CHAPTER XXXII.
My Ideas of the State of Texas—Why I Will Not Go There—The Story of a Frontier Man.
New York, March 5.
Have had cold audiences in Maine and Connecticut; and indifferent ones in several cities, while I have been warmly received in many others. It seems that, if I went to Texas, I might get it hot.
I have received to-day a Texas paper containing a short editorial marked at the four corners in blue pencil. Impossible not to see it. The editorial abuses me from the first line to the last. When there appears in a paper an article, or even only a short paragraph, abusing you, you never run the risk of not seeing it. There always is, somewhere, a kind friend who will post it to you. He thinks you may be getting a little conceited, and he forwards the article to you, that you may use it as wholesome physic. It does him good, and does you no harm.
The article in question begins by charging me with having turned America and the Americans into ridicule, goes on wondering that the Americans can receive me so well everywhere, and, after pitching into me right and left, winds up by warning me that, if I should go to Texas, I might for a change meet with a hot reception.
A shot, perhaps.
A shot in Texas! No, no, no.
I won’t go to Texas. I should strongly object to being shot anywhere, but especially in Texas, where the event would attract so little public attention.
“A SHOT IN TEXAS.”
.......
Yet, I should have liked to go to Texas, for was it not from that State that, after the publication of “Jonathan and His Continent,” I received the two following letters, which I have kept among my treasures?
Dear Sir:
I have read your book on America and greatly enjoyed it. Please to send me your autograph. I enclose a ten-cent piece. The postage will cost you five cents. Don’t trouble about the change.
My Dear Sir:
I have an album containing the photographs of many well-known people from Europe as well as from America. I should much like to add yours to the number. If you will send it to me, I will send you mine and that of my wife in return.
.......
And I also imagine that there must be in Texas a delightful primitiveness of manners and good-fellowship.
A friend once related to me the following reminiscence:
I arrived one evening in a little Texas town, and asked for a bedroom at the hotel.
There was no bedroom to be had, but only a bed in a double-bedded room.
“Will that suit you?” said the clerk.
“Well, I don’t know,” I said hesitatingly. “Who is the other?”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said the clerk, “you may set your mind at rest on that subject.”
“Very well,” I replied, “I will take that bed.”
At about ten o’clock, as I was preparing to go to bed, my bedroom companion entered. It was a frontier man in full uniform: Buffalo Bill hat, leather leggings, a belt accommodating a couple of revolvers—no baggage of any kind.
I did not like it.
“Hallo, stranger,” said the man, “how are you?”
“I’m pretty well,” I replied, without meaning a word of it.
The frontier man undressed, that is to say, took off his boots, placed the two revolvers under his pillows and lay down.
I liked it less and less.
By and by, we both went to sleep. In the morning we woke up at the same time. He rose, dressed—that is to say, put on his boots, and wished me good-morning.
MY ROOM-MATE.
The hall porter came with letters for my companion, but none for me. I thought I should like to let that man know I had no money with me. So I said to him:
“I am very much disappointed. I expected some money from New York, and it has not come.”
“I hope it will come,” he replied.
I did not like that hope.
In the evening, we met again. He undressed—you know, went to sleep, rose early in the morning, dressed—you know.
The porter came again with letters for him and none for me.
“Well, your money has not come,” he said.
“I see it has not. I’m afraid I’m going to be in a fix what to do.”
“I’m going away this morning.”
“Are you?” I said. “I’m sorry to part with you.”
The frontier man took a little piece of paper and wrote something on it.
“Take this, my friend,” he said; “it may be useful to you.”
It was a check for a hundred dollars.
I could have gone down on my knees, as I refused the check and asked that man’s pardon.
.......
I lectured in Brooklyn to-night, and am off to the West to-morrow morning.
