The Daily Crescent

St. Joseph's Island. April 24, 1849.

Eds. Crescent—St. Joseph's Island—which the Fanny and her sister steamers have made but a suburb of the Crescent City—is decidedly the most glorious camping ground for your fishing and sporting gentlemen that can be found in the compass of the Union. If the Mexican war was not cooked up expressly to make an excuse for building an excellent wharf and a large, cool, commodious warehouse, to serve as a landing and tent for the hunters of health and pleasure on this lovely bay, they are at least the best results which I am able to see in that game of brag for "indemnity for the past and security for the future," with a stake of one million of dollars and twenty thousand lives on our side, which we didn't exactly win, or, if we did win, haven't got the stakes. The "indemnity for the past" we won't say much about, but the "security for the future" is certainly anything but attained. The Indians, and the Mexican bandits in league with them, are having everything their own way along the whole of our Mexican frontier, and the force with which the United States affects to protect the boundary is either infantry, who are helpless against the Indians mounted on their wild steeds of the desert, or a few dragoons, who are carefully posted at the most pleasant interior towns, where the officers can have handsome, comfortable quarters, without the inconvenience of being disturbed by border forays. This military imbecility is mainly imputable to the discords of the last Congress, whose jarring factions denied everything they could to the public service, rather than give credit to an opponent for any valuable suggestion. Thus it was that the only efficient defence for an extensive and thinly-populated frontier, a regiment of Rangers, was voted down by party and sectional spite. This helpless infantry, and these soldiers quartered 150 miles from the possibility of prompt service, cost much more than it would to have given the border suitable defenders. Perhaps the veteran, far-sighted and incorruptible Gaines, will have the power, as he has already shown the wisdom and the will, to remedy these evils, and the coming month may not witness, as the last has done, the sacrifice of a hundred of our people—many of them women and children, murdered in open day, almost in sight of our frontier towns, and our military force looking on as if it were merely the rehearsal of a stage tragedy.

But all this is not telling you of the piles of fish of every size, shape and variety, which we have caught here on this green island—nor of the crowds of aldermanic turtle which are waiting to be caught as soon as we finish our net; nor of the pure and delicious milk which is always at command from the submissive herds of the three or four families that make up the agreeable society of this sequestered place; nor of the fine crabs and oysters which they eat at will throughout the year; nor of the red deer, and their spotted fawns, that are ready to try wits with the hunter all down the chain of silver ponds that sparkle the whole length of the island; nor of the fresh, invigorating breeze from the sea which blows steadily on, without one taint of miasma, for there is not a swamp within a hundred miles—yet these are unsurpassable realities. The children at St. Joseph's and Corpus Christi are the finest, fairest and forwardest—pardon the alliteration—that I ever saw in my life. This strikes every one, and it is a crowning evidence of the healthfulness of the climate. Its bracing and delightful freshness must be felt to be appreciated. I never experienced anything so perfectly delicious as this bland yet invigorating air.

One of our friends, Mr. M. K—, has just come in from fishing, and for the first time declares himself seriously discontented. He has caught but little over forty pounds of fish—mostly perch and flounders—in the whole afternoon; and this has so disheartened him that he has to betake himself to the surf for a bath to recover his spirits, instead of taking a ride along the beach, which, like that of Galveston, is as smooth and cool as a marble pavement at the water's edge. The sea foam sings as it laves the feet of your horses, while its cool breath fans your brow.

I have forgotten to give you an account of my visit to that Eden of health and beauty, Corpus Christi, but it will hold good for another day—and so for the present,

Au revoir.

C. M.