from its vicinity to Washington, and its excellent management, as well as from the hospitable habits of its owner, has a national reputation. It is some two thousand acres in extent, and situated just without the district, in Maryland.
The residence is in the midst of the farm, a quarter of a mile from the high road—the private approach being judiciously carried through large pastures which are divided only by slight, but close and well-secured wire fences. The kept grounds are limited, and in simple but quiet taste; being surrounded only by wires, they merge, in effect, into the pastures. There is a fountain, an ornamental dove-cote, and ice-house, and the approach road, nicely gravelled and rolled, comes up to the door with a fine sweep.
I had dismounted and was standing before the door, when I heard myself loudly hailed from a distance.
“Ef yer wants to see master, sah, he’s down thar—to the new stable.”