CHAPTER VII.
"For freedom's battle, once begun,
Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son,
Though baffled alt, is ever won."
"The unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame."
"With freedom's soil beneath our feet,
And freedom's banner streaming o'er us."
"And the King hath laid his hand
On the watcher's head;
Till the heart that was worn and sad,
Is quiet and comforted."
It was a beautiful day at the close of May, 1836, and New Orleans was
holding a jubilant holiday. The streets were full of flowers and gay
with flying flags; bells were ringing and bands of music playing; and
at the earliest dawn the levee was black with a dense crowd of excited
men. In the shaded balconies beautiful women were watching; and on
the streets there was the constant chatter of gaudily turbaned
negresses, and the rollicking guffaws of the darkies, who had nothing
to do but laugh and be merry.
New Orleans in those days took naturally to a holiday; and a very
little excuse made her put on her festal garments, and this day she
had the very best of reasons for her rejoicing. The hero of San Jacinto
was coming to be her guest, and though he was at death's door with
his long-neglected wound, she was determined to meet him with songs
of triumph. As he was carried in his cot through the crowded streets
to the house of the physician who was to attend to his shattered bone,
shouts of acclamation rent the air.
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