NORTHERN TEXAS.
In this closing chapter of our book, we have thought that a brief
outline sketch of the topography, climate, soil, and productions
of Texas might not be uninteresting to the reader. And in order to
this, we shall speak first of its grand geographical divisions, as
characterized and distinguished by peculiar products. And first we
will speak of Northern Texas, which is distinguished for being the
wheat region of the State. The wheat region proper embraces about
thirty counties, of which Dallas County may be regarded as the center,
containing about thirty thousand square miles. The rich black soil is
especially adapted to wheat-growing. It yields in ordinary seasons,
and under the imperfect cultivation that it gets as yet, twenty-one
bushels to the acre as a mean average; and in occasional instances the
quality is so superior as to weigh seventy-two pounds to the bushel.
After the first year of the late civil war the supply of flour was
principally from Northern Texas. Its quality was superior to any flour
we have ever seen in Illinois. The soil is equally favorable to all the
other cereals that are produced in the Northern States. The soil on and
near the Upper Brazos is reddish, and is now considered the best for
wheat on account of the solution of gypsum that it holds, and which is
regarded as an important quality in a wheat-producing soil. It wears
better and longer than other soils.
The southeastern and southern-central counties are the best
cotton-growing region, the most fertile of all lands in the State,
and for any thing, like an equal area, the best for cotton that can
be found in the world. The cotton counties proper constitute about
one-quarter of the State. The region also includes several millions of
acres of sugar lands, often quite equal to those of Louisiana. Sugar
has been produced in considerable quantities near the mouths of the
Brazos and Colorado Rivers.
The topographical face of the country, in the cotton and sugar section,
is quite uniform on the coast belt of it. Galveston and Lavaca are,
respectively, ten and twenty-four feet above the level of the sea;
Houston, which is fifty miles from the former port, is sixty feet;
Columbus, which is eighty-five miles from the coast, is two hundred and
fifty feet; Gonzales, something over one hundred miles, is two hundred
and seventy feet. This shows a very moderate rise, of only a foot or
two per mile, from the coast far inland.
San Antonio, one hundred and forty miles from the sea, and outside
of the cotton region west, is six hundred and thirty-five feet above
sea-level. The table lands and the desert, called Llano Estacado
(Staked Plain), in Northwestern Texas, are two thousand and two
thousand five hundred feet, and some elevations are five thousand feet
above the sea.
In point of climate Texas claims to be called the Italy of America.
The mean temperature corresponds, and is equally clear and glowing.
Its peculiarities over other climates of latitude are found in its
unwavering summer sea breeze and winter northers. The first is a
delightful alleviation of its summer heats, flowing each day from the
Gulf as the sun's rays become oppressive, and extending remotely inland
to the furthest settlements with the same trustworthy steadiness. It
continues through the evening, and has so great effect that, however
hot the day may have been, the nights are always cool enough to demand
a blanket, and yield invigorating rest.
The severe northers occur from December to April. They come with
varying durations--from a few hours to two or three days, and seldom
extend beyond the general period of forty days. The rapid reduction of
temperature from seventy-five to thirty-five degrees, and the driving
wind, are keenly felt. When accompanied with heavy rains and sleet,
as is sometimes the case, not often, the cattle suffer and die off in
large numbers. These northers are not unhealthy, but invigorating, and
do not cause nor aggravate pulmonary diseases. Pneumonia is sometimes
developed by them, but with half the caution that we exercise in the
winters of the North, its attacks may be avoided.
As in all new, warm, and highly fertile countries, the low rich river
bottoms, especially of Southern Texas, which are covered with a
profusion of semi-tropical vegetation, are unhealthy to unacclimated
persons. The higher lands are healthy, if the emigrant make a proper
disposition of himself, which is too frequently otherwise. The
atmosphere of the lower Brazos, at Richmond and thereabouts, was
particularly poisonous to the writer. Three days' residence there would
suffice to bring on chills and fever, and then a retreat of a week up
the country seventy-five miles would suppress them.
San Antonio has been in former years quite a favorite resort for
consumptive invalids seeking the improvement of health. The native
Mexicans used to tell a story of its healthfulness that has the Yankee
smack to it. They said some travelers, approaching San Antonio, met
three disconsolate-looking fellows, who were hastening away from the
city. They asked them what was the matter, and where they were going.
They replied that they had met with reverses, that they wished to die,
and were going to some place where they _could_ die.
Yellow fever is imported into the coast towns as it is into New York
and Philadelphia, but it does not originate there. Its ravages, as
would be expected in such a climate, are sometimes severe, but it does
not penetrate into the upland and hilly regions any more than it does
into the interior of New York or Pennsylvania.
