Front matter (continued 4)

Physicians are occasionally found in the country, and there are a small number of lawyers located in the principal towns. There are but few preachers of the gospel, and I believe no meeting houses, except some decayed Roman Catholic churches.

The country needs more professional men. It opens a fine field for enterprising men in any profession. The wheels of government in Texas move quietly along. The storms which agitate and distract the city of Mexico and its vicinity, spend their force before they reach that province. I think, the government forms no serious objection to forming a settlement in the country.

But in a new and thinly settled country, the laws, however wise and good, cannot always be enforced. Magistrates and executive officers are few, and courts often at a distance. The new settlers, therefore, sometimes take the law into their own hands; and although they may not inflict the same punishment the law enjoins, I believe they generally do substantial justice. As an instance of the kind, I will state a case that happened on the bank of the Colorado river. A man settled there, who proved to be a notorious thief. He stole cattle, horses, hogs, or any thing he could lay his hands on. His neighbors resolved to endure his depredations no longer, and gave him notice to depart from that section of the country, or abide the consequences. After waiting awhile, and learning that he intended to remain, some half dozen of his neighbors went to his house in the evening, took him to a tree, and gave him thirty-nine lashes, well laid on. They then told him that the punishment should be repeated every week, as long as he remained in the neighborhood. Before a week came round, he left that section of the country, and has not been heard of since.

In the interior of the country, there is a salt lake, from which a load of fine salt may be obtained in a short time; and appears to be inexhaustible. A small stream runs from this to the Brazos river, and sometimes renders its waters too brackish for use.

By the laws, slavery is not allowed in the province; but this law is evaded by binding the negroes by indenture for a term of years. You will, therefore, find negro servants, more or less, all over the country; but more, on the lowlands, towards the bays and seacoast. Large cotton plantations, in this section of the country, are cultivated by negroes; and here also are found some good houses and rich farmers.

Texas lies between the twenty-seventh and thirty-fourth degrees of north latitude; and between sixteen degrees thirty minutes, and twenty-seven degrees west longitude from Washington; and contains probably about one hundred and fifty thousand square miles—as large as all New-England and the State of New-York. It is bounded, east by the Sabine river and a line drawn due north from its head waters to Red River—south, by the Gulf of Mexico—west, by the river Neuces, Rio del Norte, and the Cordillera mountains—north, by the Red River, until it hits its eastern boundary.

More than half of the country is prairie. The margin of the streams and the moist highlands are covered with a fine growth of timber. All the seacoast and on the bays, there is a strip of low, level land, extending seventy miles into the country. The prairies are here very rich, but too level to be pleasant or healthy. The remainder of Texas is high, dry and gently undulating; but not mountainous. Between the rivers Sabine and Trinity, are extensive, gently undulating, sandy plains, generally covered with a good growth of pitch pine; but occasionally covered with post-oaks, hickory, &c. Among these, are interspersed small prairies of good land; sometimes having a black soil, but generally of a reddish cast, and occasionally of a deep red. From the river Trinity to the western line of the State, are high, rolling, beautiful prairies of all sizes and shapes imaginable. So beautiful are these prairies, that the imagination cannot paint a more delightful scene. Cultivation, however nicely performed, will rather mar, than add to their beauty. They are surrounded with a dense forest of trees; sometimes two or three miles in depth, and sometimes only of a few yards. On the highlands, or elevated plains, are frequently found oak-openings, similar to those of Michigan and Illinois. Texas, with the exception of the pine plains, may with truth be said to possess a deep, rich soil of black marl.

That portion of the country lying between the Colorado river and Louisiana, is subject to powerful rains in the fall and spring; but as you go southward and westward towards the city of Mexico, the rains become less frequent, and not so abundant. About two months in summer, it is generally quite dry; sometimes, so severe is the drought that vegetation withers, and the grass on the prairies becomes dry. To the southward of Texas, the Spaniards irrigate their lands to make them produce a more abundant crop. The planting season is so early, (from the first to the middle of February,) that all the crops, except cotton and sugar cane, come to maturity before the dry weather commences; and these get such a vigorous start in this luxuriant soil, that they are seldom materially injured by the drought.

The roads are all in a state of nature; yet so smooth is the surface, and so gently undulating is the face of the country, that in dry weather, better roads are not found any where. A person, however, often meets with moist bottom land, and streams difficult to pass. In the wet season, travelling is more disagreeable and difficult; and sometimes impracticable, on account of the swollen, rapid streams of water.

Although carriages run without difficulty all over the country, yet the inhabitants have not yet introduced pleasure carriages. The mode of travelling is on horseback; but women and children often go in a baggage wagon drawn by oxen. Baggage wagons are quite numerous, but I found only one pleasure carriage in the whole province, and that was a gig-wagon.

Emigrants are continually pouring into Texas, both by sea and by land, and from every section of the United States. The southerners generally choose the lowlands bordering on the bays and Gulf; but the northern people prefer the high lands in the interior. If emigration continues, it will soon contain a very respectable population.

CHAPTER XXII.

I found some of the emigrants disappointed, discontented and unhappy; and I met one man on his return to the land from whence he came. He was from Tennessee, had moved into Texas with his family and a small portion of his goods in a wagon; but they all did not like the country so well as the one they had left, and unanimously agreed to return. It was a tedious and expensive journey, but not altogether useless. It will teach them more highly to prize their own country, neighborhood and privileges, and induce them to spend the remainder of their days with contented minds.

Before a man with a family makes up his mind to emigrate to a new, unsettled and distant country, he ought well to consider of the subject. Emigration, like matrimony, ought to be fully considered; as a bad move in this particular, is attended by many evils, and cannot well be remedied. In the first place, it is the best way to "let well enough alone." If an individual be well settled in life, has profitable employment, well supports himself and family and gains a little every year, dwells in an agreeable neighborhood, has the privilege of sending his children to school, and of attending public worship, why should he wish to remove? Why should he wish to go into the wilderness, endure the fatigues of a long journey, and the many hardships and deprivations, necessarily attendant upon a removal to the most favored spot in the new world? This life is too short and uncertain to be spent in making doubtful experiments. It is wise, to live where we can be the most useful and happy ourselves, and where we have the fairest prospect of rendering others so, with whom we are connected.

But the young man who has no lucrative employment, and the married man who has to labor hard to gain a scanty subsistence for himself and family, would do well to go to the rich prairies of the south or west. He ought to be careful not to be too much elated with the prospect before him, for disappointment, fatigue and suffering most assuredly await him. It is not "a light thing" to travel with a family of goods two or three thousand miles.—He ought to accustom his mind to dwell upon hardship and suffering, before he commences his journey. Young says—

"Our only lesson is to learn to suffer; And he who knows not that, was born for nothing."

But on his arrival at his location in the new world, however fine, rich and elegant the situation may be, he will feel disappointed and sad. This is perfectly natural; and although some may have too much pride to acknowledge it, yet they all have a strangeness of feeling pervading their breasts, that is sometimes painful in the extreme. Perhaps the emigrant had never before travelled far from the smoke of his father's dwelling, and had spent his life hitherto in the neighborhood where he was born, and where his early and innocent attachments were formed. He now finds himself in a new country, far away from the ever-to-be-remembered scenes of his childhood, and he looks abroad upon the world around him, in sadness of heart; for it is a world, however beautiful it may be, that is a stranger to him, and with which he has no sympathy. Not to feel, under such circumstances as these, indicates something more or less than man. And this strange, lonely feeling is hardly softened down and mitigated, by the well known fact, that his new location is far superior to the one he has left. The inhabitants of Nantucket are proverbially attached to that island of sand, and are discontented and unhappy in the most fertile towns and beautiful villages on the continent.

The emigrant ought to think of all these things, before he leaves his native village. But when he has become located in the new world, it will not do to shrink back and despond. He must brace himself to the task before him, and cheer up his family, who in fact need some cheering, for exchanging a well built house and pleasant associates, for the rude log hut and wild beasts of the forests. They will all soon become acquainted with the new world and form new associations. A well built house will shortly take the place of the rude cabin, and emigrants will settle near them, to whom they will become attached. The rich fields will produce an abundant harvest, and large herds of cattle will be seen feeding on the luxuriant grass. He will soon gain a competency, live at ease, and become contented and happy.

The inhabitants have a strong belief that Texas will at some future day become one of the United States; but I think this, extremely doubtful. It is more probable, that it will in time become an independent sovereignty. It is now one of the Mexican States, and the seat of the general government is in the city of Mexico. The confederacy is composed of quite a number of States, and Texas sends its due proportion of representatives to the general Congress, to make laws for the whole. These States have never been well agreed in their form of government, or in the men for rulers. Revolutions, and counter-revolutions, have been the order of the day at the seat of the general government; but Texas is too much settled by Americans, and is too far removed from these intestine commotions to be much affected by them.

