I could not help feeling a strange sensation of loneliness, as
I passed hill after hill, and wood after wood. It seemed to me as if
something was wrong; I talked to myself, and often looked behind to see
if any one was coming my way. This feeling, however, did not last long,
and I soon learned that, west of the Mississippi, a man with a purse and
a good horse must never travel in the company of strangers, without he
is desirous to lose them and his life to boot.
I rode without stopping the forty-five miles of dreary road which leads
from the hot springs to Little Rock, and I arrived in that capital
early at noon.
Foreigners are constantly visiting every part of the United States, and
yet very few, if any, have ever visited the Arkansas. They seem all to
be frightened away by the numerous stories of Arkansas murders, with
which a tourist is always certain to be entertained on board one of the
Mississippi steam-boats. Undoubtedly these reports of murders and
atrocities have been, as all things else are in the United States, much
exaggerated, but none can deny that the assizes of Arkansas contain more
cases of stabbing and shooting than ten of the other States
put together.
The very day I arrived at Little Rock I had an opportunity of witnessing
two or three of these Arkansas incidents, and also to hear the comments
made upon them.
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