“When it rained the other day, Mrs. W. dropped the window of the carriage, and desired the two to put on their shawls, for fear they would take cold.  They are plainly a great care to their owners, for they are like children and cannot take care of themselves; and yet in another way the masters are like children, from the constant waiting upon that they receive.  One would think, where one class does all the thinking and the other all the working, that masters would be active thinkers and slaves ready workers; but neither result seems to happen—­both are listless and inactive.

“May 3.  I asked Miss Pinckney to-day if she remembered George Washington.  She and Mrs. Poinsett spoke at once. “’Oh, yes, we were children,’ said Mrs. Poinsett; ’but my father would have him come to see us, and he took each of us in his arms and kissed us; and at another time we went to Mt.  Vernon and made him a visit.’

“Never were more intelligent old ladies than Mrs. Poinsett and Miss Pinckney.  The latter stepped around like a young girl, and brought a heavy book to show me the sketch of her sister, Marie Henrietta Pinckney, who, in the nullification time of 1830, wrote a pamphlet in defence of the State.

“Miss Pinckney’s father was the originator of the celebrated maxim, ‘Millions for defence, but not one cent for tribute.’  Their house was the headquarters for the nullifiers, and they had serenades, she said, without number.

“It was pleasant to hear the old ladies chatter away, and it was interesting to think of the distinguished men who had been under that roof, and of the cultivated and beautiful women who had adorned the mansion.

“Miss Pinckney, when I left, followed me to the door, and put into my hands an elegant little volume of poems, called ‘Reliquiai.’

“They seem to be simple effusions of some person who died early.

“May 9.  We left Charleston, its old houses and its good people, on Monday, and reached Augusta the same day.

“Augusta is prettily laid out, but the place is of little interest; and for the hotel where we stayed, I can only give this advice to its inmates:  ’Don’t examine a black spot upon your pillow-case; go to sleep at once, and keep asleep if you can.’

“When we were on the road from Augusta to Atlanta, the conductor said, ’If you are going on to Nashville, you will be on the road in the night; people don’t love to go on that road in the night.  I don’t know why.’

“When we came to the Nashville road, I thought that I knew ‘why.’  The road runs around the base of a mountain, while directly beneath it, at a great depth, runs a river.  A dash off the track on one side would be against the mountain, on the other side would be into the river, while the sharp turns seem to invite such a catastrophe.  When we were somewhat wrought up to a nervous excitement, the cars would plunge into the darkness of a tunnel—­darkness such as I almost felt.