Col. Stephen F. Austin, to whom the first colony was granted, and who has been the indefatigable pioneer in the settlement of Texas, has generally been its representative in the general government. In the spring of 1834, he was at the seat of government, but so great were the divisions that little business could be done. He considered the country in a state of revolution, and wrote home to a friend of his, that he believed Texas had better take care of itself and form a government of its own. This friend proved treacherous, enclosed his letter to the President, and sent it to the city of Mexico. It was received just after Col. Austin had left the city on his return home. He was pursued, arrested, brought back and put in prison. He was for awhile kept in close confinement; and then, let out on his giving bonds to confine himself to the limits of the city. When I was in Texas, it was believed, he would shortly be liberated, and was daily expected home; but I have since learned, that he was not liberated until some months after my return.

It requires not the gift of prophecy to tell what the end of these things will be. Texas will become tired of belonging to such a discordant confederacy; and when their population shall have sufficiently increased to insure success, will throw off the yoke, and form a government of their own. But at all events, it will soon be disjoined from Cohahuila, establish its own State government, and elect its own officers. The seat of government will probably be San Felipe, on the Brazos river.

In some publications the people of Texas have been slandered. They have been called a set of robbers and murderers, screening themselves from justice, by fleeing from their own country and coming to this. It would be strange, indeed, if there were not such instances; but whoever travels over the country, will find them as pleasant, obliging and kind as any people in the United States. In the towns, you generally find a billiard room; and near it, a race-course. At these resorts, are found the favorite amusements of the inhabitants. I went all through the country, unarmed and unharmed; nor did I at any time feel in jeopardy of life or limb. Their most prominent fault is, in being too fond of pastime and hunting, to the neglect of tilling the land, building decent houses, and procuring the conveniences of life.

The most healthy and pleasant portions of Texas are in the regions of Nacogdoches; in the rolling country between the Brazos and Colorado; and southward and westward of the latter river—in Beal's Grant, near the Rio del Norte; and high up on the Brazos and its branches, in Robinson's colony. But neither Galveston Bay, nor the flat country all along the seacoast, is the place for a northern man. It is too much infested with alligators, moccason snakes and moschetoes. It is more suitable for southern planters, to be cultivated by the blacks.

But whoever emigrates with his family to Texas, let him, at all events, carry with him bread stuffs to last six months; for there is no wheat raised in the country, and only a small crop of corn for the supply of its own inhabitants. Of course, bread stuffs are always dear, and sometimes unattainable at any price. Cattle and hogs are plenty, and wild game abundant, so that he could supply himself with meat in this country.

The emigrant had better buy his cattle and horses here; for those brought from a more northern climate do not thrive well, and often die. A good serviceable horse may be bought for, from twenty to thirty dollars; a cow with a calf by her side, for ten dollars; and a yoke of oxen for about thirty dollars. The land is ploughed by oxen, horses and mules; but journeys for the transportation of merchandize are performed by oxen.

There is a mail running from the city of Mexico, through St. Felipe, as far as Nacogdoches; but as the United States mail goes no farther than Fort Jessup, the two mails do not meet each other, by seventy-five miles. There is, therefore, no mail connection between the United States and Texas. This is a serious inconvenience, and must shortly be remedied. The only chance to send a letter either way, is by a private conveyance. This is generally done by the captains of vessels.

The currency is silver and gold coin, bills of the United States Bank and those of New Orleans.—Copper coins are not found in circulation at the south and west. Texas has no bank of its own.

Thus much for my general view of Texas. I have endeavored to give a true account of the country as it appeared to me. Perhaps it may not be altogether acceptable to landholders and speculators. Be that as it may, I believe I have performed an acceptable service to the emigrant, by giving him a fair account of the country; and one that he will find to be a true one, in all its essential particulars, on his arrival. Live stock, cotton and sugar are and will be the great staples of the country—grain will be of secondary consideration.

What, then, is the conclusion of the whole matter? Is Texas a desirable place for a northern man? My opinion is, that if a northern man would locate himself in the highlands of the country, he would enjoy health as well as at the north; procure all the necessaries and conveniences of life much easier; and might, in time, become independently rich. I do think he would find the climate more pleasant, and more congenial to his feelings, than a northern one; and his life probably attended by more enjoyments.

I have been frequently asked, what particular spot in Texas is the most desirable for an emigrant to settle in? My answer is, I cannot tell. And whoever travels over the country, will be as much puzzled to tell as I am. The fact is, there are hundreds of places offering about the same inducements—all pleasant, healthy and agreeable. Among them, it is quite immaterial what particular one the emigrant may select. I saw an emigrant who had been in the country almost a year, and he had been riding over it the chief part of the time, and still was unable to make a selection. He said there were so many fine situations, so nearly alike, that he found it difficult to give a decided preference to any particular one. When he will be able to make up his mind, and decide the question, I know not. The last time I saw him, he was still on the wing; and for aught I know, he may keep in motion as long as the far-famed Boston traveller, Peter Rugg, or the Flying Dutchman, and never be able to find a spot of ground for a permanent abode! But this emigrant is not to be "sneezed at." Questions of far less importance have agitated the world; and who knows, but that the destiny of the country, as well as his own, eminently depends upon his particular location!

Again—I have been enquired of, what can a man do to make property in Texas? I answer, he can go into trade in some of the villages, and make large profits upon his goods. He can go on to a plantation, and raise cotton, sugar, corn, or stock—any or all of these are easily raised, and find a ready market. This is what he may do; but what he will do, is altogether uncertain. He may become as indolent and inattentive to business, as many of the inhabitants of the country. He may spend his time in hunting, at the race-course, and at the billiard table. Here, at the north, the great anxiety is, how we shall live—wherewithal we shall be clothed, and how we can turn a penny to "get gain;" there, the great concern is, how they shall employ themselves to kill time. Here, we struggle hard to live; there, they strive hard not to live. Here, we live in spite of nature; there, nature makes them live in spite of themselves. Could an emigrant know what course he would take on settling in Texas, he could then tell, whether it would be better to go or remain. I have spread the country open before him; let him judge for himself. And fortunate is he, who gives heed to the experience of others, and makes a wise choice.

CHAPTER XXIII.

I concluded to return to the north by water. I procured a conveyance from the interior to St. Felipe on horseback; and here I learnt that there was a schooner sixty miles down the river at Columbia, bound to New-Orleans, which would sail in a few days. I could find no conveyance to Columbia, either by land or water. I found a wagon going down for merchandize, on which I put my baggage; and in company with another gentleman, whom I found in the same predicament with myself, started off on foot.

St. Felipe is the head quarters of Austin's colony. It is a small village, on a high prairie, immediately on the south bank of the Brazos river, nearly one hundred miles from the sea. It stands on the first high land you come to on the river; and at this spot the high rolling country commences. Its situation is beautiful and commanding. It has two taverns, four or five stores, a court house, and perhaps twenty dwelling houses; but there are only two or three good looking buildings in the place. The opposite side of the river is low, and covered with a heavy growth of timber.

St. Felipe, like most of the southern villages, is not without its billiard room; and its usual, I might say invariable accompaniment, the grog shop.—Billiards is a pleasant and manly game enough; and good exercise for a sedentary man; and if indulged in only for amusement, is as innocent as any recreation whatever. It is a game much played in the middle and southern portions of the United States; and men of the first respectability are found at the table. But in this section of the country, it cannot be recommended as a safe place for recreation. It is generally used as a mere gambling apparatus; and a person meets with a class of society not the most civil, sober and peaceable.

Not long since, a young man played with an old gambler, until he became tired, and started off. The gambler came out at the door, and called him back; but finding he could not induce him to return, out of mere wantonness and sport, commenced throwing brickbats at him. The young man was a cripple, and could neither run, nor successfully contend with his athletic opponent. He bore it as long as he could, then drew a pistol and shot him through the body. He fell dead upon the spot, without uttering a word. He had been an overbearing, troublesome fellow, and his death was the cause of joy rather than sorrow.

One night, while I was at St. Felipe, two young men returned from a bloody affray, thirty miles down the river. Early the next morning, two other men, fully armed, entered the town in pursuit, and paraded the streets in hostile array. I enquired into the history of the case, and found the following particulars.