_Times of Planting and Harvesting._--Plowing can be done in every
month of the year. This is an immense advantage by way of economizing
labor. It is done in January and February for the field crops. Early
garden vegetables are planted in January. In February the prairies
are green, corn mostly planted, and oats, barley, peas, etc., are
sown. In March fresh pasturage is quite abundant, though the old has
not failed during the winter, and about half the corn is planted. In
April the balance. Then sheep are shorn, and potatoes, peas, and wild
berries appear in market early in the month. In May small fruits are
gathered; apricots ripen toward its close. In June corn is ready for
harvesting, and peaches are ripe. In July first cotton-picking comes.
We have seen new bales of cotton for sale in Galveston on the 4th of
July. Cotton-picking continues to the close of November. December is a
plowing, cleaning, and picking-up month.
The above statements refer to average seasons in the central and
southern latitudes of the State, and to the ordinary culture of the
main crops. Some of them might be grown earlier, and would ripen if
not planted till months later. Most garden vegetables can be planted
throughout the season, so as to afford a constant repetition of them
for the table.
_Wool Production._--Wool husbandry is a large and important interest
in Texas. Sheep can be grown with high profit for domestic uses on the
moderately elevated dry _sound_ lands of all parts of the State. But
the sheep region proper--that where the pasturage is best adapted to
them, both in summer and winter, where with safety and health they can
be herded in great flocks, and where the land is cheap, and wool can
be most cheaply grown for exportation--lies in Western Texas. It is
bounded on the east and west by the Guadalupe and Nueces Rivers, and so
far as yet experimented, north by the Colorado River, say from Bastrop
upward.
South of San Antonio the sheep region is generally level, descending
with a moderate slope to the coast. But the hilly country, commencing
five or six miles north of San Antonio, is regarded _par excellence_ as
_the_ sheep region. The hills further north become more abrupt, with
narrower valleys between, and large river bottoms are reached. The
present center of the sheep region is Kendall County, appropriately
named after the late George Wilkins Kendall, the senior editor of
the New Orleans _Picayune_, one of the best conducted and most
readable newspapers in the United States. He and Horace Greeley
served their apprenticeship together in the office of the Concord (N.
H.) _Statesman_. In 1834 he went to New Orleans and established the
_Picayune_, and entered on his career of success.
He went to the Mexican war under Ben McCulloch with the Texas Rangers.
He died October 22, 1868, at his residence in Kendall County, thirty
miles north of San Antonio.
He was the great sheep-farmer and flock-master of the South, the
pioneer of that branch of husbandry in Texas; and he did more than all
others to introduce, foster, and instruct the people in its management
in a region so adapted by nature to its profitable pursuit.
Kendall County and a dozen counties around it are supplied with streams
of water in abundance, clear, and healthful, and springs, some of them,
of great volume. On the larger streams is a good supply of timber of
various kinds. There are large groves of post-oak, affording _mast_ for
innumerable hogs. The hills are generally bare of vegetation except
grass, which consists of varieties of the _mesquite_, probably the
finest grass for sheep and beeves in the world, and quite equal to the
white clover of the North. It is short, fine, exceedingly palatable
and nutritious--stands drouth well, and springs up like magic after
every shower. It is not entirely killed down by winter, and subsists
flocks throughout the year without the necessity of artificial food.
It is only necessary for the emigrant to secure a homestead, including
land enough to raise family supplies from, and his stock of horses,
cattle, sheep, and hogs, can be pastured on the outlying ranges with
no expense except for herdsmen and shepherds. No rental to any body.
Indeed, a single man can hire his board, and without owning or hiring
a foot of land, can keep large flocks and herds. And this condition of
things must continue beyond the lifetime of the present generation.
Texas stretches through ten and a quarter degrees of latitude, from
twenty-six to thirty-six and one-fourth degrees, over seven hundred
miles. And then it reaches through twelve degrees of longitude, which,
on the thirty-second parallel, would make the width of the State
about seven hundred miles. The State government has already laid off
one hundred and fifty-seven counties, with an area in square miles
of one hundred and ninety-six thousand two hundred and ninety-nine.
Territory not laid off in counties, over one-quarter of the State,
including the mountainous part, seventy-two thousand three hundred and
eighty-five square miles. Total square miles in the State, two hundred
and sixty-eight thousand six hundred and eighty-four. The State is
between five and six times as large as the State of New York, and more
than three and a half times larger than all New England. None of the
noted kingdoms of Europe approach its dimensions except Russia. Vast
portions of it are still in a state of nature, and the balance of it is
thinly populated.
