My original purpose had been to go high up Red River at this time, but the long delay in the boat’s leaving New Orleans, and her slow passage, obliged me to change my plans. The following year, I returned, in company with my brother, as narrated in “The Texas Journey.” Some portion of what follows is taken from that volume.
At a place called Alexandria, our progress was arrested by falls in the river which cannot be passed by boats at low stages of the water. The village is every bit a Southern one—all the houses being one story in height, and having an open verandah before them, like the English towns in the West Indies. It contains, usually, about 1,000 inhabitants, but this summer had been entirely depopulated by the yellow fever. Of 300 who remained, 120, we were told, died. Most of the runaway citizens had returned, when we passed, though the last case of fever was still in uncertain progress.
It has apparently not the least reputation for morality. At Nachitoches, the next village above on the river, a couple of men were waiting for their breakfast at the inn, when one, who looked and spoke more like a New Englander than a Southerner, said to the other, whom I presumed to be an Alexandrian—possibly Elder Slocum himself:—
“I had a high old dream, last night.”
“What was it?”
“Dreamt I was in hell.”
“Rough country?”
“Boggy—sulphur bogs. By and by I cum to a great pair of doors. Something kinder drew me right to ’em, and I had to open ’em, and go in. As soon as I got in, the doors slammed to, behind me, and there I see old boss devil lying asleep, on a red-hot sofy. He woke up, and rubbed his eyes, and when he see me, he says, ‘Halloo! that you?’ ‘Yes, sir,’ says I. ‘Where’d you come from?’ says he. ‘From Alexandria, sir,’ says I. ‘Thought so,’ says he, and he took down a big book, and wrote something in to’t with a red-hot spike. ‘Well, sir, what’s going on now in Alexandria?’ says he. ‘Having a “protracted meeting” there, sir,’ says I. ‘Look here, my friend,’ says he, ‘you may stop lyin’, now you’ve got here.’ ‘I aint lyin’, sir,’ says I. ‘Oh!’ says he, ‘I beg your pardon; I thought it was Alexandria on Red River, you meant.’ ‘So it was,’ says I, ‘and they are having a protracted meeting there, sure as you’re alive.’ ‘Hell they are!’ says he, jumpin’ right up; ‘boy, bring my boots!’ A little black devil fetched him a pair of hot brass boots, and he began to draw ’em on. ‘Whose doin’ is that?’ says he. ‘Elder Slocum’s, sir,’ says I. ‘Elder Slocum’s! Why in hell couldn’t you have said so, before?’ says he. ‘Here, boy, take away these boots;’ and he kicked ’em off, and laid down again.”
French blood rather predominates in the population in the vicinity of Nachitoches, but there is also a considerable amount of the Spanish and Indian mongrel breed. These are often handsome people, but vagabonds, almost to a man. Scarcely any of them have any regular occupation, unless it be that of herding cattle; but they raise a little maize, and fish a little, and hunt a little, and smoke and lounge a great deal, and are very regular in their attendance on divine worship, at the cathedral.