he adjoining country from our sight.
The waves are long and smooth.
A flock of snow-birds flutter in our wake, and swoop with easy undulation on their prey.
A semi-tropical languor lies on every face.
As day comes on the mist clears off, and through the vanishing haze we catch along the shores a fringe of cypress and cotton-wood, with roots in swamp and pool, and branches hung with vegetable filth — the noisome and funereal weed called Spanish moss.
Our vessel, plying between Indianola, in Texas, and Brashear, in Louisiana, skirts two of the rich Gulf States, and connects the port of Galveston with the river at New Orleans.
She carries few natives, either Mexican or American.
Her passengers, like her crew, are mostly Scotch and English; for the ports and towns in Texas are nearly all built by British capital and settled by British families.
It is the old, old story of our race.
Who planted Virginia and Massachusetts?
Who peopled Georgia, Pennsylvania, Maryland?