Chapter TWENTY-FIVE (1)

A bright glowing day was the following one, the day of the dinner party; and right gladly did the golden sun beam out from the deep fathomless sky, as if from his lofty look-out he were aware of what was going on in this world below, and rejoiced in the failure of the evil machinations which had been so long disturbing the tranquillity of the worthy individuals who have figured in this history. And fortunate it was that neither clouds nor rain obscured his face, for had the latter been added to the cares which the approaching dinner-party had already accumulated upon the culinary department of Harson's household, the house-keeper in the tall cap with stiff ribbons would have gone stark-mad. Miserable woman! how she worked and fumed, and panted and tugged, and kneaded and rolled, and stuffed and seasoned, and skewered and basted, and beat, on that day! From soup to dessert and from dessert to soup, over and over again, she toiled; fish, flesh, fowl, vegetables, gravies, were all mingled in her head helter-skelter. She had dreamed of nothing else during the whole of the previous night, excepting a short interlude in the aforesaid dream, when she was night-mared by a fat pig, bestrode by a half-starved boy, who was all eyes. And now, as the day waned and the hour of the dinner approached, her ferment increased, until, to use a metaphor, she had worked herself up into a mental lather. Her voice was in every quarter, and so was her quick, hurried step. She was in the entry, up stairs, in the pantry, in the kitchen and in the cellar; at the street-door giving orders to the grocer's dirty boy to bring the cinnamon and allspice, and not to forget the sugar and butter, and to be sure to recollect the anchovies and pickles. The next moment she was scolding the butcher, because he had been late with the chops and cutlets; and every five minutes she thrust her head into the room to look at the clock, lest Time should steal a march upon her. Eleven, twelve, one, two o'clock. The tumult increased. Mrs. Chowles, punctual to her promise, made her appearance; forthwith dived into the kitchen, and did not emerge until dinner-time. The only person utterly unmoved was Harson, who had attended to his part of the business by looking after the wine, and who now sat with his feet to the fire, resolved to trouble his head about nothing, and apparently more asleep than awake. At times, however, he rose and went to one corner of the room, where a small boy who seemed to be worn down by suffering, lay coiled up and sound asleep on a chair-cushion. The old man bent over him, gently parted the hair from his forehead, and then rising up, somewhat red in the face from the exertion, rubbed his hands one over the other by way of indicating that all was as it should be; stole back to his seat on tiptoe, lest he should awaken him, and forthwith relapsed into his former state of dreamy abstraction. Nothing could arouse him; not even the house-keeper when she dashed into the room with a face at roasting heat, and demanded the key of the wine-cellar. It was handed to her mechanically, and mechanically pocketed when she brought it back.

But the hour of dinner drew near; and a smell began to pervade the house which aroused Harson at last. He sat up in his chair and smacked his lips; and Spite, who for an undue curiosity as to the contents of a small pasty, exhibited early in the day, had been escorted into the room by the house-keeper aided by a broomstick, sat under the same chair licking his lips and slavering profusely.

Again the red face of the house-keeper was projected in the room, and as instantly withdrawn. It wanted half an hour to the time. In and out again; it wanted twenty-five minutes. In and out again; twenty minutes. The matter was growing serious, and there was something frantic in her looks. But this time Harson caught her, and told her that it was time to put an end to that performance, as he expected his friends every minute; that she must guess as to the time; and that he would ring when she was to serve the dinner.

A rap at the door! and before it could be answered, a heavy step crossed the ante-chamber.

'There's Frank,' said Harson, rising and facing the door; and in came the doctor. But he was not alone; for close behind him followed Ned Somers, dressed in his best. Harry shook hands with them; but before he had time to do more than that, Jacob Rhoneland entered with Kate on his arm, looking very rosy from her walk.

What could it be that caused Ned's heart to flounce and dance about as wildly as a caged bird; and his cheek to grow at first pale, and then burning hot; and his lips to quiver, and his voice to tremble so that he could scarcely speak; and for a moment was unable even to tell Kate that he was glad to see her? Whatever the complaint was, it was infectious; for Kate's heart certainly did beat very rapidly; and her color went and came, until it settled into a deep burning blush, as she turned and saw Ned there, looking at her as if he had eyes for nothing else.

'Good morning Mr. Somers,' said she, at last, in a tone that was neither firm nor clear.

'Call me Ned, Kate,' said he in a low voice; 'don't say _Mr._ Somers. Wont you shake hands with me? There can be no harm in that.' He extended his hand; she placed hers in it, and at the same time whispered in his ear, (for Harry, seeing that there was some by-play going on, kept Jacob busy,) 'Speak to father as if nothing had happened. I think he's inclined to make up. _Do_, Ned.'

Turning from him, she commenced talking to the Doctor, while Somers, after a moment's hesitation, went up to the old man and offered his hand.

Rhoneland hesitated, for he experienced the reluctance which old age always evinces to succumb to those younger in years; and it was not very pleasant to admit that his conduct toward Ned had been wrong. But there was something in the expression of Ned's face, and even in the way in which he offered his hand, which showed that the past was forgiven; and beside that, what had already happened could not be mended by holding out; so Jacob grasped his hand, and said frankly:

'Ned, my young friend, I wronged thee sadly. I hope you will pardon it.'

