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p SOUTHERN SENTINEL
M IS I*I'HLISII KI)
lltV THURSDAY MORNING,
# BY
I T. LONI AX & CO.
TENNEXT LOMAX, editor.
(Vftce on fl'Tndoi’ h street.
Cvtcranj Department.
Conducted r.y .CAROLINE! LGE lIi’NTZ.
[WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINET-i
A TALK OF THE LAND OF FLOWERS.
A SKETCH FROM LIFE.
BY CAROLINE LEE HEXTZ.
“Oh, seldom have we heard a tale,
So sad, so tender, yet so true.”
The incidents we are about to relate are
true, but feelings of delicacy induce us to
throw a veil around them, bv substituting fic
titious names. This is all the fiction con
nected with the sketch.
Emma and Lelia Wayne were two lovely,
fair-haired, blue-eyed girls, just blooming into
womanhood. They seemed the favorites of
nature and of fortune. Their father, a weal
thy merchant, was one of the most affection -
ate and indulgent parents in the world. He
was proud of his fair, sweet-faced daughters,
.and they were proud of him. He was a re
•markably handsome man, and the gencrou.-.
qualities of his soul diffused their glow and
lustre over his countenance. Their mother
was an invalid, and constantly confined t<<
her room, but her gentleness and piety made
her chajnber seem nearer Heaven, than any
other apartment in the house Wherever
they moved, these two young girls breathed
an atmosphere of love, and diffused it around
them as they moved
Emma, the eldest, had a brighter eve and
a deeper bloom, than her sister. Her smile
was more joyous, bar step more elastic, and
her voice had a gayer tone. Lelia had one
of those haunting countenances which once
seen is remembered forever, with a thrill of
sadness, too. h is said that every face is ei
ther a history or a prophecy. Lelia’s was a
prophecy. She had large, languishing,
mournful, loving, melting eyes, that looked
up wistfully through long lashes, darker than
her hair, then suddenly drooped as if fearful
they revealed too much of what was passing
in her heart. Her mouth was very lovely,
but a shade oti melancholy hovered round its
roses. A redundance of flaxen hair, al wavs
simply and gracefully arranged, softened tin*
outline of her painfully interesting face. The
expression may seem strange, but no one
could look upon Lelia without feeling that
site was born to love and to sutler too deeply.
As yet her capacities for love and suffering
were undeveloped, and while so tenderly
shielded by parental care, it seemed impossi
ble for sorrow or disappointment to approach
with blighting influence.
Mr. W ayne did not wish or expect to keep
his daughters from marriage, hut lie said be
could not lie parted from them. Their moth
ers health was too delicate to bear the shock
of separation. Whoever should win the
treasure of their affections must consent to
£ive near the shadow of the paternal roof.
Ii svas not long before Emma married a
promising young lawyer, and was establish
ed in -an elegant mansion contiguous to her
home. She was happy and her parents were
happy in this union, and Lelia tried to be
happy, Coo, but she felt as if a stranger had
come between her and the bosom companion
4>f her childhood and youth. Her sister
could never be to her what she was before,
and she sighed at the thought that Emma
loved another better than herself.
Just at this time she became acquainted
with a young and gallant officer, with lau
rels gathered in the “land of flowers,” bloom
ing on his youthful biow. There was a
grace, a gallantry, a chivalry in his manners
that charmed the imagination of the roman
tic and tender Lelia. We will call him Clif
ford, not wishing to make use of his real name.
He was returning to his post on the frontiers,
where, with numbers of his brave country
men, he was engaged in defending the bor
ders-from the depredations of the red man
—dangerous and protracted warfare!
\ oung Clifford conceived for Lelia Wayne
one of those deep and impassioned attach
ments which orce in a while break in on the
dull routine of every day life. The military
,character is invested with a peculiar charm.
The military gentleman is generally graced
with peculiarly attractive manners. Lelia
yielded to their seductive influence. Her
large, melancholy blue eyes were now’ illu
,minuted with the light of iove. It was like
the moonbeams shining on the mist of the
valley, and transforming it to a silvery glory.
Clifford pressed his suit with characteris
tic ardor. With the frankness of a soldier,
he declared his sentiments to Mr. Wayne,
and asked him for his daughter, assuring him
that his l.n e was returned, and that Lelia
had authorized him to entreat his sanction
to their immediate union. Mr. Wayne turn
,ed pale as he listened. He liked, he admired
the young man, but lie could not consent
that hi- daughter should leave him for the
dark and stormy scenes to which his duty
called him to return. No! it was impossible.
