University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

St. —'s dawn was welcomed by joyous peals from
the church-bells, and the occasional firing of a few muskets,
by way of accompaniment. The sun rose with a brilliance
which would have awakened deep tones in Memnon's statue,
and gilded mountain and valley. Beautiful beyond description
the city looked in his golden light, and

Half hid by a majestic live-oak which shaded the front,
and within a few yards of the river, stood a small white
house. It was built of adoles, and contained only three
rooms. Instead of reaching these by a broad flight, one
step from the threshold placed you on the ground. The
floor was uncovered, and, as usual, of cement. In one corner
of the front apartment stood a side-board, covered with
glass of various kinds, and a few handsome pieces of plate.
Its vis-à-vis was a range of shelves, filled with books; and
on the plain deal mantle-piece stood a pair of neat China
vases, decked with brilliant prairie flowers. Before the
open window was placed the table, arranged for the morning

meal. How pure the cloth looked, how clear the glass;
and then the bouquet of fragrant roses which adorned the
centre, how homelike, fresh, and beautiful it seemed! An
air of comfort—American, southern comfort—pervaded the
whole. The breakfast was brought in by a middle-aged
negress, whose tidy appearance, and honest, happy, smiling
face presented the best refutation of the gross slanders of
our northern brethren. I would that her daguerreotype,
as she stood arranging the dishes, could be contrasted with
those of the miserable, half-starved seamstresses of Boston
and New York, who toil from dawn till dark, with aching
head and throbbing heart, over some weary article, for
which they receive the mighty recompense of a shilling.

When she had arranged every dish with great exactness,
a small bell was rung; and, waiter in hand, she stood ready
to attend the family.

A bright, young face appeared at the open window.

“I hope, Aunt Fanny, you have a nice breakfast. You
have no idea what an appetite my walk has given me.”

“Now, Miss Mary, ain't my cooking always nice?”

“Indeed, it is. Your coffee would not disgrace a pacha's
table; and your rolls are

She disappeared from the window, and entered the room
just as Mr. Hamilton came in, followed by Florence.

“My dear uncle, have you forgotten the old adage of
`early to bed, and early to rise?'”

“I am not sure that I ever learned it, Mary;” he dryly
replied, seating himself at the table.

“One would suppose you had taken a draught from the

`Elixir of Life;'” said Florence, glancing affectionately at
her beaming face.

“I have discovered the fountain of perpetual youth, so
vainly sought in South America!”

“Indeed! Is it located in this vicinity?”

“Yes; and if you will rise to-morrow with Aurora, when
`she sprinkies with rosy light the dewy lawn,' I will promise
to conduct you to it.”

“Thank you; but Mary, what induced you to ramble
so early?”

“I have been nearly two miles for some roots Mrs.
Carlton expressed a wish for. See, Florry, how I have
dyed my hands pulling them up!”

“Were you alone, Mary?” asked Mr. Hamilton:

“I was, most of the time. As I came back, Dr. Bryant
overtook me. He spent the night at San Jose mission,
with a sick Mexican, and was returning. But where is
Aunt Lizzy?” continued Mary, with an inquiring glance
round the room.

“She went to mass this morning,” replied her cousin.

“Oh, yes! It is St. —'s day. I heard the bells at
daybreak.”

“It is a savage, heathenish custom they have adopted
here, of tearing up and down the streets from morning till
night. I wish, by Jove! they would ride over their canting
Padre! I think he would find some other mode of celebrating
the festival!”

“He would lay claim to saintship on the strength of it,”
replied Mary.

“You had better keep out of the street to-day, girls,”

rejoined Mr. Hamilton, pushing his cup away, and rising
from the table.

At this moment Aunt Lizzy entered; and after the
morning salutation, turned toward the door.

“You are later than usual this morning, aunt. Do sit
down and eat your breakfast, or it will be so cold you can
not touch it,” said Mary.

“No really devout Catholic tastes food on this holy day,”
she answered, motioning it from her.

“It must be quite a penance to abstain, after your long
walk,” said Mr. Hamilton with a smile.

“Father Mazzolin said, this morning, that all who kept
this holy day would add a bright jewel to their crown, and
obtain the eternal intercession of the blessed saint;” and
she left the room.

“That falsehood adds another stone to the many that
will sink him in the lake of perdition, if there be one!”
muttered Mr. Hamilton, as he departed for the countingroom.
The last few sentences had fallen unheeded on
Florence's ear, for she sat looking out the window, her
thoughts evidently far away. But every trace of merriment
vanished from Mary's face, and instead of her bright smile,
a look of painful anxiety settled there. A long silence ensued;
Mary stood by the table, wiping the cups as Aunt
Fanny rinsed them, and occasionally glancing at her cousin.
At length she said,

“Florry, will you walk over to Mrs. Carlton's with
me? I promised to go, and the walk will do you good,
for indeed your cheeks are paler than I like to see
them.”