Sometime previous, one of the young men paid his addresses to a young lady, and was engaged to be married. He went to the north on some mercantile business; and during his absence, another young man by the name of Thompson, commenced his particular attentions to the young lady; and the match was strongly advocated by his father. On his return from the north, he and another young man who had married a sister of the lady in question, payed a visit to her father's—stayed all night, and started in the forenoon, to return to St. Felipe. One of them was in a light gig-wagon, the other on horseback. They had proceeded but a few miles when they heard the clattering of horses' feet, at full speed, behind them. On looking round, they saw young Thompson's father, and a doctor of the neighborhood, in close pursuit, with pistols in hand. The young men were also armed; and immediately shots were exchanged by both parties. But such was the hurry and agitation of the moment, that none took effect. They all dismounted at once, and at it they went, in a desperate contest for life and death. The doctor, not liking this part of the game, or not feeling exactly brave on the occasion, was contented to stand aloof, and see the battle rage. Old Thompson was a powerful man, and about an equal match for both of his opponents. He laid about him like a giant; and sometimes had one grounded, and then the other; and apparently, would shortly gain the victory over them both. At length, he knocked one down, and seemed determined to despatch him at once. He seized him by the throat, and called upon the doctor for a knife. The other young man saw at a glance the critical state of the contest—he jumped to the wagon, took out a loaded gun, just in time to stop the doctor, by his threats, from handing the knife, then took deliberate aim at Thompson, and shot him through the body. Thompson fell back, said he was a dead man, and expired in a few minutes. The doctor ran to his horse, mounted and fled with all convenient speed. The young men, having been rather roughly handled, were considerably bruised, although not seriously injured. They picked up the deadly weapons of the battle-field, as trophies of victory, and made the best of their way to St. Felipe.

In a short time, the doctor, young Thompson and some others, came to the battle-ground, and carried home the dead body; and without waiting to attend the funeral, young Thompson and the doctor started after the young men, to avenge his death. It caused no small stir at St. Felipe, when they arrived, and paraded the streets fully armed, and breathing out threatenings. The young men took to a store, and with arms in their hands, awaited the result. The civil authority, however, interfered. The young men gave themselves up to the custody of the law, and Thompson and the doctor were persuaded to go home, and abide a trial by jury.

It is no pleasure to me to give an account of such lawless battles; but as a faithful chronicler of events I could not pass them over in silence. Texas, however, is not more the theatre of them, than many places in the United States. If the value of an article is enhanced in proportion to its scarcity, it is more excusable to fight for a lady here, than elsewhere; for, according to the best estimate I could make, there are ten men to one woman in the country. And could the surplus maiden population of New-England be induced to emigrate to Texas, they would meet with a cordial reception; and it might prove, not only advantageous to themselves, but highly beneficial to the country.

In two miles from the town, we came to the flat, low country. It was, generally, muddy and very disagreeable and fatiguing to travel over. It was all an open prairie country, except a small skirt of timber immediately on the banks of the little streams; and almost a dead level, except in one place, twelve miles from Columbia. Here, a hundred acres or more rise thirty or forty feet above the general level of the country, and by way of distinction, is called "the mound." Near the streams, the ground was a little elevated; and at such places, we found houses, and some small improvements, probably, in eight or ten miles of each other. We saw a great many herds of deer, and flocks of wild geese and ducks.

We were almost four days in performing the route; and were excessively fatigued, when we entered the small village of Columbia. This is a new village, having two or three stores, a tavern, and half a dozen dwelling houses. It is situated on a level prairie, two miles from the river, and ten above Brazoria. There is a small village immediately on the bank of the river, called Bell's Landing; and the space between the two, is low bottom land, heavily covered with timber.

At this landing, vessels come up and unload their merchandize, destined for the upper country. It has a tavern, two stores, a large warehouse, and three or four dwelling houses. Here I was informed, the schooner had dropped down the stream. I stopped over night, and rather than walk, I obtained a log canoe, and a man to paddle me down to Brazoria. The tide sets up a little further than Bell's Landing, and our boat, having the advantage of its ebb and the current also, floated us down in two hours.

Brazoria is quite a large village. I found some very good buildings, public houses, stores, and as usual, a billiard room. A newspaper is published here, called the Brazoria Gazette; and I believe is the only one printed in all Texas. The situation of the town is low and unpleasant; and subject to the fever and ague. I found a steamboat here, going up the river; but the vessel had gone further down; so we started in the canoe after her; and rowing fifteen miles we found her by the side of the river, taking in bales of cotton. I was glad to get on board the vessel, and be relieved at once from the tediousness and fatigue of pursuit, and from the uncertainty of obtaining a passage to the United States.

The vessel remained here, until the next day, when we sailed with a light breeze down the stream. The river is very crooked, so that it is twice as far from Brazoria to its mouth by water, as it is by land. We had to tie the vessel up to a tree at night, as it was too dark to proceed. The next day in the afternoon, we hauled up again, on account of a head wind. The mate stept ashore to spend the time in hunting. The river is lined with timber on both sides, about a mile in width; and then, the country is generally an open, level prairie. The mate became entirely bewildered and lost; could not find his way back to the vessel; and was obliged to camp out for the night. In the morning, the captain sent scouts in various directions after him; but they all returned without success. The captain concluded he must have gone towards the mouth of the river; so he hoisted sail and started on. Nearly noon, the mate made his appearance on the river bank, nearly opposite the vessel; and the captain sent his boat for him. He was quite exhausted.—He had wandered about almost the whole time, and could neither find a house, road or river. He said he never had been used to hunting; but he could not conceive why people were so fond of it, as it was much more pain than pleasure to him. 'Every one to his trade.' A hunter would have found as little pleasure on the ocean, as the sailor did on the land. This hunting expedition afforded no little merriment to the captain and crew, at his expense, during the voyage.

The timber on the river banks became less, as we descended; and for five miles above the mouth, there is none at all. A small town called Velasco is situated on the sandy beach, at the river's mouth—containing one public house, two stores, four or five dwelling houses, and the ruins of an old Spanish fort. We stayed two days here, waiting for a fair wind to cross the bar. I frequently amused myself by walking for miles on the sandy beach, and picking up some of the pretty shells among the millions that lay scattered along. It is as fine a walk as a pensive maiden, in contemplative mood, could desire. On the one hand, is the ever-toiling ocean, whose waves break upon the sand bars, and in giddy globes of foam, lash the shore, and spend their force beneath your feet: on the other, a low, sandy bluff, and then an extended lawn, stretching far away into the interior, and its utmost verge skirted with stately forest trees; and the pathway itself, smooth, hard and level, and bedecked with countless beautiful shells of various sizes, shapes and hues.

The Brazos is an unpleasant stream. Its waters are at all times muddy; its banks are generally low and present a raw edge to the eye as you pass along; and in many places the navigation is rendered difficult, by reason of the many snags. At its mouth, there is a bar, generally having not more than five or six feet of water; and the channel so narrow that a vessel can only pass through with a fair wind. Three vessels had been wrecked on the coast the past season. The remains of two of them, lay in sight partly buried in the sand.

In the spring, the waters of all the streams in Texas are high, and bring down from the upper country, large quantities of timber. The mouth of the Brazos, and a long distance on the seashore, is lined with large masses of trees; and from this source the inhabitants of Velasco obtain their fuel.

CHAPTER XXIV.

One morning, near the last of December, the captain announced a fair wind. He weighed anchor, hoisted sail, and with a stiff breeze pushed out to sea. The vessel only drew five feet water, yet she touched three or four times on the bar; but did no apparent damage. I stood upon the deck, until the land, trees and houses faded away in the distance.

Texas, like a beautiful damsel, has many charms and attractions, but is not entirely faultless. Indeed, there is no such place as a perfect elysium on earth. And those who have formed their opinion of the country from some of the many late publications concerning it, will feel some disappointment on their arrival. But its many beauties will hide a multitude of faults; or render them light and easily borne. I must say of Texas, as Cowper said of England, "with all its faults, I like it still;" and although I had experienced some hardships and inconveniences while in the country, yet its mild climate, pleasant streams, and enchanting "fields of living green," I left at last with serious regret.

The fall of the year is the best time to move into Texas; or into any of the western States. There are four good reasons to give for this preference: 1st. It is then better travelling; both on account of the dryness of the roads, and the mild temperature of the weather—neither too hot or too cold. 2d. It is more healthy on the road—not so much danger of contracting disease on the way; and to be there at the opening of the spring, and become accustomed to the climate and warm weather by degrees, there will be a fairer prospect of continued health. 3d. It is the time of the year when provisions are the most plenty and cheapest; an emigrant can, therefore, the more readily supply himself on the road, and after his arrival. 4th. It is the shortest time a person can be in the country, and raise a crop the ensuing season. To arrive in October, or the first of November, he will have plenty of time to build a log house, split out rails and fence in a field by the coming spring, so as to raise a crop.—Were he to go in the spring, he would be obliged to support himself and family a whole year before he could get a crop into the ground.

To go from the north to Texas, the better way is to take a passage on board a vessel bound to Galveston Bay, the river Brazos, or the Colorado. But if a vessel cannot readily be found, going direct to Texas, a passage may be taken to New-Orleans; and from thence, a person can go up the Red River to Natchitoches, and across the country; or by water through the Gulf, to almost any port on the bays and rivers. The distance from Boston by water, is three thousand miles; by land, it is not quite so far. From the city of New-York, vessels frequently may be found going direct to Texas. The most convenient places for landing in Texas are Harrisburg, on Galveston Bay; Velasco, at the mouth of the Brazos, and Metagorda at the mouth of the Colorado. It would be advisable to get a protection, more especially, if a person goes by water.