It would kill her mother—it would make
himself unspeakably wretched. It must not
be. Lelia had been nurtured in the lap of
luxury. She had never known privation or
care. She was too delicate a flow er to bloom
in the camp, too frail to be exposed t > the
unspeakable horrors of Indian warfare. With
tenderness and feeling, yet firmness and de
cision, he told the young mart he never, never
could consent to their union, and begged
him, as he valued the happiness of Lelia, nev
er to seek her presence again. He demand
ed the sacrifice of him, but Clifford would
ot promise what he felt he had- not the pow-
VOL 111.
er s o perform. He could not go without see
ing Lelia once more—and that meeting seal
ed her destiny. Borne down by the weight
of her love and sorrow, she rashly consented
to a clandestine union. At the house of a
mutual friend, who imprudently promised se
cres.y and aid, the ill starred marriage was
consummated, which made the loving and
affectionate Lelia an alien from her father’s
ro-f. Mr. Wayne, justly incensed, refused
to see his disobedient child, but the invalid
mother yearned over her lost darling. In
her husband’s absence, she sent for her
and slighter, who wept in agony on her bosom,
when she saw how much her desertion had
added to the ravages of disease, on that pale
and gentle face. Mrs. Wayne forgave and
blest her, committed her to the care and mer
cy of her Heavenly Father, and suffered her
to depart. Never more was she to behold that
lair, young, pensive countenance The
prophecy written on her brow was about to
be fulfilled.
The parting with her sister was another
hitter trial. She began to realize the strength
of the ties she was sundering. She under
stood for the first time the metaphor of the
bleeding hear’ Could -lie hut see her lather,
only see him, herself unseen, she thought she
would feel comparatively happy, and she did
see him thus. But instead of feeling happier,
her anguish was increased by her remorse.
He looked so pale, so sad, so stern—looked
as if iie could lievet smile again. What an
ungrateful return she had made for his ten
der, his guardian cares! She had forsaken
him for the stranger of a day. She had left
i-he guide of her youth. Yet even in the
midst of her sorrow and remorse, she exult*, and
in the mighty sacrifice she was making on the
altar of love. It was for Clifford she was
enduring a lather’s just resentment—it was for
Cliff r.i she was leaving a loving mother and
tender sister—home, fortune, friends—and she
loved him the dearer for the costly price she
paid for iiis love.
ii was the first time she had ever been a
traveller. Born amid the magnificent scene
ry of the W est, she had a vivid perception of
the beautiful and the sublime. At first she
was incapable of doing any thing but lord;
back, through blinding tears, on her native
city and its picturesque surroundings, as the
boat glided down the nobD river, on whose
glassy waves she had looked down so many
years, little dreaming she would float over
its azure bosom a discarded daughter, a clan
destine bride. For a time she could think
only o! all she was resigning, but outbful
feelings are trausihent, and she soon gave her
self up to the joy of the present moment,
while hope spanned with its arc-cn-c-iel the
clouds of the future. Arrived at her new
home, the charm of novelty threw an illusion
over every object. The Fort, which her hus
band commanded, had a sublime aspect in her
eyes, with the'Star-spangled banner floating
f oin its walls. The martial music, how inspi
ring it was! The soldiers, with their measured
tread and respectful bearing, she loved to
gaze upon, especially when they gave t l e
graceful military salute to her gallant hus
band. She loved the morning reveille and
the evening serenade, and in her enthusiasm,
thought she never could grow weary of a
military life
She saw nothing of the wild Indians who
infested the borders, and grown fearless by
unmolested tranquility, entreated her husband
to let her roam in the woods for the wild
flowers, which had given name to the luxu
lions region in which she now dwelt. This,
however, he constantly refused, never allow
ing her to go beyond the limits of the Fort,
unprotected by his presence.
It was strange to see this young and love
ly female in a rude Fort, surrounded bv offi
cers jmd soldiers, and ail the rough parapher
nalia of war. She moved amid the group
like an angel, sent to minister to their ruder
natures, and had danger threatened her, not
a man but would have died in her defence.
Alas! alas! tiiat danger was so near!
One morn* g, preparations were making
to send a quantity of ammunition to another
Fort. Lieut Willard, a very young and in
teresting officer, commanded the expedition.
| About thirty soldiers were to escort him.
The morning was clear and resplendent,
the air bland and elastic, receiving tone from
the sea-born breezes that were waft. J from
; the coast. Lelia stood on the ramparts, her
| cheeks glowing with unusual excitement.