'That's right, Jacob! Spoken like a whole-hearted old fellow, as you are!' exclaimed Harson, patting him on the shoulder. 'To be sure he will forgive you, and thank you for the chance. If he doesn't he's not what I take him to be. Don't you pardon him?' demanded he, turning to Somers, and at the same time casting a quizzical look in the direction of Kate.

Ned laughed; said something about pardon being unnecessary, where no offence had been taken; and then commenced talking about indifferent matters.

Presently Holmes came in; and after him Grosket; and one or two cronies of Harson's; and then the little girl; so that the room became quite full. The boy too, aroused by the noise of talking, awoke; stared wildly around him, and though a boy of genteel lineage, evinced a great distaste to mingling in society; and fought manfully to retain his position in the corner, when Harson attempted to lead him out. His sister endeavored, in an undertone, to impress upon him the propriety of adapting his manners to the change in his situation; but it must be confessed that her success was but indifferent; and it is a matter of some doubt whether he would ever have emerged, had not a tall, awkward boy, (a second cousin of the housekeeper, and apprenticed to a tailor,) who had been borrowed to officiate as waiter on this eventful occasion, thrust his head in the door and remarked, 'Cousin Martha says you may come to dinner just as quick as you like,' and forthwith disappeared, slamming the door after him, and clattering across the entry as if shod with paving-stones.

This aroused the company; and this too emboldened the small boy, who being restrained by his sister from rushing in the room before any one else, nevertheless crowded in, and secured a seat at the table, opposite the best dish.

What a sight! A table loaded with fish and flesh and fowl; glittering and glowing with cleanliness; linen as white as snow, and plates and dishes that glistened and shone until you could see your face in them, while the steam alone, which arose from each of them, might have made a lean man fat; and then there were the decanters too, in which the ruby wine sparkled, until it made even Dick Holmes smack his lips.

'Aha!' ejaculated one of the neighbors, a thin, hungry fellow, with large eyes; 'aha!' And he snuffed up the dinner as if he intended to appropriate it all, and as if, mistaking the table and its contents for a snuff-box, he supposed his nose to be the only member destined to play a part there.

Harry paused at the head of his table, and said a short grace; and then seizing a carving knife, he plunged it forthwith into the fat saddle: right merrily the red gravy spirted out; and as he drew the knife along the bone, and cut out the long strips, the steam and savor filling the room, it was to be feared that the thin neighbor would have gone beside himself, lest his pet piece should be given to some one else before his turn came. But such a dinner as graced that table is a thing to be eaten, not spoken of; and so thought the small boy, who notwithstanding his genteel extraction, brought with him the appetite which he had acquired by education. A dreadful havoc he made in that fat saddle! It was labor lost for his sister to kick and pinch him under the table, in hopes of checking his course. He kicked backed again, but could not pinch; his hands were too busy. What eyes he had for the meats and gravies! what a deaf ear he turned to all invitations to waste his energies on bread and vegetables, or trifles of that sort! His appetite, though belonging to a child, was full grown, and needed no assistance. All that he required was quantity--and he got it.

'Help yourself, my son,' said Harson, actually growing hungry by seeing the child eat. 'Don't spare any thing.'

The boy looked up at him, and said nothing. He was a fellow of few words, but of great action; and for one of six years of age, he was a phenomenon; and displayed a capacity which would have done credit to a man or a barrel.

The first course went off, and so did a second and third. Martha had excelled herself; a cooking-stove was nothing to her. Everything was praised; and at every fresh eulogy, the tall boy was missing from his attendance on the table. He had darted to the kitchen, to communicate the intelligence to his aunt. How _he_ enjoyed that party! how he skimmed his fingers round the plates, as he took them through the entry; sucking the ends of them so loudly, that his aunt thought that corks were flying out of the porter-bottles! He was perfectly happy. One thing alone puzzled him; that was the knotty question why people couldn't eat every thing off the same plate.

It was remarked, that when the dinner was over, some of the guests were uncommonly mellow; and it is credibly asserted, that Dick Holmes, who had spent his life among parchment and cobwebs, had during the meal buried his mouth in the bosom of his own waistcoat, and had there been heard confidentially singing to himself a short song of an Anacreontic character. But be that as it may, when he rose from the table, his eye certainly was a little lively, and his spirits were high. Nor was there any flagging among the rest; for whether the jests were good or bad, or the songs poor, or the conversation common-place, certain it is, that a more jovial set had never met. Every one seemed to have been placed beside the person who suited him; Harry sat with Jacob on one side of him, and the widow at the head of the table, with the Doctor at her right hand; and Dick Holmes and Grosket together; and Ned and Kate, so close that their elbows touched; and Annie beside her brother; and her brother, although somewhat incommoded by his sister, directly opposite the fattest part of the saddle of mutton! And then the one or two neighbors, who knew no one except each other, seated in a knot, contrived to grow moist and merry, because the others did, and laughed because Harry did. Choice spirits! who could split their very sides, without a joke to abet them in it; weren't they the fellows to help out a dinner party?