Speculation—ever busy, active speculation, pervades the world. It rages with violence in Maine, disturbs the quiet villages of New-England, keeps the western world alive, and visits the shores of Texas. I was at a loss to know how speculation could get hold of Texas lands; for they are only granted to the actual settler and only one grant given to each. Human ingenuity has devised a plan. When an emigrant arrives in the country, he is met by a land speculator, who tells him he knows of a good location, and if he will go and settle on it, he shall have one half of the league for nothing. The land is entered at the land office in the emigrant's name, the speculator pays the fees, and takes a deed of one half, from the emigrant. This is not the worst kind of speculation in the world. It, probably, may prove beneficial to both parties. The emigrant at least, seems to have no cause for complaint. He gets twenty three hundred acres of land, as much as he can ever cultivate, and pays nothing at all for it.

We had four passengers on board; two of whom were afflicted with that lingering disease called the fever and ague. They had resided a few months in the lowlands of Texas, and became so severely afflicted, they were returning to the United States for health. The other was a physician, who had gone up the river as far as Columbia; did not like the country and was on his return home to Tennessee. I informed him, he had not seen the most desirable portion of the country. And such was the fact.—But he had read some of the descriptions of the "beautiful river Brazos and the fine country adjacent," and was thereby completely deceived.

A sea voyage is always unpleasant to me. The wind blew a strong breeze, the waves rolled high, and made our vessel dance over them like a feather. We all became dreadfully sea sick. It is a terrible feeling; and those afflicted with it, probably endure as much excruciating pain and distress, as the human system is capable of sustaining. In two days, the wind abated in a measure, and the sea became comparatively smooth. We crawled out upon deck, our sickness abated, and soon left us entirely.

On the fifth day, just at night, we saw the light at the southwest pass of the Mississippi. It soon became dark, and the captain in attempting to enter the mouth of the river, run the vessel aground near the shore. A scene here occurred, that somewhat startled us. We were in the cabin and felt the vessel strike and heard the waves dash against her.—We ran up on deck, and there saw the captain seated upon the windlass, writhing in agony, and groaning like one in despair! The idea struck us in a moment, that the captain saw our danger to be imminent, the vessel would dash in pieces, and we must all perish. But we were immediately relieved from our apprehensions. In the darkness of the night, and hurry of the moment, the captain had been thrown across the pump, and severely injured; and it was from actual pain of body, rather than anguish of mind that made him groan so bitterly. We did not, however, feel entirely at ease. We were exposed to the open sea; and if the wind should rise, and blow hard on shore, the vessel must be dashed to pieces, and we escape the best way we could.

But we were highly favored. The wind died away and the sea became quite calm. We retired to our berths, and slept quietly. In the morning, we carried out an anchor; at flood tide, hauled the vessel off; a steamboat took us in tow, and at the dinner hour, we were gallantly gliding up the river. So change the scenes of life.

The Mississippi steam tow-boats have engines of immense power. Our boat had six vessels in tow, and it carried us along at the rate of four miles an hour, against the strong current of the river. From the mouth of the Mississippi to New-Orleans is one hundred and fifteen miles, and we performed the trip in about twenty-eight hours. The price charged for towing up the river is a dollar a ton; and the amount the boat received from all the vessels was about five hundred dollars. The vessels are towed down stream for half price and sometimes less.

Fifteen miles from the sea, the Mississippi divides itself into three channels, each having a lighthouse near the mouth; but the southwest pass is the only one in which ships can enter when loaded. The river continually pushes its banks further out to sea. They are formed of mud and logs, and soon become covered with a rank growth of rushes.

The banks of the river are low, and too wet for cultivation, for fifty miles from the sea. Soon after passing fort Jackson, which is about forty miles up the river, we came to sugar plantations on both sides, and these continued to the city of New-Orleans. On many of these large plantations we saw elegant houses, surrounded by orange trees, loaded with fruit. In the rear, sugar houses, and steam mills for grinding the cane, and long rows of neat looking negro houses; and large stacks of rice standing near them. The planters were all busily engaged in making sugar; and we saw armies of negroes in the fields, cutting and transporting the cane to the mills. January had already commenced, yet there had been no frost to destroy vegetation, and the cane looked as green as in midsummer. The crop of sugar was unusually large, and of an excellent quality.

The sugar cane, in size, stalk and leaf very much resembles the southern corn. It has, however, no spindles at the top like a corn stalk, but terminates in a tuft of long leaves. It does not appear to produce any seed in this country but the crop is annually renewed, by planting short slips of the stalk. Its juice is sweet, pleasant and nutritious.—The negroes are very fond of chewing the stalk; and I saw some bundles of it at the vegetable market in New-Orleans for sale. When the cane comes to maturity, it is cut up and ground with smooth nuts, which in fact only compress the stalk, and force out the juice. This is caught in a large trough underneath, and undergoes the same process of boiling in large kettles, as the sap of a northern maple, when made into sugar. When the boiling is completed, the sugar is put into a large cistern full of holes in the bottom, where it remains a number of days, that all the molasses that will, may drain out. It is then put into hogsheads and sent to market.

CHAPTER XXV.

On the eastern bank of the Mississippi, stands the city of New-Orleans. It is regularly laid out, chiefly built of brick, has many fine blocks of buildings, large houses and handsome streets; but its site is too low for it to appear to advantage, or to render it pleasant and agreeable. It stretches two miles along the river bank; and for that distance, the levee is lined with triple and quadruple rows of vessels, steamboats and flat-boats; all having their particular location by themselves. The trade of New-Orleans is immense. By the weekly shipping register, it appeared there were two hundred and thirty-four vessels in port. The levee is loaded with bales of cotton, barrels of pork and flour, hogsheads of hams, kegs of lard and hogsheads of sugar and molasses. It is a place of great business, bustle and blandishment; and of dissipation, disease and death.

As I passed along by its muddy pavements and putrid gutters, and saw the many gambling houses, grog shops, oyster shops, and houses of riot and debauchery, surely, thought I, there are many things here exceedingly offensive, both to the physical and moral man. And when I saw the motley throngs, hurrying on to these haunts of vice, corruption and crime, I almost instinctively exclaimed, in the words of the immortal bard—

"Broad is the road that leads to death, And thousands walk together there!"

But here, the career of the debauchee is short.—The poisonous atmosphere soon withers and wastes away his polluted life's blood. Death follows close upon the heels of crime; and one need stand but a short time at the charnel house, to behold cartloads of his victims, hurried on, "unwept, unhonored and unsung," to their last home!

Life seems to be valued by its possessor, in proportion to the strength of the tenure by which it is held. When danger becomes imminent, and life's termination apparently near, instead of making the most of its short duration, man improvidently throws it away, as of no value; or suppresses all apprehension of the future, by rushing headlong into the wildest excesses of dissipation and crime. This is sometimes exemplified in the sailor. When perils thicken around and death stares him in the face, instead of summoning all his powers into action, and bravely contending to the last, he attempts to shut his eyes upon impending ruin, by stupifying the body, and ignobly surrenders life without a struggle. On no other principle, can I account for the excesses of New-Orleans. In its best estate, it is emphatically a place of disease and death. Its atmosphere is pestiferous. It is felt so to be, and so considered by its citizens. One might suppose, amid the ravages of disease and death, a man would think seriously and live soberly. That if his days were to be very few, he would make them all count, and tell to the greatest advantage. But the inhabitants of New-Orleans, instead of attempting to deprive death of his power, are enlisted on his side—they put poisoned arrows in his quiver, and add new terrors to his name! The sanctions of law and religion are set at nought, the Sabbath profaned, and they give themselves up to hilarity, dissipation and crime. Is this denied? The fact is too apparent and notorious, successfully to be concealed or denied. Could the many victims of debauchery and crime speak, they might "unfold a tale" that would cause "the hair of the flesh to stand up," and make the boldest turn pale. Shall I be asked to particularize? Take the Criminal Code, and there read its long list of enormities and crimes.

Censures are painful, and comparisons are deemed invidious; but I must say New-Orleans does not show that order, neatness and sobriety, found in other large cities of the Union. Murders, robberies, thefts and riots, are too common hardly to elicit a passing notice. Man here seems to have become reckless of life. It is taken and given for "trifles light as air," with an indifference truly astonishing. The police is inefficient or shamefully negligent.—The authorities of the city appear to stand aloof, and see the populace physically and morally wallowing in the mire. It does appear to me, that if all in authority, and all the virtuous portion of the citizens would brace themselves to the work, the city might be greatly improved in health and in morals. Let the strong arm of the law be put forth fearlessly—let the streets be cleared of mud and filth, and the gutters of their putrid water—let the police be active and take into custody the disorderly knaves and vagabonds—let gambling houses be put down, and Sunday theatres and circuses be suppressed, and New-Orleans would wear a different aspect. Then might its streets be walked without fear of life or limb; and the great wealth flowing in, by canal, railroad and river, be fully enjoyed.

