Picture in imagination meadows, on which scythe of mower has never cut
sward, nor haymaker set foot; meadows loaded with such luxuriance of
vegetation--lush, tall grass--that tons of hay might be garnered off a
single acre; meadows of such extent, that in speaking of them you may
not use the word acres, but miles, even this but faintly conveying the
idea of their immensity; in fancy summon up such a scene, and you will
have before you what is a reality in Texas.
In seeming these plains have no boundary save the sky--no limit nearer
than the horizon. And since to the eye of the traveller this keeps
continually changing, he may well believe them without limit at all, and
fancy himself moving in the midst of a green sea, boundless as ocean
itself, his horse the boat on which he has embarked.
In places this extended surface presents a somewhat monotonous aspect,
though it is not so everywhere. Here and there it is pleasantly
interspersed with trees, some standing solitary, but mostly in groves,
copses, or belts; these looking, for all the world, like islands in the
ocean. So perfect is the resemblance, that this very name has been
given them, by men of Norman and Saxon race; whose ancestors, after
crossing the Atlantic, carried into the colonies many ideas of the
mariner, with much of his nomenclature. To them the isolated groves are
"islands;" larger tracts of timber, seen afar, "land;" narrow spaces
between, "straits;" and indentations along their edges "bays."
To carry the analogy further, the herds of buffalo, with bodies half
buried in the tall grass, may be likened to "schools" of whales; the
wild horses to porpoises at play; the deer to dolphins; and the fleet
antelopes to flying-fish.
Completing the figure, we have the vultures that soar above, performing
the part of predatory sea-gulls; the eagle representing the rarer
frigate-bird, or albatross.
In the midst of this verdant expanse, less than a quarter of a century
ago, man was rarely met; still more rarely civilised man; and rarer yet
his dwelling-place. If at times a human being appeared among the
prairie groves, he was not there as a sojourner--only a traveller,
passing from place to place. The herds of cattle, with shaggy frontlets
and humped shoulders--the droves of horses, long-tailed and with full
flowing manes--the proud antlered stags, and prong-horned antelopes,
were not his. He had no control over them. The turf he trod was free
to them for pasture, as to him for passage; and, as he made way through
their midst, his presence scarce affrighted them. He and his might
boast of being "war's arbiter's," and lords of the great ocean. They
were not lords of that emerald sea stretching between the Sabine River
and the Rio Grande. Civilised man had as yet but shown himself upon its
shores.
Since then he has entered upon, and scratched a portion of its surface;
though not much, compared with its immensity. There are still grand
expanses of the Texan prairie unfurrowed by the ploughshare of the
colonist--almost untrodden by the foot of the explorer. Even at this
hour, the traveller may journey for days on grass-grown plains, amidst
groves of timber, without seeing tower, steeple, or so much as a chimney
rising above the tree-tops. If he perceive a solitary smoke, curling
skyward, he knows that it is over the camp-fire of some one like
himself--a wayfarer.
And it may be above the bivouac of those he would do well to shun. For
upon the green surface of the prairie, as upon the blue expanse of the
ocean, all men met with are not honest. There be land-sharks as well as
water-sharks--prairie pirates as corsairs of the sea.
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No spectacle more picturesque, nor yet more pleasing, than that of an
emigrant caravan _en route_ over the plains. The huge waggons--"prairie
ships," as oft, and not inaptly, named--with their white canvass tilts,
typifying spread sails, aligned and moving along one after the other,
like a _corps d'armee_ on march by columns; a group of horsemen ahead,
representing its vanguard; others on the flanks, and still another party
riding behind, to look after strays and stragglers, the rear-guard.
Usually a herd of cattle along--steers for the plough, young bullocks to
supply beef for consumption on the journey, milch kine to give comfort
to the children and colour to the tea and coffee--among them an old bull
or two, to propagate the species on reaching the projected settlement.
Not unfrequently a drove of pigs, or flock of sheep, with coops
containing ducks, geese, turkeys, Guinea-fowl--perhaps a screaming
peacock, but certainly Chanticleer and his harem.
A train of Texan settlers has its peculiarities, though now not so
marked as in the times of which we write. Then a noted feature was the
negro--his _status_ a slave. He would be seen afoot, toiling on at the
tails of the waggons, not in silence or despondingly, as if the march
were a forced one. Footsore he might be, in his cheap "brogans" of
Penitentiary fabric, and sore aweary of the way, but never sad. On the
contrary, ever hilarious, exchanging jests with his fellow-pedestrians,
or a word with Dinah in the wagon, jibing the teamsters, mocking the
mule-drivers, sending his cachinations in sonorous ring along the moving
line; himself far more mirthful than his master--more enjoying the
march.
Strange it is, but true, that a lifetime of bondage does not stifle
merriment in the heart of the Ethiopian. Grace of God to the sons of
Ham--merciful compensation for mercies endured by them from the day
Canaan was cursed, as it were a doom from the dawning of creation!
Just such a train as described is that commanded by Colonel Armstrong,
_en route_ towards Western Texas. Starting from Natchitoches some
twenty days ago, it has reached the Colorado river, crossed it, and is
now wending its way towards the San Saba, a tributary of the former
stream.
It is one of the largest caravans that has yet passed over the prairies
of Texas, counting between twenty and thirty "Conestoga" wagons, with
several "carrioles" and vehicles of varied kind. Full fifty horsemen
ride in its front, on its flank, and rear; while five times the number
of pedestrians, men with black or yellow skins, keep pace with it. A
proportionate number of women and children are carried in the wagons,
their dusky faces peeping out from under the tilts, in contrast with the
colour of the rain-bleached canvass; while other women and children of
white complexion ride in the vehicles with springs.
In one of the latter--a barouche of the American build--travel two young
ladies, distinguished by particular attentions. Half a dozen horsemen
hover around their carriage, acting as its escort, each apparently
anxious to exchange words with them. With one they can talk, jest,
laugh, chatter as much as they like; but the other repels them. For the
soul of the former is full of joy; that of the latter steeped in
sadness.
Superfluous to say, they are Jessie and Helen Armstrong. And needless
to tell why the one is gay, the other grave. Since we last saw them in
the hotel of Natchitoches, no change has taken place in their hearts or
their hopes. The younger of the two, Jessie, is still an expectant
bride, certain soon to be a wife; and with this certainty rejoices in
the future. Helen, with no such expectation, no wish for it, feeling as
one widowed, grieves over the past. The former sees her lover by her
side living and loving, constantly, caressingly; the latter can but
think of hers as something afar off--a dream--a dread vision--a cold
corpse--herself the cause of it!
Colonel Armstrong's eldest daughter is indeed sad--a prey to repining.
Her heart, after receiving so many shocks, has almost succumbed to that
the supremest, most painful suffering that can afflict humanity--the
malady of _melancholia_. The word conveys but a faint idea of the
suffering itself. Only they who have known it--fortunately but few--can
comprehend the terror, the wan, wasting misery, endured by those whose
nerves have given way under some terrible stroke of misfortune. 'Tis
the story of a broken heart.
Byron has told us "the heart may break and brokenly live on." In this
her hour of unhappiness, Helen Armstrong would not and could not believe
him. It may seem strange that Jessie is still only a bride to be. But
no. She remembers the promise made to her father--to share with him a
home in Texas, however humble it might be. All the same, now that she
knows it will be splendid; knowing, too, it is to be shared by another--
her Louis. He is still but her _fiancee_; but his troth is plighted,
his truthfulness beyond suspicion. They are all but man and wife; which
they will be soon as the new home is reached.
The goal of their journey is to be the culminating point of Jessie's
joy--the climax of her life's happiness.