There is no grand climatic or latitudinal division of the State but
offers its peculiar and special inducements to immigrants. Wheat, the
finest in the world, and other cereals, with fruits, etc., of all
kinds, in the north, cotton and sugar in the southern-central and
southeast, pine lumber and cypress in the east, and stock in the west.
Southwestern Texas is a very peculiar portion of the State, and may
be geographically described as lying between the San Antonio River on
the east, and the Rio Grande on the west, and south and southeast of
the road running from San Antonio to Eagle Pass on the Rio Grande,
containing about thirty thousand square miles.
After the establishment of San Antonio, which we believe was in the
year that Philadelphia was settled--called Bexar by the Spaniards and
Mexicans--many years passed before any settlements were attempted
between that post and the garrisons and towns west of the Rio Grande.
The first in point of time was that of Senor Barrego, who in the
forepart of the seventeenth century established a stock-raising
hacienda at a place called "Dolores," on the Rio Grande, twenty-five
miles below the present site of Loredo. He received a grant from the
King of Spain, of seventy leagues of land. This hacienda was afterward
destroyed.
In 1757 the town of Laredo was founded. This place was a sort of
"Presidio" (Fort) where the inhabitants were armed occupants of the
soil. And it proved the only permanent settlement of the Spaniards on
the lower Rio Grande. After this ranches and haciendas were gradually
extended over the country, between the Nueces River and Rio Grande.
And during the first quarter of the present century extensive herds of
horses and cattle, and flocks of sheep, were pastured between the two
rivers. The remains of the stone buildings, water tanks and wells, are
still to be seen. The troubles attending the attempt of the Mexicans to
separate from Spain invited the savage hordes from the north, which had
been kept in better subjection under the system of Spain than they have
ever been since, to make raids upon the frontier settlements, which
caused the country to be nearly vacated again.
The Texas revolution and subsequent border warfare gave the finishing
touch to this country. And when the United States troops under General
Taylor marched from Corpus Christi to the Rio Grande, in 1846, not an
inhabitant was to be found between the Nueces and that river. It had
the appearance of an immense desert to the army, unused as they were to
such treeless pampas. The immense herds of cattle and horses, left to
take care of themselves, had become wild, and had greatly increased;
and as "mustangs" grazed over those plains in almost countless hosts,
it was entirely dangerous for a man to approach them, particularly on
foot, and much more so even on horseback. The old king mustang, and his
male subordinates, would first drive the herd into corral by making a
rushing, neighing circuit around them, and then make a fearful dash at
the human intruder, striking, kicking and biting him to death.
In 1850 the _repopulation_ of that country fairly commenced. The
mustangs were killed or caught and tamed, and "that _so-called_" desert
has been steadily filling with a hardy and active race of stock-raisers.
As the country now stands, the climate is decidedly unfavorable to
agriculture. And unless some plans, on a magnificent scale, can be
devised and executed, by which to irrigate that vast and rich country,
the main dependence will always have to be, as heretofore, on the
flocks and herds. The climate is unseasonable; but not so much for
want of rain; for take the seasons through, ample supplies of rain fall
for all purposes, if they only came at the right time, and in proper
quantities. The planting time is from January to May, and that is the
dry period of the year. It often happens that not sufficient rain falls
during those months to "wet a pocket handkerchief." When it rains it
rains. And during the other months of the year the torrents that fall
upon the country will aggregate twenty-five to thirty inches. It is not
extravagant to affirm that if the water could be utilized in some, as
yet undiscovered way, that country would be the finest in the world.
The desert (?) would "bud and blossom as the rose," in all temperate
and semi-tropical products. The climate, on account of the dryness of
the winter and spring, is as healthy as could be desired.
We think something might be done by making earth tanks on a large
scale, thereby creating immense artificial lakes at convenient points,
and at proper distances, to be used for irrigating purposes when
necessary, and thus redeem that beautiful country from agricultural
waste. It can not be done, however, by private capital and enterprise,
nor by small corporations, but might be by heavy ones, under the
material encouragement and patronage and aid of the General and State
governments, by money and land grants, as to railroad corporations. And
doubtless, in time, something of the kind will be done when the public
good shall demand it. The gardens in and around San Antonio, and along
the river for miles and miles, are irrigated from its waters, by little
ditches running in all directions, from a big ditch or canal, that was
originally built by the Spanish government when its various missions
were established along the San Antonio valley. But if nothing of the
kind should be done in the future, that country will forever remain
the finest stock-raising section in the United States--the paradise of
horses, sheep and cattle. There is little doubt that the tame cattle
herds of to-day outnumber the wild ones of half a century ago. And one
day southwestern Texas will export half a million of beeves yearly.
