A PLEASANT JOURNEY
"... all that is most beauteous imaged there
In happier beauty; more pellucid streams
In ampler ether, a diviner air,
And fields invested with purpureal gleams."
We left New Orleans that evening, and, on the second morning
thereafter, we were far out on the Gulf of Mexico. The blessed north
wind was gently rocking _The Lone Star_. I could smell the sea, and
hear the beating of its great heart, as deep called unto deep. Then,
raising myself in my berth, I could see the white horses chasing each
other over the blue waters. The port hole being open, I had been
drinking oxygen all night, and I was a new woman, fit for anything,
and afraid of nothing that could come to me.
I dressed myself and the children as quickly as possible, and we went
to the saloon for breakfast. Then I sent for Robert to join us, but he
had breakfasted with the captain; so we ate the good meal leisurely,
and then went on deck. Oh, what a joy it was! How the children ran and
played in the cool, fresh breeze! How happy, and how well Robert
looked! And how heavenly it was, just to lie on the mattress the
captain had placed for me in a snug corner, and shut my eyes, and let
the wind, and the sea, and the sun revivify and remake me. I could
hear my soul laugh low within me, and, when I was a little more
rested, I knew it would break into song. In the meantime, I slept, and
slept, and the wind and the waves sung me some lullaby of my
fathers--some ancient song of love and courage, such as I used to hear
Tom Huddleston sing in the Huddleston quarter in Whitehaven. It seemed
years and years ago; though, when I tried to count them, I could only
make out that it might be six or seven, since I heard the gay sailor
lad singing to me,
"Round the world and home again,
That is the sailor's way."
_The Lone Star_ was a slow ship, and the wind was a little contrary,
but we were not troubled by delay. For a short space it was good to be
out of the world, and away from all its cares and obligations; we were
growing younger and stronger with every hour's respite. The passengers
were few in number, and consisted mainly of a respectable party of
German emigrants bound for the beautiful colony of New Braunfels. They
kept to themselves, but, in the still moonlit evenings, sung the folk
songs of their native land in the most delightful manner.
This pleasant journeying soon came to an end. One morning when I
awoke, the ship was as still as "a painted ship upon a painted ocean."
We were lying at anchor off Galveston bar, and, after breakfast, the
captain told us if we wished to land at Galveston we had better get
all our trunks ready. I was in favor of our landing at Galveston. From
the sea the city had a tropical and most attractive appearance. "It is
a city in a garden," I said to Robert, and he was equally pleased with
its pretty white houses, and flowery beauty, for the perfume of its
gardens was distinctly felt on the ship.
It was nearly noon ere our captain's signal received any attention,
then a small boat arrived, and every man in it was dressed in white
linen. They held a very serious conversation with our captain, and I
was sure, from his air of annoyance and perplexity, that there was
some trouble to be met; and, in a few minutes, we were made aware of
its nature.
"Gentlemen," he said, to a little group of passengers, of which Robert
and I were a part, "gentlemen, we are in an almighty fix. There is
yellow fever in Galveston--plenty of it, already--and likely to be
much more, and that's a fact. So none of us will be allowed to land
there, unless we have homes in the city, and have been made immune by
a previous attack."
The gentlemen in white then examined the passengers, and only four
were permitted to land. Our case was hopeless: we were Europeans, and
particularly liable to become infected, as were also the body of
emigrants on board. What were we to do? There were two alternatives.
We could return to New Orleans on _The Lone Star_ for the chance of
some ship going to New York, or we could continue our journey into the
interior of Texas.
"How can the journey be continued?" asked Robert.
"A small steamer will be sent this afternoon," was the answer. "It
will convey all wishing to go inland up the Buffalo Bayou to
Harrisburg. The leader of the German emigrants tells me they will be
met at Harrisburg with vehicles to carry them and their baggage to New
Braunfels."
"But we are traveling alone," continued Robert, "and how can we
proceed?"
"Where are you going to?"
"To Austin."