When they separated, it was late at night. The doctor gallantly volunteered to escort the widow to her abode, which offer was accepted without hesitation. Harry remarked that as it was a fine night, he thought he would walk too.

'Come, Jacob, you and I will go together,' said he, taking the old man by the arm; 'and Ned, you look after Kate. No grumbling, but make yourself useful.' Saying this, he trudged rapidly on, dragging the old man with him.

What passed between him and Jacob, or what took place between Ned and Kate, I cannot say; but they certainly were the two tardiest people that ever walked; for long after Harson and Rhoneland had reached the end of their journey, and stood waiting in front of Rhoneland's door, they were not in sight; and when they did at last appear, it seemed a perfect eternity before they were within calling distance; and then even longer before they reached to the door. And although from the pace at which they had come, it might have been argued that one or the other of them was laboring under extreme debility or fatigue, yet it was a remarkable fact, that the looks of neither justified such a conclusion; for Kate appeared uncommonly lively and buoyant, and Ned seemed as if he only required two fiddlers and a tambourine to perform his part in an imaginary quadrille in the street.

'What idlers you are!' exclaimed Harry, as they came up! 'As for you,' said he, turning to Ned, 'such a loiterer should be trusted to escort no one unless it were his grandmother or a rheumatic old lady of seventy.'

Ned Somers laughed, as he answered: 'We don't all walk as rapidly as you do.'

'The more shame for you,' exclaimed Harson. 'Upon my life! I believe I'm younger than any of you. Look to yourself, my lad, or I may take it into my head to cut you out of a wife; and if you lose her, you won't require the snug little legacy which I intend to leave you when I'm under ground. Come; shake hands with the girl, and bid her good night: you've kept her in the street long enough. Good night, Jacob--Good night, Kate.'

He took her hand, and whispered, 'Be of good heart; your father is coming round.'

His mouth was very near her ear; and as he whispered, Ned happened to be looking at them, and thought that the communication did not stop with the whisper; and Harson himself looked very wickedly up at him, as much as to say: 'Do you see that?--you had better have a sharp eye to your interests!'

Long and earnest was the conversation which ensued between Harson and Somers on their way home; and nobly did the character of that old man shine out, as he detailed his future views for his young friend's welfare.

'You need not thank me,' said he, in reply to Ned's warm acknowledgments. 'The best return that I can have will be, to find you always in word and deed such that I may be proud of you; and hereafter, when I see others looking up to you, and hear you spoken of as one whose character is above all reproach, that I may say to myself: 'Thank God, I helped to make him what he is.' This is all that I want, Ned; and your future life will be your best acknowledgment, or will prove your heartless ingratitude. Let neither success nor failure tempt you to swerve from what your own heart tells you to be right and fair. Turn out as your schemes may, never forget to keep your motives pure; and believe me, that come what will, you'll find an easy conscience a great comforter in the hour of trial. Your father was one of my oldest friends; a noble upright man he was; and it would have wounded him deeply that any one belonging to him should have been otherwise; and it would give me many a heavy hour if his only child did not turn out all that I expect him to be. I am right glad to learn that you are getting bravely on in your business; and as for this matter with Kate,' said he, pausing, for they had come to where their routes separated, 'it can easily be made right. I love her as my own child; and I would not have her thwarted for the world. I'll see Jacob again to-morrow; and have no doubt that he will give his consent at last. Perhaps it would be better for you not to present yourself at his house too soon. Work your way back to where you were, cautiously, and say nothing to him about marrying Kate, until you and he are on your old terms of good fellowship. It wont be long, depend on it: and now, recollect what I told you a few moments ago. If you want any assistance in your business, or if a loan of a thousand or two dollars, or a good word from me, will push you on, you shall have it. Good night!' And Harson had not gone a hundred yards, before he was whistling so loud that he might have been heard half a mile.

'God help you, Harry!' muttered Somers, looking after the stout, burly figure of his friend; 'God bless your warm old heart! What a glorious world this would be, if there were more in it like you!'

LITERARY NOTICES.

NARRATIVE OF THE TEXAN SANTA FE EXPEDITION: Comprising a description
of a Tour through Texas, and across the great South-western prairies,
the Camanche and Cayguea Hunting-grounds, with an account of the
suffering from want of food, losses from hostile Indians, and final
capture of the Texans, and their march as prisoners to the city of
Mexico. By GEORGE WILKINS KENDALL. In two volumes. New-York: HARPER
AND BROTHERS.

