that is my predecessor’s name—should he prove amiable, I may consent to go a little in your debt, and pay him for whatever log-chopping he has done. If otherwise, by the Lady of Guadalupe!—you remember our old Mexican shibboleth—he shall be cleared out of his clearing sans façon. Perhaps we have been wasting words upon an ideal existence! Perhaps there is no squatter after all; or that old Holt has long since ‘gone under’ and only his ghost will be found flitting around the precincts of this disputed territory. Would not that be an interesting companion for my hours of midnight loneliness? A match for the wolves and wild-cats! Ha! ha! ha!”
“Well, old comrade; I trust it may turn out no worse. The ghost of a squatter might prove a less unpleasant neighbour than the squatter himself, dispossessed of his squatment. Notwithstanding this badinage, I know you will act with judgment; and you can count upon my help in the matter, if you should require it.” I grasped the speaker’s hand, to express my gratitude; and the tight pressure returned, told me I was parting with one of the few friends I had in the world.
My impedimenta had been already packed. They did not need much stowage. A pair of saddle-bags was sufficient to contain all my personal property—including the title-deeds of my freehold! My arms I carried upon my person: my sword only being strapped along the saddle. Bidding adieu to my friend, I mounted my noble Arab; and, heading him to the road, commenced journeying towards the Western Reserve.
Chapter Ten.
A Classic Land.
Between Nashville and Swampville extends a distance of more than a hundred miles—just three days’ travel on horseback. For the first ten miles—to Harpeth River—I found an excellent road, graded and macadamised, running most of the way between fenced plantations. My next point was Paris; and forty miles further on, I arrived in Dresden! So far as the nomenclature was concerned, I might have fancied myself travelling upon the continent of Europe. By going a little to the right, I might have entered Asia: since I was told of Smyrna and Troy being at no great distance in that direction; and by proceeding in a south-westerly course, I should have passed through Denmark, and landed at Memphis—certainly an extensive tour within the short space of three days! Ugh! those ugly names! What hedge-schoolmaster has scattered them so loosely and profusely over this lovely land? Whip the wretch with rattlesnakes! Memphis indeed!—as if Memphis with its monolithic statues needed commemoration on the banks of the Mississippi! A new Osiris—a new Sphinx, “half horse, half alligator, with a sprinkling of the snapping turtle.” At every forking of the roads, whenever I inquired my way, in my ears rang those classic homonyms, till my soul was sick of sounds. “Swampville” was euphony, and “Mud Creek” soft music in comparison! Beyond Dresden, the titles became more appropriate and much more rare. There were long stretches having no names at all: for the simple reason, that there were no places to bear them. The numerous creeks, however, had been baptised; and evidently by the backwoodsmen themselves, as the titles indicated. “Deer Creek” and “Mud”—“Coon” and “Cat”—“Big” and “Little Forky”—told that the pioneers, who first explored the hydrographic system of the Western Reserve, were not heavily laden with classic lore; and a pity it is that pedantry should be permitted to alter the simple, but expressive and appropriate, appellatives by them bestowed. Unfortunately, the system is followed up to this hour by the Fremonts and other pseudo-explorers of the farthest west. The soft and harmonious sound of Indian and Spanish nomenclature—as well as the more striking titles bestowed by the trappers—are rapidly being obliterated from the maps; their places to be supplied—at the instigation of a fulsome flattery—by the often vulgar names of demagogic leaders, or the influential heads of the employing bureau.
“I know the old general will be pleased—perhaps reciprocate the compliment in his next despatch—if I call this beautiful river ‘Smith.’ ”
“How the secretary will smile, when he sees his name immortalised upon my map, by a lake never to be dried up, and which hereafter is to be known by the elegant and appropriate appellation of ‘Jones!’ ” Under just such influence are these absurd titles bestowed; and the consequence is, that amid the romantic defiles of the Rocky Mountains, we have our ears jarred by a jumble of petty and most inappropriate names—Smiths, Joneses, Jameses, and the like—while, from the sublime peaks of the Cascade range, we have “Adams,” “Jackson,” “Jefferson,” “Madison,” and “Washington,” overlooking the limitless waters of the Pacific. This last series we could excuse. The possession of high qualities, or the achievement of great deeds, ennobles even a common name; and all these have been stamped with the true patent. In the associated thoughts that cling around them, we take no note of the sound—whether it be harsh or harmonious. But that is another question, and must not hinder us from entering our protest against the nomenclature of Smith, Jones, and Robinson!
Beyond Dresden, my road could no longer be termed a road. It was a mere trace, or lane, cut out in the forest—with here and there a tree “blazed,” to indicate the direction. As I neared the point of my destination, I became naturally curious to learn something about it—that is, about Swampville—since it was evident that this was to be the point d’appui of my future efforts at colonisation—my depôt and port entry. I should have inquired had I found any one to inquire from; but, for ten miles along the road, I encountered not a human creature. Then only a “darkey” with an ox-cart loaded with wood; but, despairing of information from such a source, I declined detaining him. The only intelligence I was able to draw from the negro was that; “da ‘city’ o’ Swampville, massr, he lay ’bout ten mile furrer down da crik.” The “ten mile down da crik” proved to be long ones; but throughout the whole distance I saw not a creature, until I had arrived within a mile or so of the “settlement!”
I had been already apprised that Swampville was a new place. Its fame had not yet reached the eastern world; and even in Nashville was it unknown, except, perhaps, to the Land-Office. It was only after entering the Reserve, that I became fully assured of its existence; and there it was known as a “settlement” rather than a “city.” For all that, Swampville proved to be not so contemptible a place; and the reason I had encountered so little traffic, while approaching it, was that I had been coming in the wrong direction—in other words, I had approached it from behind.
Swampville was in reality a riverine town. To it the east was a back country; and its front face was to the west. In that direction lay its world, and the ways that opened to it. Log-shanties began to line the road—standing thicker as I advanced; while at intervals, appeared a “frame-house” of more pretentious architecture. In front of one of these—the largest of the collection—there stood a tall post; or rather a tree with its top cut off, and divested of its lower branches. On the head of this was a “martin-box”; and underneath the dwelling of the birds, a broad framed board, on which was legible the word “Hotel.” A portrait of Jackson, done in “continental uniform,” embellished the face of the board. The sign seemed little appropriate: for in the harsh features of “Old Hickory” there was but slight promise of hospitality. It was no use going farther. The “Jackson Hotel” was evidently the “head inn” of the place; and without pause or parley, I dismounted at its door.
I was too well used to western habits to wait either for welcome or assistance—too careful of my Arab to trust him to hands unskilled—and I did the unsaddling for myself. A half-naked negro gave me some slight help in the “grooming” process—all the while exhibiting his ivories and the whites of his eyes in an expression of ill-concealed astonishment, produced apparently by the presence of my uniform coat—to the “darkey,” no doubt, an uncommon apparition.
Chapter Eleven.