“Let me go,” cried she to her husband,
whose arm was linked with hers. “Let us go
ou horseback and accompany them. It is
! such a charming morning.”
“I cannot go,” he answered. “I am obli
gt dto remain at the Fort. I wLh I could,
j for your sake, mv Lelia. You must weary ol
; your confined and lonely life.”
“Oh, no!” she eagerly replied. “I never
should be weary where you are. It was a
childish wish. It is past already.”
The young Lieutenant approached, with
his plumed hat in his hand, and addressed his
| commander —
“Let me escort your wife,” said he. “I
, shall be proud of the honor, and will ensure
; her safe return.”
“Shall it be so, Lelia?” said Clifford, look
ing into her now animated blue eyes and
i reading her answer there. “Go, then, and
! make ready with all possible haste, for the
morning hours are wasting.”
Lelia fle\V away with the joyous step of
youth, while commanded his riding
horse to be caparisoned and brought near.
Lelia §QQn returned in ft costume,
whose dark blue color set off to peculiar ad
vantage, her blonde complexion and fair hair.
A small black hat, with black, drooping
feathers, was placed carelessly on her head,
and heightened by contrast, her transcendent
fairness and roseate bloom. Never had the ;
dark eye of Clifford rested on her so loving
ly, so admiringly, as it did after placing her
on the back of the spirited animal, adjusting
the stirrups and placing the bridle in her slen
der hand, which he pressed, ere he relinquish
ed it, with all a lover’s ardor.
“Lieutenant,” said he, before giving the
signal for their departure, “remember you
have a precious charge committed to your
care—guard it with all a soldier’s vigi
lance.”
“I will guard it with my life,” said the
young soldier, with a bright blush and a
beaming smile, little dreaming that he was
uttering the words of prophecy.
Captain Clifford stood watching the party
as long as it was in sight. Lelia was mount
ed on a milk-white horse, Lieut. Willard on j
a coal black one. Again and again Lelia !
looked hack, kiss ng her hand to her husband
and gayly smiling. When he could no longer I
catch a glimpse of her black plumes waving |
in die breeze of morn, lie turned away with
a sigh.
“Should any evil befall her,” thought lie,
“I never should forgive myself for suffering
her to-depart. But impossible. The Indians
eie driven from this vicinity, and she is nobly j
guarded.”
In the meantime Lelia went on her way
rejoicing, thoughtless of danger and exhila- !
rated by exercise. The young Lieuten
ant charmed her by dwelling on her hus
band's (liaises, which were music to her ear.
Then he talked to her of Ids mother and sis
ters, till her eyes overflowed at the remem
brance of her own.
All at once, young Willard drew Ids horse !
nearer to hers, and bent his ear in a listening I
attitude. They were passing a dense thicket I
and he heard a kind of hissing sound, which j
was immediately followed by a fierce, savage
whoop.
Lelia, struck with deadly fainting, threw
her arms round the horse’s neck, and buried
her face in the flowing mane. Young Wil
lard sprang to the ground with the speed of j
lightning, and taking Lelia from tiie saddle, i
tried to place her in the ammunition wagon, i
where she could lie sheltered from the am
hushed fire of the Indians, who were now
rattling their shot from the thicket, she iiad
fainted from teiro , and lay a helpless weight I
in his arms. Before he could reach the wag
on, she received a death-wound in her bosom, j
and lie fell wounded and gaming by her
side
The soldiers, in the meantime, discharged
a volley on the sheltered savages, which pro I
bably sent them to a deeper covert, for they
ceased their firing, leaving behind two youth :
till victims to their indiscriminate vengeance.
Thank Heaven! that intimi laved by the fierce
defence of the soldiers, they had fled without
daring to approach with the terrible scalping
knife. The remains of the lovely Lelia were
spared this awful desecration. She was in
sensible when she received toe death-wound, i
and passed unconsciously the shadowy con- !
fines of the spit it world. She suffered all the 1
agonies of deatli when the horrible yell first. :
burst upon her ear. In that moment, father, ;
mother, sister, native home, dearly-loved, re
membered scenes all rose before tier with
life-like vividness; then her husband, stand
ig on the ramparts, waving his hand in to
ken of adieu, with a beaming smile—then the
dreadful conviction that it was the last glimpse
of life and love that would ever be hers—then i
—all was darkness.