Old Letters.
OLD LETTERS.
CANTO I.
Sometimes old letters have the strangest things
Recorded on the worn and sallow page:
The writing, too, has neither head nor wings,
But one would think that insects for an age
Had wip'd their tiny feet where black ink clings,
Regardless of the ancient scribbling sage,
Whose quill, one pointed and one feather'd end,
Had trail'd away his thoughts to absent friend.
But who can be sure, they're any more queer
Than those we moderns hast'ly pen to-day;
E'en tho' their marks so odd and strange appear,
That as we read the mind doth halt and stay
Until the brain hath got a little clear,
In order, as we let its powers play,
We well can solve what all the scribblings mean,
'Tis so at six, or sev'n, or at sixteen.
The language, too, is no more queer and strange,
As thought doth spring and file along on thought,
And spirits meet in pleasant interchange
Of fancies told, or fancies only caught;
And scarcely caught at that in his small range,
As some poor scribbler has his fabric wrought,
And in the wretched scraping swiftly tells
What feeling urges--what his bosom swells.
Those who would have this sweetest priv'lege cease,
Must ingrate be in senses more than one;
Nor dwell at home, or anywhere in peace,
Though parent, friend, daughter, or absent son,
Such name 'twere well enough they should release;
Indeed, 'twere well it never had begun,
If cold neglect in writing they do show,
No matter if the mails go swift or slow.
But some there are who never can be made
To answer letters until ages roll
Almost away, or letters are mislaid,
Or till an absent, good, and loving soul,
Full well may think the friendly hand has stay'd,
Or that the troubled fates may have control,
Or illness may--or even worse, one's doubts--
Our friend is gone away, or else in pouts.
And yet, most happy one and all should be,
If but allow'd to bring our distant friends
So near that, they may feel and truly see
Each impulse of the heart, and as it blends,
Feel truly certain that we have the key
Which opens friendship's valve, and makes amends
For many sad, unkind, and ugly things,
That daily life with all its worry brings.
One friend I've had for many steady years.
Who, though she lives a thousand miles away,
Comes ever with her joys, her hopes and fears;
Before me every feeling doth she lay,
Which stirs my own to mingle with her tears,
And ev'ry throbbing of my heart doth stay
For her, till all she feels, or thinks, or knows,
Takes root in my own breast, and there it grows.
She lives in icy--I in Southern clime:
And e'en as the bright-eyed daughters of the South,
She loves this land--so many years now mine;
Nor deems its rainy seasons, or its drouth
Objectionable, or so out of time,
If Mail sacks but unseal their widened mouth,
And bring her freshly posted speedy news
From me and mine, where fall the Southern dews.
When fierce war raged, and battle strife ran high,
She o'er the horrid din and clamor came--
In spirit came--and heav'd a weary sigh!
We look'd together on the bloody plain,
Until our crying souls no more could cry.
As saw we our own braves' expiring pain;
"Father, forgive" this wild, this raging crew,
"For" in their strife "they know not what they do!"
So oft, when Cynth'a pale, rode high at night,
And smiled thro', or o'er a rift of clouds,
She's told me of its beauty and pure light,
That whitens air, like newly coffined shrouds,
And makes the snows so flaky, keen and bright,
While skaters skim the icy lakes in crowds,
And she, with wishing, longing heart, once more
Would come, or bring me to the ice-bound shore.
In weariness of heart, the mind so dwells
On all its windings thro' the pleasant past,
Its smooth calm seas, and undulating swells.
Its earnest aims in solemn grandeur cast,
Leaves impress on our souls, which merely tells
Of evanescent things that can not last;
And e'en tho' painful, held with deep regret,
Unwillingly would we ever forget.
This is a long and quite extended reach,
Of that begun an hour or two ago;
And looks more like a set or settled speech,
Than like the stream down which old letters flow:
And so, dear reader, thro' the lengthen'd breach,
If so you please, we'll travel rather slow,
And take as we proceed--to make amends--
Some letter missives from our absent friends.
The first of friendly sort, we point you to,
By Lewis, an ally of the "lost cause,"
Was penn'd at night, in 1862,
When subject of Confed'rate army laws,
And flew the show'ring deadly bullets, flew
With little intermission--scarce a pause;
And when men bravely fought, with might and main,
To gain their independence--but in vain.
The letter said--'twas not a hasty note--
"This now to you, may prove farewell, in fine;
We're all equipped, and waiting for the boat,
That leaves her moorings somewhere close to nine,
Which soon is here--and then afloat, afloat,
And by the morning sun's first blushing shine,
We'll wear the victor's glorious laurel wreath,
Or else be shrouded in the arms of death!
