Not that I care much what they think, but my own self-respect is gone.I never believed I would do it.A man ca'nt afford to lower himself in his own esteem, at my time of life."The Widow Patten's was only an advanced settlement in this narrow valley on the mountain-side, but a little group of buildings, a fence, and a gate gave it the air of a place, and it had once been better cared for than it is now.Few travelers pass that way, and the art of entertaining, if it ever existed, is fallen into desuetude.We unsaddled at the veranda, and sat down to review our adventure, make the acquaintance of the family, and hear the last story from Big Tom.The mountaineer, though wet, was as fresh as a daisy, and fatigue in no wise checked the easy, cheerful flow of his talk.He was evidently a favorite with his neighbors, and not unpleasantly conscious of the extent of his reputation.But he encountered here another social grade.The Widow Patten was highly connected.We were not long in discovering that she was an Alexander.She had been a schoolmate of Senator Vance,--" Zeb Vance "he still was to her,--and the senator and his wife had stayed at her house.I wish I could say that the supper, for which we waited till nine o'clock, was as "highly connected " as the landlady.It was, however, a supper that left its memory.We were lodged in a detached house, which we had to ourselves, where a roaring wood fire made amends for other things lacking.It was necessary to close the doors to keep out the wandering cows and pigs, and I am bound to say that, notwithstanding the voices of the night, we slept there the sleep of peace.
In the morning a genuine surprise awaited us; it seemed impossible, but the breakfast was many degrees worse than the supper; and when we paid our bill, large for the region, we were consoled by the thought that we paid for the high connection as well as for the accommodations.This is a regular place of entertainment, and one is at liberty to praise it without violation of delicacy.
The broken shoe of Jack required attention, and we were all the morning hunting a blacksmith, as we rode down the valley.Three blacksmith's shanties were found, and after long waiting to send for the operator it turned out in each case that he had no shoes, no nails, no iron to make either of.We made a detour of three miles to what was represented as a regular shop.The owner had secured the service of a colored blacksmith for a special job, and was, not inclined to accommodate us; he had no shoes, no nails.But the colored blacksmith, who appreciated the plight we were in, offered to make a shoe, and to crib four nails from those he had laid aside for a couple of mules; and after a good deal of delay, we were enabled to go on.The incident shows, as well as anything, the barrenness and shiftlessness of the region.A horseman with whom we rode in the morning gave us a very low estimate of the trustworthiness of the inhabitants.The valley is wild and very pretty all the way down to Colonel Long's,--twelve miles,--but the wretched-looking people along the way live in a wretched manner.
Just before reaching Colonel Long's we forded the stream (here of good size), the bridge having tumbled down, and encountered a party of picnickers under the trees--signs of civilization; a railway station is not far off.Colonel Long's is a typical Southern establishment: a white house, or rather three houses, all of one story, built on to each other as beehives are set in a row, all porches and galleries.No one at home but the cook, a rotund, broad-faced woman, with a merry eye, whose very appearance suggested good cooking and hospitality; the Missis and the children had gone up to the river fishing; the Colonel was somewhere about the place; always was away when he was wanted.Guess he'd take us in, mighty fine man the Colonel; and she dispatched a child from a cabin in the rear to hunt him up.The Colonel was a great friend of her folks down to Greenville; they visited here.Law, no, she didn't live here.Was just up here spending the summer, for her health.God-forsaken lot of people up here, poor trash.She wouldn't stay here a day, but the Colonel was a friend of her folks, the firstest folks in Greenville.
Nobody round here she could 'sociate with.She was a Presbyterian, the folks round here mostly Baptists and Methodists.More style about the Presbyterians.Married? No, she hoped not.She did n't want to support no husband.Got 'nuff to do to take care of herself.
That her little girl? No; she'd only got one child, down to Greenville, just the prettiest boy ever was, as white as anybody.
How did she what? reconcile this state of things with not being married and being a Presbyterian? Sho! she liked to carry some religion along; it was mighty handy occasionally, mebbe not all the time.Yes, indeed, she enjoyed her religion.
The Colonel appeared and gave us a most cordial welcome.The fat and merry cook blustered around and prepared a good dinner, memorable for its "light" bread, the first we had seen since Cranberry Forge.The Colonel is in some sense a public man, having been a mail agent, and a Republican.He showed us photographs and engravings of Northern politicians, and had the air of a man who had been in Washington.
This was a fine country for any kind of fruit,--apples, grapes, pears; it needed a little Northern enterprise to set things going.
The travelers were indebted to the Colonel for a delightful noonday rest, and with regret declined his pressing invitation to pass the night with him.