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<h3>Chapter Thirty Nine.</h3> <h4>The promised Epistle.</h4> Under any circumstances, a return to Swampville would have been necessary: certain pecuniary requirements called me back to that interesting village. A journey, even across the desert, cannot be made without money; and the hundred dollars I had paid to Holt, with hotel and other incidental outlays, had left me with a very light purse. It would have taken three times as much as I was master of, to provide us with the scantiest equipment required for a prairie journey; and toward this the young hunter, willing to give his all, was able to contribute nothing. He would cheerfully have parted with his patrimony—as I with my purchase—for a very slender consideration; but, at that crisis, the Californian speculation demanded all the specie in circulation; and neither his clearing nor mine would have sold for a single dollar, had the payment been required in cash. A credit sale could not have served us in any way; and we were forced to hold on to our depreciated property—upon which not a single cent could be borrowed. Never stood I in more need of my Nashville friend; and my appeal, already made, was promptly responded to—as I expected it would be. On the third day after my despatch, the answer arrived—with a handsome enclosure; enough to carry us across the continent, and back again if need be. We were now ready for the road. We waited only for that other letter, that was to be the index to our destination. How we passed our time during that interval of expectation is not worth describing. We enjoyed the hospitality of the Jackson hotel; and contrived to escape the espièglerie of its husband-hunting denizens, by hunting the deer of the surrounding forest. During the whole time, we went not near our respective “plantations” on Mud Creek. Wingrove had good reason for being shy of that quarter; and I had no inclination to trust myself to its souvenirs. Moreover, the hours of the mail-rider were neither fixed nor regular; and on this account I avoided a prolonged absence from the post-office. Six days of this expectancy I endured—six days of alternate hope and doubt—the latter at times so distressing, that even in the excitement of the chase I could not procure distraction for my thoughts! More than once my comrade and I had almost ceased to hope; and half resolved to launch ourselves on the great prairie ocean—trusting to chance to guide us to the haven of our hopes. On the sixth day we had determined upon it; and only awaited the mail, that should arrive on the morning of the seventh. The seventh proved the day of joy. Our doubts were dispelled. The cloud that hung over our course was cleared away, by the arrival of the expected epistle! My fingers trembled as I took the precious billet from the hands of the postmaster. He must have observed my emotion—though I did not open the letter in his presence. The superscription was enough to tell me from whom it came. I had studied the fac-simile of that pretty cipher, till it was well impressed upon my memory; and could therefore recognise it at a glance. I did not even break open the envelope till we were upon the road. The post-mark, “Van Buren, Arkansas,” sufficiently indicated the direction we were to take; and not, till we had cleared the skirts of Swampville, and were en route for Memphis, did I enter on the pleasure of perusal. The address was simply as before: “To Edward Warfield;” and so to the apostrophic commencement: “Stranger!” I could have wished for some less distant word—some familiar phrase of endearment, but I was contented—for I knew that Lilian’s too recent love had lacked the opportunity of learning its language. Before it had time to achieve the employment of those sweet forms of speech, its course had been rudely interrupted. Thus ran the letter: “Stranger!—I hope you got my other letter, and that you were able to read it, for I had no paper, nor pens, nor ink to write it better—only a little bit of a pencil, that was my mother’s, and a leaf which father said you tore out of a book. But I think I could have wrote it better, only I was so afraid that they would see me, and scold me for it, and I wrote it in a great hurry, when they were from home, and then left it on the table after both of them had gone down to the creek to get into the canoe. I thought no one would come to the house before you, and I hoped all the morning you might come before we were gone. I would have given a great deal to have been able to see you again; and I think father would have waited till you came, only his friend would not let him stay longer, but hurried us away. But I hope you got the letter, and that you will not be offended at me for writing this one I send you, without your leave. I promised that if you would allow me, I would write from some place, and tell you the name of the country where we are going; but I forgot that it would be impossible for you to give me leave, as you could not see me, nor yet know where to write it to me. I now know what country it is, for everybody we have seen is talking about it, and saying that it is full of gold, that lies on the ground in pieces as big as hickory nuts; and I hear the name a many a time, over and over again. Father calls it ‘Californey,’ and some ‘California,’ and this, I suppose, is the right way of spelling it. It is near a great sea, or ocean as they call it, which is not the same that comes in at Philadelphia and New York, but far greater and bigger than the Mississippi and the Obion, and all the rivers put together. It must be a very large sea to be bigger than the Mississippi! But I am sure you must know all about it, for I have heard them say you have travelled in these far-away countries, and that you were an officer in the army, and had been fighting there with the Mexicans. I am glad you were not killed, and got safe home again to Tennessee; for if you had been killed, I should never have seen you; but now it is just as bad, if I am never to see you again. O sir! I would write to you from that country when we are settled there; but I fear you will forget me before then, and will not care to hear anything more about us. “I shall never forget our dear Tennessee. I am very sorry at leaving it, and I am sure I can never be happy in California with all its gold—for what good can gold be to me? I should so like to hear sometimes from our old home, but father had no friends who could write to us; the only one we knew is gone away like ourselves. “Maybe, sir, you would not mind writing to us—only a very short letter, to tell us how you get on with the clearing, and whether you have made it much bigger, and built a great house upon it, as I have heard father say you intended to do. I shall always like to hear that you are in good health, and that you are happy. “I have to tell you of a very strange thing that happened to us. At the mouth of the Obion river, when we were in the canoe at night-time—for we travelled all that night—we heard some one shouting to us, and O Sir! it was so like your voice that I trembled when I heard it, for it appeared as if it came down out of the clouds. It was a thick mist, and we could see no one; but for all that, I would have cried out, but father would not let me speak. It appeared to be right above our heads; and father said it was some wood-cutters who had climbed into a tree. I suppose that must have been it; but it was as like your voice as if it had been you that shouted, and as I knew you could not be there, it made me wonder all the more. “We arrived at this place yesterday. It is a large town on the Arkansas river: and we came to it in a steam-boat. From here we are to travel in a waggon with a great many other people in what they call a ‘caravan,’ and they say we shall be many months in getting to the end of the journey. It is a long time to wait before I can write again, for there are no towns beyond Van Buren, and no post to carry a letter. But though I cannot write to you, I will not forget to think of the words you said to me, as I am now thinking of them every minute. In one of my mother’s books which I brought with me, I have read a pretty piece. It is in poetry; and it is so like what I have been thinking of you, that I have learnt it off by heart. It is so true-like and so pretty a piece that I thought you might like to read it, and hoping it may please you, I write it at the end of my letter, which I fear I have already made too long; but I hope you will have patience to read it all, and then read the poetry:— <blockquote> “I think of thee when Morning springs From sleep with plumage bathed in dew; And like a young bird lifts her wings Of gladness on the welkin blue. And when at noon the breath of love O’er flower and stream is wandering free, And sent in music from the grove— I think of thee - I think of thee! “I think of thee, when soft and wide The Evening spreads her robe of light, And like a young and timid bride, Sits blushing in the arms of Night. And when the moon’s sweet crescent springs In light or heaven’s deep, waveless sea, And stars are forth like blessed things— I think of thee - I think of thee! </blockquote> “O sir! it is very, very true! I do think of you, and I am sure I shall do so as long as I live. “Lilian Holt.” Ah, Lilian! I too think of thee, and thy sweet song! Simple, but suggestive words. Knew I but where to address thee, you should know how responsive to them are the echoes of my heart! <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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