When traveling in the slave States twenty years ago, I found this class of white people unable to give any information as to the distance to the nearest town, and not one in ten knew the name of the county where they lived. Between Paris and Winchester, Ky., a heavy shower came upon us, and we found shelter in a house in the edge of the woods A man and his wife, and five or six children, were in the house, and the combined wisdom of the household could give us no information as to how far it was to either of the above towns. “It was a right smart chance of a walk,” and that was all they knew about it, nor did they know the name of the county they lived in, or the political party the “old man” voted for; he thought, however, his name was not “political party.” “Was it Harry Clay?” “No, it was t’other feller.” When the shower was over we started towards Winchester, and soon met an old negro passing along the road. Stopping our horse, I said, “Good evening, uncle.” He took off his hat and responded, “Good ebening, sar.” I said, “Put your hat on your head, my friend, you are an old man.” He looked at us, then at his hat, and finally put his hat under his ami, and stood uneasily, turning partly around. Seeing that he felt embarrassed, I thought I would ask him some questions, and see if the old negro was as ignorant as the Loco Foco voter whose roof had partially sheltered us during the late shower, so I asked, “How far is it to Winchester?” “Bout four mile.” “How far to Paris ?” “Ten or twelve mile,” he replied, both of which answers proved correct. “Can you tell us what county we are in?” “Dis am Clark County,” said he, “but just ober dar is Bourbon County,” and pointing west, he said, “dat way bout two mile, am Fayette County.”
We found the old slave quite intelligent on many subjects. I asked him where he lived, and he said, “In
