We had all seen Texas before, and like sailors once familiarized with the sea whom an hour restores to old habits and thoughts, so with the man of the prairies, and we all felt at home at once. The country is flat, showing here and there in the distance some of those bold prominences of clay represented so beautifully by the Prince de Neuwied in his wonderful illustrations of the West.[6] These near the Rio Grande, are, of course, only miniatures of the "Chateaux blancs" of the northern Mississippi. After our long ride of thirty-two miles, with only a hard boiled egg each for our mid-day meal, at three o'clock we reached Brownsville where the rolling of bowling-alleys and the cannoning of billiard balls was all that seemed to enliven the village at that hour. I went to find the Quartermaster to know where to put our money for safety, and was most kindly received by Major Brice[7] who took charge of it and put it in the strong box at Fort Brown. From this place we had next morning a fine view of Matamoras, and the American-like appearance rather startled me from my old belief of the low standard of all things Mexican, for it was the only town like a town I had seen; but I resumed my old opinion when I was told that all the good houses had been built by Mr. McGown, who had resided there for years, and so far I have not seen anything in the shape of architecture worthy the name, except the old missions about San Antonio de Bexar. _Brownsville, March 8th._ Almost a calm this clear morning, but occasionally a soft breeze, so gentle as just to wave the white cover of the table at which I sat. From time to time a distant hammer sluggishly drove a nail, and the proud cock was heard to boast his self-importance in a shrill crow, the same I have heard from Berlin to this lonely place; the mocking-birds sang just as they did in my happiest days in beautiful Louisiana; my heart went back to my home, and a foreboding of evil seemed to come over me. Brownsville is one of those little places like thousands of others in our Southern states; little work and large profits give an undue share of leisure without education or refinement, consequently drinking-houses and billiards with the etc. are abundant. The river here is narrow and rapid, and crossed by two ferry-boats swung on hawsers in the old-fashioned way stretching from bank to bank of the great "Rio Grande del Norte." They do a thriving business, as Matamoras contains many Mexicans who do both a wholesale and retail "running business," that is, smuggling.