The horses which had fTorne Lelia and
Willard, dispossessed of their riders, rushed
back to tiie Fort Clifford read a tale of hor
ror in their empty saddles and loose, flowing
in idles Mounting one, he rode with the
speed of an eagle t<> the fatal spot. The uu
fortunate Willard still lived, ’hough life was j
fast ebbing away. He was supported in the
arms of the soldiers, who gazed alternately I
on his pale anti altering features, and tiie i
beauteous body reclining near. What a spec- ‘
taele for a young and adoring husband! — i
There she lay—his fair, young bride—whom
he had lured from her happy home, only to
be the victim of the ted man’s wrath. No
mark of violence was visible—no blood oozed
from the wound, which closed as soon as it
was made. Her hat had fallen from her
head, and lay, with broken feathers, on the
ground. Her long, fair hair, loosened and
flowing, streamed around her in bands of j
palev gold, and glistened with mournful lus
tre on her dark riding dress The glow of
® I
life still lingered on her cheek, but her eyes,
those large, loving, pensive blue eyes, now
half closed, were fixed and glassy.
“Captain,” murmured the expiring Lieu
tenant, “l would die happy, could I have sa
ved your wife. Oh! my Captaiu—it is you,
who die.”
Clifford, who had stood as if transfixed, !
gazing on his slaughtered wife and dying
friend, here uttered a loud and bitter cry,
and threw himself by the side of her, whom
he would have died to ransom from death.
He folded his arms around her, and coveied
her cold lips and cheeks with kisses, such as
“joy ne’er knew.” He called upon her by
every fond and endearing name, to look at
him, to speak and tell him that she lived. In
the midst of his frantic adjurations, the soul
of the brave young Willard passed into the ?
presence of its God. Oh! for a mother’s j
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING, DECEMBER 16. 1852,
bosom on which to pillow his fainting head !
Oh ! for a sister’s arms, tu support his sinking
frame! But the soldier’s death-pillow is the
cold ground, and his last sigh is breathed up
to the heavens bending above him. It is
well.
We will not attempt to describe the an
guish of the unhappy Clifford. For a time
it threatened to unthrone his reason, height
ened as it was, by the bitterest remorse. A
dreadful task awaited him—to write to her
parents and inform them of the mournful
tragedy. This being done, lie felt as the
criminal does, while the doom he dreads is
impending over him. He expected to be
looked upon in the light of a murderer, for
had it not been for him, Lelia might still be
warm with life, and youth, and joy. With
trembling hands he broke the letter which
came in reply to his, communicating the fa
tal tidings. It contained no word of reproach
—no language of bitterness. It entreated
him to come back, bearing with him all that
was left of the ill fated Lelia—to come and
take a son’s place in their darkened home
and sorrowing iiearts.
Capt. Clifford obtained a furlough, and
fulfilled the wishes of the mourning parents.
It was a sad meeting, but reconciliation, born
of sorrow, made it hallowed.
Embalmed by the tears of her young com
panions, the lemains of the murdered Lelia
were deposited in her native soil. Remem
brance of iier fault was lost in pity for her
untimely doom. The)’ could not speak harsh
ly of one who had expiated her disobedi
ence by her life.
“Had I only forgiven her!” was the bur
then of the father’s heart. “Oh ! had ! only
forgiven !”
Yes! fallible and erring beings that we
are, let ns forgive, as we pray to be forgiven
by our Father in Heaven. Let not pardon
be delayed till the heart it would have glad
dened, is cold beneath the clods of the val
ley. The relenting voice cannot penetrate
the deep, u rk abyss of the grave. No one
ever mourned for having followed the exam
ple of Him, who forgave even his murderers
with his expiring breath; but how many
have sorrowed, when too late, over the inex
oAible will, and the severe though just de
cree.
Let the young maiden, who perchance
may read this sad but true history, tremble at
the consequences of filial disobedience. God,
sooner or later, avenges the violation of His
sacred laws. She may not, like Lelia. per
i,h by fine death-shot of the Indian but siie
may be reserved for a late more mournful
still—the slow wasting away of the heart, un
der the (flighting influence of unkiudness or
perfidy. As she has forsaken her parents,she
may be herself forsaken and betrayed. Lelia
was sweet, lovely, gentle anu earnest, but
she yielded to the dictates of passion and
exposed herself to the terrible doom we have
recorded.
Yes! she was indeed lovely. Never shall
we forget the soft, beseeching, pensive e,\-
pression of her prophetic eyes, the tones of
her sweet, plaintive voice. We are remind
ed of the words of Gssian: “Sweet is the
memory of departed frierds. Like the mel
low rays of the setting sun, it fails tenderly
yet sadly on the soul.”
