The Portrait of a Gentleman

June came to tide-water Virginia with long, warm days and with the odor of
many roses. Day by day the cloudless sunshine visited the land: night by
night the large pale stars looked into its waters. It was a slumberous
land, of many creeks and rivers that were wide, slow, and deep, of tobacco
fields and lofty, solemn forests, of vague marshes, of white mists, of a
haze of heat far and near.

The moon of blossoms was past, and the red men--few in number now--had returned from their hunting, and lay in the shade of the trees in the villages that the English had left them, while
the women brought them fish from the weirs, and strawberries from the
vines that carpeted every poisoned field or neglected clearing. The black
men toiled amidst the tobacco and the maize; at noontide it was as hot in
the fields as in the middle passage, and the voices of those who sang over
their work fell to a dull crooning.

The white men who were bound served
listlessly; they that were well were as lazy as the weather; they that
were newly come over and ill with the "seasoning" fever tossed upon their
pallets, longing for the cooling waters of home. The white men who were
free swore that the world, though fair, was warm, and none walked if he
could ride. The sunny, dusty roads were left for shadowed bridle paths;
in a land where most places could be reached by boat, the water would
have been the highway but that the languid air would not fill the sails.
It was agreed that the heat was unnatural, and that, likely enough, there
would be a deal of fever during the summer.