← the texts · the dossier

Kalikst Wolski — To America and in America (Lwów, 1876)

Part II — chapters XXIII–XXVI: Réunion

English translation of the Réunion chapters of Wolski's travel memoir — his eyewitness account of the La Reunion colony. Translated from the clean Polish transcription in polish_clean.md (book pp. 276–306). An earlier partial English rendering by Marion Moore Coleman exists as ../new_light.pdf; this is an independent translation of the full chapters.

Printed book-page numbers are given inline as ⟨277⟩. Translator's notes in [square brackets]; uncertain readings carried over from the transcription as [?].

Status: XXI, XXIII–XXVI complete. XXII (a self-contained frontier tragedy, unrelated to the colony) intentionally skipped.

XXI. THROUGH THE TEXAN STEPPES AND FORESTS

[The chapter opens with a long quotation from Chateaubriand on the American "virgin forests"; these pages are faint in the scan and were transcribed from the page images.]

⟨248⟩ Bent over the brook of softly murmuring streams, grouped into intricate clusters on rocks and hillocks, scattered through the valleys, trees of every shape, of diverse species, of manifold color and various scent, intermingled with one another, raise their crowns to an unheard-of height... like sky-piercing mountains... Wild vines, field shrubs of the ivy kind, and like herbs unknown by name, interweaving at the giant feet of oaks centuries old, sprout luxuriantly and, encircling the spreading boughs, pass beyond their very tips, and having joined ⟨249⟩ maples with cedars, cedars with tulip-trees, form as it were artificial bowers, in whose shade is a comfortable shelter from the scorching rays of the tropic sun... Often such tendrils, wandering from one tree to another, reach beyond the broad arms of the river and, binding themselves to the shrubs growing on the far bank, make a kind of artistic bridges hanging over the water... Here and there, from the many-hued clusters, the magnificent Magnolia raises its motionless cone, adorned with the broad blossoms proper to it, like a white rose... and as if with pride looks down on the shrubs about it, lower than itself. One rival only — the palm tree, with its lightly waving green leaves spread in the shape of fans — dares to set against it a brow prouder still...

An unheard-of multitude of living creatures, placed there by the supreme will of the Creator, refreshes and gives motion to these solitary wildernesses... Here, at the end of a long avenue, a bear shows himself, who, having gorged on wild grapes, has a swaying gait, as if dazed with drunkenness... not far off some flock of water-birds swims on a lake, reveling in the beneficent bath... there again squirrels black as ravens frolic on the spreading branches and, leaping from one to another, give themselves with complete freedom to their natural gymnastic movements... on the right, restless doves, cooing, stroll on the grass colored with wild strawberries... on the left, parrots of wondrous beauty, green with yellow heads, and other little birds all crimson, wheel and deftly twist among the leaves on the tops of the cypresses...

⟨250⟩ If all is in slumber far off somewhere beyond the forests, on the steppes immeasurable to the eye... here, on the contrary, at every step movement and rustle declare life... the sound of birds' beaks striking the stumps of oaks felled by age... the stirring of the thicket as animals slip through, which in their passage now and then nibble the grass and, finding some fruit, try to crack its stone with their teeth... the rush of cascades... the bellowing of buffalo... the sweet cooing of doves... fill this wilderness with a kind of wildly tender harmony... And when a beneficently cool breeze begins to stir the boughs and leaves... when all those white, blue, rose, green, and yellow objects mingle together, when at last the varied and countless echoes are joined into one strangely harmonious sound... So strongly does it strike the imagination and the eyes of the beholder, that I should hardly try to give a notion of it to those who have never witnessed the mysterious scenes of primeval creation.

In such words does Chateaubriand poetically sing the enchanting beauties of the New World's nature, where he spent some moments of his youth; and, picturing so vividly those so commonly called virgin American forests, through which he wandered and mused as one dreams in one's twenty-first year, he gives readers of this account, sketched in an exquisite style, the wish to look closely and to visit the wondrous regions so charmingly shaded by the man of genius.

But when the European, accustomed to live in a nature subdued by his forerunners, and for whom the years of dreaming are past, must come to fight with this wild nature that puts up resistance at every step — ⟨251⟩ when, as they say, he must go tooth-for-tooth in wrestling with it... then often, forgetting the purpose for which he came to wage those daily and wearying struggles, he sincerely regrets the less beautiful but native orchards, and would fly like a bird back to the parts he had left, paying little heed to the wondrous landscapes of southern America.

The convoy — made up of 37 people (that is, 33 of us, for three remained in Houston, and four wagoners), of 20 yoke of oxen drawing four wagons, and of three Mexican ponies — advanced slowly, at the oxen's own pace. At the head of this little army, going to declare war on the untilled earth and on the reptiles, a compass was carried; alongside walked several carpenters and farmers with axes at their belts, to clear the way through brush and gullies. Each of the four wagoners led 5 yoke of oxen harnessed to each wagon and kept preaching at them, urging them to follow him. Cousin and I rode out on the ponies the first day, but for the most part, the whole way, we preferred to go on foot.

We were warned always to keep with us on the wagons at least a couple of barrels filled with water, both for slaking thirst and for cooking, since the night's lodging might often fall in places where there would be no spring, no river, not even any puddle of water. The Texan oxen and horses, grazing on grass always at least a little moistened with dew, can do without drink for two or three days, but we, having nothing in which to ⟨252⟩ cook nor anything to drink, would have suffered greatly from such a want.

On each wagon, therefore, a barrel was fastened, with a tap screwed into its bottom projecting outward. In two barrels was whiskey, and in two water, which we changed wherever we met fresh and good. The whiskey was as indispensable as the water, for we were advised not to drink the latter by itself when tired, but always with a little of any kind of spirit added.

The first day we covered only a little more than four kilometers, and not far from some isolated settlement, by a clear stream, we halted for the night. The wagoners, versed in the customs, advised us first to light a great fire, then to set the tents around it, and to dig around each tent a fairly wide and deep ditch. These are precautions absolutely necessary there against the snakes, which flee from fire and, meeting such a ditch, will not cross it at all, fearing to encounter something unknown. Once the camp site was chosen, some began cutting the bushes nearby and carrying them into a pile; others set up the tents and entrenched them with little ditches; others again unfastened and prepared the cooking vessels. The wagoners unyoked the oxen and, leaving them paired in the yoke, hobbled their forelegs and turned them out to pasture; the ponies they tied to stakes driven on purpose into the ground, on very long ropes, to leave them space enough to graze around.

⟨253⟩ One of the inhabitants of the settlement we had seen from our camp came to visit us while we were eating — tasty, after the rice soup — fried bacon, washing it down with water and whiskey. We invited him, then, to this delicacy, well known to all the colonists in Texas, for they live on it and on corn-flour cakes alone. Speaking English fairly well by now, I could tell who could express himself well in that language and who badly. Noticing, then, that this colonist visiting us mangled his English badly, I asked him what nationality he was. To which he answered that he came from Poland. It astonished me not a little, this meeting of a countryman in the wilderness; but at that moment I recalled that the archbishop of Galveston had told me of families of Polish peasants who had come to colonize in Texas; I thought, then, that one or two families had broken off and come to settle near Houston. So I asked him in Polish whether he had come to Texas together with those of whom I had been told in Galveston. The colonist, when he heard his native tongue, being quite unprepared for it, opened his eyes wide, opened his mouth, and for a few moments could not utter a word. At last, in poor Polish, he replied that he was exceedingly glad to hear Polish speech, for he had not heard it for a very long time — that is, since he had left Gdańsk — and he told in brief his whole story.

⟨254⟩ At Gdańsk he had signed on as a sailor on a ship bound for England, whence, also as a sailor, he had come to New York; and since the seafaring life had grown tiresome to him, he stayed in the great city of the New World and worked loading and unloading ships. By great thrift, having gathered some little fund, he came to Texas, where land was for next to nothing, almost free, married, built himself a little house, and had now been living near Houston for eight years.

He told me, too, that at first he could not get used to the unheard-of multitude of snakes. The natives had indeed taught him an easy way of killing these loathsome reptiles, which, struck even with a rod on the spine near the jaw, at once cease to live. But although every day he dispatched several in this way, the snakes, as if coming out of the earth, always appeared, and to exterminate them was impossible. A few days before, an incident had befallen him that might have become very unpleasant and even dangerous. Wishing to put on his boots in the morning, he felt, on taking one in his hand, that there was something in it; he tilted it, then, to throw out the unwanted object, and out fell a venomous snake, which quickly slipped under the floor.

