388 ANNUAL REPORT SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION, 1951 



for him to set it down: as he did not do so I walked towards him, lifting my 

 hand to take it. "No — I'll hold it," said he, and then I perceived that he had no 

 candle-stick, but held the lean little dip in his hand : I remembered also that no 

 candle had been brought into the "sitting-room," and that while we were at 

 supper only one candle had stood upon the table, which had been immediately 

 extingiiished when we rose, the room being lighted only from the fire. 



In these surroundings candles were, of course, homemade. In a 

 one-room cabin in Tennessee Olmsted saw "bunches of candles [hang- 

 ing] from the rafters" in the manner customary in New England 

 farm kitchens of a century and more earlier. 



Insufficiency of artificial light was not altogether confined to rural 

 farms in the South, however. Olmsted, in the work just quoted 

 (1856, pp. 334-336), recounts an amusing episode that occurred in a 

 stagecoach inn at Fayetteville, N. C. It suggests that the absence of 

 light may have been related in some cases to the general nature of 

 things in the old South's economy and social organization, rather 

 than to lack of access to the means of good light. 



I followed the negro up to number eleven, which was a large back room, in 

 the upper story, with four beds in it. 



"Peter," said I, "I want a fire made here." 



"Want a fire, sar?" 



"Yes, I want you to make a fire." 



"Want a fire, master, this time o' night?" 



"Why, yes! I want a fire! Where are you going with the lamp?" 



"Want a lamp, massa?" 



"Want a lamp? Certainly, I do." 



After about ten minutes, I heard a man splitting wood in the yard, and, in 

 ten more, Peter brought in three sticks of green wood, and some chips; then, 

 the little bed-lamp having burned out, he went into an adjoining room, where 

 I heard him talking to some one, evidently awakened by his entrance to get a 

 match ; that failing, he went for another. By one o'clock, my fire was made. 



"Peter," said I, "are you going to wait on me, while I stay here?" 



"Yes, sar ; I 'tends to dis room." 



"Very well ; take this, and when I leave, I'll give you another, if you take good 

 care of me. Now, I want you to get me some water." 



"I'll get you some water in de morning, sar." 



"I want some to-night — some water and some towels; don't you think you 

 can get them for me?" 



"I reckon so, massa, if you wants 'em. Want 'em 'fore you go to bed?" 



"Yes ; and get another lamp." 



"Want a lamp?" 



"Yes, of course." 



"Won't the fire do you?" 



"No ; bring a lamp. That one won't burn without filling ; you need not try it." 



The water and the lamp came, after a long time. 



The following evening, as it grew too cold to write in my room, I went down, 

 and found Peter, and told him I wanted a fire again, and that he might get 

 me a couple of candles. When he came up, he brought one of the little bed- 

 lamps, with a capacity of oil for fifteen minutes' use. I sent him down again 

 to the office, with a request to the proprietor that I might be furnished with 