"Well, then, the railway goes some distance beyond Harrisburg--a few
miles--and it may yet be in service. If so, you will take it to its
terminus. There the mail coach for Austin and San Antonio will call
for mail, and no doubt it will have room for you. Travel is not very
lively at present."
"Do you know the days and hours when the mail coach is due at this
terminus?" Robert asked.
"No, indeed!" was the smiling reply. "Bud Terry makes his own hours.
But he's sure to come along sooner or later. I did hear that Bud was
down, but I don't take any stock in that report. There's a deal of
business just now between Washington and Austin, and Bud knows his
duty, and, gen'rally speaking, does it."
All this was very uncertain consolation, and Robert looked at me in
bewildered anxiety. I had a singular satisfaction in the affair. It
had been taken out of our hands. We were shut up to one road, and,
unless we were willing to go back, and gaze after our life and work
and will sailed by, we must take it. If we refused, I did not dare to
search through what hopeless, desultory ways our path might lie; for
so it happeneth to those who fear to follow the one road open to
them.
"You see, Robert," I said with a smile, "there is nothing left for us
to do, but to go to Harrisburg. Have we sufficient money to return to
New York?"
"No."
"Is it safe to return to New Orleans?"
"No; and the captain says he will not go back to New Orleans. He is
going to Pensacola."
"Where is that?"
"In Florida, I think."
I did not then know where Florida was, but knew that it was an
aggravating thing to question an anxious, undecided man about trifles,
not relevant, so I checked my desire for information and remarked
cheerfully, "Then, dear, it is Harrisburg. That far is certain. When
we reach Harrisburg, the way will open, that also is certain. One of
the German women emigrants told me, that there would be a number of
wagons waiting for them at Harrisburg. If we can do no better, they
will let us travel with them."
So we waited for the boat to take us to Harrisburg. It did not arrive
until late in the afternoon. Then, with a little effort to be merry
over our adventures, we were transferred to the small, very narrow
steamer, that was to take us up the Buffalo Bayou. And, as soon as I
was on her deck, I threw off all care and responsibility. I felt that
we were in charge of some power, who knew all about our affairs, and
who was quite able to manage them--especially as we were not.
That sail up the Buffalo Bayou was well worth while. No one taking it
in those early days can ever forget it. Certainly it is part of my
everlasting remembrances. We reached the Bayou shortly before dark, at
least it was light enough to see the famous plain of San Jacinto, on
which Houston and his eight hundred gentlemen, wiped out the Spanish
army under Santa Anna, and gave to the American settlers in Texas that
religious and civic liberty which was their right. I noticed that the
captain bared his head as he passed it, and, during the evening, he
told me the gallant, stirring story, which I have retold in my novel,
"Remember the Alamo." It made a wonderful impression on me, and I
thought how grand it would be to live among men who had at least once
in their lives scorned the mean god Mammon, and, for the faith of
their fathers, and the civil liberty without which life was of no
value, offered themselves willingly for their God and their country.
"We are going to live among heroes," I said; "and, O Robert, after a
life among weavers and traders, will not that be a great experience?"
Robert, who had been listening to the same story, answered, "I suppose
it may, Milly, but there are heroes at the loom and at the counter
both. I have known them."
Then we were actually in the dense shadows of the Buffalo Bayou, and
no one felt like talking. It was a narrow, very narrow, still, black
water. A thick growth of trees on both banks of it met above our
heads, and shut out all light, but that from the pine flambeaus,
burning not only on board, but at intervals along the shore, showing
us, with lurid, smoky lights, that we were forging our way through a
water full of alligators. Their ugly black eyes dotted it, and they
lay along the banks of the stream, barking at us, as we passed. It was
the most unearthly sail the imagination can picture, in no way made
more human by the half-clothed negroes managing the flaming torches,
and the hot, heavy atmosphere, sickly with the scent of magnolias.