"I know, good friend, this strain must give you pain;
In carelessness I would not take a step;
And taking this, if counted with the slain,
Poor mother's tears, her pillow oft will wet
For me I know--whom she'll ne'er meet again;
Yet shall I hope, before the next sunset,
That she, alike yourself, may gladly tell,
There's One above, who doeth all things well.
"There are some things to jot down here, that I
Would kindly ask, my dearest friend, of you.
If I am _hors de combat_ plac'd, and die,
Or battle's lost or gained--here's my adieu,
But please this letter send--or please to try--
My feelings scarcely can I now subdue,
While fate obstruent says, a few hours more
May transport all to an unbroken shore.
"Should fickle fortune frown, and leave me fall
Into unfriendly and blood-greedy hands,
'Twill be like being--if I be at all--
In hands next like to those of savage bands.
It doth not matter on this earthly ball,
So much where one may be, or what breeze fans.
The unhappy casualties the post will cite,
Ere one more sun has settled into night.
"Dear Charley's going too--the noble boy--
_She's_ sad to see him with the warring host.
His joyous look, 'tis a pity to destroy;
A thousand pities more his life were lost.
But she knows well, naught but the main decoy,
Could take him thus from her, he loves the most.
God grant him life--a long and happy life,
And one with blessings, free from battle's strife.
"And now, kind friend, I say a sad good-by;
The rolling drum doth call us to repair--
Under the dull, though quiet darken'd sky,
That may so soon be turn'd to lurid glare,
As cannons play, and iron missels fly--
To duty--parcel'd out to each a share:
But none of us can tell the sad finale:
And now again I say, good-by, farewell!"
And thus the letter ended--in a strain,
That led beloved ones at home to think,
If war should spare, that he would speak again;
But give us news from which the heart would shrink,
For so is all that comes from battle plain,
Where death holds ev'ry dear one on his brink.
Such is the fate of war--the olden story,
Where men invest their lives in search of glory.
And shall I tell, how with her hand in mine,
Poor Mary sat, and leaned upon my breast;
And how her tears fell down on ev'ry line;
And how, before the morning sun's first shine,
Her weary form was out, and loosely dress'd;
And how she pac'd the room the live long day,
Till ev'ning light had lost its latest ray!
Poor child! the premonition seemed to be,
That many trials were in store for her,
Altho' their unveil'd form she could not see;
The thought brought in her eyes a fi'ry blue:
O, for some hope to which her heart could flee!
Some healing balm the stony fates would stir!
But ere the week had told its length'ning round
The secret of her sick'ning fears was found.
Suspended hope for three long days--then came
The welcome letter from our hero-friend;
He was alive--unhurt, and just the same.
And humbly thanked high heav'n for such an end;
But ah! how many, many could he name,
Who would, with his, their own dear voices blend
No more along the lines of coming years;
And to their friends could nothing leave--but tears.
"O! would, the feelings which my bosom fill'd,"
He said, "as still we glided down the tide,
And all around in nature calm and still'd--
I could portray--I felt I could have died!
No matter then, if soon I should be killed;
If all I lov'd, and ev'rything beside,
Should leave this beautiful, enchanting world,
And into death's cold, cruel arms be hurl'd!"
"No sound was heard till late at night. The moon
Then rose, and softly also rose the wind,
And swept away across the low lagoon,
Where battle soon would rage a very fiend,
And o'er the next day's fair and glowing noon;
And, raging in its lion anger, find
Its grim and ugly den of horrors fill'd
With precious blood terrific strife had spill'd.
"And Charley"--Thus this sad'ning part began--
"Is now among the noble ones laid low;
Grim death will ne'er hew down a better man;
And we, his friends, a better crave to know.
Horror! I saw his life-blood as it ran,
And then I thought--for Mary what a blow!
'Twill rend and crush her young and grieving heart!
So good--and oh, how sad that _thus_ they part!
"He near the gunwale bravely--manly stood,
When o'er the waters came the murd'rous shell,
And with four comrades, swept him down in blood;
They early in the carnage quickly fell;
He rais'd his head from midst the oozing flood,
And calmly listened to the changing knell;
Then eyeing me, he said, 'Come Louis, come--
My life ebbs fast--I'll soon be going home.'
"Will you to Mary my last token bring,
And promise, ere my eyes are sealed in death,
To carry her this tiny diamond ring;
And tell her then, that at my latest breath,
I'm thinking of the songs she used to sing;
And also tell her of my holy faith
In her truth and her pure, undying love;
Which can be seal'd but in the world above?