This may be thought by some to be an exaggerated account of the city. For the honor of our country and of human nature, I wish it might be. But it is, indeed, too true; and whoever happens to visit it, that places a decent value upon life, or the goods of this life, will be glad, like me, to escape without the injury or loss of either. Although the vessel I came in was robbed of money and wearing apparel; one of its sailors knocked down and his money taken from him; and a companion of mine had his pocket book cut from his pocket; yet, I fortunately escaped. I could not, however, feel at ease among such a set of plunderers and robbers.

I am fully aware, that a large portion of the populace is made up of all nations, tongues and languages; that their residence here is often transient; that many enormities are incidental to all large cities of such a mixed population; and that the many worthy citizens ought not to be held responsible for all the crimes that may be committed, unless they make themselves accessory to them, by indifferently looking on, and taking no energetic measure to prevent them. But it does appear to me they are culpably negligent in this particular.

The city authorities need not sanction crime, by licensing gambling houses and houses of ill-fame. By so doing, they take from themselves the power of frowning upon crime, or of effectually punishing the criminal; but leave him to assume an unblushing boldness in society, not elsewhere witnessed, that is truly alarming. If crime may not be entirely prevented, it can be rendered disgraceful; and those who have a decent respect for the opinion of mankind, if they have none for themselves, will then be deterred from committing evil. But as long as New-Orleans is believed to be a place, where crimes may be committed with impunity, and without incurring the censure or disapprobation of its citizens; so long will it be the general haunt for the knaves and vagabonds of the Union, and of the world.—They will centre here; give countenance and support to each other; draw within their deadly grasp the unsuspecting, the vicious and the idle; and, like the rolling snow-ball, at every impulse enlarge their circle, and gain additional force and power.

It is time, high time for all the sober minded and well disposed to awake, look about them, and see their true condition. Theirs is the sleep of death. Like Jonah of old, they slumber amid the whirlwind and storm. New-Orleans needs reform; and in a righteous cause, small means may effect much. Ten men may chase a thousand. Can the result be doubtful?

——"Our doubts are traitors And make us lose the good we oft might win, By fearing to attempt."

But I have done with the health and moral condition of New-Orleans. I am told it has improved, and is improving. And yet there is room—an ample field for the philanthropist to exercise the utmost stretch of his powers, to improve the physical and moral condition of its citizens.

A particular description of the city is not necessary. Its favorable location for foreign and domestic trade, and vast resources, are well known. One thing was new to me. It contains about half a dozen large cotton presses, entirely occupied in compressing bales of cotton. Those intended for a foreign market, are made to occupy one half of their original space; so that a vessel can carry double the quantity it otherwise might. The large number of bales shipped from this port, makes this an extensive business. The charge for compressing is seventy-five cents a bale. Bales designed for the northern ports, do not undergo this operation, but are shipped as they come from the hands of the planter.

New-Orleans has three extensive markets; two for flesh, and one for vegetables. I walked through them all, and thought the city was abundantly supplied with provisions, and of a good quality. Although it was January, the vegetable market was supplied with melons, green peas, radishes, lettuce, &c. And boats frequently landed, with cart loads of oranges, fresh from the trees. Fish are neither abundant nor of a fine flavor.

On the opposite side of the river, are the shipyards; but they seem to be more occupied in repairs, than in building new vessels. Here is a small village of a dozen houses, a grog shop and a tavern. A steam ferry boat constantly plies across the river, and appears to have a plenty of business.

The city is connected with lake Pontchartrain, by a canal for small vessels, and a railroad. The distance is five miles. Steamboats regularly run from the end of the railroad, to Mobile and other ports. New-Orleans has no wharves. It would be more convenient in loading vessels to have them; but they cannot be built on a foundation sufficiently firm to withstand the strong current of the Mississippi. A few years ago a wharf was built; but it was soon undermined, and sunk in the stream.

CHAPTER XXVI.

After remaining in the city four days, I procured a passage on board a brig bound to Boston, and sailed down the river. In about two miles, we passed the nunnery—a pleasant looking building, surrounded by an extensive grove of orange trees. Five miles from the city, we came to the famous battle ground, where Gen. Jackson, and his brave associates "planted a British colony." But this is a matter of history. All the indications of a battle now remaining, are scars of balls on one or two trees.

The large plantations, on both sides of the river, were all alive with negroes, cutting cane and transporting it to the steam mills to make sugar. It appears to me, that slavery sits lighter on the negro race, than it would on any other human beings.—They are, generally, cheerful, and appear to be inclined to make the best of their situation. Much injustice, and many wrongs have been done to the African race. They were torn from their homes, their friends, and their country—carried to a distant land, and sold to hopeless, irremediable slavery. The original kidnappers have much to answer for.

But the case is now somewhat changed. Neither the masters nor the slaves, now upon the stage, are the parties to the original transaction. Slavery has existed for a long series of years; and the present owners of slaves obtained possession of them either by descent, or by purchase. They came into their possession, slaves; they did not change their condition. The only fault, therefore, they are justly chargeable with, is the continuance of slavery.—How far culpable the slaveholder may be in this particular, I shall not undertake to decide, any more than I would the degree of guilt justly chargeable to a Mussulman, for believing Mahomet to be a true prophet.

In all the publications and lectures which I have seen and heard upon slavery, it appears to me, that in regard to the present owners of slaves, the subject is not viewed in its true light. Slavery is stated to be a great evil; and therefore, slaveholders are great criminals. However well this may sound in logic, it does not sound well in morals. But there is another inference drawn from the premises—that it is the duty of the inhabitants in the non-slaveholding States, to get up a crusade against the slaveholders. Not with swords and guns to be sure; but to give them a bad name, render them odious in the estimation of mankind, and to continue a general warfare upon their characters. This is, indeed, the worst kind of warfare. Better take property or life; for what of value has a man left when deprived of his "good name?" To this, I shall be answered, that it is proper to call things by their right names—a spade ought to be called a spade; and a criminal ought to be called a criminal. So far as it applies to slavery, I have two plain replies to make. In the first place, it is assuming too much to call a slaveholder a criminal, under the peculiar circumstances of the case; and secondly, if the fact were so, it is not always good policy to bring accusations against an individual, if the object be to reform him.

It is a good maxim in law, and in religion too, that even the truth is only to be spoken from a good motive and a justifiable end. For the peace and well-being of society, facts are not to be stated, merely to outrage the feelings of another, and to gratify the spleen of the speaker. Now, I would respectfully ask, what good can come of picking up all the tales concerning cruelty to slaves whether true or false, and proclaiming them in the most imposing form upon the house top, to a non-slaveholding audience? Every new case of cruelty is seized upon with avidity, and exultingly paraded before the public. This looks a little too pharisaical. 'Lord I thank thee that I am not as other men are; nor like unto these wicked slaveholders,' seems to beam from some men's countenances.

Is it not in accordance with the christian religion, if a brother offend, to go privately to him, and tell him his fault? Now, if the object be to emancipate the slaves, go to the slaveholder himself, and endeavor to satisfy him that slavery in itself is evil; and, on a view of the whole ground, it is safe, practicable, and beneficial to the slaves to be set free.—To the objection, that it would be unsafe to go among slaveholders for such a purpose, I reply, that missionaries are sent among the Indians of the West, the heathen of the East, and in the islands of the sea; and can it be deemed more dangerous to go among the slaveholding citizens of the United States, than among them? It cannot be pretended. The fact is a man may travel through the slaveholding States with perfect safety, provided he carry the deportment of a gentleman, and discuss the subject of slavery, as all such subjects ought to be, in a decent and respectful manner.

Of this, I cannot doubt, from my own experience in the matter. During a residence of three years in a slaveholding State, and in my various excursions among the planters, I uniformly found hospitable and kind treatment; and a readiness to discuss the subject of slavery with the same freedom that they would any other.

It would be a very good plan for our lecturers on slavery, to travel through the southern States, and see for themselves the true condition of the master and slave. Their censures of their southern brethren might be softened down a little; and they would sometimes feel more inclined to pity than upbraid. They would find the emancipation of slaves not new, or unthought of, by the people of the South; that it is a subject, which has engaged their anxious thoughts, and caused much private and public discussion. The southerners are more willing to emancipate their slaves, than our northern people generally suppose; but the great question is, how can it with safety be done? Some of our northern people would decide this off hand. Only say "be free," and it is done. But the slaveholder believes, there are many things to be taken into consideration—self preservation, good order of society and the condition of the emancipated slave, are all to be regarded and weighed, before freedom is granted.

