The life of a poor player touring the South must be very wretched, for generally, excepting in large cities, hotels are poor.  Before we had gone far upon our way, my companion and I learned to inquire carefully in advance as to the best hotels, and when we found in any small city one which was not a fire trap, and which was clean, we were surprised, while if the service was fairly good, and the meals were not very bad, we considered it a matter for rejoicing.

We were advised to stop, in Charlottesville, at the New Gleason, and when we alighted at the dingy old brick railroad station—­a station quite as unprepossessing as that at New Haven, Connecticut—­we began to feel that all was not for the best.  A large gray horse hitched to the hack in which we rode to the Gleason evidently felt the same, for at first he balked, and later tried to run away.

The hotel lobby was a perfect example of its kind.  There were several drummers writing at the little desks, and several more sitting idly in chairs adjacent to brass cuspidors.  All of them looked despondent with a despondency suggesting pie for breakfast.  Behind the desk was a sleepy-looking old clerk who, as we arrived, was very busy over a financial transaction involving change of ownership in a two-cent stamp.  This enterprise concluded, he assigned us rooms.

Never have I wished to win the toss for rooms as I wished it when I saw the two allotted to us, for though the larger one could not by a flight of fancy be termed cheerful, the sight of the lesser chamber filled me with thoughts of madness.

Of course I lost.

Never shall I forget that room.  It was too small to accommodate my trunks with any comfort, so I left them downstairs with the porter, descending, now and then, to get such articles as I required.  The furniture, what there was of it, was of yellow pine; the top of the dresser was scarred with the marks of many glasses and many bottles; the lace window curtains were long, hard and of a wiry stiffness, and the wall-paper was of a scrambled pattern all in bilious brown.  During the evening I persuaded my companion to walk with me through the town, and once I got him out I kept him going on and on through shadowy streets unknown to us, until, exhausted, he insisted upon returning to our hostelry.  I fancy that there are picturesque old houses on the outskirts of the town, but with that wall paper and a terrible nostalgia occupying my mind, I was in no state to judge of what was there.

On reaching the hotel my companion went to bed, but I remained until late in the office, writing letters, doing anything rather than go up to my room.  When at last I did ascend I planned to read, but the arrangement of the light was bad, so presently I put it out and lay there sleepless and miserable, thinking of foolish things that I have said and done during a life rich with such items, and having chills and fever over each separate recollection.  How I drifted off to sleep at last I do not know; all I remember is waking up next morning, leaping out of bed and dressing in frantic haste to get out of my room.  There was but one thing in it which did not utterly offend the eye:  that was the steam pipe which ascended from floor to ceiling at one corner, and which, being a simple, honest metal tube, was not objectionable.