"And have my body carried back to where
The brothers, in the holy mystic ties,
Will gather in the Lodge with solemn prayer,
Before 'tis laid beneath the open skies.
'Twill do me good to know I'm sleeping there;
Ah, see! grim darkness comes! the hour how flies!
Some other things there are, I wish'd to say,
But too late now! night--home--Mary--'tis day!
"I promis'd all--then gently laid his head,
First on a knapsack, then upon my arm;
Once more he op'd his eyes, and smiling, said,
'Thanks, Lew--I'll soon be far from war's alarm.'
Once more he press'd my hand, and then was dead!
I laid him down--no fear of coming harm,
For none could pain that cold and lifeless form;
Now all was past--let battles rage and storm.
"Of more than this, I've scarcely time to speak;
You'll find reports when papers come with news;
E'en yet, I seem to hear the cannon's shriek,
As horrid forth their belching thunder spews,
In vengeance dire and most terrific wreak,
And covers friend and foe with death-damp dews!
How sinks and quails the heart at the dread sight,
When war turns fairest day to blackest night.
"The fun'ral pageantry--the solemn toll,
The cortege, like a serpent, winding through,
The muffled drum's long-sounding gloomy roll,
The death corrode that o'er the senses grew,
Or sick'ning chill which o'er one's spirit stole,
The dead march tap--they all seem still in view--
'Twas thus they bore him to the silent bourne,
From whence, in old earth form, he'll ne'er return.
"All these and more--the measur'd tread
Of good, brave men, who slowly wound along
With his remains, to their last resting place--
I scarce can realize that he is gone,
And that his form lies mold'ring with the dead;
That we're no more to hear his joyous song--
I say, all these are trooping through my mind,
Like ghostly phantoms of some awful kind.
"I'd ask, before this missive I do close,
Which now has grown to an unusual size,
Tho' half is still unwritten, heaven knows--
That you will comfort Mary, when her eyes
Are blinded with sore weeping o'er the woes,
That will wring out her soul in deep well-cries,
And rend in sorrowing weariness her breast,
Which now scarce anything can soothe to rest.
"Yet be a comfort and a friendly stay,
And bid her grapple with her fate--not grieve,
Please try to soothe the blinding tears away,
Though little now can sorrow much relieve,
Or shed of joy or bliss a single ray.
Ah! tell her how my soul is _double_ brave,
Since't feels the spirit touch of Charley's soul;
But thoughts are quite beyond my word control.
"A few more items yet, and I have done.
I would the warmest gratitude express,
And obligations deep I owe to one--
Whose heart is with her friends in their distress,
And when their joys come on, exceed her none,
In spontaneities, to smile or bless--
To you, Lottie--who disappointments share,
All that your tender prompting well can bear.
"And now, good friend, I feel I'm badly needing
A little respite from the past few days,
Whose strange events have set a canker feeding
Within my breast, where wooing quiet stays;
But now, at times, I feel it must be bleeding,
My very brain is in a dizzy haze
Of horrid things that in succession fly
Before my eyes. Once more, dear friend, good-by."
CANTO II.
If there be anything that is heartrending,
It is when called upon to yield our cheer
To those whose joys have found a sudden ending,
Indeed the task's a hopeless one--that's clear--
To attempt to improve upon or save by mending.
As well essay to move a planet from its sphere,
As talk to any one whose real sorrow
Has pass'd the line where he was wont to borrow.
I've tried it oft, and given o'er the task;
And hopeful too as any woman that e'er tried,
Or man either, e'en though he wore the mask,
That Satan wore to set our mother Eve beside
Herself enough to think, and curious ask,
Why she was ever made, or ever tied
Upon this curious revolving ball,
And where her crazy actions brought "the fall."
That was the fearful thing in nature's God--
The giving to that simple child the power
To tread where his own mighty footsteps trod!
The gloomy clouds o'er all mankind since low'r,
And lay their stubborn heads beneath the sod!
His grandchild might have bloom'd supernal flow'r,
Of all the grand and awful fabrication,
Nor need redemption nor regeneration.
Perhaps such questions we've no right to put,
Unto the Framer of the Universe;
To our inquis'tiveneness his doors are shut,
_On dit_--and recommended well of course,
By the theologist in pious hut,
With clearing small around--or what is worse,
He lives beyond where busy thoughts do center,
And so beyond the pale where gossips enter.
But then theology is not the theme
To claim my present labor or my time.