“Certainly, Mary, but do you remember what father
said about our remaining at home, to-day?”

“There is no danger, Florry, if we only look about us,
and I really must go.”

“Well then, let us start at once.”

In a few moments they set out, equipped in large straw
hats, and equally large gloves; in addition, Mary carried
in her hand a basket, filled with herbs and flowers.

“If we walk briskly, we shall get there before any of
the riders set forth. Ah! I am mistaken, there they come.
Florry, don't go so near the street: that horseman in blue,
looks as though he were riding on ice—see how his horse
slides about!”

A party of twenty or thirty thundered past, and the girls
quickened their pace. A few minutes' walk brought them
to Mrs. Carlton's door, which closed after them.

That lady was reading, as they entered, but threw aside
her book, and advanced joyously to greet them. She kissed
Mary affectionately, and cordially shook Florence's hand.

“I am glad you came, Mary. I feared you would not,
and really I want you very much.”

“What can I do, Mrs. Carlton?”

“You can take off your hat and gloves, and prepare
yourselves to spend the day with me.”

They laughingly complied, protesting, however, that
they could only remain a short time.

“Mary, my poor blind proselyte died yesterday, and bequeathed
her orphan child to me: I feel almost obliged to
accept the charge, for her fear lest it should fall into the
Padre's hands was painful to behold, and I promised to

protect it, if possible. The poor little fellow is nearly destitute
of clothes; I have cut some for him, and knew you
would assist me in making them.”

“With pleasure, dear Mrs. Carlton, and so will Florry;
fill my basket with work, and we will soon have him a
suit. Oh! how glad I am that he has such kind friends
as yourself and husband.”

“The Padre came last night to demand the child, but
we refused to give him up: he said he intended clothing
and educating the boy free of charge; yet I knew better,
for he refused to baptize Madame Berara's orphan-niece
without the customary fee, though he well knew she could
ill afford it, and was compelled to sell her last cow to
make up the requisite sum. I feel assured he will do all
in his power to entice Erasmo from me; but hope, by constant
watchfulness, to counteract his influence. Oh! Mary,
how much we need a Protestant minister here: one who
could effectually stem the tide of superstition and degradation
that now flows unimpeded through this community.
Oh! my dear friend, let us take courage, and go boldly forth
in the cause of truth, and strive to awaken all from the
lethargy into which they have fallen—a lethargy for which
their priests are alone responsible, for they administered the
deadly drug.”

“I feel as deeply as yourself, dear Mrs. Carlton, the evil
tendency and deplorable consequences of the institutions
by which we are surrounded, and the little that I can do
will be gladly, oh, how gladly! contributed to the work of
reformation you have so nobly begun.”

“You forget, Mary, in your proselyting enthusiasm, that

Aunt Lizzy belongs to the despised sect; surely you can
not intend, by attacks on her religion, to render her home
unpleasant?” said Florence.

Mary's eyes filled with tears, as she glanced reproachfully
at her cousin, and replied,

“Nothing is further from my wishes, Florry, than to
make her home other than happy. Aunt Lizzy has every
opportunity of informing herself on this important question.
Yet she prefers the easier method, of committing her conscience
to the care of the priest; she has chosen her path
in life, and determinately closes her eyes to every other.
The state of the Mexicans around us is by no means analogous.
They were allowed no choice: bred from infancy in
the Romish faith, they are totally unacquainted with the tenets
of other creeds. Implicit obedience to the Padre is their
primary law, the grand ruling principle of life, instilled from
their birth. To lay before them the truths of our own `pure
and undefiled religion,' is both a privilege and duty.”

“You spoke just now, Miss Florence, of the `despised
sect;' allow me, in all modesty, to say, that to the true
and earnest Christian there is no such class. Believe me,
when I say, that though deeply commiserating their unhappy
condition, and resolved to do all in my power to
alleviate it, still I would as cheerfully assist the conscientious
Papist, and tender him the hospitalities of my home,
as one of my own belief.”

“You have expressed my feelings exactly, Mrs. Carlton,
and there are times when I wish myself a missionary, that
I might carry light to this benighted race,” exclaimed
Mary, enthusiastically.