In all Texas the wooden houses are set on a dozen or so thick round stumps, two to three feet high, so that one must climb steps to each. This custom is adopted because the exhalations of the sun-baked earth, after the slightest rain, bring on the inhabitants a fever, which is so malignant and stubborn that it sometimes lasts seven to eight years, wasting the strength and at last bringing death. ⟨255⟩ And since in the countryside they do not build two-story houses, they wish, by raising them on such stumps, to remove them at least a little from the ground.

Between the floor and the ground there is, therefore, in country houses a fairly large gap, and in it snakes of various kinds commonly nest. But usually those bred under the houses are not venomous. The big black ones are very fond of eggs and young chicks, and this taste of theirs does great harm to the housewives. In the towns the swine, of which more are kept there, exterminate these hideous reptiles, but in the countryside one must meet with them at almost every step.

Several species of snake found in Texas are venomous, but the two most venomous are: the rattlesnake, of considerable size and thickness, and a small thin green one, black-spotted, commonly called litle snak (little snake). One must guard greatly against the bite of the first, for no remedy for it has yet been found, and death follows in a short time. One can, however, easily guard oneself, for this loathsome reptile, as it moves, gives warning with the rattles growing at its tail. This rattling, though faint, gives time enough to prepare for receiving the enemy and killing it before it can bite. For defense no firearm is necessary; one needs only a little cold blood and skill, to strike with a small rod the spot most sensitive to all snakes — that is, the spine. In the month of May, during the breeding season, they are most dangerous, for then they rarely crawl but sit in place and dart ⟨256⟩ at those passing nearby who are unprepared to fend them off.

For the bite of other venomous snakes we were taught a method of treatment at Houston. Every traveler through Texas, or every dweller in the countryside where one may be bitten at any moment, should always have at hand a flint-and-steel, tinder, gunpowder, ammonia, and a flask of whiskey. When a venomous snake bites, one must at once suck the spot, spit out the venom, sprinkle the little wound — marked by two tiny parallel dots, as if made with a pin's point — with gunpowder, burn it, then apply ammonia on a kerchief, and drink as much whiskey as one can, even a whole bottle.

On the road, and later in the colony, several cases occurred of a bite by the green, black-spotted venomous snake; among others, the wife of one of the carpenters, who did the colonists' laundry, was also bitten. All carried out the rules to the letter, and nothing happened to them. With the woman, however, it was a harder matter: she screamed piercingly, for the pain is severe, but despite the urgings of those around her to suck the venom from the wound at once, she had not the courage to take the bitten finger to her mouth. Seeing that time was passing and she hesitated to use the one means, the young medical student from Brussels, who had come first to Texas with Cantagrel, sprang to her, seized her finger by force, sucked out the venom left in it, sprinkled the wound with gunpowder, burned it, and applied ammonia. When it came to drinking a more considerable dose of whiskey, again the bitten woman would not drink more than one small glass; so only by force did several people hold her, tilt her head, open ⟨257⟩ her mouth, and pour in nearly half a bottle of the liquor — and all this saved her from inevitable death.

It seems that the deed of the young academician Roger, sacrificing himself to preserve a fellow creature's life, though natural, is worth greater admiration than the deeds of those great army commanders who, for their own glory, have hundreds of thousands of soldiers slaughtered.

As for the rattlesnakes, we were warned to guard not only against their sting but even against their gaze, which is said to possess an extraordinary magnetic power. Various incidents were told us, more like tales from the Thousand and One Nights than like reality. We gave them no credence, but later we became convinced, and more than once, that they really were not entirely fables.

Once we had settled in our colony, there came to us from the state of Ohayo (Ohio) a pastor of the Pietist sect by the name of Allen, a highly educated man; he had already visited the agricultural colony North American Phalanx and came to observe the founding of ours, wishing to establish one of the like associations near Cincinnati. This pastor was a crack shot, and was especially fond of testing his aim on snakes; he did not stir a step without his double-barreled gun and laid out dead every reptile he spied. Now one day he was walking to Dallas, the town situated more than 3 kilometers from the colony, and passing through the cedar forest he heard the shrill voice of some little animal. Curious, he began to draw near in the direction of the voice and to seek with his eyes the creature that uttered it. Soon he saw on a tall tree a squir⟨258⟩rel, strangely uneasy, turning about in place as if tethered. For a long time he could not understand the cause of this terror, until at last there came to his mind those tales told of the rattlesnakes' magnetism. Incredulous, however, he looked around, watching for the presence of that terrible mesmerist.

How astonished he was to spy it indeed. It lay a little way off on the ground, crouched, with its eyes fixed on the top of the tree on which the squirrel was, wholly absorbed, it seemed, in magnetizing its victim; it did not know what was going on around it and paid no heed at all to the approaching pastor, though he was no more than fifty paces from it... The poor squirrel still turned and squealed for a while in place, then began to come down to ever lower branches of the tree. In its movements there seemed visible some compulsion, some reluctance, and its plaintive voice grew ever fainter, as if dying away. The pastor then looked at the loathsome reptile, which, with open jaws, not taking its eyes off the victim, had begun slowly to creep toward the foot of the tree; the marksman took pity on the innocent victim, aimed his gun at the terrible seducer, and, after his custom, did not miss. The innocent little creature, as if awakened, squeaked as though for joy and sprang hastily to the very top of the tree, from which a moment before it had so unwillingly been coming down.

Our countryman, the doctor of medicine Maszke — who had come to the banks of the Mississippi to study the symptoms of yellow fever and to treat it, and who afterward fell a victim to that disease himself — also told me strange things about the magnetism that rattlesnakes possess in their gaze. ⟨259⟩ He had a fondness for keeping venomous snakes in his house. He had a cage built of enormous size, with fairly thick iron bars and a dozen or so compartments, and in it he carefully kept these monsters, studying their habits. The inhabitants for this iron house were supplied by Black men, who knew how to catch them alive without fear of being bitten. The food the doctor gave his fearsome charges consisted for the most part of live rats, also brought by the Black men. The cage was so arranged that each of the said compartments could, by means of a fine wire slide, be divided into two sections, and, leaving the snake in one of them, one could safely manage in the other. Into this empty cell, then, a rat was let in, which usually, as if foreseeing its doom, huddled in the darkest corner and sat motionless.

When the slide in the rattlesnake's compartment was drawn back, and the executioner and the victim were left face to face, the snake, however hungry, lay perfectly still, having only fixed on the victim its loathsome eyes. After a few minutes of this mute struggle the rat began to give a piercing moan; after a few more minutes it began to turn about and squeal piercingly, until at last it crept toward the reptile and fell silent. Soon after it was already in the foe's jaws. They maintain in those lands that the rattlesnake is able to incapacitate a man in just the same way, and for that reason we were bidden to guard against its gaze.

The scientists with whom I spoke of this after returning to Europe flatly deny that ⟨260⟩ magnetic power in the gaze of the rattlesnake, as also of other snakes. I cannot dispute with the learned on this point; I relate only, as a traveler, what I heard from very cultivated inhabitants settled in those lands.

But it is high time to return to the camp by the stream, where I unexpectedly met our countryman, who, telling me of his boot and the snake, became the cause of so long a digression about reptiles. The first night of camping was very quiet and even pleasant. The Polish colonist stayed with us late into the night, and the next morning returned again and accompanied us as far as the place of the second night's lodging. He could not have enough of conversation with me. The native speech, half of which he had himself forgotten, awakened in him all his feelings and memories; it caressed his ear like the most enchanting music. He delighted in, was charmed by, every word of mine. The mother tongue awakens memories — not to be effaced by anything — of childhood and of the regions where one's young years were spent.

The next morning early we all began bustling about striking camp. The wagoners, mounting the three ponies, scattered to look for the oxen turned out to the night pasture. These oxen, although joined by the yoke and hobbled, can nevertheless wander from the camp by night sometimes very far. The wagoners, therefore, though on swift ponies, need no little time to find them and drive them back to the wagons. After the first night's lodging it was easy for our wagoners to find these animals, for ⟨261⟩ they guessed that these oxen, bought in the Houston region, had dispersed to the pastures to which they had been wont to go. Knowing the locality, and having learned the very first day where each pair had been bought, they went straight to where they came from. Even so, however, only about eleven before noon did they manage to gather all twenty pairs; only at that hour could we set out on the further road, which made us a little impatient, since by eight in the morning all had been ready to march.