This is by far the most racy and interesting book of travels we have read for a long time. Every body is of course acquainted with the general history of the expedition; its romantic projects, its speedy defeat, and the calamitous sufferings which its members were forced to undergo. But ill-fated as it was, the rich and most amusing personal incident with which every step of its progress appears from this book to have been crowded, commends it most forcibly to our admiration. We cannot say that we should have been quite willing to accompany our friend KENDALL through all the severities of his adventurous journey; nor can we refuse our sincere sympathy with him and his brave companions, in the terrible scenes through which they passed. But he has told all these adventures in so pleasing and interesting a manner, and has so sprinkled through the narrative sketches of personal incident, abounding with wit and humor, that the volumes must be read with a delight as keen as the sufferings recorded were real and severe. Mr. KENDALL writes in a style admirably adapted to the narration of just such a history as he has given; it is simple and clear, aiming at nothing more than to give a plain statement of actual occurrences; and yet it is remarkably spirited, and distinguished at times by great felicity of expression. He is a capital traveller, never shrinking from any danger or difficulty, close in his observation, and gifted with a love of fun, and a 'touch' of humor which no extremity, however terrible or threatening, can wholly repress. The reader of the work must be continually surprised at the repeated instances which occur where this disposition is strongly manifested; and while it must have relieved to a considerable degree the sufferings which he was forced to undergo, it gives to the book increased and attractive interest. We should be glad to follow Mr. KENDALL through his journey, and present copious extracts from the account he has given of its progress and incidents; but this our limits will not allow; and we can only glance at the general history of the expedition, and copy a tithe of the passages we have marked in reading the two excellent volumes he has given us.

At the opening of his book, Mr. KENDALL gives us a statement of the motives which induced him to join the expedition, and an introduction to the persons of whom it was composed. His purposes, of course, were entirely pacific, growing out of a desire to recruit his health, a wish to procure new materials for writing, and a love of adventure in general. He took care to provide himself with passports from the Mexican authorities, which he naturally supposed would protect him, as an American citizen, from molestation and injury. The first part of their journey led them over the vast prairies and hunting grounds of Western Texas; and their adventurous progress is admirably sketched in his flowing narrative. Their exploits in hunting buffalo; their frights from, and encounters with, the wild Indians; their serenades from the wolves, and all the incidents by which a journey of so large a troop over ground before almost untrodden, would naturally be distinguished, are most graphically and humorously described. We copy the following interesting description of a _stampede_, or flight of terror, with which great numbers of horses or oxen are sometimes seized, with a humorous sketch of the exploits in this line, of one of the nags of the expedition:

'Nothing can exceed the grandeur of the scene when a large
_cavallada_, or drove of horses, takes a 'scare.' Old,
weather-beaten, time-worn, and broken-down steeds--horses that
have nearly given out from hard work and old age--will at once be
transformed into wild and prancing colts. When first seized with
that indescribable terror which induces them to fly, they seem to
have been suddenly endowed with all the attributes of their
original wild nature. With heads erect, tails and manes streaming
in air, eyes lit up and darting beams of fright, old and jaded
hacks will be seen prancing and careering about with all the
buoyancy of action which characterizes the antics of young colts;
then some one of the drove, more frightened than the rest, will
dash off in a straight line, the rest scampering after him, and
apparently gaining fresh fears at every jump. The throng will then
sweep along the plain with a noise which may be likened to
something between a tornado and an earthquake, and as well might
feeble man attempt to arrest either of the latter.

'Were the earth rending and cleaving beneath their feet, horses,
when under the terryfying influence of a _stampede_, could not
bound away with greater velocity or more majestic beauty of
movement. I have seen many an interesting race, but never any
thing half so exciting as the flight of a drove of frightened
horses. The spectator, who may possibly have a nag among them
which he has been unable to get into a canter by dint of spur and
whip, sees his property fairly flying away at a pace that a
thorough-bred racer might envy. Better 'time,' to all appearance,
he has never seen made, and were it not that he himself is as much
astounded as the horses, there might be very pretty betting upon
the race.

'On one occasion, when a closely-hobbled horse was rushing madly
along the prairie under the influence of fright, his owner coolly
remarked: 'I wish I could make that critter go as fast on my own
account without hobbles, as he can on his own with them--I'd
gamble on him _sure_.' And so it is. No simile can give the reader
a fair conception of the grandeur of the spectacle, and the most
graphic arrangement of words must fall far short in describing the
startling and imposing effect of a regular _stampede_!

'While upon this subject, I should not, perhaps, neglect to notice
one of the little private _stampedes_ my friend Falconer's horse
was in the habit of occasionally getting up, principally on his
own individual account and to gratify his own peculiar tastes and
desires, entirely regardless, all the while, of his master's
convenience as well as of the public safety.

'He was a short, thick-set, scrubby, wiry nag, tough as a pine
knot, and self-willed as a pig. He was moreover exceedingly lazy,
as well as prone to have his own way, and take his own
jog--preferring a walk or gentle trot to a canter; and so
deep-rooted were his prejudices in favor of the former methods of
getting over the ground, that neither whip nor spur could drive
him from them. He possessed a commendable faculty of taking most
especial good care of himself, which he manifested by being always
found where water was nearest and the grass best, and on the whole
might be termed, in the language of those who consider themselves
judges of horse flesh, a 'tolerable chunk of a pony' for a long
journey.

'He had one bad quality however, which was continually putting his
master to serious inconvenience, and on more than one occasion
came near resulting seriously to all. One day we stopped to 'noon'
close by a spring of water, and had simply taken the bridles from
our horses to give them a chance to graze, when he improved the
occasion to show off one of his eccentricities. Falconer had a
way, as I have before stated, of packing all his scientific,
cooking, and other instruments upon his horse, and on the occasion
to which I have alluded, some one of them chanced to chafe or gall
the pony, inducing him to give a kick up with his hinder limbs.
The rattling of the pots and pans started him off immediately, and
the faster he ran the more they rattled. We immediately secured
our horses by catching up the _lariats_, and then watched the
fanciful antics of the animal that had raised all the commotion.

