“What is the matter, Blackey?” said I, “are they shooting in the bar?”

“Oh, yes, Massa,” she answered, “they shoot terrible.  Dr. Francis says, Dr. Grey is a blackguard; Dr. Grey says, Dr. Francis is a ruffian; Dr. Francis shoots with big pistols and kills Dr. Grey; Dr. Grey shoots with other pistols and kills Dr. Francis.”

“What,” I exclaimed, “after he was dead?”

“Oh no, Massa, before he was dead; they shoot together—­pan, pan, pan.”

I went downstairs to ascertain the circumstances attending this double murder.  A coroner’s inquest had been held upon the body of the legislator killed in the morning, and the two surgeons, who had both drunk freely at the bar, had quarrelled about the direction which the ball had taken.  As they did not agree, they came to words; from words to blows; ending in the grand finale of shooting each other.

I was so sickened and disgusted with the events of one day, that I paid my bill, saddled my horse myself, and got a man to ferry me over the Arkansas river, a noble, broad, and rapid stream, on the southern bank of which the capital is situated.  I rode briskly for a short hour, and camped in the woods alone, preferring their silence and dreariness to remaining to witness, under a roof, further scenes of bloodshed and murder.

North of the Arkansas river, the population, though rough and “not better than it should be,” is less sanguinary and much more hospitable; that is to say, a landlord will show you civility for your money, and in Batesville, a city (fifty houses, I think) upon the northern bank of the White River, I found thirty generals, judges, and majors, who condescended to show me every bar in the place, purchasing sundry dozens of Havannahs and drinking sundry long toasts in iced wine, which wine and tobacco, although ordered and consumed by themselves, they left me to pay for, which I was willing to do, as I was informed that these gentlemen always refrain from paying anything when a stranger is present, from fear of wounding his delicacy.

It was in Batesville that I became enlightened as to the western paper currency, which was fortunate, as I purchased one hundred and forty dollars in “shin plasters,” as they call them, for an English sovereign; and for my travelling expenses they answered just as well.  In the White River ferry-boat I met with one of those itinerant Italian pedlars, who are found, I think, everywhere under heaven, selling pins, needles, and badly-coloured engravings, representing all the various passages of William Tell’s history, and the combats during the “three days” in 1830.  Although not a refined companion, the Genevese spoke Italian, and I was delighted to converse in that soft tongue, not a word of which I had spoken since the death of Prince Seravalle.  I invited my companion to the principal tavern, and called at the bar for two tumblers of iced-mint tulip.

“How much?” I asked from the bar-keeper.