“We are very apt, my dear child, to consider ourselves
equal to emergencies, and capable of great actions, when a
strict examination would declare that the minor deeds and
petty trials which test the temper and the strength too
often destroy our equanimity, and show our inability to
cope with difficulties. Woman's warfare is with little
things, yet we are assured by the greatest of all female
writers, that `trifles make the sum of human things;'
therefore, let us strive more and more earnestly to obtain
perfect control of ourselves; then shall we be enabled to
assist others.”

“I often think,” replied Mary, thoughtfully, “that we
make great sacrifices with comparative ease, because we
feel our own insufficiency, and rely more on God for assistance;
while in lesser troubles we are so confident of success,
that we neglect to ask his blessing, and consequently
fail in our unaided attempts.”

“You are right, Mary, and it should teach us to distrust
our powers, and lead us to lean upon `Him, who is very
precious help in time of need.'”

A long silence ensued, broken at length by the entrance
of Mrs. Carlton's two children, who carried a large basket
between them. Hastily they set it down, on seeing Mary,
and sprung to her side: the little girl clung around her neck,
and kissed her repeatedly.

“Maria, you are too boisterous, my little girl; Miss
Mary will have no cause to doubt your affection. Elliot,
why do you not speak to Miss Florence, my son?”

Blushing at his oversight, the boy obeyed, and, joined by
his sister, stood at his mother's side. Maria whispered

something in his ear, but he only shook his head and replied,

“Not now, sister, let us wait.”

She hesitated a moment, then laid her little hand on
Mrs. Carlton's shoulder:

“Mother, I know you said it was rude to whisper in
company, but I want to tell you something very much.”

Mrs. Carlton smiled.

“I am sure the young ladies will excuse you, my daughter,
if it is important.” She bent her head, and a prolonged
whispering followed. A flush rose to the mother's
cheek and a tear to her eyes, as she clasped her to her
heart, and said,

“I wish you, my children, to speak out, and tell all you
know of this affair.”

Elliot was spokesman.

“We went into the garden as you desired us, mother,
and Erasmo and I picked the peas, while sister held the
basket; presently we heard a noise in the brush fence like
something coming through, and sister got frightened (here
he laughed), and wanted to run to the house, but we told
her it was only a sheep or dog outside; but it turned out
to be the Padre, and he came and helped us to pick.
Mother, he told us such pretty stories; I can't think of the
names; they must have been Dutch, they were so long and
hard. But I remember one of the tales: he said there
was once a good man who lived in Asia, and one day he
lost his crucifix; he looked every where for it, but could
not find it; and a long time afterward, he happened to be
walking by the sea-shore and looked out on the water,

and oh, what do you think? He saw his crucifix moving
on the water, and a great crab paddled out to land and
laid his crucifix down before him, and then paddled right
back into the sea again. Now wasn't that funny. I can't
think of the good man's name, Saint—Somebody—Saint
—Saint—”

“Brother, I reckon it was Saint Crab!”

“No, no! It was the crab that found the crucifix, and
I think he was smarter than the Saint.”

“Now, Florry, should I repeat this legend to Aunt Lizzy,
it would be impossible to convince her that it proceeded
from the Padre's lips. Yet even prelates of Rome scruple
not to narrate as miracles tales equally absurd, where their
auditory is sufficiently ignorant to credit them. Pardon my
interruption, Elliot, and finish your story,” continued Mary.

“Mother, the Padre talked to Erasmo in Spanish. I
could not understand all he said, but it was about coming
to live with him, and going to Mexico, to see the sights
there. When he came to the rows you left for seed, I told
him we must come to the house, and asked him to come
in; but he would not, and offered us all some money, and
said we must not tell a soul we had seen him, for he
happened to see us through the fence, and just came in to
speak to us, and you and father might think he ought not to
come into our garden. But oh, mother, would you believe
it! he told Erasmo, as he went off, that he must ask you
to let him go to bathe to-morrow; and instead of going to
the river, he must come to the church: he wanted to give
him something. He told him in Spanish, but I understood
what he said. Now, wasn't that teaching him to tell a

lie? and he a Padre too! Mother, don't you think he ought
to be ashamed?”

“Elliot, if you would gladden the hearts of your father
and mother, be ever truthful. Remember the story of
“Pedro and Francisco” you read not long ago, and put dishonesty
and dissimulation far from you: `honesty is the
best policy,' and if you adhere to it through life, it will
prove of `far more worth than gold.' Be sure you keep nothing
from me, particularly what the Padre may say.”

“Shall we take the peas out under the hackberry and
shell them,” said Maria.

“Yes, my dear, but first tell me where Erasmo is.”

“Sitting on the steps, mother. I know he will help us
to shell them, for he said it was mere fun, picking peas.”