On the first, second, and third days, then — that is, while our road went through what they there call łąki (meadows) \*) — the finding of the oxen still went tolerably, and more or less around eleven in the morning we would begin our march, and, going on until eight in the evening, we covered six to seven kilometers a day. But when on the fourth day we entered the vast forests, through which the journey lasted twelve days on end, the finding grew harder and more tedious.

\) In Texas they call uncultivated fields *meadows. In the rare settlements one may here and there meet with, they cultivate barely one or two morgs of corn, while the rest of the ground serves for pasture. The State of Texas, as big as France, is inhabited in only one-third of the country. All the present descriptions, therefore, apply only to this northeastern part; of the sandy plains in the south, the central mountains and forests, the western steppes and mountains, there is nothing to say, since all these parts are ranged over often by wild Indians, who do not allow individual colonists to settle. In the inhabited northern part — just where we were going — there are cultivated wheat, rye, oats, barley, and so on, and along the very northeastern border, around the Red River, sugarcane and cotton trees. In the other parts — that is, the southeastern, southwestern, and central — only corn can be grown; the inhabitants of these vast expanses occupy themselves with raising steppe cattle.

⟨262⟩ On our road we were to meet three little towns: Anderson, Springfield, and Corsicana. The wagoners knew neither these towns nor, naturally, the road leading to them; but when we were settling the price with them, they declared that all would be all-right, since it was not the first time it had fallen to them to drive oxen and wagons through Texas, and they had never yet gone astray, and so would lead us safely even to the world's end. At Houston we had been given the direction of the first of these three towns, that is Anderson; in that direction, then, we went, asking at the rare settlements along the way whether we were going rightly. On entering the forests we were deprived of all these guides: there were no more settlements, and not even a hope of meeting anyone riding or walking in those unpeopled lands; so the wagoners chose the road blindly. When we came upon two or three paths diverging in various directions, the wagoners took the one that seemed the straightest; but often, after some time, the chosen road would turn to right or left, or else suddenly there would be no more of it...

⟨263⟩ then the axes were at work, and had to clear a new little path by the compass.

After each night's lodging, before all twenty pairs of oxen were found in those thickets, on the luckiest days about noon — often only at two or three in the afternoon — we would set out on the further road. The wagoners, riding around each morning over the lodging-places nearby, always discovered either some spring or ditches where at least a little water was to be found; thither, then, we made for the following night.

Once it befell us to stand two days in one and the same place, because several pairs of oxen could not be found; the ponies too had their fill those days, racing from morning to evening without any rest; only on the third day did the wagoners spy the oxen lying in a thicket not far from our camp; meanwhile others, turned out to pasture, had dispersed, and so one had to keep searching now for these, now for those. Such a voyage would teach the most impatient people to be patient.

The most unbearable and most tedious thing was the crossing of the ditches that serve as the beds of streams when, in those lands, the rains fall. Driving downhill, almost always at least one of the four wagons would tip over, so the load had to be gathered and reloaded anew; and uphill the wagoners would hitch all 20 pairs to a single wagon. And with those unruly oxen, untaught to pull in such numbers, how much trouble and toil was spent before they would stir from the spot! ⟨264⟩ Four wagoners would go from one pair to another and address these animals in very tender words, urging them to move together and flattering them with strokes on the muzzle; this lasted up to ten minutes, after which they began to drive them on; but the oxen never heeded that first speech, and each went a different way. Then followed a merciless beating of the animals with great poles, and the shouts of those who a moment before had treated them so amicably. Stubborn, and accustomed to freedom on the Texan wilds, the oxen grew yet more obstinate, and each pair pulled a different way, as if to show that by this means no order could be brought to them. The wagoners would then throw their straw hats on the ground, tear their hair, and confer, usually very stormily, for each laid the blame on the others. When this session, lasting a few minutes, was over, they would change their stations in such a way that the one who had been driving the oxen at the very front took the place of the last, who replaced the second, and so on; again they spoke gently to the animals, stroked them, and as it were begged them to pull together; then again followed the driving, the beating with poles, the throwing of hats on the ground, the tearing of hair, and a new conference — and so several times over, until at last the wagon was hauled up the hill; and on getting four up in like manner the whole day always went. And so when toward evening we met with such a ditch, the crossing had to be put off to the next day.

On the tenth day of our journey through the forest we suddenly saw before us a fire: the grasses and ⟨265⟩ forest weeds were burning over a fairly large stretch, barring our way; and the thought that we might at any moment be ringed about with fire put us in no small terror. Our wagoners undertook to investigate the trouble and find a safe road. They mounted the ponies, and one of them boldly, heedless of the grass burning under his feet, galloped forward to learn the width of the belt of fire; a second rode right, a third left, to see whether it could be skirted easily. After a fairly short time all returned. The grass was burning in a direction crosswise to our road, far to right and left, but the width of the blaze did not yet amount to more than a few hundred paces; there was therefore no other counsel than to pass through this fire, the more so as one of the wagoners had discovered, beyond the flames, a wide ditch partly filled with water, behind which, once reached, we could be quite safe.

Fear for one's life lends unknown strength and courage. Just as at sea, when water by any means creeps into the ship's hold, all the passengers, even those of the most delicate health, set to pumping it to relieve the wearied sailors, for they are threatened with the vessel's sinking — so we too, fearing to be burned, all flung ourselves to the spades and axes and began to clear a wide road for the oxen and wagons, removing the burning grass. Luckily the grass in that place was neither thick nor tall and was smoldering close to the ground; the clearing of this road came to us with no great difficulty, but over nearly half a kilometer's length the work was long and laborious, the sweat poured ⟨266⟩ from us in plenty, from fear as much as from toil; at last we brought both oxen and wagons safely to the ditch, and, having crossed to its other bank, we breathed more freely.

One day we were again frightened by the meeting of two wild Indians with weapons on their backs, almost wholly naked, with long hair plaited in braids, their faces painted brick-red. We thought they were the vanguard of a more numerous and armed horde, and that we should have to fight a battle to save our skulls from scalping (the taking of the hair with the skin from the skull). The wagoners, versed in the customs of the wild Indians who sometimes show themselves in the forests of the inhabited part of Texas, reassured us, however, assuring us that these were only horse-thieves, who steal very deftly and with great daring; the following night, therefore, great caution was kept in our camp.

In the western part of Texas the colonists do not settle singly, for fear of attack by the savages, but build their cabins one beside another, forming as it were villages for easier and common defense. In spite of this the Indians raid for the sake of plunder. If they overcome the inhabitants defending their property by force of numbers, they murder all without exception, strip the skin with the hair from the victims' heads, burn the buildings, and, having seized all the goods, withdraw to their inaccessible haunts. The two we spied, seeing us armed with double-barreled guns and in fairly large number, turned quickly aside and hid in the dense thickets of the forest, for being only two they took fright; but ⟨267⟩ had they been more numerous they would surely have tried their strength against us.

Sometimes, to vary our dull and monotonous journey, we hunted. Most often rabbits fell, which, dressed for supper, seemed to us quite tasty; sometimes we killed squirrels, but their meat was soft and insipid. Our greatest feast was when a deer was brought down, but that happened rarely... Once at daybreak a dozen-odd colonists were going with pails to a brook flowing a thousand paces from the camp; from the opposite side, doubtless to slake their thirst, came a whole herd of deer, drawn out in a line, some fifty in number. Several of the colonists dropped their pails and ran for their guns, but these animals, unused to the sight of people and divining enemies by instinct, fled that very moment.