'He would run about ten jumps and then stop and kick up about as
many times; then he would shake himself violently, and then start
off again on a gallop. Every now and then a culinary or scientific
instrument would be detached from its fastenings, when the
infuriated pony would manage to give it a kick before it struck
the ground and send it aloft again. The quadrant took the
direction toward the sun without taking it; the saucepan was
kicked into a stew; the thermometer was up to an hundred--inches
above the ground, and fell to--worth nothing. To sum it all up,
what with rearing, pitching, kicking, and galloping about, the
pony was soon rid of saddle and all other incumbrances, and then
went quietly to feeding, apparently well satisfied with all the
trouble he had given his owner.

'The whole affair was ludicrous in the extreme, defying
description. The rattling of the tin, earthen, and other ware, as
the pony snorted, kicked, and pranced about, made a noise
resembling that produced at a _charivari_. His antics were of the
most unseemly nature, too--and the cool philosophy of Mr.
Falconer, as he quietly followed in the wake of the vicious
animal, picking up the fragments scattered along, completed a
picture which would have made the fortune of Cruikshank, had he
been on the spot to take it down. Some time after this adventure
the Indians stole the horse, but they made a bad bargain of it.'

There are scores of passages, describing the burning of a prairie, hunting buffaloes, fighting the Indians, camping out at night under a deluge of rain, and other scenes by which their journey was marked; but we must pass to the following account of the feelings which attend starvation, which we copy for its intrinsic interest, and as an instance of the fearful extremities to which the expedition was sometimes reduced:

'I have never yet seen a treatise on dissertation upon starving to
death; I can speak _feelingly_ of nearly every stage except the
last. For the first two days through which a strong and healthy
man is doomed to exist upon nothing, his sufferings are, perhaps,
more acute than in the remaining stages; he feels an inordinate,
unappeasable craving at the stomach, night and day. The mind runs
upon beef, bread, and other substantials; but still, in a great
measure, the body retains its strength. On the third and fourth
days, but especially on the fourth, this incessant craving gives
place to a sinking and weakness of the stomach, accompanied by
nausea. The unfortunate sufferer still desires food, but with loss
of strength he loses that eager craving which is felt in the
earlier stages. Should he chance to obtain a morsel or two of
food, as was occasionally the case with us, he swallows it with a
wolfish avidity; but five minutes afterward his sufferings are
more intense than ever. He feels as if he had swallowed a living
lobster, which is clawing and feeding upon the very foundation of
his existence. On the fifth day his cheeks suddenly appear hollow
and sunken, his body attenuated, his color an ashy pale, and his
eye wild, glassy, cannibalish. The different parts of the system
now war with each other. The stomach calls upon the legs to go
with it in quest of food: the legs, from very weakness, refuse.
The sixth day brings with it increased suffering, although the
pangs of hunger are lost in an overpowering languor and sickness.
The head becomes giddy; the ghosts of well-remembered dinners pass
in hideous procession through the mind. The seventh day comes,
bringing increased lassitude and farther prostration of strength.
The arms hang listlessly, the legs drag heavily. The desire for
food is still left, to a degree, but it must be brought, not
sought. The miserable remnant of life which still hangs to the
sufferer is a burden almost too grievous to be borne; yet his
inherent love of existence induces a desire still to preserve it,
if it can be saved without a tax upon bodily exertion. The mind
wanders. At one moment he thinks his weary limbs cannot sustain
him a mile--the next, he is endowed with unnatural strength, and
if there he a certainty of relief before him, dashes bravely and
strongly onward, wondering whence proceeds this new and sudden
impulse.

'Farther than this, my experience runneth not. The reader may
think I have drawn a fancy sketch--that I have colored the picture
too highly: now, while I sincerely trust he may never be in a
situation to test its truth from actual experience, I would in all
sober seriousness say to him, that many of the sensations I have
just described I have myself experienced, and so did the
ninety-and-eight persons who were with me from the time when we
first entered the grand prairie until we reached the flock of
sheep, to which more pleasing subject I will now return.'

