Fortunately I did not have to go much farther before I came to the best house I had seen during the day, a large, neat, white house, with negro shanties, and an open log cabin in the front yard. A stout, elderly, fine-looking woman, in a cool white muslin dress sat upon the gallery, fanning herself. Two little negroes had just brought a pail of fresh water, and she was drinking of it with a gourd, as I came to the gate. I asked if it would be convenient for her to accommodate me for the night, doubtingly, for I had learned to distrust the accommodations of the wealthy slaveholders.
“Oh yes, get down; fasten your horse there, and the niggers will take care of him when they come from their work. Come up here and take a seat.”
I brought in my saddle-bags.
“Bring them in here, into the parlour,” she said, “where they’ll be safe.”
The interior of the house was furnished with unusual comfort. “The parlour,” however, had a bed in it. As we came out, she locked the door.
We had not sat long, talking about the weather (she was suffering much from the heat), when her husband came. He was very hot also, though dressed coolly enough in merely a pair of short-legged, unbleached cotton trousers, and a shirt with the bosom spread open—no shoes nor stockings. He took his seat before speaking to me, and after telling his wife it was the hottest day he ever saw, squared his chair toward me, threw it back so as to recline against a post, and said gruffly, “Good evening, sir; you going to stay here to-night?”
I replied, and he looked at me a few moments without speaking. He was, in fact, so hot that he spoke with difficulty. At length he got breath and asked abruptly: “You a mechanic, sir, or a dentist, eh—or what?”
Supper was cooked by two young women, daughters of the master of the house, assisted by the two little negro boys. The cabin in front of the house was the kitchen, and when the bacon was dished up, one of the boys struck an iron triangle at the door. “Come to supper,” said the host, and led the way to the kitchen, which was also the supper-room. One of the young ladies took the foot of the table, the other seated herself apart by the fire, and actually waited on the table, though the two negro boys stood at the head and foot, nominally waiters, but always anticipated by the Cinderella, when anything was wanted.
A big lout of a youth who came from the field with the negroes, looked in, but seeing me, retired. His father called, but his mother said, “’t wouldn’t do no good—he was so bashful.”
Speaking of the climate of the country, I was informed that a majority of the folks went barefoot all winter, though they had snow much of the time four or five inches deep, and the man said he didn’t think most of the men about here had more than one coat, and they never wore any in winter except on holidays. “That was the healthiest way,” he reckoned, “just to toughen yourself and not wear no coat; no matter how cold it was, he didn’t wear no coat.”