The Busted Ex-Texan and Other Stories

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W.H.H. Murray

The Busted Ex-Texan and Other Stories

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But, if the countenance of the stranger was of a most melancholy cast, there were not lacking hints that by nature he had been endowed with vivacity of spirit; for, as he continued, with an industry which was remarkable, to refresh himself, there were appearances, which came to the eye and the corners of his mouth, which made the observer conclude that he was not lacking the sense of humor; and, if his experience had been most unfortunate, there was in him an ability to appreciate the ludicrousness of its changeful situations. Indeed, one could but conclude that originally he must have been of a buoyant, not to say sanguine disposition; and, if one could but prevail upon him to narrate the incidents of his life, they would be found to be most entertaining.

It was something like an hour before our melancholy-looking guest had fully improved the opportunity with which a benignant Providence had supplied him,–a freak in which, one might conclude, she seldom indulged. He ceased to eat, and sat for a moment gazing pensively at the dishes. It seemed to me–but in this I may possibly be mistaken–that a darker shade of sadness possessed his face at the conclusion than the one that shadowed it so heavily at the beginning of the repast. “The pleasures of hope,” I said to myself, “are evidently greater to my species than are those of recollection. Now that there is nothing left for my guest to anticipate, it is evident that memory ceases to excite.” And I could but feel that, had our provisions been more abundant, the stranger’s appetite would not have been so easily appeased. With something of regret in my voice, I sought to divert his mind from that sense of disappointment which I judged from his countenance threatened to oppress his spirits.

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