On the sixteenth day at last we came out of the forest, and with great joy saw the little town of Anderson, situated on a hill. Beyond the town stretched, beyond the eye's reach, covered with tall grass, the so-called meadows, that is uncultivated fields. After a one-day rest in Anderson we set out on the further — but now somewhat more pleasant and easier — road. The march across these prairies was far swifter, and the finding of the oxen wasted less time. We were warned in the town of the need to take on the wagons a store of firewood for cooking, since on the prairies one sometimes goes several days without meeting even the smallest bush. Moreover we were counseled to be careful in choosing places for fires; for a fire of these prairies is far more terrible and dangerous than one of the forest. The dry, tall grass catches very ⟨268⟩ easily, burns with a strong and swiftly advancing fire, from the midst of which it is very hard to flee, even on the bravest steed. The numerous herds of cattle, horses, and swine grazing on these vast expanses then flee at the utmost speed, uttering cries of terror, and, led by the instinct of self-preservation, make for places where at least a little water or marsh can be found and the danger escaped. Crowds of snakes and reptiles also crawl in haste, with a terrifying hiss, toward those saving spots. Our caravan, having only three ponies for thirty-seven persons, would inevitably have perished in such a catastrophe.

On the fifth day after leaving Anderson we came to a small grove, in the midst of which were a steam mill and two fairly large houses. One of the latter served as a store of ironware, corn, wheat flour, whiskey, tablets of pressed tobacco for chewing, cigars, sugar, tea, coffee, and other like goods — most sought-after and not luxury goods; the other was the dwelling of the miller and merchant. When we asked how far we were from the town of Springfield, we were told that we were in it precisely. Marked on the map, named in the geography, that town possessed only the three buildings mentioned above. As a central point for the colonies round about, it had a fairly important significance and gathered in itself a multitude of affairs: the colonists brought corn to be ground, supplied themselves with daily necessities of life, and sold their produce to one another.

⟨269⟩ Having bought up various articles, having drunk excellent spring water (for spring means źródło and field pole, and that is why the place was called Springfield) — a drink beyond price to us, who were forced often to drink it from a puddle and half mixed with mud — and having filled our barrels with it, we did not tarry long in that supposed town.

A few days later we again saw a town, but already larger and neater than the first two met in our wandering over the prairies. This last was called Corsicana and numbered over 1,000 inhabitants. Founded and once inhabited by Mexicans, it had kept almost all the Spanish customs. In the environs of Corsicana, here and there, cultivated fields were already to be seen, and on them the waving ears of rye or wheat.

Strange indeed is human nature! When one sees cultivated fields every day, the sight of them is a matter of indifference; but after some months of not seeing them, when one beholds them, the sight makes an exceedingly pleasant impression.

Beginning from the town of Corsicana, on the road toward the place of our destination, we now met far more frequent settlements, neater houses, and sown fields; in a word, having crossed the wildernesses, we entered lands inhabited by farmers, and for this reason our journey over the last six days was far more bearable and pleasant.

Five kilometers beyond Corsicana, having halted about two in the afternoon to rest (for great heat troubled us that day), our eyes were struck by a little house standing apart, ⟨270⟩ extraordinarily clean and even elegant, which in those parts was a rarity. This little house looked like some oasis from behind the magnolias and magnificent cypress-palms, or bananas, surrounding it; and since Texan hospitality allows one to enter any house to rest and cool oneself with sour milk or clear water, and since on the other hand we were in future to be neighbors (for our colony lay only 15 kilometers from this place), curious as to who lived so elegantly, and wishing to make their acquaintance, Mr. Cousin and I mounted the ponies, made for the pretty little house, and entered — as the local custom requires — without asking whether they wished to receive us or not.

We found in it the owner, a still young person, very carefully dressed, and a little child fidgeting about its mother, on whose face, in whose eyes and whole bearing, was graven some inexpressible moral suffering. She received us politely and with dignity. She bade a Black woman bring out cold water and a bowl of sour milk, inviting us to cool ourselves; then she sat down in a corner and gazed with sad eyes at her child. To the questions put to her she answered yes or no, so that it was evident any conversation wearied her. We did not dare ask the cause of so deep a sorrow; so, having thanked her for her hospitality, we soon withdrew.

Two kilometers from there we halted by a spring for the night. Not far from our camp was again a little house, not so elegant, it is true, as the one we had seen at noon, but very decent — inhabited, evidently, by more well-to-do ⟨271⟩ colonists. After supper we went again to pay a visit to that little house, in which (as we learned) there lived a judge, who rode three times a week to Corsicana to try cases. We asked him whether he knew the cause of so deep a sorrow in his near neighbor, whom we had visited a few hours before. He told us her story, and a truly tragic one it was.

[Chapter XXI ends here. The following chapter XXII ("The Unhappy Mother") — the tragic story of that Englishwoman, Mrs. Newcast — is omitted (out of scope; not about the colony).]

XXIII. RÉUNION

⟨276⟩ At last, after thirty-two days of marching at a truly oxen's pace — for it was geared to the gait of those animals — and without meeting any greater adversity, we dragged ourselves on the third day of May to the place where Cantagrel had already begun to build the second house, and which he had named Réunion. For this place, according to his plans, was to be the gathering point for all ⟨277⟩ the colonists and the capital of all the settlements that were to arise in the future.

Cantagrel \*) had come from Belgium to Dallas five months earlier. Supplied with the funds needed to purchase land, and holding authorization from the committee of the colonization company formed in Brussels, he set about zealously finding the most suitable site for the projected colony.

Considerant's plan was: first, to establish several — later a dozen-odd — agricultural associations around himself, on the model of the North America Phalanx and others that had succeeded and prospered in the Northern States; and then, in the future, in 6, 8, or 10 years, once all these associations had reached a certain point of maturity, to form one, two, or three Phalansteries on a grand scale — that is, such as had been laid out by Fourier in his works, namely: Associations of labor, talent, and capital.

It is plain, however, that the hour had not yet struck, for despite a leader of remarkable ability, despite considerable monetary resources furnished by the colonization company formed in Brussels, despite the zeal and devotion of a great many highly educated people, the attempt did not succeed — as I shall presently recount more closely, quoting excerpts from my little diary.

\*) Cantagrel, formerly a representative of the nation in the French legislative chamber in 1850, is today one of the most influential members of the Paris municipal council.

⟨278⟩ Cantagrel, like most Frenchmen, knew no foreign language. Having resolved to go to America, he did indeed take up the practical study of English, learned the whole of Ollendorff's method by heart, and supposed he would be able to converse with Americans about ordinary matters; but he was badly mistaken: few could make out anything of his English, and he himself, at first, could not understand the Americans at all. Fortunately he was accompanied by Roger, a medical student of the University of Brussels, who had decided to share the fortunes of our undertaking and had come to America together with Cantagrel, and who — knowing German well and being younger — soon spoke the language needed there tolerably well.

When they arrived at Dallas, they were directed to a colonel of the United States army who, for distinguishing himself in the Mexican War (in 1846), had received as a reward great tracts of land in the State of Texas, and who had moreover bought up warrants (titles of ownership on parchment) from other officers and soldiers similarly endowed by the nation as he had been.

Dallas lies on the road from Mexico to the United States; all the soldiers returning after the close of the campaign with warrants in their pockets had therefore to pass that way. More than one soldier, and even officers, having no funds for the onward journey, or never meaning to become a colonist, would sell for next to nothing his title of ownership made out for 300, 600, or more acres. Colonel Johnson bought up such titles very cheaply, paying ¾ of a dollar, at most a dollar, per morg of land, ⟨279⟩ and in this way became the owner of considerable tracts located around Dallas.

This colonel divided his whole extensive property into sections of 600 acres each, in such a way that each contained within it some portion of forest, meadow, and land fit for cultivation. On each he built a little house, fenced off 20 acres of land meant to serve as a future garden or pasture, and having thus greatly increased the value of the whole sections, resold them at great profit — at 3, 4, up to 5 dollars per acre, that is, each section at from 1,800 to 3,000 dollars.

Considering that such a little house — or rather a hut without doors or windows — given the abundance of timber on the spot and the labor of a few enslaved Black men, cost at most 250 to 300 dollars including the fencing, it is easy to grasp that the speculating colonel did excellent business.

Cantagrel entered into dealings with him and, choosing two adjoining sections situated 3 kilometers from Dallas, bought one at 3 dollars per acre, and the other — on account of the better quality of the soil, the fine cedar forest, and the Trinity river flowing through the middle of it — he paid 5 dollars for. Altogether, then, 1,200 morgs cost 4,800 dollars (about 25,000 francs).