But I believe the slaveholders do injustice to the character of the negroes in one particular. If they were all emancipated to-day, I believe there would be no attempts made to murder the whites, as has been supposed. They are naturally a friendly, confiding race—neither ungrateful, nor insensible to kind treatment. When they have a good master, and there are many such, they become very much attached to him; and would unhesitatingly, risk their lives in his defence.

I have been in the fields, where hundreds of slaves were at work, and conversed with them.—They appeared to be well clothed and fed, and had an easy task. I thought them to be as lively, gay and happy as any set of beings on earth.

They are very fond of music, and display a good deal of ingenuity, in adapting songs to their various kinds of work and recreations. Many a night, I have raised my window, sat down and listened for hours, to the melody of their voices, in singing their harvest songs, around a pile of corn.

But the danger lies, in turning loose upon the world, a race of beings, without houses, lands, or any kind of property; who are ignorant, gay and thoughtless, and entirely unused to provide for themselves. How preposterous the idea! What rational man would think of it? They must beg, steal, plunder, or starve. If the slaves be emancipated, it must be the work of time; and provision must be made, temporarily at least, for their support.

But it is urged, that holding in bondage a human being, is wrong, and therefore, he ought to be set at liberty immediately. A person cannot do right, or repent of evil, too soon. As this applies to the slave, it may be false reasoning from just premises. Although it might be wrong for the eagle to catch the mole, and bear him aloft into the air, yet would it be right, then to let him go, when he knew the fall would dash him to pieces? The setting at liberty in such a case, would only be inevitable destruction. It would therefore be right, and not wrong, to retain possession, until liberty could be granted in safety.

That many individuals are justly chargeable with cruelty to their slaves, there can be no doubt.—Their condition is better in the old, than in the new States. But it appeared to me, that many of the acts of cruelty were negligently suffered by the master to be done, rather than inflicted by him. They are too apt to entrust their servants in the hands of ignorant overseers, who punish without judgment or mercy.

A planter informed me, he was riding along by his field one day, and observing the overseer was preparing to flog a negro, he rode up to enquire into the cause of the punishment. He was informed the negro would not work, alleging he was sick.—He asked the overseer if he had ascertained that the negro was not sick. He replied no; for he presumed it was only a pretence to get rid of work. He went up to the negro, examined his pulse and tongue, and found he had a high fever. He told the negro to take a horse from the plough, and ride home, and he would come directly and see he was properly attended to. He then turned to the overseer, and told him he was not a suitable man to have the care of human beings—and discharged him on the spot.

In Texas, I saw a negro chained in a baggage wagon, for the purpose of carrying him home to his master. He told me he ran away from him, three months previous, and had all that time lived in the woods, and obtained his food by hunting. He said his master was a cruel man, flogged him unmercifully, made him work hard, and did not feed or clothe him well. At night, an axe happened to be left in the wagon, and he liberated himself and escaped. On enquiry, I found the negro's story to be true.—The master was all he had represented him to be, and his conduct was generally reprobated by the people. As I was walking on the sea shore, I again came across the negro. He recognized me at once; came to me, and begged that I would take him with me; and said he would willingly labor for me all the days of his life; but he could not return to his master. This I could not do; but was obliged to leave the negro to his fate.

There are many hardships and cruelties incidental to a state of slavery; but the cruel master is as much despised and reprobated in his own immediate neighborhood, as elsewhere. It is now unpopular every where, to ill-treat the slave. His condition has generally improved; and the yoke is often made to sit so light, that it is neither felt nor thought of. But still slavery in its mildest form is attended with many moral, as well as physical evils; is wrong in principle, and contrary to the spirit of our free institutions: and I earnestly hope, that this dark spot on Freedom's bright banner may soon be blotted out forever.

But to effect such a great object as this, will require the wisdom and aid of the North and the South combined. Let "the North give up and the South keep not back;" let them amicably take counsel together; and devise some plan in which the rights, interests and feelings of all parties are nicely balanced and duly regarded.

But I see no way in which slavery can be abolished without the aid of the slaveholders. This kind of property is guaranteed to them by the supreme law of the land, and to give it up, must be a voluntary act. It appears to me, the course things are now taking at the North, instead of winning the aid of the South, tends directly to brace them against emancipation. It appears to the South, as an officious interference in their affairs, in the most offensive form.

What would we think, if the South should employ a scavenger, to pick up all the private and public acts of cruelty of the northern people; such as the whipping of the boy by Arnold, the starving to death of another by Fernald, &c. &c. &c.; and then, set up a press, expressly to blazon forth these cruelties; and hire itinerant lecturers to go about and proclaim to a southern audience, in the highest strains of impassioned eloquence, the wickedness, corruptions and enormities of the citizens of the North! And say, they "had waited forty years" for the northern people to reform themselves; which was time enough, and they would wait no longer. They, therefore, were justified in holding them up to the scorn and reproach of all human kind! When the North knew, and all the world knew, they were no better than they should be at home; that they had work of reform enough near at hand; and that they had no legal right to interfere, and could have no legal action upon the subject. And although the avowed object was the reform of the northern people, yet they kept aloof from them, and hurled their poisoned arrows at a distance, alleging that they might in their patriotic zeal, so much arouse their indignation, that it would be unsafe to go near them. What would northern people say to all this! Should we say, go on, brethren! God speed! Or should we say, this is mean, cowardly business—empty boasting—gasconade! These people may not, indeed, be guilty of this particular thing of which they accuse us; and that is the very reason why they choose this subject for accusation—why they walk so proudly erect—ring all the changes and make the most of it. It is to triumph over us, and build up themselves on our ruins. There is in truth, a worse kind than negro slavery—when a man becomes a slave to his own unhallowed, vindictive passions.

Much injustice has been done the southern people. Those who have travelled and dwelt among them, bear testimony to their high-mindedness, kindness and hospitality. They scorn to do an act of meanness; or to enter upon the broad field of scandal. And although their strong sensibility may sometimes lead them into error, yet in all the virtues which ennoble man, they might not suffer in a comparison with the North. If we choose to bring railing accusations against them; they may not descend to recriminate but leave us the undisputed occupants of the ground we have chosen. And we may have the sore mortification at last to find, we have uttered anathemas in vain; and brought nothing to any desirable result—that we have toiled hard, and effected nothing, but our own humiliation and disgrace.

But I must leave the subject of negro slavery.—Perhaps I have dwelt too long upon it already to comport with the design of this book. It is a great and an important subject; and to do it justice would require a volume. It is my solemn conviction however, that for the northern people to effect any thing, towards the freedom of the African race, much prudence must be exercised, and conciliatory measures adopted; so as to enlist the undivided energies of the South in the great work of emancipation.

CHAPTER XXVII.

The river Mississippi, which imparts a name and character to the great valley of the West, deserves something more than a mere passing notice.—When the fertility and extent of the region through which it passes, are taken into consideration, together with the magnitude of itself and its numerous branches, it way well be pronounced the noblest river on the face of the globe.

Contrary to the general analogy of other large rivers, it directs its course from north to south. It rises in about the forty-eighth degree of north latitude, in a region having the aspect of a vast marshy valley. Its commencement is in many streams, issuing principally from wild rice lakes, and proceeds but a short distance before it becomes a large river. Sometimes, it moves silently and imperceptibly along, over a wide and muddy channel—at others, it glides briskly onward, over a sandy bottom, its waters almost as transparent as air—and again it becomes compressed to a narrow channel between high and hoary limestone cliffs, and it foams and roars, as it violently lashes the projecting rocks, and struggles through.

The falls of St. Anthony, following the meanders of the stream, are three hundred miles from its source. At this place, the river is about half a mile wide, and falls in a perpendicular and unbroken sheet, between seventeen and eighteen feet.—Above the mouth of the Missouri, it receives many large tributaries, the most considerable of which are the Ouisconsin and Illinois from the east, and the Des Moines, from the west.

A little below thirty nine degrees, comes in the mighty Missouri from the west, which is a longer stream, and carries more water than the Mississippi itself. This is the largest tributary stream in the world; and from the facts, that it has a longer course, carries more water than the Mississippi, and gives its own peculiar character to the stream below their junction, many have supposed it ought to have given its name to the united stream and to the valley. In opposition to this claim, it may be stated, that the valley of the Missouri, in the grand scale of conformation, appears to be secondary to that of the Mississippi—it has not the general direction of that river, but joins it nearly at right angles—the Mississippi valley is wider than that of the Missouri, and the river is broader, and the direction of the valley and river is the same above and below the junction. From these considerations, it appears to me, that the Mississippi rightfully gives its name to the united stream, and to the great valley, from its source to the sea.

