“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.
The “Jackson Hotel.”
I found that I had arrived in the very “nick of time:” for just as I returned from the stable, and was entering the verandah of the hotel, I heard the bell calling its guests to supper. There was no ado made about me: neither landlord or waiter met me with a word; and following the stream of “boarders” or travellers who had arrived before me, I took my seat at the common table-d’hôte.