Landing at Harrisburg, we found there was fever in every house. Under
the very roof which sheltered us from the poisonous night air, a man
was dying of the vomito. Though he was at the other end of the long
building, we could only too distinctly hear the awful struggle of the
suffering soul to escape from its tortured body. I know not how it
was, but I had not then the slightest fear of the sickness. The
children slept soundly, and Robert and I sat by them, talking in
whispers, and praying silently for the poor soul crying out in its
piteous extremity. Soon after midnight a dreadful silence stole
through the house, and we fell asleep. For I knew, and was sure, that
the agony of the strong man was over; that
"Pale from the Passion of Death,
Cold from the cold, dark River,
Staggering blind with Death,
With trembling steps yet fleet,
Over the stones of darkness,
He had stumbled to _His feet_.
For day and night Christ standeth,
Scanning each soul as it landeth,
With a face that hath once been dead,
With a mouth which once did cry
From that River in agony,--
'The waters go over my head.'"
In the morning we were awakened by a pale, sorrowful woman,
barefooted, and in the simplest garment, bringing us fresh water, some
biscuits just out of the oven and a cup of tea. But she brought us
neither milk or butter. "They hev been in the way of it all night,"
she said; "they're full of death. Sure!"
She had wept till she had no tears left, and the worst was over. "He
is gone," she added. "Jim, he's gone! Eat a mouthful and get away. It
isn't safe here--and you be strangers, too."
We did as she advised, and found a queer little empty train ready to
start for a terminus some twenty miles further inland. Here there was
a rude shanty of unpainted wood, the last station of a line only just
being built; but, to our great delight, we found a large coach drawn
by four horses waiting for us. It was driven by a Mexican, beautifully
dressed in black velvet, adorned with silver lace and silver buttons.
Moreover, he had the manners of a Spanish grandee, and his way of
addressing us as _Senor_ and _Senorita_, and the nonchalant skill with
which he managed those four wild mustangs, were things to see and to
never forget. He asked me to take the box seat beside him, but Robert
insisted on my going inside with the children. He did not believe in
the safety of our charioteer.
But never again in this life, never, never again, shall I have such a
glorious ride. For to one coming from the old world at that time,
Texas was a new world. That afternoon, after mounting a steep hill,
and then thundering down it at lightning speed, the horses were
allowed to rest and draw breath for ten minutes. Then I got out of the
coach, and was transported by the wonderful beauty and majesty of the
scene before me. The flowery prairie rolled away magnificently to the
far-off horizon, here and there jumping into hills, over which
marched myriads of red cattle. Masses of wild honeysuckle scented the
air for miles and miles, and a fresh odor of earth and clover, mixed
with the perfume of wild flowers, was the joy we breathed. But, best
of all was the clear, sweet atmosphere. It went to the heart like
wine. It made us laugh, it made us sing, and I never heard on any
other spot of earth such melodious fluting as the winds of Texas made
all around us.
Surely it was the giants of the unflooded world, who cleared off and
leveled these boundless plains as a dwelling place for liberty.
Looking back to that charmed drive over them, I thank God, even as I
write, that I was then permitted to see earth as it may be, when He
shall make "His tabernacle with men." And I remember this hour that,
when I could find no words fit to express the delight with which my
heart was filled, that wonderful Old Book that is the interpreter of
all human feeling came to my help, and I touched Robert's arm, as we
stood together, and said, "How beautiful is this place! This is none
other but the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven." I have no
doubt it is much changed now, settled and improved; but it lives in my
memory green and sweet as the fields of Paradise, with the fresh wild
winds gurgling melodiously through all its lovely spaces.
The moon was full that night, and we took advantage of the light and
the cool breezes to go as far as the horses were able. I think it must
have been eight o'clock, when we stopped at a planter's house standing
on the edge of a creek or bayou. The moonlight sifted down on its
white walls, its slender pillars, and flowering vines, and there was a
little company of men and women sitting on a broad piazza. Late as it
was, we were served with a good meal, and a large, cool bedroom. I
went to rest with the children, as soon as I had eaten, but Robert sat
till midnight with the men, smoking and talking on the moonlit
piazza.