The Missouri rises in the Rocky Mountains, nearly in the same parallel with the Mississippi. It is formed by three branches, which unite near the base of the principal ranges of mountains, which severally bear the names of Jefferson, Gallatin and Madison. The head waters of some of these, are so near to those of the Columbia on the other side of the mountains, that a person may drink of the waters of each, in travelling not more than a mile. After the junction of these three streams, the river continues on a foaming mountain torrent. It then spreads into a broader stream, and comparatively of a gentler current, and is full of islands.

The river, then, passes through what are called "The Gates of the Rocky Mountains." The river appears to have torn for itself a passage through the mountain. For the distance of six miles, perpendicular cliffs of dark colored rock, rise twelve hundred feet above the stream which washes their base! The chasm is not more than three hundred feet wide, and the deep, foaming waters rush through, with the speed of a race-horse. In no situation in life, does man so keenly feel his own imbecility and nothingness, as when viewing such terrible results of a war between the elements of nature. This is the most imposing and grand spectacle of the kind, to be found on the globe; and in the deep solitude of the wilderness, its aspect is peculiarly awful and terrific. The mountain scenery on the Hudson near West Point; and the passage of the Potomac through the Blue Ridge, sink into utter insignificance, when compared to the rush of the Missouri, through "The Gates of the Rocky Mountains."—The mountains here, have an aspect of inexpressible loneliness and grandeur. Their summits are covered with a stinted growth of pines and cedars, among which, are seen mountain sheep, bounding along at heights apparently inaccessible.

For the distance of seventeen miles, the stream then becomes almost a continued cataract. The whole perpendicular descent in this distance, is three hundred and sixty-two feet. The first fall is ninety-eight feet—the second, nineteen—the third, forty-seven—and the fourth, twenty-six. The river continues rapid, a number of miles below; it then assumes its distinctive character—sweeps briskly along in regular curves, by limestone bluffs, boundless prairies and dense forests, to its junction with the Mississippi. It has a current of four miles an hour; but is navigable for steamboats the distance of twenty-five hundred miles.

The tributaries of Missouri are many important and large rivers; but our space will not permit a particular description of them. The most considerable of them, are the Yellow Stone, La Platte and the Osage. The Yellow Stone rises in the same range of mountains with the main river, to which it has many points of resemblance. It enters the Missouri from the south, eighteen hundred miles above its mouth, and is eight hundred and fifty yards wide. It is a broad deep river, sixteen hundred miles in length, boatable, one thousand; and at the junction, appears to be the larger stream. Its shores are heavily timbered, its bottoms are wide, and of the richest soil. Its entrance has been selected by the government, as a suitable spot for a military post, and an extensive settlement.

The La Platte also rises in the Rocky mountains, enters from the south, and, measured by its meanders, has a course of two thousand miles. It is nearly a mile wide at its mouth; but, as its name imports, is a shallow stream, and not navigable, except at the high floods.

The Osage enters from the south and is a large and important stream of the Missouri. It is boatable for six hundred miles, and its head waters interlock with those of the Arkansas.

The Gasconade enters from the south also, is not a large river, but is boatable for sixty miles, and is important for having on its banks extensive pine forests, from which St. Louis and St. Charles are supplied with lumber.

The Missouri is a longer river than the Mississippi, measured from its highest source to the Gulf of Mexico; and although it carries less than half the breadth of that stream, it brings down a larger quantity of water. It is at all times turbid; and its prodigious length of course, impetuous current, the singular and wild character of the country through which it runs, impart to it a natural grandeur, truly sublime.

In latitude thirty-six and a half degrees, the Mississippi receives from the east, the celebrated and beautiful Ohio. This is, by far, the largest eastern tributary of the Mississippi; and at the junction, and a hundred miles above, it is as wide as the parent stream. If the Mississippi rolls along its sweeping and angry waters, in more majesty—the Ohio far exceeds it in beauty, and in its calm, unbroken course. No river in the world moves along the same distance, in such an uniform, smooth and peaceful current. The river is formed by the junction of the Alleghany and Monongahela at Pittsburgh. The Ohio, at this place, is about six hundred yards wide, and it immediately assumes a broad and beautiful aspect which continues in its whole course, to the Mississippi. Beautiful and romantic streams come in, at nearly equal distances—its bottoms are of an extraordinary depth and fertility—and the configuration on its banks, has all that softness, grandeur and variety, still changing and recurring in such endless combinations, as to render a voyage down it, at all times pleasant and delightful. From Pittsburgh to the Mississippi, the distance is eleven hundred and fifty miles; and between these points, are more than a hundred islands; some of which, are of exquisite beauty, and afford most pleasant situations for cottages and farms.

The valley of the Ohio is deep, varying from two to ten miles; and is bounded in the whole distance by bluffs, sometimes towering sublimely from the river bank; at others, receding two or three miles from them. Beyond these, are a singular line of hills, more or less precipitous, which are familiarly called the "Ohio hills." The bottoms of the Ohio are heavily timbered, and there are no where on its banks the slightest indications of prairie.

It would be difficult to decide at what season of the year, the Ohio has the most interesting and beautiful appearance—in the spring, when its high floods sweep along with irresistible power, and the red-bud and other early blossoms enliven its banks—or in autumn, when it passes quietly along, showing its broad and clean sand bars, and its pebbly bottom, through waters transparent as air—and when the withering leaves of the forest are painted in golden and scarlet colors along its shores. It is at all times, an interesting river, and probably, no other stream in the world can vie with it, both in utility and beauty.

Below the Ohio, the most important tributaries of the Mississippi, are White river, Arkansas and Red Rivers—all entering the stream from the west. White river rises in the Black mountains, which separate its waters from those of the Arkansas; and after traversing a distance of twelve hundred miles, enters the Mississippi by a mouth, nearly four hundred yards wide. The Arkansas next to the Missouri, the largest tributary from the west, is twenty-five hundred miles in length, and is five hundred yards wide at its mouth. Its waters are at all times turbid, and when the river is full, are of a dark flame color.

Eighty miles below Natchez, comes in Red River; and although it is not generally so wide as the Arkansas, yet it has as long a course, and probably, carries as much water. Its waters are always turbid, and of a deeper red than those of the Arkansas. After receiving Red River, the Mississippi carries its greatest volume of water. This, however, continues but for a short distance. Three or four miles below the mouth of Red River, and on the same side, is the first outlet of the Mississippi. This is called Atchafalaya; and probably it carries off as much water as the Red River brings in.—But one small river enters the Mississippi below its first outlet. This is on the east side, and is called the Bayou Sarah. The only eastern outlet is a short distance below Baton Rouge. This is called Ibberville, and it passes off the waters of the Mississippi into lake Maurepas. On the west side are two more considerable outlets, called Bayou Plaquemine, and Bayou La Fourche. The Mississippi, then, passes on by New-Orleans, between unbroken banks, and discharges the remainder of its waters, through four mouths, into the Gulf of Mexico.

The Mississippi is navigable for steamboats to the falls of St. Anthony—a distance of twenty-two hundred miles. These falls, although they have not the slightest claim to be compared with the celebrated Niagara, in sublimity and grandeur; yet they are interesting and impressive in the solitude and loneliness of the wilderness. As the traveller gazes at the romantic scenery around him, and listens to the solemn roar of the falls, as it echoes along the shores of the river, and dies away in the distant forest; a thrilling story is told him of the love and tragical end of a young Dacota Indian woman, whose husband had deserted her, and taken another squaw for his wife. Being a woman of keen sensibility and unconquerable attachment, in a moment of anguish and despair, she took her little children with her in a canoe, and chanted her song of love and broken vows, until they were swept over the falls, and engulfed in the waters below.—The Indians are too fond of romance, not to make the most of such an affecting incident as this.—They believe her spirit still hovers round the spot, and that her fair form is seen on bright sunny mornings, pressing her babes to her bosom, and that her voice is heard, mourning the inconstancy of her husband, amid the roaring of the waters!

Below these falls, the river swells to half a mile in width and becomes a placid, gentle and clear stream, with clean sand bars, and wide and fertile bottoms. There is a rapid of nine miles, commencing just below the entrance of the river Des Moines. This impedes the progress of large steamboats, during low stages of the water. Below this rapid, the Mississippi obtains its full width, being a mile from bank to bank; and it carries this width to the mouth of the Missouri.

The Mississippi, above the junction, is a more beautiful stream even than the Ohio, somewhat more gentle in its current and a third wider. At every little distance, the traveller finds a beautiful island; and sometimes two or three, parallel to each other. Altogether, in its alternate bluffs and prairies—the calmness and transparency of its waters—the vigor and grandeur of the vegetation on its banks—it has an aspect of amenity and magnificence, which does not belong in the same extent to any other stream.