THACKERAY’S NEW WORK.
i'he History of He.miy Esmond, Esq., Col
onel in the strode of h r Majesty Queen
Anne. Written by himself. By W. M.
Thackeray. Harper and Brothers.
Except Macaulay’s History, no work has
of late been so anxiously awaited as this new
novel by Thackeray. It was partly curios
ity to see how tiie author would acquit him
self in iiis new sphere—how the artist who
had produced the clever drawings in “Yel
low Plush,” and brilliant portraits in “Vanity
Fair” and “Pendetmis,” would succeed upon
a large canvas, and in the more subdued
style demanded by a historical picture. Yet
this was not all. We feel toward Thackeray
as we do toward few authors. We debate
whether or no Bulwer’s “Novel” is equal to
“The Caxtons,” but we care about it only as
our own enjoyment as readers is concerned.
But had “Henry Esmond” proved a failure,
we should have felt as if a personal friend
had missed of success. The reason is be
cause Thackeray has stamped himself upon
iiis work. He is a satirist, as keen as Swift
but as genial as Addison. Like that of Car
lyle, his literary career is marked by the
bones of the shams and humbugs he has
slain. Their mode of warfare is different.
Carlyle rushes upon his victims, mace in
hand, and smites the life out of them with
such a superabundant force, that their very
corpses are not recognizable. Thackeray ad
vances with the air of a gentleman, bows to
his opponent, crosses weapons ; your eyes
are blinded tor a moment by a dazzling play
of light—when you perceive him coolly wip
ing his blade. The victim smiles, perhaps,
as though, like the slave in the eastern story,
he had only felt something cold passing
through him, and never discovers, till he at
tempts to move, that he has been cloven
through from shoulder to thigh ; then indeed
he tumbles asunder, a sham dead forever.
In point of style and skill in composition,
Henry Esmond is fully equal to its predeces
sors. The archaisms and slight tinge of pedan
try, by the id of which the reader is carried
back to the period when the scene is laid, are
exquisitely managed ; the historical persona
ges who appear as secondary characters are
sketched with great felicity; the passages of
moral reflection, where the author steps for- |
ward in his own person, are equal to anything j
in “Vanity Fair” or “Pendennis while |
the whole piece is more delicately and har
moniously toned than either of those works.
‘Flie principal interest is concentrated upon
Henry Esmond, Lady Castlewood, and her
daughter Beatrix. Henry, the son, reputed
illegitimate of the late Lord Castlewood, is
lovingly protected by the new Lord and La
dy, and repays this protection by the most
lo\al and chivalrous devotion. The most
elaborately drawn character is that of Bea
trix Esmond, of whom we present a few
sketches taken at different intervals :
BEATRIX AT THIRTEEN.
Esmond found his little friend and pupil
Beatrix grown to he taller than her mother,
a slim and lovely young girl, with cheeks
mantling with health and roses, with eyes
like stars shining out of azure, with waving
bronze hair clustered about the fairest young
forehead ever seen, and a mien and shape
haughtv and beautiful, such as that of the fa
mous antique statue of the huntress Diana,at
one time haughty, rapid, imperious, with eyes
and arrows that dart and kill. She had been
a coquette from the earliest times almost try
ing her freaks and jealousies, her wayward
frolics and winning caresses, upon all that
came within her reach ; she set her women
quarrelling in the nursery, and practiced her
j eyes on the groom as she rode behind him on
S the pillion. She was the darling and torment
!of father and mother. She intrigued with
each secretly, and bestowed her fondness and
j withdrew it ; plied them with tears, smiles,
kis-es, cajolements; when the mother was
angry, as happened often, flew to the father,
and sheltering behind him, pursued her vic
tim ; when both were displeased, transferred
her caresses to the domestics, or watched
until she could win back her parents’ good
graces, either by surprising them into laugh
ter au4 good humor, or appeasing them by
submission and artful humility. V\ lien she
made mischief, used cutting speeches, or
j caused her friends pain, she excused herself
| for the fault, not admitting and deploring it,
! bnt by pleading not guilty, and asserting in
! tmcence so constantly, and with such seem
j ing artiessness, that it was impossible to ques
i (ion her plea. In her childhood they were
! but mischiefs then w hich she did ; but her
! power became more fatal as she grew older
—as a kitten first plays wdth a ball and then
pounces upon a bird and kills it.
Harry Esmond goes to the wars in Flan
ders, and on his Veturn thus finds
BEATRIX AT SIXTEEN.