“Say nothing to him of the Padre or his conversation,
but interest him about other things.”

They left the room swinging the basket between them.
Mrs. Carlton's eyes filled as she looked after her children.
“A mother's care can do a great deal, yet how little did I
imagine that temptation would assail them at such a time,
and in such a garb.”

“Oh, guard them carefully; for, surrounded by these influences,
it will be difficult to prevent contamination,” said
Mary, earnestly.

Just then a long, loud shout from the street attracted
their attention, and hastening to the door, they perceived a
crowd gathered on the Plaza. In the centre was a body
of Mexican cavalry, headed by their commanding officer,
who, hat in hand, was haranguing them. The ladies looked
at each other in dismay.

“To what does this tend,” asked Mary, anxiously.

“My husband told me several days since that Austin
was imprisoned in Mexico, and said he feared difficulties
would ensue, but knew not the cause of his confinement.”

“There is Dr. Bryant coming toward us; I dare say he
can tell us the meaning of this commotion.”

That gentleman, bowing low in the saddle, reined his
steed as near the step as possible.

“How do you do, Miss Hamilton, and you, my dear sister?
I had the pleasure of meeting Miss Mary in her morning
rambles; she is a most remarkable young lady. Assures
me she actually loves early rising.” His dark eyes were
fixed laughingly upon her.

“Do stop your nonsense, Frank, and tell us the cause of
that crowd,” said Mrs. Carlton, laying her hand on his
arm.

“My dear sister, that tall, cadaverous-looking cavalier is
the brother-in-law of Santa Anna, and no less a personage
than General Cos, sent hither to fortify this and every other
susceptible place.”

“Against whom or what?”

“It is a long story, ladies. You know that Coahuila has
pursued an oppressive policy toward us for some time, and
refused to hear reason: Austin remonstrated again and
again, and at last went to Mexico, hoping that the authorities
would allow us (here he bit his lip, and his cheek
flushed)—it galls my spirit to utter the word—allow us to
form a separate State. The Congress there took no notice
of his petition, for, in truth, they were too much engaged
just then about their own affairs to heed him, and he

wrote to several persons in Austin, advising them at all
hazards to proceed. Some cowardly wretch, or spy in disguise,
secretly dispatched one of his letters to the ministers;
consequently, as Austin was returning, they made him
prisoner, and carried him back to Mexico. Santa Anna is
at the head of affairs. He has subverted the too liberal
constitution of 1824, but is opposed by a few brave hearts,
who scorn the servitude in store for them. Santa Anna
knows full well that we will not submit to his crushing
yoke, and therefore sends General Cos to fortify the Alamo.
This is the only definite information I have been able to
glean from several sources.”

“Do you think there is probability of a war?”

“It will most inevitably ensue, for total submission will
be exacted by Santa Anna, and the Texans are not a people
to comply with any such conditions.”

“You think Gen Cos is here to fortify the Alamo?”

“Yes; the work commences to-morrow, I hear, and the
fort will be garrisoned by Spanish troops.”

“How many has he with him?” inquired his sister.

“Only fifty or sixty; this is merely the advanced guard,
the main body will probably arrive in a few days.”

“I suppose they are joyously welcomed by the Mexicans
here, who have ever regarded with jealous eyes Protestant
settlers.”

“Oh, yes, that shout testified the hearty welcome they
received.”

At this moment Mr. Hamilton joined the group.

“Have you heard the news?” he inquired.

“Yes, and sad enough it is,” said Mary, with a sigh.

“It will be a bloody conflict.”

“I am afraid so,” replied Dr. Bryant.

“Come, girls, I am going home, will you go now?”

Mary took her basket, which Mrs. Carlton had filled
with work, and they descended the steps.

“I declare, Miss Irving, I have a great desire to know
what that basket contains; it is as inseparably your companion
as was the tub of Diogenes. I often see it round
a corner before you are visible, and at the glimpse of it,
invariably sit more erect in saddle, and assume my most
amiable expression.”

He raised himself, and peeped inquiringly over the edge;
Mary swung it playfully behind her.

“I never gratify idle curiosity, Dr. Bryant.”

“Indeed, how very remarkable; but I assure you I know
full well the use to which those same herbs you had this
morning are to be applied; you are amalgamating nauseous
drugs, and certain pills, to be administered to my
patients. I am grieved to think you would alienate what
few friends I have here, by raising yourself up as a competitor.
Pray, where did you receive your diploma? and are
you Thomsonian, Allopathic, Homeopathic, or Hydropathic?”

Mary looked at Mrs. Carlton: both smiled.