In the little house of this riverside section Cantagrel and Roger set up headquarters, bought several yoke of oxen, and — hiring laborers and carpenters in the town of Dallas — set about hauling timber from the forest and building. They wasted not a moment, so that on our ⟨280⟩ arrival we already found the land prepared for the first work (for as colonists kept arriving, far larger tracts were to be bought up), one spacious house quite ready for the temporary lodging of the newcomers, a second one begun, as well as a small kitchen built separately and a good deal of worked timber hauled in. The credit for this haste was due in large part to the American workmen, who indeed make themselves dearly paid, but who also work tirelessly and, with remarkable speed, know how to raise buildings that are not elegant but durable and comfortable.

XXIV. EXCERPTS FROM A DIARY KEPT FROM THE TIME OF ARRIVAL AT RÉUNION

May 4. The day before yesterday, at noon, passing by a settlement located near our road, we stopped to cool off with sour milk. When I asked the host whether he knew how far away the Frenchman who had come to Dallas a few months earlier had bought land, he answered that not quite five kilometers off a large new house had already been built by him, and that the nearer neighbors ride over to look at it as a curiosity in this country, where they build only small houses.

⟨281⟩ When I carried this answer of the hospitable Texan settler to my companions, all rejoiced that we were at last at the goal of our long, wearying journey. We resolved, then, to cover this short distance that same day, urging the wagoners to drive the oxen on; but we had not foreseen that we would meet a riverbed, at which the wagoners' usual comedy with the oxen was played out, ending in yet one more bivouac. Only yesterday did we catch sight of the colony. Cousin rode ahead, while I stayed with the others by the wagons. An hour later Cantagrel rode up to us on horseback and we greeted one another warmly. Advancing slowly alongside the wagons and questioning one another about the details of our journeys, at three in the afternoon we stood before that great house.

Across the whole width of the house runs a broad hall. Around the four outer walls are the so-called verandas (spacious porches). Within are four large rooms without doors or windows, after the custom adopted in the Texas countryside. In the dining room stands a long table with benches around it. As one can see from these preparations, a long continuation awaits us here of the camping we began at Houston — only that it is not in canvas tents but under a wooden roof.

The wagons were unloaded; everyone settled where he could in one of the four rooms, laying his mattress on the ground with his trunk or other things beside it, and thus took possession of his temporary lodging.

So long as we were on the road, everyone bore all the discomforts more easily, for he thought they would someday end; but ⟨282⟩ here we shall have to remain this way a while longer, and there is fear of grumbling. Cantagrel might have done better to put up a dozen or so little houses — which are built extraordinarily quickly here — able to lodge each family separately, or two or three of the more congenial bachelors together, and so we would have avoided even this merely temporary communism, repugnant to all.

Having learned of a little house in the valley, 3 kilometers off, in which Cantagrel and Roger had lived for quite a while before the great house on the hill went up, I asked that it might be given over as a residence for me and one or two more companions. Cousin and Roger wished to be with me. Cantagrel, who disposed of everything as commander-in-chief, had to remain with the main army in the great house. The three of us set off for the little house, which consisted of two small rooms; there is also a chimney here and, it seems, in addition, countless nests of snakes under the floor. Candles are not burned in summer in Texas, for there are no doors or windows in these houses, and the mosquitoes come to the light; so as not to lure them, one must do without a light. In return we have nights of marvelous beauty and calm.

Travelers celebrate in verse and prose the beauty of the Italian and especially the Neapolitan sky; had they passed a single night under the Texan sky, they would have to seek new words to tell of its charm. Despite the toils of yesterday's march and the unloading of the wagons, the three of us sat almost the whole night before our little house, recounting to one another the impressions and incidents of the journey ⟨283⟩ and admiring the starry majesty of that enchanting night.

This morning we went up to the hill and sat down with our companions at the big table for breakfast. Apart from two who chose the work of cooking and two who took on serving, there was a place here for everyone without exception. Those who undertook to cook (and the preparation of the local dishes requires little skill, and anyone can do it) and to serve will carry out these functions until Sunday evening, and next Monday a trial of the exchange is to be held, on the model of the one held at the North American Phalanx (described in chapter VIII of Part Two). We mean at first to imitate the statutes of that colony, in the hope that later we shall be able to surpass it in improvements.

After a long chat, around ten in the morning, everyone dispersed to rest on their bedding. Very great heat is beginning to torment us; from ten in the morning until three in the afternoon it will be impossible to work — and generally throughout Texas everyone turns that time to rest. Work, whether manual or mental, is done here from four in the morning until ten before noon, and again from three until evening. All would still pass well enough were it not for those unbearable snakes, the sight of which one grows used to only with difficulty; today we have already killed a dozen or more.

May 14. Eleven days have passed since our arrival; the raising of the buildings goes more slowly than at the start when the Americans worked alone. For the French and Belgian carpenters do indeed work more exactly, with greater care and ele⟨284⟩gance, but they do not hurry. The American is extraordinarily active; he does everything quickly — builds quickly, lives quickly, and thinks first of usefulness. Before several new buildings go up, it occurred to us to make, in the four rooms of the great house already standing, wooden recesses along the walls and to lay in them plank bunk-beds, like those on ships or in the Swiss hotel at Le Havre; it will add little to the comfort of sleeping, but we shall gain by it in order and space, for all the trunks and baggage can be hidden under the lower beds. Three American carpenters, remaining in the colony for a time, carried out this plan very quickly, and now everyone has, if not a separate room of his own, then at least his own corner.

Last Monday at ten in the morning, before retiring to rest, a trial of the exchange was held — that is, of the general arrangements by which each of the associates undertakes to perform some work useful to the whole colony for the entire following week. But we were not yet enough. At present carpenters and their helpers are most needed; for them, then, the choice of work cannot be free — everyone must take up the axe and saw. Our exchange, therefore, was held only for form's sake. Two farmers who, they say, know something of cooking remained as cooks, and undertook moreover to bring water from the spring. Cousin and Roger, being fit neither for carpentry nor for farming, undertook to wait at table. Roger, though something of a doctor, has nothing to do ⟨285⟩ in his line, for all of us, thank God, are healthy. As for me, I cannot take on any fixed duty, because, having assumed the role of interpreter already at New Orleans and along the road, I am henceforth assigned to settling the colony's affairs in the town of Dallas, where no one speaks French; so I spend several hours there daily, which, with the road there and back, takes up almost my whole day. The farmers also attend to the livestock now and then, when it must be driven from pasture and yoked. Cantagrel, as leader up to now, is exempt from all other occupation.

For a few days now there has come to the colony a Mr. Allen, pastor of the Pietist sect from the state of Ohio. Last year he visited the North American Phalanx colony and several others flourishing in the Northern States, and now he wishes to observe the beginnings of ours, for he is thinking of founding something similar near Cincinnati. His son, a ten-year-old boy, accompanies him on the journey. Both never let the rifle out of their hands and shoot at snakes, never missing.

In Dallas there is a post office; letters come once a week and go out once. By each post we have some letter from Europe, and all of us inquire eagerly after news from the other part of the world — always dear to us and, despite the splendid prospects we have here, always regretted. From us, too, many letters go out to Paris and Brussels, and must be read there with even greater curiosity, especially by those who intend to come to us.

I have made the acquaintance of Mr. Gold, the most eminent merchant in Dallas, who supplies us with everything ⟨286⟩ we need and ask for. His store is stocked with the most varied things: one can get there bacon, whiskey, wine, arrack, sugar, salt, coffee, tea, and the like — necessities of life, chaotically strewn about. In the yard, again, are farming implements, hides of oxen, buffalo, and bears, sundry ironware, wagons, chests, barrels, boxes, and so on.

For meat we send to town; we are not yet numerous enough to set up a slaughter of our own, though we plan to do so once we are more. In town the market begins at four in the morning and ends at six — that is, it lasts only two hours, for afterward it is already too hot. This market is not held daily in Dallas, for there is no butcher there. When some settler kills an ox, he brings it early in the morning to the town square and cuts off pieces with an axe, selling them by the eye, without weighing. By six in the morning the meat must be bought up, and those who buy it at once roast, fry, or boil it, for raw it would soon spoil. The local inhabitants, too, eat only cold meat dishes for eight months (from March to November). This rapid spoiling of the meat, besides the heat, may also be ascribed in part to the local custom of slaughtering cattle by shooting.