The children were soon asleep; then I lifted the window shade and
looked out. I saw before me a long avenue of sweet gum and chinquapin,
magnolia, and tulip trees, and all through them were the whitewashed
cabins of the negro slaves. Some of the women were sewing, though,
for the most part, men and women were huddled in little ebony squads,
around the doors of their quarters. They were talking softly in their
abbreviated patois, or humming their sad minor melodies, while the
moon far up in the zenith--calm, bright, worshipful--cast a softened
radiance which gave sufficient light for young eyes either to sew, or
to read. The living picture filled me with melancholy, and I went in
dreams to some lonely desolate place, where all was sand and silence.
We were off early in the morning, and our road lay through pine woods;
a very primitive road, as yet, and a very hard one on both travelers
and horses; however, horses are not expected to be particular about
roads in Texas. At one o'clock we stopped, and spread the lunch
brought with us on the ground; some negroes, who were cutting down
trees, brought us fresh water and attended to our horses. One of these
negroes, a young black Hercules, whose soul Nature had forgotten to
make bond, took me a few yards into the wood to show me the fairest
picture--a little natural clearing with a pretty piece of water in the
center, and, standing all round it, motionless as statues, a flock of
white cranes! Speaking of the circumstance afterwards, a passenger who
had joined us that morning, and who was also going to Austin, told me,
that the home of the crane is on the Texas prairies. He said nothing
could traverse the prairies without being challenged by their tocsin
shout of _Kewrrook! Kewrrook! Kewrrook!_ which he likened to a pistol
shot in the rare air. Furthermore, that the Comanche and Apache hated
the note, which gave both man and beast warning that they were on the
murder path. Strange sights and sounds these guardians of the prairies
must see and hear, as with slow and stately tread, they pace their
rounds, as much a part of the prairie as the ostrich is of the desert;
for when the deer have fled to the timber, and the buffalo gone west,
and the wolves are on their trail, the cranes still flock on the
prairies.
We were among the pines all afternoon, and in the gloaming came to a
much larger settlement than I had hitherto seen. If I remember
rightly, it was called Bastrop. With a great rush and clatter we drove
to a large house or hotel, and found good food and comfortable rooms,
and many signs of drawing near to civilization. One of these signs was
a release from the continuous meal of bacon. Throughout our journey
there had been myriads of cattle around us, but nothing except bacon
to eat--hundreds of thousands of milk cows, but rarely, indeed, either
milk, butter, or cheese on the table. Here we found a fine roast of
beef, and some venison steaks, both deliciously cooked; also young
corn ears and early squash. I returned thanks for these things with
all my heart, for a good meal and a good book deserve not only a
blessing, but a thanksgiving.
After we had eaten I went with the children to the room assigned us,
and was hearing their evening prayers when a woman softly entered. She
respected the duty that engaged me, and sat down almost noiselessly.
"I'm kind of lonesome," she said, when I turned to her. "Mollie is
away, and I wanted to see your little girls. They are mighty pretty,
well-behaved young ones, and they do mind what you say to them!
Sure!"
I was pleased with her remarks, and I put Lilly in her out-stretched
arms, and, though the child was very weary, she behaved beautifully,
and fell asleep in them.
"My children were sot on their own way from the jump," she continued,
"so contrary-minded that their hair grew upward, instead o' downward.
That's a fact! Look at my Jack's hair in the morning, and you'll see
it stands straight up. And babies are hard to raise in Texas; you
don't like to put them out o' their way, it might be the death o'
them, for you can never call your child your own in Texas, until it
has passed its second year."
"And by that time they have got used to having their own way," I
commented.
"So they have, and they will scream you blind and deaf, until they get
it. But you are feared to lose them. I've lost five outen my seven.
That is so. I've only Jack and Mollie left, but they keep me
considering day and night. They are not bad; they are real good, only
they are sot on havin' what is not good for them. And, nat'rally, I
know what is best, or else the Great Master above us has made a
mistake in sending them to me. That's how I look at it."