“Look! who comes here—ho, ho!” he
bursts into a laugh. “’'Pis Mistress ’ Frix
with anew ribbon; I knew she would put
one on as she heard a Captain was coming
I to supper.”
• This laughing colloquy took place in the
I hall of YValcote House; in the midst of
which is a staircase that leads from an open
gallery, where are the doors of the sleeping
chambers; and from one of these, a wax
candle in her hand, and illuminating her came
Mrs. Beatrix—the light falling indeed upgn
the scarlet ribbon which she wore, and upon
: the most brilliant white neck in the world.
I Esmond had left a child, and Found a wo
! man, grown beyond the common height, and
i arrived at such dazzling completeness of
; beauty—that his eyes might well show’ sur
prise and delight at beholding her. She was
| a brown beauty, that is, her eyes, hair, and
j eyebrows and eyelashes were dark ; her
i hair curling w ith rich undulations, and wa
ving over her shoulders ; but her complexion
was as dazzling white as snow in sunshine,
| except her cheeks, which were a bright red,
and her lips, which were of a still deeper
! crimson. Her mouth and chin, they said
were too large and full, and so they might be
for a goddess in marble, but not for a woman
whose eyes were fire, whose look was love,
whose voipe was the sweetest low song,
whose shape was perfect symmetry, health,
decision, activity, w hose foot, as it planted,
itself on the ground, was firm but flexible,
and whose motion, whether rapid or slow,
was,always perfect grace—agile as a nymph,
lofty a a queen, now melting, now imperious
now sarcastic—there w'as no single move
ment of hers but was beautiful. As he
thinks of her, he who writes feels young’:
again, and remembers a paragon.
So she came, holding her dress with one
fair rounded arm, and her taper before her,
tripping down the stair to greet Esmond.
“She hath put on her scarlet stockings and
white shoes,” says my lord, still laughing
“O, my fine mistress ! is tiiis the way you set
’ your cap at the Captain She approached
shining smiles upon Esmond, who could look
at nothing but her eyes. She advanced, hold
ing forward her head, as if she would have
him kiss her, as he used to do when she was
! a child.
“Stop,” she said, “I am grown too big !
Welcome, cousin Harry !” and she made him
an arch courtesy, sweeping down to the
ground almost, w ith the most gracious bend,
looking up the while with the brightest eyes
and sweetest smile. Love seemed to radi
ate from her. Harry eyed her with such a
rapture as the first lover is described as hav
: ing by Milton.
“Right foot forward, toe turned out, so ;
now drop the courtesy, and show the red
stockings, ’ Frix. They've silver locks, Har
; ry. The dowager sent ’em on,” cries my
lord.
“Hush, you stupid euildj” says Miss,
smothering her brother with kisses; and then
she must come and kiss her mamma, looking
ali the while at Harry, over her mistress’s
shoulder And if she did not kiss him, she
j gave him both her hands, and then took one ,
[ of his in both hands, and said, “O, Harry, j
1 we’re so, so glad you’re come!” i
[From the Spirit of the Times]
SPORTING SCENES IN TEXAS.
Brownsville, Texas, Oct. 25, 1852.
Mr. Editor: —l will add in my present
letter a few additional characteristics of the |
region of country on each side of the Rio j
Grande, or Rio del Norte, near its mouth. ‘
It is obvious to the most casual inspection ;
that this vagrant river, compared with which
the Mississippi runs in a bee line, has in for
mer times traversed, in all directions, a vast ;
extent of territory in this quarter. It h.-\g en- |
tered the Gulf of Mexico at various points j
along the coast, from the North to the South,
each side of its present mouth, fora distance
of nearly three hundred miles between the
extremes. The oid channels of the river,
called “resacas,” are found on all sides for
two or three hundred miles from the Gulf in
the interior, showing that it has shifted its ;
channel, in ancient times, cftene: - than any j
stream known.
These resacas can be traced for hundreds j
of miles, and are now generally dry, unless j
in very wet weather. They are uniform in i
appearance, being about three hundred yards
wide, and thirty feet deep. W4en the river
is high, it spreads for miles over the country,
on both sides, hits up these dry channels,
converts them into lakes, which are frequent
ly not exhausted during a whole year. Some
of these beds, where the bottom is composed
of hard blue clay, remain nearly full of wa
ter the whole time, thereby supplying a most
essential want of this country.