Commonly, when someone wants to kill an ox for his own use or for speculation, he goes with the owner of the herd toward evening to the meadows, picks out one beast, buys it on sight (usually paying 8 to 10 dollars), and the two of them fire at the chosen victim, which they commonly drop on the spot; then at once they skin it, quarter it, and at night ⟨287⟩ haul it to the place where it is to be eaten or sold off.

Our manner of life in the colony is as follows: We rise before four in the morning and each sets about his work; at six the bell rings for breakfast, which consists of beefsteak (when there is fresh meat) or fried bacon, with beans or lentils (of which we brought considerable stores from New Orleans). Cakes of corn flour serve us for bread, and we wash it down with black coffee; cows have not yet been bought, and so we have no milk. After breakfast all return to the work begun and stay at it until ten before noon. Those who do the heavier work, before retiring to rest, eat a piece of freshly baked bread and of cheese made[?] in America (but quite tasteless).

At three in the afternoon, after sleeping five hours, all rise and gather for dinner, consisting of broth boiled without vegetables (for there are none at all here), which are replaced by garlic, ginger, allspice, and pepper that add a little flavor; then a piece of meat with wheat bread and clean water to drink. After dinner, work again until nine in the evening, and then supper of tea and freshly baked cakes of corn flour.

If there is no fresh meat on a given day at the market in town, then for dinner, instead of broth, they make a rice soup garnished with bacon, for butter is exceedingly scarce and therefore very dear.

A cuisine not refined at all, but once we get ourselves settled everything will be better and we shall forget the present discomforts. If only our strength does not ⟨288⟩ fail us. In these lands only the Black men can endure the solar heat; I do not know whether we Europeans will manage to harden ourselves so.

Considerant wrote from Washington, where he had gone to pay a visit to the President of the United States, that he is leaving for New York, where his wife, her mother Mme Vigoureux, and Cantagrel's wife have already arrived from Europe. Soon they are all to set out toward us.

Doctor Savardan, with seventy-five colonists, also left Le Havre a month ago; in two months at the latest he will therefore reach us, by which time several new houses will stand and we shall have where to receive the new companions... Next, again, a certain Mr. Birqui [Bürkli], a Swiss by origin, is soon to arrive with thirty-odd of his countrymen. Thus our colony will keep growing; and so they are planning to buy several new sections from Colonel Johnson and bring in as much building timber as possible to put up new houses.

June 5. I rarely take my little diary in hand, for our life, uniformly monotonous, presents nothing new. The buildings rise tolerably. A second house of the same dimensions as the first is already up, and a third will be finished in a few days. The council has decided to build smaller houses from now on — first, because they can be put up in a shorter time, and second, because it was judged more fitting to house the families who arrive with Savardan separately, and to join the bachelors three or four together, to avoid communism in private life. For association ought to exist only in work, ⟨289⟩ as is the case at the North American Phalanx.

Farm work is still suspended for now, for there is nothing to harvest and it is not the time to sow. On the purchased sections of arable land we found barely a dozen-odd morgs sown with corn, which ripens here only in mid-August; but for so small a quantity not many people will be needed for the harvest. The soil in this new country requires no repeated cultivation and no manure: at the end of October it is enough to plow and sow once, and in the last days of May the harvest time already sets in.

On the second day after our arrival at this place, that is on May 4, the gardeners chose a sizable piece of land for a vegetable garden, fenced it, and began to dig, planting various seeds brought from Europe. They made nicely and neatly raked paths along which one can stroll in the evening. The sun, so beneficent in other countries, burns mercilessly in Texas; watering morning and evening is of no use, and comes here with great labor, for the water must be hauled in barrels from a fairly distant spring. I asked the inhabitants of Dallas whether this is the normal state — that is, that the sun burns everything? — and was told that very few vegetables do indeed take there, but that those which grow are planted or sown among the corn, whose tall stalks with broad leaves shelter them from the burning sun and keep a little moisture in the soil; whereas watering seeds not so sheltered not only does not help but harms. This advice will serve us for next year; now it is already too late.

⟨290⟩ In general the months that make up winter in Europe — that is, from November to March — are the most pleasant in Texas, for the north wind brings cool, while otherwise a continual spring warmth prevails; whereas those which with us, from April to October, are mild and delightful turn this country into a sad desert. The great heat and total lack of rain destroy all vegetation.

June 20. A few days ago Considerant arrived with his wife, his wife's mother, and Mme Cantagrel, in the company of two ex-members of the French legislative chamber who had been in exile under the Second Empire, and several editors of various Paris and Brussels papers. Fortunately, in the last fifteen days four little houses had gone up. In one, then, Considerant settled with his family, in a second Cantagrel with his wife and small child, while the other two were taken by what we named the staff of the commander-in-chief — that is, the ex-deputies and ex-newspaper-editors.

Our colony has become pleasanter since their arrival. The cultivation of those who have come will make more bearable the toils, the discomforts, and the material lack of many things to which each of us was more or less accustomed. They are ladies of the higher Parisian society; and so, since they have been among us, time flows far more freely.

XXV. MADAME CONSIDERANT

⟨291⟩ The daughter of a wealthy owner of forges in the Jura mountains, when she married she received from her father two million francs as dowry. As the wife of a man highly esteemed in the learned world for his gifts as a thinker, and with so great a fortune, she had entry to the foremost Parisian society. Young, comely, rich, educated, she enjoyed to the full what is called happiness in this world, and it seemed that nothing could disturb so untroubled a life; but fate tore her from this hitherto cloudless paradise and plunged her into an entirely different sphere — into the wilderness, where every day she had to wage a struggle with the elements of wild nature. Her husband, as a representative of the French nation, had protested energetically, together with Ledru-Rollin, Louis Blanc, Victor Hugo, and many others, against the perjury and treason of the President of the French Republic, Louis Napoleon — later the Emperor Napoleon III — and had to spend the whole duration of the Second Empire in exile. In that period he left for America, and his wife resolved to share the adverse fortunes of the man whose name she bore. She related that:

"On the long voyage across the Ocean she was several times witness, how on fine days the setting sun, whose vivid light struck the eyes of those standing on the ship's deck, began to sink ⟨292⟩ into the waves of the sea, casting golden rays on the spread sails, while with the ceaseless rocking of the vessel it seemed as though that shining disk changed its level every instant. Meanwhile the masts great and small, the thick cords, thin lines, and other gear on the ship's surface slowly took on a pale rose color. A few little clouds wandered in disorder in the east, now and then hiding the slowly rising full moon, while the whole blue vault was transparent and serene. At that moment the numerous crew, gathered on deck, taking off their thickly plaited, tar-smeared hats, knelt down in humility and sang a hymn to the Most Holy Mother, Patroness of Sailors. This moving prayer, raised to heaven by mariners humbling themselves before the great and incomprehensible infinity as they offered their petitions to the holy patroness of all the unfortunate, fills one with an inexpressible admiration for men who, knowing nothing of the rich man's slothful luxuries, fight ceaselessly for life or death against vast nature."

She grew ashamed — Madame Considerant went on — of herself, that until now she had wasted her moments on chatter in the boudoir, whose subject was most often the balls at the Chinese ambassador's or those of other great dignitaries, and at which what concerned her most was: how long was the train of Countess T.'s gown, or what might be the price of the lace on the cape adorning Madame Minister P., or again what was the worth of the diadem crowning the head of the banker R.'s wife. Now almost with joy she renounced these trifling former occupations and was ready for a less pleasant, but more worthy of human ⟨293⟩ dignity life — that is, one ennobled by work.

When she arrived at Houston, having rested in the garden bought there for the colony, although she could have crossed the desert in a few days with possible comforts in some sort of gig drawn by four mules, she nevertheless would not do so, and, walking beside the ox-drawn wagons, condemned herself willingly to all the discomforts and unpleasantnesses attached to such a journey; for she supposed that she, hitherto accustomed to the most refined comforts, now bearing with courage the adversities she would meet, would encourage by her example to perseverance all those who would in future make this road in like manner.

Throughout the march in the wilderness, at every bivouac or night's lodging supper was cooked; Madame Considerant was the most diligent cook, and with her own delicate hands set the kettles to the fire kindled near the camp, stirred them, tasted, and served the cooked dish to her companions in little bowls.