We'll then retire to Mary's broken dream;
Although the task is hard, in changing rhyme,
To waft her smoothly down life's whirling stream,
And land her safe in any pleasant clime,
When knowing that her dearest hopes have pal'd,
And every sweet anticipation fail'd.
My muse has sung the task, a hopeless one,
To offer balm to one in woe not found;
Or being found, it meets a chronic tone.
To raise the sadden'd brow when sorrow crown'd,
Is near a failure ere the task's begun;
'Tis throwing straws to one already drown'd;
The light frail things are in a feeble clasp,
And serve no other purpose than to grasp.
You may try this, or that, or other thing,
And find each move is not responsive met,
Except to prove abortive, and to fling
Your kindest purpose back, from efforts set
In bounds of common sense--another ring,
Within whose compass many chafe and fret.
To try to lead a moody woful mind--
'Tis but a task where blind must lead the blind.
"When fate--the dark-brow'd Mistress--lays her hand
With heavy weight upon a mortal wight,
It is as if King Terror's deadly wand
Had swept along, and wither'd left and right;
Or like one's bark, left on a sullen strand,
Where soundless waters rise in fury's might,
Rock on and on, in sullen moaning clash,
Unmindful of the human wrecks they dash.
And Mary---still I hear her stifled moan,
As vainly the letter she tried to read,
The anguish of her low, distressful groan,
Would cause a heart of adamant to bleed.
It seem'd her brain were like a flaming stone;
Her heart a torn and bent and broken reed;
And such a look of wan and woeful pain!
God grant me such a likeness ne'er again."
Next day they bore her to her city home,
With life enough scarce left, her frame to bear;
All had been swept away like wild sea foam,
And nothing left but a fond mother's care,
To nurse away the fever which had come;
A fit attendant of her woes, and share--
A heated languor with sufficient breath
To hold her just within the porch of death.
CANTO III.
But turn we now to other scenes than these,
At least awhile, and take a cheerful look,
As trav'ler looks from sand to greenleaf trees,
And 'neath the shade where runs the babbling brook,
Who doffs his hat to the refreshing breeze,
And reading nature as a living book,
He feels her smiling, in its joyous glim,
Has such a sweet affinity for him.
Life should not be all terrors--nor its charms
Be life-long raptures, or unending songs;
When both are blended, each alike disarms;
Nor constant good nor ill, alone belongs
To life--one only brings us moral harms,
And on our poor humanity, great wrongs;
For by the constant sameness would man's deeds
Defeat all progress that to greatness leads.
So from the gloomy picture drawn above,
We'll turn away and find a brighter side.
Let not the drooping Mary die of love,
As many storied ones have lov'd and died;
Nor _solitaire_ in heart forever rove;
But bid her all life's changes firm abide;
Her case is hom'opathic, we discover--
_Similia similibus curanter_.
Months came and went, and still she linger'd on,
At home by the sea. Its solitary shore,
Was travers'd often by her step alone;
Somehow the dark sea's surging, sullen roar,
Brought quietude, when elsewhere she found none;
Her daily lone walks there were many score.
Philosophy no pedagogue can teach
Is sometimes found upon a lonely beach.
The saddest, yet the sweetest melancholy,
Inspires a feeble, slow reviving frame,
If but allow'd to steal from heartless folly,
Away from all that bears the social name;
And 'neath the spreading evergreen sea-holly,
Check down the fires of disappointment's flame;
And thereby give the thoughts a purer turn,
And cool the heated caldron where they burn.
In such a state, the bubbles we pursue
Seem but the vaunt of sickly strength and pride;
We're on our way, a weary wand'ring through,
With fallen hopes flung losely on the tide
Of morbid aims--whose almost crying hue
Is pencil'd by dull care. Nor can we hide
The care-worn hues with careful toilet hands;
The glass of life drops slow, but sure, the sands.
The tameless passions frequent in the breast,
Are like the molten waves of Ætna's fire;
Knowing nor years, nor months, nor weeks of rest--
Tho' some there are to better things aspire--
Impulses whatsoe'er, not one repress'd;
Their every song's a ceaseless never tire,
And no reflection in its secret springs,
On what demands it 'mid a thousand things.
Her letters oft were fill'd with moaning words,
Whose sadden'd tone inspir'd one's heart with awe;
E'en her description of sweet singing birds
Did moan--and so did all she heard and saw.
Home-sheltered--like the flock the shepherd herds--
Where she would fain from prying eyes withdraw,
There dead monotony did reign and sigh,
That tells how near the fount of tears is dry.
And yet me thought her grief had soften'd down
More in that calm inertia--settled state--
Whose features wore, nor smile, nor cheer, nor frown;
A kind of understanding with Dame Fate,
That wreathing thus her brow with sorrow's crown,
Were far less sad than when 'twere wrought too late
To wear its jagging ugly thorns, and give
A single farthing for such life to live.