I lie water of the Rio Grande is exceeding
ly muddy, even more so than that of the Mis
sissippi—but when cleansed and purified, it
serves very well for all domestic uses. In
consequence of the great length of the river,
and the peculiar formation of the surround
ing country, il rises at times with surprising
rapidity. 1 have seen it swell up thirty feet
in a few hours. After one of these great
floods, the resacas, and other low grounds,
continue full of water for a considerable pe
riod; vegetation springs forth with unexam
pled luxuriance, and nothing but the period
ical overflow of the Nile can equal the abun
dance it produces, and the thrifty growth it
imparts to grazing animals of all kinds, both
wild and domestic.
Throughout this vast region the beautiful
prairies are interspersed with patches of
chapparel, of unequal extent, and .irregular
shapes, which often give to the scene a curi
ous and picturesque appearance. This chap- i
parel consists of thickets of mukt and thorns
of several species, so thick, tangled and im
penetrable, as to laugh the best cultivated
hedgerows u#scorn. The hushes are leafless
the arms and thorns as white as if painted,
and they glitter in the sun. Attached to the
stems; and scattered beneath, to the depth of
several inches, are myriads of shining white
snail shells, which render the ground almost
as white as if it were shrouded in snow. In
terspersed among these chapparels are vari
ous trees of other kinds, such as the musqui
to-ebony, wskl-brier, cabbage-wood, and nu
merous others, valuable for fire-wood, fen
cing, and other mechanical and domestic
purposes. When these thickets are cleared
away, the ground is exceedingly fertile, and
easily tilled— cotton, sugar, corn, &c., all
flourish there with the highest degree of per
fection.
In these chapparels are found countless
numbers of rabbits, of the ordinary gray spe
cies, as well as a large gray rabbit, much re
sembling the English hare in shape, but far
larger, with enormous ears; the true zoologi
cal name 1 do not know, hut they are vulgar
ly called the “jackass rabbit.” They are fine
eating, and I have shot them weighing fifty
pounds. Vast flocks of wild turkeys, some
of them very large, and all of them fat, in
habit these forbidden haunts—quails, pigeons,
pisanos, <Ac., and it must be added, no small
quantity of rattlesnakes and tarantulas find
here a safe and inviting abode. In all parts
ot this region, deer, in fine condition, abound;
also the peccary, or Mexican hog, one of the
most game-blooded animals that exist. They
will fight any thing, man or beast, and some
amusing stories are told of their driving bur.g
ters “up a tree,” and their besieging them for
hours. We have also a peculiar bird, de
nominated the “chachalacha,” about half the :
size of an ordinary game cock, which is well i
worth describing. It is shaped much like a
uma pigeon, of an ash color, black legs, :
black shining beak, strong and sharp—and 1
with eyes of great brilliancy. In its native
state i: is wild and shy, but when caught, is j
easily domesticated, and becomes especially
fond of thostrwho feed and camp it. At day
light in the morning, whether wild or tame,
they commence a furious reveille, repeating
in a loud, dismal a chant, from the j
sound of which they deiive their name. This ■
is prolonged for about haff an hour—the ;
woods all around you appear to be alive with i
these invisible songsters, when sutraenly they j
stop, and not another sound breaks from them j
during the whole day. The chachalacha!
will cross-breed with the common game fowl,
and produce not only a beautiful bird, but !
one of the greatest value, on account of its
game qualities. Their crosses are a little un
der size, hut in spirit, endurance, activity, and j
vigor, they are unmatched. They are the
bes'fighting cocks on earth. This is no fancy
sketch ; they have been tried frequently, and
never were known to skulk or yield; like the
Old Guard, they can “die, but never surren
der.” - nfe ’ii
They are difficult to catch, and have gen- !
erally to be reared from the egg. I bare !
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SO. 51.
known, even there, twenty dollars to be paid
for a pair, so highly are they esteemed. I
have often been surprised that breeders of
game fowls have not turned their attention to
these birds to renew and improve their stock.
Perhaps they were not aware of their high
and valuable qualities. Let them try this gal
lant little hero, and they will find a full con
firmation of all l have urged in his behalf.
We have, likewise, another peculiar bird,
called the “pisano,” which is deemed of great
value by the Mexicans and Indians on ac
count of its hostility to the serpent tribe. It
is larger and taller than the chachalacha, del
icately and beautifully formed, black and
white speckled in color, and can run as fast
as a licet dog. W henever one of them dis
covers a rattlesnake, or any other serpent, no
matter how large, it commences a fierce cry,
which summons to its aid all the pisanos
within hearing. They begin to run and fly
about the snake in a circle, crying and chat
tering all the time till their victim becomes
confused, when, quick as the lightning’s flash,
one of them, and immediately others, make
a dash at the eyes of the snake, and Vith
their sharp, unerring beaks, he is blinded in a
moment. He then falls an easy prey to their
united prowess. These battles are of fre
quent occurre nee, and are described by spec
tators as interesting in the extreme.