By the time this sentence was finished, Lilly was so fast asleep that
I lifted her from my visitor's arms, and laid her upon the bed beside
her sister. Then we continued the conversation about the natural
inclination of all children to have their own way, until I was quite
convinced the children of my companion had kept up a guerrilla fight
with her, from their birth until the present hour.
"There's Mollie," she continued, "smart and pert as a cricket, and
nothing would do her but a New York school. Her father was alive,
then, and I asked him to interfere; what he said was, 'Let her go to
New York. I don't see from the samples of New York women sent us, that
they are a picayune cleverer than ours are, but, if Mollie wants to
go, she's going. I can back her with all the gold she needs.' That's
the way her father interfered. He just let her go to aggravate and
contradict me. His hair stood straight up. I have told Mollie ever
since she put shoes on never to marry a man whose hair grows up, but
I'll just bet she does that same thing, even if she goes all the way
to New York to find him."
"Then she went to New York, I suppose?"
"Yes, she went, and she stayed more than two years, and got what they
call a diploma. Mollie is always drawing people's attention to it, but
it kind o' shames me. It looks like there was somebody better than
Mollie that thought they could give her a character, or a certif'cate
that she had done about right while at school. Now Mollie is as good a
girl as breathes, and as smart as girls can be made, and there's
nobody better than Mollie on this planet, and I just can't bear this
certif'cate business. How would you like it?"
I made this matter clearer to her, and she said, "I wish you had come
here 'fore Jake died. This same thing bothered him above a bit, and he
used to say if any man thought his Mollie needed a certif'cate of
doing well, he would tell him Mollie was the best woman God ever made,
and, if he contradicted, he'd bore a few holes into him. I reckon he
would have done it! Sure! But he took ill and died suddent one night,
just after Mollie came home. I miss Jake whiles, though he left me
well-to-do, and a full sorrow is easier borne than an empty one."
"What do you call well-to-do?" I asked.
"Jake had twelve thousand horned cattle, and a herd of eight hundred
horses, land enough for horses and cattle to get lost in, and a very
comfortable lump of spizerinctum in New Orleans Bank."
"_Spizerinctum!_" I ejaculated.
She nodded, and explained in one better known word, "specie."
"Then Mollie is rich?"
"Richer than rights be, for Jake left her half of all he had, and the
other half he left to me."
"And Jack?" I asked.
"He left Jack nothing. Jack and his father were not comfortable
together. They never had the same notion about anything. They had
contradicted each other for twenty years, and in course they could not
agree concerning money. I have heard them toss a dime between them for
an hour, and then fling it to the devil; that is, where no man could
find it. But Jack is real good. He is, sure! As I say, he will
contradict, but he's as straight a man as lives, between here and
anywhere; and he would not let a mortal touch a hair of my head, if it
was to wrong me. No, ma'am, he would make any man forever silent, who
said _no_ to his Mammy's _yes_. Come, and I will show you my parlor."
I did not like to refuse the invitation, and I did not like to leave
the children, but, after being assured of their perfect safety, I felt
some curiosity about a Texan parlor. So I went with her through an
adjoining room, where a number of men were sitting at a table playing
cards--very tall, wiry men, with prominent features, long hair, and a
fierce, determined expression on their thin, sallow faces. They did
not even glance at us as we walked past them, but I saw the gleam of
ornamented knife handles in their belts, and was pretty certain that
revolvers kept them company and that derringers lay handy, either in
breast or hip pockets. Yet they sat still and speechless, holding some
little bits of paper in their long, strong hands. There were two
candles on the table, but the rest of the room was in semi-darkness,
and the strange gathering in that patch of gloomy light made a picture
I have never forgotten. If it had been a painted picture, its gloom
and its suggestions of quarrel and bloodshed, might have labeled it,
"A Scene in Hades."
