It was at this old tavern, while on a second visit to the State of Virginia, in 1841, that Mr. Listwell, unacquainted with the fame of the place, turned aside, about sunset, to pass the night. Riding up to the house, he had scarcely dismounted, when one of the half-dozen bar-room fraternity met and addressed him in a manner exceedingly bland and accommodating.
“Fine evening, sir.”
“Very fine,” said Mr. Listwell. “This is a tavern, I believe?”
“O yes, sir, yes; although you may think it looks a little the worse for wear, it was once as good a house as any in Virginy. I make no doubt if ye spend the night here, you’ll think it a good house yet; for there ain’t a more accommodating man in the country than you’ll find the landlord.”
Listwell. “The most I want is a good bed for myself, and a full manger for my horse. If I get these, I shall be quite satisfied.”
Loafer. “Well, I alloys like to hear a gentleman talk for his horse; and just because the horse can’t talk for itself. A man that don’t care about his beast, and don’t look arter it when he’s travelling ain’t much in my eye anyhow. Now, sir, I likes a horse, and I’ll guarantee your horse will be taken good care on here. That old stable, for all you see it looks so shabby now, once sheltered the great Eclipse, when he run here agin Batchelor and Jumping Jemmy. Them was fast horses, but he beat ’em both.”
Listwell. “Indeed.”
Loafer. “Well, I rather reckon you’ve travelled a right smart distance to-day, from the look of your horse?”
Listwell. “Forty miles only.”
Loafer. “Well! I’ll be darned if that aint a pretty good only. Mister, that beast of yours is a singed cat, I warrant you. I never see’d a creature like that that wasn’t good on the road. You’ve come about forty miles, then?”