Along the rivers, lakes, ponds, and water
courses, innumerable species of water-fowl
are seen. Millions of wild geese, brandt,
ducks of all sorts, flamingos, snipe, Sic. Sic.,
start up before you at every step. The large
black-brindled wolf, a fierce and sanguinary
animal, wild cats, Mexican tigers, and other
dangerous beasts of prey, are occasionally
troublesome, but not to an alarming extent*
‘1 he prairie wolf, or coyote, a small impudent
animal, is found in myriads, and makes “night
hideous’ with Ids yells, hut is no further to
be regarded, than as a most arrant thief, who
will come up while you are sleeping, and
steal your “grub” from the hag under your
head. One shout will, however, send them
scampering off a mile from your encampment*!
Nothing can exceed their cowardice.
The armadillo is often caught here, au|jb|
“'hen “roasted in the shell,” is reckonejjpr
delicious article of food, which
once roamed in vast, hards over tfiest* prai
ries, far into the mountain
ranges for upwards of a century past. The
•a ild cuttle have, in some degree, taken their
[ilace, and are no had representatives of these
animal “inhabitants of the plains.” These
“wild cattle” are large, fat, symmetrically
formed, and, with their long, tapering, polish
ed horns, lofty heads, and elastic steps, look
as it those boundless pastures were all their
| own. Jhe noble mustangs alone can compete
with them lor the right of ownership. Both
are worthy of it, in the absence of man, their
common master and tyrant. The oxen of
this region are among the finest in the world.
• hey are prodigiously large, stately looking
beasts, moving quickly, and possessing extra
ordinary strength. ‘They are spirited, but do
cile, and without a handful of food, except
the grass they crop at night, they perform
w onderful service. They are chiefly driven
by Mexicans, and are worked in the primitive
mode, by having their yokes fastened to their
horns.
1 he fish in the Rio Grande aniV-ti/ilmtai v
watoss, are few in variety, and us no great va
lue. They consist of two or three kinds of
cat fish, white and yellow perch, buffalo-fish,
a large coarse grained fish, but tolerably good
for use, and a curious species of shrimp, par
ticipating, apparently, of the characteristics
or the shrimp and lobster. In form they par
tially resemble both, and sometimes are
caught weighing half a pound. When cook
ed and dressed in the style of cooking and
dressing lobsters, they are a very excellent
; dish. All these waters are literally swarming
with several kinds of very superior terrapin
! * he fish ui the Gulf of Mexico, about tiffs
: vicinity, and in the bayous, and in Eagura
j Madre , a vast shoal of water, almost an in
! land sea, are of nearly every variety, and of
! the best quality. As fishing ground for sports
| men, it is not to be surpassed. We catch
] here red-fish of all sizes, from one pound to
! eighty pounds ir, weight—sea-trout, averag
| ing about six pounds—sheep-head, jevv-fish,
| whiting, drum-fish, cat-fish, sea-eels, some-’
! times nine feet in length, hut fine and tender,
| and numberless other sorts. Os the shell-fish
—first, there are abundance of green-turtle,
I occasionally seven hundred pounds in weight,
| many of which are shipped to New-Orleans
| and elsewhere. The Lagura Madre seems to
be the very paradise of these delicious mon
sters. Then we have plenty of excellent oys
ters, crabs, lobsters, &c. die. Enough, in-,
deed, of all sea-fish, to satisfy the taste of the
nicest gourmand u-ho ever smacked his lips
over a bowl of green-turtle or a plate of fried
oysters, at Delirionico’s, or any other gout
producing laboratory. We can fish or hunt
here at all seasons, with equal comfort and
success. Thanks to our glorious climate for
this! “aKwfipt H
Our neighbors on the other side of the Rio
Grande are becoming very restless and dis
contented. The whole Republic of Mexico
is, in fact, rapidly approaching a volcanic
eruption. Treasonable yronunciatnentos are
put forth in almost every Stattp of that con
federacy. The national government is pow
erless—the army is in a mutinous -state—for
eign men of-war menace the blockade of her
ports —her treasury is empty, and the nation
al authority is everywhere contemned I hear
muttering thunder. “God ana Liberty !”
cry our Mexican patriots, and I join in their
invocation. May it not be iu vaiil J.