The history of the base betrayal of the party to the Mexicans by one of their members named LEWIS, gives us a picture of Mexican duplicity most vivid and striking: but it is only the prelude to cruelties more barbarous and revolting than have recently stained the acts of any but the most savage and uncultivated natives. After being disarmed, under pretence that it was only a formality, and then promised that their arms would be at once restored, they were seized and ordered to be _shot_; but from this they were saved by the interference of one of the Mexican officers less blood-thirsty than the rest. They were immediately started off for Santa Fe, half-starving and worn down by fatigue, and heard the bloody order given to the armed guard which attended them: 'If any one of them pretends to be sick or tired on the road, '_Shoot him down and bring back his ears_.'' The following extracts describe some of the scenes they were forced to witness:

'A walk, or rather a hobble of two hours, for we were so stiff and
foot-sore that we could not walk, brought us once more to the
plaza or public square of San Miguel. The place was now literally
filled with armed men--a few regular troops being stationed
immediately about the person of Armijo, while more than
nine-tenths of the so-called soldiers were miserably deficient in
every military appointment. A sergeant's guard of the regular
troops was immediately detailed to take charge of our little
party, and after bidding adieu to Don Jesus, as we hoped forever,
we were marched to a small room adjoining the soldiers' quarter.
This room fronted on the plaza, and had a small window looking out
in that direction; but the only entrance was from a door on the
side. Sentinels were immediately placed at the little window and
door, leading us to suppose that this was to be our regular
prison-house; but we had scarcely been there ten minutes before a
young priest entered at the door, and said that one of our party
was to be immediately shot! While gazing at each other with looks
of eager inquiry, wondering that one was to be shot and not all,
and while each one of us was earnestly and painfully speculating
on the question which of his fellows Armijo had singled out for a
victim, the young priest raised himself on tiptoe, and looking
over our heads, pointed through the windows of our close and
narrow prison. We hurriedly turned our eyes in that direction, and
were shocked at seeing one of our men, his hands tied behind his
back, while a bandage covered his eyes, led across the plaza by a
small guard of soldiers. Who the man was we could not ascertain at
the time, but that he was one of the Texans was evident enough
from his dress. The priest said that he had first been taken
prisoner, that while attempting to escape he had been retaken, and
was now to suffer death. A horrible death it was, too! His
cowardly executioners led him to a house near the same corner of
the square we were in, not twenty yards from us, and after
heartlessly pushing him upon his knees, with his head against the
wall, six of the guard stepped back about three paces, and at the
order of the corporal _shot the poor fellow in the back_! Even at
that distance the executioners but half did their barbarous work;
for the man was only wounded, and lay writhing upon the ground in
great agony. The corporal stepped up, and with a pistol ended his
sufferings by shooting him through the heart. So close was the
pistol that the man's shirt was set on fire, and continued to burn
until it was extinguished by his blood!

'Howland's hands were tied closely behind him, and as he
approached us we could plainly see that his left ear and cheek had
been cut entirely off, and that his left arm was also much hacked,
apparently by a sword. The guard conducted their doomed prisoner
directly by us on the left, and when within three yards of us the
appearance of his scarred cheek was ghastly; but as he turned his
head to speak, a placid smile, as of heroic resignation to his
fate, lit up the other side of his face, forming a contrast almost
unearthly. We eagerly stepped forward to address him, but the
miscreants who had charge of us pushed us back with their muskets,
refusing even the small boon of exchanging a few words with an old
companion now about to suffer an ignominious death. Howland saw
and felt the movement on our part. He turned upon us another look,
a look full of brave resolution as well as resignation, and, in a
low but distinct tone, uttered: '_Good-bye, boys; I've got to
suffer. You must_----' But the rest of the sentence died on his
lips, for he was now some yards in the rear of us, and out of
hearing.

'The guard who had charge of us now wheeled us round, and marched
us in the same route taken by our unfortunate guide, and within
ten yards of him. A more gloomy procession cannot be imagined.
With Howland in advance, we were now conducted to the plaza, and
halted close by the spot where, in plain sight, lay the body of
our recently-murdered companion. A bandage was placed over the
eyes of the new victim, but not until he had seen the corpse of
his dead comrade. Worlds would we have given could we be permitted
to exchange one word with our unoffending friend--to receive his
last, dying request--yet even this poor privilege was denied us.
After the cords which confined his arms had been tightened, and
the bandage pulled down so as to conceal the greater part of his
face, Howland was again ordered to march. With a firm, undaunted
step he walked up to the place of execution, and there, by the
side of his companion, was compelled to fall upon his knees with
his face towards the wall. Six of the guard then stepped back a
yard or two, took deliberate aim at his back, and before the
report of their muskets died away poor Howland was in eternity!
Thus fell as noble, as generous, and as brave a man as ever walked
the earth.'

The following passage narrates another barbarity of the same character:

'Just as we were starting, a man named John McAllister, a native
of Tennessee and of excellent family, complained that one of his
ankles was badly sprained, and that it was utterly impossible for
him to walk. The unfortunate man was naturally lame in the other
ankle, and could never walk but with difficulty and with a limp.
On starting, he was now allowed to enter a rude Mexican cart,
which had been procured by the Alcalde of Valencia for the purpose
of transporting some of the sick and lame prisoners; but before it
had proceeded a mile upon the road it either broke down or was
found to be too heavily loaded. At all events, McAllister was
ordered by Salazar to hobble along as best he might, and to
overtake the main body of prisoners, now some quarter of a mile in
advance. The wretch had frequently told those who, from inability
or weakness, had fallen behind, that he would shoot them rather
than have the march delayed; not that there was any necessity for
the hot haste with which we were driven, but to gratify his brutal
disposition did he make these threats. Although he had struck, and
in several cases severely beaten, many of the sick and lame
prisoners, we could not believe that he was so utterly destitute
of feeling, so brutal, as to murder a man in cold blood whose only
fault was that he was crippled and unable to walk. He could easily
have procured transportation for all if he had wished, and that he
would do so rather than shoot down any of the more unfortunate we
felt confident: how much we mistook the man!