The Missouri enters by a mouth not more than half a mile wide; and the medial width of the united stream to the entrance of the Ohio, is about three quarters of a mile, from thence to the sea the medial width is a mile. This mighty tributary, rather diminishes than adds to its width; but it perceptibly increases its depth; and what is to be regretted, wholly changes its character. The Mississippi is the gentle, clear and beautiful stream no more. It borders more on the terrible and sublime, than the serene and beautiful, from the junction to its mouth. The Mississippi flows gently onward, at the rate of not more than two miles an hour—the turbid Missouri pours down upon it its angry flood, at the rate of four miles an hour, and adds its own speed and peculiar character to the united stream. The Mississippi then becomes a turbid and furious mass of sweeping waters; having a boiling current, sliding banks and jagged shores.

A person, who merely takes a cursory view of the river, hardly forms an adequate idea of the amount of water it carries. Were he to descend from the falls of St. Anthony, and behold the Mississippi swallowing up the mighty Missouri, the broad Ohio, the St. Francis, White, Arkansas, and Red River, together with a hundred other large rivers of great length of course and depth of waters, without apparently increasing its size, he begins to estimate rightly the increased depth, and vast volume of water, that must roll on, in its deep channel to the sea.

In the spring floods, the usual rise of the river above the mouth of the Missouri, is fifteen feet; from that point to the mouth of the Ohio, it is twenty-five feet; below the Ohio, it is fifty feet; and, sometimes, even sixty. In the region of Natchez, the flood begins to subside. At Baton Rouge, it seldom exceeds thirty feet; and at New-Orleans it is only twelve. This declination of the flood, towards the mouth of the river, is caused by the many outlets which take off much of its surplus water, and conduct it in separate channels to the sea. Were it not for this free egress of the Mississippi floods, the whole country below Baton Rouge, would become too much inundated to be habitable.

Respecting the face of the country through which the river passes, it may be remarked, that, from its source to the falls of St. Anthony, it moves on through wild rice lakes, limestone bluffs and craggy hills; and occasionally, through deep pine forests and beautiful prairies. For more than a hundred miles above the mouth of the Missouri, it would be difficult to convey a just idea of the beauty of the prairies which skirt the stream. They strike the eye as a perfect level; covered, in summer, with a luxuriant growth of tall grass, interwoven with a great variety of beautiful flowers; without a tree or shrub in their whole extent. When this deep prairie comes in to the river, on one side, a heavy timbered bottom bounds it on the other.—From the smallest elevation, the sweep of the bluffs, generally corresponding to the curves of the river, are seen in the distance, mixing with the blue arch of the sky.

The medial width of the river bottoms, above the mouth of the Missouri, is six miles; thence, to the entrance of the Ohio, it is about eight miles; and from this point to New-Orleans, the Mississippi swamp varies from thirty to fifty miles. The last stone bluffs, seen in descending the river, are thirty miles above the mouth of the Ohio.

Below the Ohio, the high banks are generally composed of a reddish clay. The river almost invariably, keeps the nearest to the eastern shore, leaving much the largest portion of its swamp on its west side; but, sometimes, on the east, the river is about twenty miles from the high bank on that side. It continually moves in a circle; alternately sweeping to the right, and then to the left. These sections of circles, measured from point to point, vary from six to twelve miles; but it sometimes makes almost a complete circle. In one instance, it sweeps round the distance of thirty miles, and comes within a mile of completing the circle, and meeting its own channel again. Although the stream hurries on with the speed of a giant, yet it does not seem to be really in earnest to "go ahead." It appears to be more disposed to gambol about, and display its power in its own ample bottom, than to pass directly on, to its destined port. Like an overgrown and froward child, its sportiveness is dangerous and destructive. It makes terrible havoc with every thing with which it comes in contact. It tears up large quantities of earth in one place, and deposites it in another. It undermines its own bank, and lets acres of stately forest trees slide into its deep channel—it wears away its deep bends, so as to make its course still more and more circuitous—and again, as if it were tired of its own sportiveness in harrassing the forest, it cuts through the small segment of a circle remaining, leaves a long bend of still water, and its jaded shores at rest. The river, in its serpentine course, hits the high bank at twelve different places, on the eastern shore. These are, at the Iron banks, Chalk banks, the three Chickasaw bluffs, Memphis, Walnut hills, Grand and Petit gulf, Natchez, Loftus heights, and Baton Rouge. At only one place, it comes in contact with the high bluff on the western side; and this is at the St. Francis hills.

Although the river is a mile in width, yet it is so serpentine in its course, that a person travelling upon it, can see but a few miles ahead. The strongest current is next the concave shore; and here also is the deepest water. A third part of the river measured in a direct line across it, would average eighty feet in depth, from thence it grows more and more shoal to the other shore.

In the spring flood, the Mississippi overflows the whole bottom, so that then, it becomes a stream fifty miles in width. It shows a breadth of a mile only, and the remainder is concealed from the eye, by the dense forest which broods over it. The mud and sand, brought down by the flood, deposites itself the most freely, near the river; so that the highest part of the bottom will be next the stream. In the time of the flood, the water barely covers the immediate shore of the river; from thence the water becomes deeper and deeper towards the bluff which bounds the bottom. The depth of the flood, then, may be thus stated—the channel, one hundred and thirty feet—its immediate bank barely covered with water, and next to the bluffs, which may be twenty miles from the channel, from twelve to twenty feet in depth. When the flood in a measure subsides, the sad havoc its waters have made begins to appear. Huge piles of flood wood, wrecks of flat boats, and occasionally, of animals, are thrown together in one promiscuous mass. The stream is filled with snags and sawyers. And the destruction of its immediate banks is still going on. The deep and solemn sound of land slips are often heard. Acres of the stately forest are precipitated into the river, new channels are made, many islands are formed; and the steamboat pilot, who had become a complete master of the intricate mazes of the channel, finds, that he must learn his lesson over again.

All of the hundred rivers that form the Mississippi, at the time of high water, are more or less turbid; but at low water some of them are clear.—The Upper Mississippi is quite transparent, but its waters are slightly of a blackish color. The Missouri is at all times turbid. It is of a whitish color, resembling water mixed with fresh ashes; and it gives its own color to the stream below its mouth. The Ohio is clear, but its waters have the appearance of being slightly tinged with green. The Arkansas and Red River are at all times as turbid as the Missouri, but their waters are of a bright redish color. After the Mississippi has received these two rivers, it loses something of its whiteness, and becomes slightly tinged with red.

The Mississippi, in show of surface, will hardly compare with the St. Lawrence; but, undoubtedly, it carries the greatest mass of water, according to its width, of any river on the face of the globe.—From the large quantity of earth it holds in suspension, and continually deposites along its banks, it will always be confined within a narrow and deep channel. Were it a clear stream, it would soon scoop out for itself a wide channel, from bluff to bluff. In common with most of its great tributaries, it widens as it ascends; being wider above the mouth of the Missouri, with a tenth part of its water, than it is in the region of New-Orleans. In the same manner, Arkansas and Red River are wider, a thousand miles up their streams, than they are at their mouths.

No thinking mind can view with indifference, the mighty Mississippi, as it sweeps round its bends from point to point, and rolls on its resistless wave, through dark forests, in lonely grandeur to the sea. The hundred shores laved by its waters—the long course of its tributaries; some of which are already the abodes of cultivation, and others pursuing an immense course without a solitary dwelling of civilized man—the numerous tribes of savages that now roam on their borders—the affecting and imperishable traces of generations that are gone, leaving no other memorials of their existence, but their stately mounds, which rise at frequent intervals along the valley—the dim, but glorious anticipations of the future—these are subjects of deep thought and contemplation, inseparably connected with a view of this wonderful river.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

We were three days sailing down the river. Just at night the pilot came aboard, took us over the bar at the southwest pass, and we put out to sea, with a strong fair wind from the northwest. The muddy waters of the Mississippi are seen far out to sea, even after you lose sight of the land. There was another passenger besides myself; and the violent rolling of the vessel soon made us dreadfully seasick. This, with me, lasted but three days; but the other passenger was sick during the whole voyage, and suffered incalculable pain and distress.

There are many things disagreeable to a landsman in a voyage at sea. And in the first place, the rolling of the vessel. This is always disagreeable, but often it is so vehement that you cannot stand, walk or sit without much caution and trouble. While food is eaten, you must hold on to the plate with one hand, and wield the knife with the other, and this is often done at the imminent hazard of "marring the corners" of the mouth. Sometimes, in spite of all exertion, a sudden lurch will throw you off the balance, and you get a bowl of hot coffee in your lap. And then, at night, you are tossed to and fro in the berth, so that you cannot soundly sleep, and arise in the morning more fatigued than when you laid down.

And this motion of the vessel produces seasickness—an affliction exceedingly grievous to be borne. I had been seasick ten or a dozen times in my life, and this was the third time on my present tour; and I tried all the precautionary means I had ever heard of, but without any beneficial effect. Could any effectual remedy be discovered, it would save a vast amount of human distress.