At length news came--how Arthur Wildbent had
So kindly driven her along the strand;
And air-improv'd, it made us all so glad.
That last reunion, while the Melrose Band
Discoursed sweet music, she had been less sad;
That once she gam'd croquet with cheerful hand,
And beat--but beat old Melancholy better,
And hence she boasted of it in her letter.
She frequent made the balmy ev'ning drive
Adown the beach, so like a sanded floor;
Where white-capp'd waves, that seem'd almost alive,
Did chase each other to the shining shore,
Buzzing like restless bees within the hive;
Or, like the porpoise, rolling by the score,
Tho' gathering nothing in their briny splash,
Except the wat'ry pearls to shore they dash.
'Tis true, she always miss'd good Charley when,
The ev'ning throngs were wont to congregate--
The greatest press was on her spirits then--
Howe'er they whirl'd in dance, or stood, or sat,
Not one amid the gallant crowd of men,
Could for _his_ absence ever compensate,
Unless it might be Lewis--who to-day
Reminded her of _him_ who'd pass'd away.
Life had its pleasures, beauty had the world;
Tho' fewest of them had been brought to bear
Upon a destiny like hers, so furl'd;
Scarce naught of either could be painted there;
All romance so remotely had been hurl'd,
She lik'd some work of lonely quiet, where
By somber daylight, or by flick'ring taper,
Her inburst feelings she could note on paper.
Life's _new_ sensations are but few and precious--
Thus speaks some writer of some wondrous cave;
It may be Mammoth, with its caverns spacious;
Whose floors, obliv'ous, Leth'an waters lave;
And when we wander thro' them, strange refresh us;
Most surely do, if we but catch and save,
For rarest of all rare delicious dishes,
A string full of the tiny eyeless fishes.
But where find we in life, sensations new?
Such as have never yet been told, we mean.
Of Such, me thinks indeed, the number's few;
And may not reach one even in a dream.
'Tis true, we often all the _old_ renew,
Which to one's own sensations new may seem;
And yet they but repeat--so we believe--
All those once told by Adam to his Eve.
Yes, so far told, as then it could be done,
In the beginning time of this world's ways--
Thro' which their course to pick, they'd just begun--
But not express'd in such poetic lays,
As down the rippling tide of language run
The thought and feeling of the later days;
And more's the pity--since their employment
Seems but a very circumscribed enjoyment.
"'Tis now two years since Charley pass'd away,"
She wrote, "and I have liv'd for him as true
As any one who keeps her wedding day;
'Till lately I have somewhat chang'd my view;
'Tis not so well for one to mourn alway;
The news, sweet friend, the news I'll break to you--
Unless this letter meet with a miscarriage--
And own to you, again I think of marriage.
"And you may guess my choice, the favor'd one;
He's more like _him_ than any I have met,
Indeed, than any I have ever known;
And this is why my heart is on him set;
I can not always pass my life alone,
The choice I feel that I shall ne'er regret;
You know him well, and know I never can--
Search o'er the earth--secure a better man.
"Somehow I feel myself so sadly chang'd,
I'm scarce the same you knew in days of yore;
My sorrow hath so much my mind derang'd,
Instead of twenty years, I feel fourscore.
From youthful pleasures I'm so far estrang'd,
Myself doth seem a matron grave, and hoar
With silvered front, and seems a grave surprise,
That I'm not trying to repair my eyes.
"I aim to do my duty as I ought,
And of his life be crowning joy and bliss,
That Lew may realize how ev'ry thought,
From wedding day to death, shall be all his;
And ev'ry purpose shall be truly taught,
That wifely love should point alone to this;
So in our union we may find repair
For all the sorrows both have had to bear."
[Illustration: Colophon]
Transcriber's Notes
Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
Archaic spellings unchanged: hight, vail, drouth.
P. v: Apppetites and Temper -> Appetites and Temper.
P. viii: The Thirty Neroes -> The Thirty Neros.
P. 23: a cotemporary of the deceased -> a contemporary of the deceased.
P. 71: Title added "TEXAS OATH OF OFFICE".
P. 101: exeept a few stanch Union men -> except a few stanch Union men.
P. 121: bowed the stanger's bow -> bowed the stranger's bow.
P. 133: Matamoros -> Matamoras.
P. 176: betwen each pair -> between each pair.
P. 200: heathfulness -> healthfulness.
P. 222: spontanieties -> spontaneities.
P. 223: mighty footstops -> mighty footsteps.