Out of this room we went into the parlor. The first object I saw was a
handsome grand square piano. "It is Mollie's!" said Mollie's mother,
"and she can make it talk, you may just bet on that." The walls were
adorned with pictures of Mollie's drawing, and the upholstered chairs
and sofa shielded by crochet lace of Mollie's handiwork. I was
expected to be astonished at this display of wealth and culture, and I
tried to make good this expectation. Indeed I really felt a great
respect for the girl who had lifted herself so far above her
surroundings. I asked where she was, and said I should like to see
her, and was told she was in New Orleans, and that her brother Jack
was going in a few days to bring her home.
"Jack's powerful fond of his sister," she continued; "he thinks all
creation of Mollie. I am feared he will never find a man good enough
to marry her. He has run two young fellows off the place, who he
thought were sneaking 'round after her. He is going to Orleans in a
few days. I wish she had been home. She would have fancied you."
I said I was sorry she was in New Orleans, but I did not mention
yellow fever's presence in that city. All nature and all humanity
hates the carrier of bad news. It is the feet of those that bring glad
tidings that are blessed and beautiful upon the mountains.
The next morning we were called early, but found quite a number of
people at the plentiful breakfast-table--some were going with us to
Austin, others were boarders belonging to the place. My kind hostess
had saved seats beside herself for us, and I noticed that Robert
nodded and spoke familiarly to a handsome youth assisting her to serve
the meal. Of course it was Jack. I knew instinctively it was Jack,
though he was amiable looking, and wore his pale yellow hair parted
down the middle of his head.
At first I thought his mother had been romancing about his "sot,
determined ways, and quarrelsome temper," but, towards the end of the
meal, I noticed him lift his steel-gray eyes, and look at a man who
was noisily relating one of his own adventures. Nothing more was
necessary, not only to confirm all his mother had said, but to rouse
the imagination concerning the likelihoods and probabilities a man
with such passionate eyes could summon. For, if the eyes are the
windows of the soul, I saw a soul of tremendous will and temper
looking through them. However, he was polite, and even kind to us, and
I left a message with him for his sister Mollie; then Mollie's mother
put into my hands something good for luncheon, because, she said,
there was no nooning place, and it would be four o'clock, as like as
not, before we reached Austin. "And I hope that is the end of your
journeying," she added, "for to go further is to fare worse. You keep
that fact in your mind. Maybe I'll be up to see you some day. I want
Jack in the legislature. He is the very man to get on there,
considering the way it is put up at present."
As we talked we were standing just within the store door, waiting for
the coach, and though it was so early a number of sallow, long-haired,
fiercely whiskered men were stalking up and down, the tinkle of their
great bell spurs, the ring of coins on the counter, and the kindly
tones of my companion's voice chiming softly together. Even at this
moment I seem to be trying to disentangle them, until the whole is
lost in the clatter of the coach, and the beating of the horses' feet
upon the hard road. So we left the hospitable lady with many kind
words and wishes. At last she kissed the children, and I, remembering
my own mother, kissed her; for about a good woman, who has taken the
sacrament of maternity, there is the odor and sense of sacrifice. We
may touch her lips, and do her honor, and be sure that we are honoring
ourselves in the homely rite.
At noon we stopped on the banks of a great river. There were large
troughs here, full of water, and a couple of negroes sitting on the
grass and playing cards. Evidently they were waiting for our arrival,
for, as the coach approached them, they stepped quickly to the heads
of the horses, unharnessed, fed, and watered them, while we had the
hour to eat our lunch and rest. I looked around, but saw no house;
yet there was a very large one, belonging to a sugar planter, hidden
away among the trees; and, just as we were preparing to go forward, I
saw a negro lad running with frantic speed towards a closed gate near
the troughs. I walked towards this gate and watched his approach. He
was spent of breath, and could hardly speak, but, after a mouthful of
water, he gasped out,
"How--long--'fore Chris'mas, Missis?"
I told him, and then asked, "Why do you want to know?"
"I'se gwine home at Chris'mas!" he cried. "I ain't 'long to dese
people--I'se only hired to them." These last remarks he uttered with
all the childish scorn and dislike imaginable, and then sobbed out
once more, "I'se gwine home at Chris'mas!"