On arriving at the colony — where soon a dozen, and later more, wives of the artisans from France, Belgium, and Switzerland were to come — she intended to work on a par with them, finding it an honor, as she put it, to be able to be useful to society, no longer leading the idle life in carpet-spread salons as she had done in Paris.

Not far from the dwelling-buildings of the Réunion colony there was a small grove, overgrown with cedars, whose green branches made a strangely pleasant ⟨294⟩ contrast with nature yellowed all around by the sun. This place Madame Considerant turned into a kind of salon, and here she received all the colonists who wished, after the wearying labors of the day, to refresh themselves with engaging conversation.

In the cedar salon the floor was spread with a natural green carpet — for the grass was shaded from the solar heat by the spreading branches, abundant in broad leaves, of the trees, and refreshed now and then by beneficent dew; for a ceiling served the clear and ever-serene blue vault; the lamp was replaced by the moon or millions of bright stars that shone clearly. In place of the sound of the piano came the pleasant twittering and harmonious singing of a multitude of little birds that had made their home there; and instead of sofa, armchairs, and chairs, hammocks — nets of thick twine — were hung between the trees, on which, swinging slowly, one could be safe from the unpleasant visits of the snakes that crawl in countless numbers in those lands.

After nine in the evening a small but choice company of the Réunion colony would indeed gather in this improvised salon. The five-hour rest in the middle of the day was almost sufficient, and allowed one to revel in the wonderfully beautiful nights under the Texan sky, in enlightened and agreeable company. Often, too, until a late hour — until one or two after midnight — there ran on, in the salon of the cedar grove, exceedingly engaging, sometimes even highly learned conversations, but most often light and witty chatter.

XXVI. CONTINUATION OF THE EXCERPTS FROM A DIARY KEPT AT RÉUNION

July 10. In five or six days Savardan and the new settlers will reach the colony, for from Corsicana they have already sent word of themselves. If faith in attaining the intended goal could keep enlivening us, all would be well... Unfortunately! the more we come to know this country, its climate, the lack of communication, the more we lose hope. It seems that wise men, when they commit some error, commit it in proportion to their wisdom — that is, far greater than common men. Considerant, in choosing this place to found the future agricultural colonies, did not weigh all the adversities and obstacles that one meets here at every step, and which, despite perseverance and the most sincere wish to overcome them, may become insurmountable. Would that all these forebodings were untrue!... It would be a pity to part with the lovely dreams on which we fed for so long... and to pass for utopians; and yet the North American Phalanx and several other similar associations existing in the Northern States are no utopia. For a dozen years and more they have existed, founded on association; they enjoy the greatest freedom of which a man can only dream, and a prosperity combined with comfort. Such principles, then, can be put into practice and bring people as near as possible to the happiness so little ⟨296⟩ enjoyed by anyone in present-day society... Were it not for the murderous climate, the lack of communication — which leaves no hope, for a very long time yet, of exchanging our products for the products of other parts of the world, indispensable to daily life — perhaps with perseverance we should have reached the intended goal... One must not despair, however; perhaps it will go better than everyone now foresees.

For a few days now I have had a new occupation. There are ten Frenchmen, freshly arrived in Dallas, who, being political émigrés, had until now remained in the Northern States, and now wish to found here a colony on the model of Cabet's Icaria \*). None of them speaks English, and, worse, the funds they had were exhausted by the journey, which lasted several months — two conditions without which, in Europe and America, one cannot do. They are lawyers, ex-notaries, clerks of the French justices of the peace and tribunals — and therefore unfit for the hard work of colonization in America.

Through my intermediary, Mr. Gold, the merchant with whom our colony leaves much money, rented them a house with a large garden. By selling to the town and to our colony the vegetables grown in it, they think — until they can undertake something else — to earn themselves some sort of living. I also prevailed on the Dallas merchant to give them flour, bacon, sugar, coffee, and tea on credit. It is pleasant to me to repay, at least in part, by helping them in whatever way, the hospitality and kindness I received from their countrymen when, a dozen-odd years ago, I came to France; but I grieve over their lot: they are not accustomed to hard farm work, especially under the hot Texan sun. They will know terrible misery for a long time before they come to anything, and meanwhile the weakness that comes of toil, want, and the climate may lead them one after another to the grave.

\) Cabet, a prosecutor at the court of appeal in Dijon (Burgundy), wrote a work entitled *Icarie, in which he set forth a colony working and living in common on communist principles. As a result of that work there was formed in the United States a colony under the name "Icaria," composed solely of Frenchmen come from Europe, who settled in the State of Iowa.

Two days ago, being in Dallas, I dropped in on the jury court, held quarterly in each county under the presidency of the Sheriff. While the presiding judge examined the accused, or while the prosecutor accused them and the advocates defended, the jurors and the numerous listeners had fairly thick sticks in their left hands and, in their right, knives with which they whittled them, so that an enormous mass of shavings lay in the hall. Astonished at this peculiarity of the inhabitants of the Dallas region, on returning to the colony I recounted it at the gathering that assembles daily in the cedar salon. Pastor Allen, who had passed through Austin, the capital of the State of Texas, and spent a few days there before coming to us, had noticed a like custom among the deputies when they gather for a legislative session. This strange occupation is so widespread that the usher prepares daily a large quantity of sticks and hands one to each man entering ⟨298⟩ the session. After the sitting is over, the caretakers have no little work sweeping up the shavings whittled by the lawmakers of Texas. Evidently it helps them to vote the weighty laws by which they are governed, and the judges in Dallas and other counties to hand down infallible verdicts. Well does our proverb say: "Every country its custom."

July 20. Three days ago there arrived at last the long-awaited Doctor Savardan with seventy-five people, among them a considerable number of women, colonists' wives — but, it seems, under an unlucky star, for discord appeared with their[?] arrival. Already on the sea voyage the wives accompanying their husbands began quarrels among themselves, which was the cause of frequent disputes between their spouses. At New Orleans there joined the company led by Savardan a tailor by the name of Maget, who had already left Icaria (the communist colony in the State of Iowa), being unable to get on with his companions. He is evidently a man of restless mind, for, beginning already at Houston, during the journey through forests and deserts, he formed himself a faction criticizing every act of the column's leader and of those around him; and since discouragement had taken hold of many while still at sea, it was easy to sow discord in ground so prepared. Throughout the whole road, then — the same one which we covered three months before in peace and order, unclouded by any quarrel — Savardan's companions wrangled among themselves, and the hatred of some against others grew daily.

⟨299⟩ To put an end to this disorder, Savardan found himself compelled to dismiss Mr. Maget, declaring to him that he should make his way back to where he had come from. It was carried out with difficulty, however, for strong opposition appeared on the part of the tailor's partisans; but in the end the majority gave the advantage, for the moment, to lawful authority, and the disturber of the peace had to depart. Enraged, he flew a few days ahead to our colony, where, thank God, not a shadow of discord or ill-will had yet appeared, and accused of abuse of power Doctor Savardan, as well as the ex-subprefect of Avranches \*) Bussy and the ex-lieutenant from Algiers Vezian, who had rightly reproved him for his quarrels and unruliness. Considerant and the colony council declared to Mr. Maget that they could not listen to complaints against a man in whom the Paris and Brussels committee had placed its trust, entrusting him with the care and, as it were, the command over seventy-five colonists; and, on the other hand, knowing Savardan, Bussy, and Vezian personally, they could not believe the charges made against them. The tailor was therefore asked to wait for the column's arrival, and meanwhile was advised to take lodging in Dallas, since only after this whole matter had been clarified could he be received as a companion and partner of the colony.

\*) A town in France of 20,000 inhabitants, situated on the seashore in Brittany; it is the subprefecture of the arrondissement of that name.

⟨300⟩ After Savardan's arrival, Mr. Maget was asked to appear to repeat his charges to his face, but he did not see fit to explain himself further and remained in the town, where, having rented a small booth, he set up a tailor's workshop; but the whole affair did not please the accuser's partisans, and various murmurings could be heard. If, to all the other unfavorable circumstances, discord be added — sad!... exceedingly sad will be the future of our colony.

Bussy, the former subprefect, Vezian, the former French officer, and a dozen-odd others who came with Savardan are very enlightened and sensible men; among the farmers and artisans there are also many decent and industrious ones. But unfortunately only a few restless minds are needed to disturb the order so everywhere necessary, and especially indispensable at the beginnings of any undertaking... Alas! there are such among us now too.