“Ah! I see Ellen is associated with you. Do admit me
to partnership; I should be a most valuable acquisition,
take my word for it. A more humble-minded, good-hearted,
deeply-read, and experienced disciple of Esculapius
never felt pulse, or administered a potion.”

They laughed outright.

“Mary, shall we tell Frank what we intend those herbs
for?”

“By no means, he does not deserve to know.”

“Ah! I see Terence was right after all, in his opinion
of woman's nature—`When you request, they refuse; when
you forbid, they are sure to do it.'”

“Come, girls, come! I have business at home;” said
Mr. Hamilton, and they set out homeward. They had
not proceeded far, when Mary exclaimed, pointing behind
her,

“Oh, uncle, that woman will be killed! Can nobody
help her?”

“She will certainly be thrown from her horse!”

A party of five or six Mexicans were riding with their
usual rapidity toward them. An elderly woman in the
rear had evidently lost control of her fiery horse, which
was plunging violently. The other members of the company
seemed unable to render any assistance, as their own
could scarcely be restrained. The unfortunate Señora was
almost paralyzed with fright; for instead of checking him
by the reins, they had fallen over his head, become entangled
in his feet, and now grasping the mane, she was
shrieking fearfully.

“Oh, can't we do something for her!” cried Mary,
clasping her hands.

“I do not see how we can assist her,” said Mr. Hamilton.

“At least, let us try;” and they hastened to the spot
where the infuriated animal was struggling.

“Stand back, girls! you can do nothing.”

He made several ineffectual attempts to catch the bridle,

as the fore-feet rose in air, and at last succeeded in getting
one end. He bade the woman let go the mane, and
slide off. She did so, but some portion of her dress was
caught in the saddle, and she hung suspended. The
horse feeling the movement, again plunged, despite Mr.
Hamilton's efforts to hold him down. The scene was
distressing indeed, as she was raised and then flung down
again.

Mary saw the danger, and rushing round the enraged
horse, fearlessly pushed off the piece which was attached
to the pommel of the saddle, and freed the unfortunate
matron. The horse, feeling relieved of his burden, gave
a desperate bound, and rushed off down the street.

Florence shrieked, and sprung to her father's side.
Mary was bending over the moaning woman, but turned
suddenly, and saw her uncle stretched at Florence's feet.
He was insensible, and a stream of blood oozed from his
lips. They raised his head, and motioned to the Mexicans,
that now gathered round, for water; some was hastily
procured, and then Mary entreated one of them to go for
Dr. Bryant: as she spoke, the tramp of hoofs caused her
to look up, and she perceived him urging his horse toward
them. He flung the reins to a man who stood near, and
bent over the prostrate form.

“There is some internal injury, I see no outward wound;
how did this happen?”

Florence briefly explained the manner in which her
father received a kick on the chest. Happily, they were
near their own home, and, with the assistance of two men,
Dr. Bryant carefully bore him in, and laid him on a couch

near the open window. A restorative was administered,
and soon the sufferer opened his eyes. The flow of blood had
ceased, but he lay quite exhausted.

The physician examined the wounded place, and assured
Florence there was no fracture.

“I am afraid some blood-vessel is ruptured?” said she,
anxiously.

“It is only a small one, I hope, but can not tell certainly
for several days. He must be perfectly quiet; the
least excitement might prove fatal, by causing a fresh
hemorrhage.”

Nearly a week passed, and one evening Mary followed
the physician, as he left the house: he heard her step, and
turned. His usually laughing countenance was grave
and anxious; but he strove to seem cheerful.

“Doctor, I wish to know what you think of my uncle's
case; we are afraid it is more serious than you at first
pronounced it?”

“It is better that you should know the worst. I am
pained to grieve you, but candor compels me to say, that
a fatal injury has been inflicted. I hoped for the best, but
an examination this evening confirmed my fears.”

Mary sobbed bitterly and long. Dr. Bryant sought not
to comfort her by exciting false hopes, but paced up and
down the gravel-walk beside her.

“You do not fear a rapid termination of the disorder?”
she said at last, in a low, trembling tone.

“He may linger some days, but I do not think it probable
that he will.”

“Florry, Florry! what is to become of us!” cried the

weeping girl, in a voice of agony. “Oh, God! spare him
to us!”

“Do you think your cousin comprehends her father's
danger?”

“She fears the worst, and requested me this evening to
ask your opinion. Oh, how can I tell her that he must
die!”

“Do not crush all hope (though I have none); let her
believe that he may recover. She is not of a temperament
to bear prolonged agony. The shock will be less painful,
rest assured. Believe me, I deeply sympathize with you
both.” And pressing her hand, he withdrew.