“There now, Warfield, just your own passionate self! Nay, you must take my advice. Pray, do not go rashly about it, but act as I have counselled you.”
“That will depend upon contingencies. Should Master Holt—for I believe 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.’”