August 15. It is twenty-five days since I last took my diary in hand; many very sad events have occurred in the colony... Vezian (the ex-lieutenant), a young man of only 25, fell ill and died. Ruppert, Swiss by birth but long resident in Paris, where he was editor of one of the French papers, also died after a few days' illness; and a dozen or more lie sick, half of them without hope. Of the first colonists, whom Cousin and I led to the place, all are still in good health — true, their journey was made under far better conditions. Thus: they left Europe in winter and arrived at the end of February ⟨301⟩ in America. In the months of March and April, when the heat did not yet trouble much, we crossed the Gulf of Mexico as well as the Texan forests and wilds, where one could most often quench one's thirst with fresh, clean water; and on reaching the place all rested well for a few days. The whole journey was made in concord, in good spirits, and with the hope that fortifies one's strength.

To crown the misfortune, the water gave out in the spring near the colony; it has to be brought from afar, and when brought from there it is already as warm as if it had been boiled. The sick who have fever will not drink it and complain. All this forebodes an unhappy future. True, beginnings are hard everywhere, but here too many unlucky circumstances have conspired together: climate, diseases, discord, and soon want too will make itself felt to us. For Mr. Gold, the Dallas merchant, announces that very soon he will run out of salt and sugar, and that there is no hope of getting these indispensable articles quickly. The great drought long prevailing prevents the wagons that bring him goods from coming, for the oxen, on account of the lack of water on the steppes, cannot make the journey. He had been stocked with a sufficient quantity of goods for any contingency, but only for the town's inhabitants and the neighborhood, and did not expect so large a number of French colonists. He has already bought from other merchants in Dallas and Corsicana a considerable quantity of certain goods he lacked, so as always to be able to supply our colony with what we ask; but the others too will soon run short, and want will make itself felt to us... How will the discouraged take it?

⟨302⟩ September 1. In the last fifteen days six more have died, and many lie in the hospital. The American doctors came from town to examine the sickness, fearing we had brought some epidemic into the country. They told our European doctors that in this climate one must treat by more violent means than in the north and east, and that hitherto too mild remedies had been used, and for that reason so many colonists had died. The tailor Maget incites our colonists against Doctor Savardan, maintaining that he is the cause of these misfortunes by bad treatment — which spreads discouragement and sows discord.

My protégés, the Frenchmen in Dallas, also have two seriously sick among them. One of them was tossed by the horns of a half-killed ox; the other has a bad ague. I do what I can to ease their hard lot, but in spite of this great misery is suffered by those who in their own country were accustomed to a decent and free life. With us, too, want is beginning, and the foretold lack of salt and sugar is already here; for two days we have eaten our food without salt and drunk our coffee and tea without sugar, and this may last two or three months, for the oxen with the wagons that bring these victuals will not set out from Houston until the end of October, and before they reach here it will be about the beginning of December. Unless the Swiss Birqui [Bürkli], who is to bring thirty-five of his countrymen to the colony at the end of next month, brings these indispensable things with him. He has already landed at Houston and is occupying for the time being the little house with a garden that Cousin and I bought there, for planting the tree-seed⟨303⟩lings brought from Europe, which have taken excellently, and whence we are to bring them here in winter. But why speak of winter? many may yet pass to the other world, and of those remaining, will they hold their ground? The disaffected and timid write to France many true, but still more false, things. The committees in Paris and Brussels ask what all this means. They are uneasy about what is happening here. Meanwhile those who receive the letters there, adding no doubt unfavorable opinions of their own to the falsehoods reported from here, dissuade more than one family that had been preparing to come here someday and increase the number of working partners. True, at this time of year it is not very safe to travel here, but all this may pass and someday it will be better... let us wait!

October 1. The number of those dying has diminished, for in the whole past month only two colonists parted with this world — which must be reckoned little compared with the month of August, in which, out of 130 persons composing the colony, eight passed into eternity. Evidently the advice of the American doctors from Dallas, to treat by more energetic means, has helped. This mortality did much harm, for, by frightening, it discouraged a considerable part of the colonists. Several malcontents with their wives left the colony and went to Dallas, where, having bought a house on credit, they set up an inn in it; many others are preparing to follow them.

Considerant intended at this time to buy a dozen or more sections (each section of 600 acres), in order to begin sowing grain on a larger scale at the end of this month, but on account of the countless ⟨304⟩ adversities and discord he held back, to see what would come of it all. It seems our present colony will not be able to be run on the principles that were projected.

The editor-in-chief of the monthly published in Paris under the title Revue d'architecture, Mr. Dailly [César Daly] — a man of great talents and moreover, body and soul, favorable to Fourier's idea, and a friend of Considerant, who had come here to direct the colony's buildings — left yesterday for Central America, toward the Isthmus of Panama, to see whether he might not find there a locality more favorable as to climate and a stable water communication. Several of the more considerable shareholders have announced their arrival from Europe, in order to recover — in land, livestock, harness, and buildings — the capital spent on the purchase of shares, as had been stipulated in the statutes. Probably all our efforts, exertions, and toils will come to nothing, and the colony will be dispersed.

In the month of September we gathered wild grapes, growing abundantly in the local forests. Bussy made of them a barrel of wine — sour and bitter, to be sure, but having no other, this too tasted good enough to us, especially after the saltless food we have been eating for over a month now.

The company of ten Frenchmen in Dallas bought, on installment, a little colony outside the town, but it will be hard for them there too, for they are without any funds; and although the land is very cheap, one cannot "twist a whip out of sand"; new needs appear every day, and a long time must pass before they can gather the crop of their labor, while in the meantime one must live.

⟨305⟩ November 1. Mr. Leguay, a considerable shareholder from Belgium, arrived at our colony and demanded the return in kind — that is, in land, oxen, horses, and so on — of the 10,000 francs for which he had taken shares when the colonization company was being founded in Brussels; he moreover bought several sections of land and persuaded the Belgians of our colony to go and work for him, not as partners but as laborers. The Swiss led by Birqui [Bürkli] arrived a few days ago, and, seeing the general disintegration, one by one seek out colonies for themselves, and soon all will disperse. Bussy wants to go to New Orleans, where he has a brother, and urges me to set out on the road together. Cantagrel is thinking of returning to Belgium. Considerant, on one of his excursions to Austin, the capital of the State of Texas, bought very cheaply — at 25 cents an acre — several thousand acres in the southern parts of the state, and, undaunted by a climate still hotter and by the neighborhood of wild Indians, intends to go there with the survivors of our colony. The largest river in Texas (and this one never dries up) passes through the middle of the purchased land; he hopes thus to avoid all those adversities and inconveniences that arose here from the lack of communication with the rest of the world. Cousin will remain on the spot to hand over to the shareholders the land, livestock, and buildings. For despite the most unfriendly circumstances in which the beginning of our colony developed, a considerable part of the land is fenced, cleared of grass, cultivated, and sown, and, with the buildings erected and other improvements, has gained a fairly large value, so that it can be resold at great profit ⟨306⟩ in that part of Texas which is fairly populated. Each shareholder, then, will recover without loss as much as he spent on shares. And those of the arrived workmen who labored diligently through these six months have been richly rewarded.

Europeans, and especially the French, are not yet mature enough to enjoy the benefits flowing from association — above all if women, without a certain upbringing, mix themselves into it. It is almost a certainty that the Americans, under all the unfavorable circumstances, would have endured the poverty and in the end reached the desired results; for the perseverance and maturity of a nation is enormously influenced by the education of women, who, as is known, are in general more educated in America than European women of the lower classes of society.

November 15. For the past fifteen days Bussy and I have been carefully seeking an opportunity to leave. There came our way, true, wagoners going with empty wagons for goods to Houston, but we could not bring ourselves a second time to that wearying journey. The merchant Gold urged us to buy from him a gig and a pair of horses, saying that we would resell it all at a profit in Houston... but to have the care of horses along the road, to guard against wandering Indians stealing them from us, to harness, unharness, and so on — all this seemed to us too troublesome. On the other hand, leaving Texas forever, we wished to see a little more of this little-known country; and as we had learned from the newspapers that in the San Antonio district, situated in the southwestern part of Texas, [...]

[The sentence breaks off; the continuation of the journey is told in chapter XXVII ("Elections in America"), beyond the scope of this excerpt.]