'On being driven from the cart, McAllister declared his inability
to proceed on foot. Salazar drew his sword and peremptorily
ordered him to hurry on, and this when he had half a dozen led
mules, upon either of which he could have placed the unfortunate
man. Again McAllister, pointing to his swollen and inflamed ankle,
declared himself unable to walk. Some half a dozen of his comrades
were standing around him, with feelings painfully wrought up,
waiting the _denouement_ of an affair which, from the angry
appearance of Salazar, they now feared would be tragical. Once
more the bloodthirsty savage, pointing to the main body of
prisoners, ordered the cripple to hurry forward and overtake
them--_he could not_! 'Forward!' said Salazar, now wrought up to a
pitch of phrenzy. 'Forward, or I'll shoot you on the spot!' 'Then
shoot!' replied McAllister, throwing off his blanket and exposing
his manly breast, 'and the quicker the better!' Salazar took him
at his word, and a single ball sent as brave a man as ever trod
the earth to eternity! His ears were then cut off, his shirt and
pantaloons stripped from him, and his body thrown by the roadside
as food for wolves!'

In the following extract, of a different description, we have a sketch of a real 'character:'

'Entering an _estanquillo_, or shop licensed to sell cigars, we
met two or three faces so decidedly Anglo-Saxon in complexion and
feature that we at once accosted them in English, and were
answered by one of the party with a drawl and twang so peculiarly
'Down East,' that Marble, Hackett, or Yankee Hill, might have
taken lessons from him. We soon ascertained that they belonged to
the American circus company then performing at San Luis, and on
telling them who we were, they at once invited us to their _meson_
to supper. The first speaker, who proved to be a regular
Vermonter, was not a little surprised to see us out without a
guard, and asked if we had received permission to that effect. His
astonishment was removed when we told him that we were allowed to
leave our quarters on parole.

'In five minutes after our arrival at the hotel of the
equestrians, I found that our Vermont acquaintance was one of the
quaintest specimens of the Yankee race I had ever seen, and not a
few examples had I met previous to my encounter with him. He had a
droll impediment in his speech which gave to his actions and
gestures a turn irresistibly comic, and then he told an excellent
story, played the trombone, triangle, and bass viol, spoke Spanish
well, drove one of the circus wagons, translated the bills, turned
an occasional somerset in the ring, cracked jokes in Spanish with
the Mexican clown, took the tickets at the entrance with one hand,
while with the other he beat an accompaniment to the orchestra
inside on the bass-drum, and, in short, made himself 'generally
useful.' After partaking of an excellent supper, we spent an
agreeable hour in his room, listening to story after story of his
adventures. He 'come out' to Mexico, to use his own words, by way
of Chihuahua, accompanying the traders from Jonesborough, on Red
River, in the first and only expedition across the immense
prairies. They were some six or eight months on the road, and
suffered incredible hardships for want of water and provisions.
Our Yankee was a stout man when we saw him, but he told us that he
was a perfect transparency when he first arrived at the Mexican
settlements--so poor, in fact, that according to his own account,
'a person might have read the New-England Primer through him
without specs.'

'When ten o'clock came we rose to depart; but the droll genius
insisted that we should first partake of a glass of egg-nog with
him, and then help him to sing 'Old Hundred' in remembrance of old
times. There are few persons in the New-England States who cannot
go through this ancient and well-known psalm-tune after some
fashion; and although neither time nor place was exactly
befitting, we all happened to be from that quarter, and could not
resist complying with his comico-serious request. He really had a
good voice, and, for aught I know, may have led the singing in his
native village church. After humming a little, apparently to get
the right pitch, he started off with a full, rich tone; but
suddenly checking himself in the middle of the first line, said
that the thing was not yet complete. Taking a double-bass from its
resting-place in one corner of the room, he soon had the
instrument tuned, and then recommenced with this accompaniment.
Never have I heard a performance so strangely mingling the grave
and the comic. It was odd enough to see one of his vocation in a
strange land thus engaged; and then the solemnity and zeal with
which he sawed and sang away were perfectly irresistible. I did
not laugh; but thoughts arose in my mind very little accordant
with the earnest and devotional spirit with which our strange
companion went through his share of the performance. This curious
scene over, a scene which is probably without a parallel in the
history of San Luis Potosi, we took leave of our singular
acquaintance, who promised to call at the convent early the next
morning, and do every thing in his power to assist those among the
Texans who were the most destitute.'