"Where is your home?" I asked.
"In Austin," he answered. "There's people in Austin--there's Mammy and
Mass'r Tom, and Miss Mary, in Austin. I want to go home. I don't 'long
here!"
"Whom do you belong to?" I asked.
He told me, and then I had to hurry away, but I carried with me the
piteous face of that unhappy child, peering through the gate palings,
with no hope in his heart but Christmas, and Christmas five months
away.
The last twenty miles of our drive gave no indications that we were
approaching the capital of the state. On the banks of the creeks there
were sheep and cattle ranches, and here and there rough farm houses,
but the country was uncultivated, open prairie, or cedar covered
hills. People now going to Austin will reach the beautiful city by the
railway, and I have no doubt it has chosen the ugliest entrance it
could find. But we had almost an idyllic introduction to what was then
one of the loveliest dwelling-places of men in the whole world. It was
about four o'clock in the afternoon that we came to the Colorado
River, and our horses walked leisurely across its clear, limpid
waters. Then we mounted a hill, and a scene of unwritable beauty was
before us on every side. Other portions of Texas are lovely as
Paradise, but nowhere had I ever seen such exquisite and picturesque
arrangement of wood and mountains, grassy stretches, and silvery
waters, and crowned hills. From every mouth, there was an instant and
spontaneous cry of delight.
The city was built on hills, surrounded by a rampart of higher hills,
crowned with the evergreen cedar, and the shining waters of the
Colorado wound in and out among these hills, and then swept
grandly round the southern part of the city. For a minute or two
Senor Tomas--as if compelled by his own innate love of what was
picturesque--drew reins on the top of the hill on which there stood a
little church. It was painted a pale pink color, and did not look
inconsistent. It must have been full of the perfume of the China
berry trees, and it stood at the gate of the town like a visible
prayer. I have no doubt it has been replaced by a much grander
structure, but there must be many living yet, who remember, with me,
those happy Sabbaths when we went up together to the little pink
church on the hill, and served the Lord with gladness, and came before
His presence with a song.
For that short pause I must always thank Senor Tomas Sandobel, though
it may have been neither prayer nor a sense of beauty that was his
compelling motive. For I noticed, that as soon as the horses were full
breathed he gathered up the reins tightly, and, with a peculiarly
exciting cry, began his descent at the highest possible speed to the
main avenue. Fortunately it was but a transient trial. In a few
minutes we stopped at the Smith Hotel, a rather large wooden building
standing on Congress Avenue and Pecan Street, I think. Under the
wooden awning in front of the building there were a number of men
sitting in tilted-up chairs, and, as Senor Tomas stopped the coach, a
pleasant-looking gentleman was opening the door. He lifted Mary and
Lilly out in his arms, and then, removing his hat with his left hand,
offered me his right hand to assist in my descent. It was just such a
kind, respectful greeting as an English landlord of that time would
have given his coming guests, and it went straight to my heart. Robert
asked him if we could have rooms, and he said he would show us the
best he had in a few minutes.
He had a pleasant word for every passenger, and a few directions to
give, then he lifted Lilly in his arms, and we followed him to a
large, low room, directly above the entrance. It was spotlessly clean,
and, though the floors were bare, they were scrubbed until they looked
like ivory. The chairs were of unpainted wood, and their seats of
rawhide--not at all handsome--but very comfortable; and the large bed
looked so white and cool it made me drowsy.
"This room is delightful, Robert," I said. "I hope Mr. Smith can spare
it." Then a sudden thought came to me, and I continued, "The children!
We must have a room for them that opens into our room."
Mr. Smith smiled benignly. "We can do better for you than that,
Madame," he said; "there is a trundle bed, you know."
"A trundle bed!" I repeated. "What is that?"
Then he stooped and drew from under the bed a very low bedstead, and
showed me that it had a good spring and mattress, and clean, soft
linen; and I was astonished and delighted. I thought I had never seen
any contrivance equal to it for convenience and comfort, and I told
Robert that I must have trundle beds under all our large beds when we
furnished. And both men smiled broadly at my enthusiasm.
