Among the "peculiar institutions" of the South are its inns. I do not
refer to the pinchbeck, imitation St. Nicholas establishments, which
flourish in the larger cities, but to those home-made affairs, noted for
hog and hominy, corn-cake and waffles, which crop out here and there in
the smaller towns, the natural growth of Southern life and institutions.
A model of this class is the one at Georgetown. Hog, hominy, and
corn-cake for breakfast; waffles, hog, and hominy for dinner; and hog,
hominy, and corn-cake for supper--and such corn-cake, baked in the ashes
of the hearth, a plentiful supply of the grayish condiment still
clinging to it!--is its never-varying bill of fare. I endured this fare
for a day, _how_, has ever since been a mystery to me, but when night
came my experiences were indescribable. Retiring early, to get the rest
needed to fit me for a long ride on the morrow, I soon realized that
"there is no rest for the wicked," none, at least, for sinners at the
South. Scarcely had my head touched the pillow when I was besieged by an
army of red-coated secessionists, who set upon me without mercy. I
withstood the assault manfully, till "bleeding at every pore," and then
slowly and sorrowfully beat a retreat. Ten thousand to one is greater
odds than the gallant Anderson encountered at Sumter. Yet I determined
not to fully abandon the field. Placing three chairs in a row, I mounted
upon them, and in that seemingly impregnable position hurled defiance at
the enemy, in the words of Scott (slightly altered to suit the
occasion):

"Come one, come all, these chairs shall fly
From their firm base as soon as I."

My exultation, however, was of short duration. The persistent foe,
scaling my intrenchments, soon returned to the assault with redoubled
vigor, and in utter despair I finally fled. Groping my way through the
hall, and out of the street-door, I departed. The Sable Brother--alias
the Son of Ham--alias the Image of GOD carved in Ebony--alias the
Oppressed Type--alias the Contraband--alias the Irrepressible
Nigger--alias the Chattel--alias the Darky--alias the Cullud Pusson--had
informed me that I should find the Big Bugs at that hotel. I had found
them.

Staying longer in such a place was out of the question, and I determined
to make my way to the up-country without longer waiting for Jim. With
the first streak of day I sallied out to find the means of locomotion.

The ancient town boasts no public conveyance, e