But we have space only for one more extract, an account of certain 'extra observances,' which, in the order of their devotion, the prisoners while in Puebla, introduced into the service of the Catholic church:

'Every Sunday morning, the prisoners confined at Puebla were
compelled to attend mass, in chains, at one of the churches. The
floors of all the religious establishments of note in Mexico are
of stone or marble, without seats of any kind, and those in
attendance must either kneel or stand during the ceremonies. In
the present instance, the Texans were paraded in rows before the
altar, and compelled to fall upon their knees while mass was said;
but they were not obliged to go through all the little forms and
ceremonies which the Catholic Church in Mexico exacts of its
votaries, such as crossing themselves, smiting their breasts, and
other outward observances. Well drilled, however, were they in all
the minutiae of these demonstrations; and in addition, one of the
jokers, who had acted as the prosecuting attorney at San
Cristobal, and who was a great mimic, taught them a few original
'extras' and 'fancy touches,' which he had ingrafted upon the
regular Catholic ceremonials. So well had he disciplined his
brother prisoners, that they could go through all his ritual with
as much promptness and precision as could the best military
company in existence go through its simplest manoeuvres.

'On arriving at the church, and after kneeling in front of the
altar, the well-drilled Texans awaited the usual signal from the
officiating priest to commence. There probably was not a Catholic
among them; yet the assumed air of grave devotion to be seen in
their faces would have done credit to the most rigid of that
creed. At the given signal, and at the proper time, the chained
prisoners would cross themselves with all seeming humility,
closely imitating every motion of the priest and of the Mexicans
around them; but instead of stopping with their Catholic
neighbors, they wound up by placing the right thumb to the tip of
their noses, and then, with a mock gravity which might have drawn
a smile from an Egyptian mummy, circled the fingers about, and all
this directly in the face of the officiating priest, and without a
smile upon their countenances. When the proper time came for again
crossing themselves, the mischievous leader of the Texans would
pass the word for his men to 'come the double compound action,' as
he called it. This resembled the first movement, with the
exception that it was more complicated and more mysterious to the
surrounding Mexicans. After the right hand had gone its usual
round, from forehead to breast and from shoulder to shoulder, the
thumb again settled on the tip of the nose; but this time the left
thumb was joined to the little finger of the right hand, and then
commenced a series of fancy gyrations with all the fingers, the
like of which was probably never before seen in a Catholic church.
Sam Weller, I believe, or if not he, some modern philosopher of
his school, defines the movement I have just described as meaning
something like 'This may be all very true, but we don't believe a
word of it.' What the Mexicans thought of it, or whether they
noticed it or not, I am unable to say: it may be that they
considered it as simply 'a way' the Texans had, and thought no
more of it. Such is the story told of the pranks played by the
prisoners confined in Puebla.'

We must here end our notice of this amusing book. It will be found highly entertaining, and to contain also much information concerning the character of the country through which Mr. KENDALL passed. It will attain a wide popularity, for it is decidedly the best and most readable book of the season. . . . SINCE the foregoing was placed in type, we learn from Mr. KENDALL'S journal, the well known New-Orleans '_Picayune_,' that the tyrant SALAZAR, whose cruelties are recorded in preceding extracts, met recently with an awful death. He escaped from prison at Santa Fe, and fled to the woods, where he was killed and scalped by the Indians, and his body left a prey to wild beasts. Just retribution!

ADDRESS AND POEM, DELIVERED BEFORE THE MECHANIC APPRENTICE'S LIBRARY
ASSOCIATION on the twenty-second of February. By FREDERICK W. LINCOLN,
Jr., and GEORGE COOLIDGE. Boston: THE ASSOCIATION.

The inculcations of both these performances are excellent; and in a literary point of view, they are also highly creditable to their authors. Mr. Lincoln supports the necessity and dignity of labor with unanswerable argument and felicitous illustrations. Much, says he, in a few segregated sentences, 'has been written, with truth and eloquence, by great minds, upon the dignity of labor; but it is the dignity of _the laborer_ which is the vital point that demands attention. Labor or industry needs no apology, no advocates; it is the very instinct of our being, and one of the first to develop itself; it is only when performed in a peculiar way, or associated with a particular class, that it is considered disreputable. How is this evil to be remedied? Not by assuming a superiority, but by _attaining_ to it. You have it in your power to make the profession of a mechanic as honorable as any avocation in life. The dignity of a profession depends upon the character of those who are in its ranks. If the individual is low or mean, no occupation can confer upon him respectability or regard. On the other hand, no useful employment, however trivial, in the social state, can degrade him who faithfully performs its duties. It is not always the men of genius, those gifted with extraordinary natural endowments, who are the greatest benefactors of our race, or who enjoy in a greater degree personal happiness themselves. WASHINGTON and FRANKLIN were not men of genius, as the world understands that term. It was by probity, industry, perseverance, a well-strung nerve, and an iron will, that they conquered the obstacles before them, and acquired that true greatness which has made their names preeminent among the famous of earth, and their example the inspiration of American youth. Circumstances may do something for us; we can do more for ourselves. We must have faith, we must be in earnest.' The healthful American spirit which pervades the 'Address,' characterizes not less prominently the poem of Mr. COOLIDGE. A passage from this performance, commencing 'List to the Psalm of Labor!' speaks of what we intended our readers should have had an opportunity to 'hearken to;' but the tyranny of space is despotic.

DRAWINGS AND TINTINGS. By ALFRED B. STREET. pp. 48. Albany: W. C.
LITTLE. New-York: BURGESS, STRINGER AND COMPANY and M. Y. BEACH.