So we took the room, and my little trunk was brought to me, and I
began to bathe and dress and make ready for dinner, which I was told
would be at six promptly. A Chinese gong summoned us to the meal--a
gong in the hands of a negro boy, whose face shone with delight in the
noise he was making. But his grinning and gesticulating brought a
laughing company into the dining-room. There was nothing in this room
but what was absolutely necessary. The floor was bare but clean, the
chairs of a plain wooden variety, and the china, glass, and damask
very suitable to the room. The only extravagance about the service was
an arrangement like an East India _punka_ above the whole length of
the table--a movable wood frame, hung with clean towels, and kept in
motion by two negro boys. It certainly made the room cool, and
prevented the intrusion of a single fly.
The dinner itself was excellent, though the courses were left to every
one's taste and capacity. There was roast beef, and chicken pie, bear
meat, and antelope steaks, and I noticed that some old men who ate
bear meat ate honey with it, so I resolved to try the luxury some day
when I was quite alone. I did so, and found it very good, but an old
Texan told me, that the most aristocratic dainty of the Spanish Texan
was bear's paws preserved in Madeira wine, and a little brandy. The
paws then look like walnuts, but are said to excel any tidbit known to
epicures. I am sorry that I never had an opportunity of verifying this
statement by personal experience. The dessert to our dinner is not
worth naming; it was a pudding of some kind, but the majority left it
alone, and seemed very well contented with the bowl of delicious
clabber and fresh milk. There were no liquors of any kind on the
table, but plenty of tea and coffee, and I do not think any one ate
their dinner without drinking their tea at the same time. I took
kindly to the custom, and have never quite resigned it, except under
medical advice, which I follow with that desultory reluctance usually
given to ordinances with which we are not quite satisfied.
After dinner the children were eager to go to the trundle bed, and
their delight with it would have made any looker-on believe the little
ungrateful ones had never had a decent bed in all their lives before.
It was so "nice," so "soft," so "easy to get into," so "cool," so
"sleepy." I felt almost angry at their unreasonable pleasure in this
very ordinary convenience, and was quite "short" with the offenders
before they found the "sleepy" part of their new bed. Then I sat down
at the open window and began to think. Very quickly I discovered that
I had been guilty in the same kind. Had I not been lauding this bit of
Texas as an outskirt of Paradise all afternoon? No one could have
supposed I had lived in Kendal, and Penrith, wandered in the laurel
woods of Windermere, and walked the storied streets of Edinburgh. I
smiled contemptuously at my raw enthusiasm, and felt as if my native
land had been wronged by it.
* * * * *
So I began to write a poem to Mother England, and had got the three
first lines to my satisfaction, when Robert entered the room. He was
smoking a huge cigar, and the odor of it was strange and unpleasant.
But he was as pleased about his cigar as the children about their
trundle bed, and I listened rather coolly to his praises of the men he
had been talking with. "A new kind of humanity, Milly," he said. "I
never saw men like them. I think I will go and talk to them an hour or
two longer."
And, when I looked into his buoyant, happy face, and remembered that
he would have to live and work with this new kind of humanity, I
understood at once the necessity of sympathy and agreement. I told him
that I felt inclined to write poetry, and would doubtless go to sleep
about the sixth line, "so go, and talk, and enjoy yourself, Robert,
dear," I added. "I am glad you have such good company."
"Better company there could not be, Milly," and, with these words, he
kissed me, and ran lightly down stairs. Did I write any more poetry?
No, I went to sleep. But I have not yet forgotten two lines of the
poem to Mother England I began that night, and have never yet
finished,
My heart is like a weaning child,
That never can be weaned:
I did not dream at that date of a time when Robert Bonner would pay me
ten dollars every week for a poem, and that for a period of nearly
fifteen years. When that time arrived, I had outgrown the longing and
the need--I had been adopted by New York.