The Quadroon: Adventures in the Far West Read online

  CHAPTER TWO.

  SIX MONTHS IN THE CRESCENT CITY.

  Like other striplings escaped from college, I was no longer happy _athome_. The yearning for travel was upon me; and I longed to makeacquaintance with that world, as yet only known to me through the mediumof books.

  My longing was soon to be gratified; and without a sigh I beheld thehills of my native land sink behind the black waves--not much caringwhether I should ever see them again.

  Though emerging from the walls of a classic college, I was far frombeing tinctured with classic sympathies. Ten years spent in ponderingover the wild hyperbole of Homer, the mechanical verse-work of Virgil,and the dry indelicacies of Horatius Flaccus, had failed to imbue mewith a perception of that classic beauty felt, or pretended to be felt,by the spectacled _savant_. My mind was not formed to live on theideal, or dream over the past. I delight rather in the real, thepositive, and the present. Don Quixotes may play the troubadour amongruined castles, and mincing misses cover the ground of the guide-books.For my part I have no belief in the romance of old-world life. In themodern Tell I behold a hireling, ready to barter his brawny limbs to theuse of whatever tyrant; and the picturesque Mazzaroni, upon closeracquaintance, dwindles down to the standard of a hen-roost thief. Amidthe crumbling walls of Athens and the ruins of Rome I encounterinhospitality and hunger. I am not a believer in the picturesqueness ofpoverty. I have no relish for the romance of rags.

  And yet it was a yearning for the romantic that called me from home. Ilonged for the poetic and picturesque, for I was just at that age whenthe mind is imbued with its strongest faith in their reality. Ha! mineis not yet disabused of this belief. I am older now, but the hour ofdisenchantment has not yet come upon me--nor ever will. There is aromance in life, that is no illusion. It lives not in the effete formsand childish ceremonies of the fashionable drawing-room--it has noillustration in the tinsel trappings and gaudy puerilities of a Court.Stars, garters, and titles are its antidotes; red cloth and plush theupas-trees of its existence.

  Its home is elsewhere, amid the grand and sublime scenes of Nature--though these are not necessary accompaniments. It is no more incidentalto field and forest, rock, river, and mountain, than to the well-troddenways of the trading-town. Its home is in human hearts--hearts thatthrob with high aspirations--bosoms that burn with the noble passions ofLiberty and Love!

  My steps then were not directed towards classic shores, but to lands ofnewer and more vigorous life. Westward went I in search of romance. Ifound it in its most attractive form under the glowing skies ofLouisiana.

  In the month of January, 18--, I set foot upon the soil of theNew-World--upon a spot stained with English blood. The polite skipper,who had carried me across the Atlantic, landed me in his gig. I wascurious to examine the field of this decisive action; for at that periodof my life I had an inclination for martial affairs. But something morethan mere curiosity prompted me to visit the battle-ground of NewOrleans. I then held an opinion deemed heterodox--namely, that the_improvised_ soldier is under certain circumstances quite equal to theprofessional hireling, and that long military drill is not essential tovictory. The story of war, superficially studied, would seem toantagonise this theory, which conflicts also with the testimony of allmilitary men. But the testimony of mere military men on such a matteris without value. Who ever heard of a military man who did not desireto have his art considered as mythical as possible? Moreover, therulers of the world have spared no pains to imbue their people withfalse ideas upon this point. It is necessary to put forward some excusefor that terrible incubus upon the nations, the "standing army."

  My desire to view the battle-ground upon the banks of the Mississippihad chiefly reference to this question. The action itself had been oneof my strong arguments in favour of my belief; for upon this spot somesix thousand men--who had never heard the absurd command, "Eyesright!"--out-generalled, "whipped," in fact nearly annihilated, awell-equipped and veteran army of twice their number!

  Since standing upon that battle-ground I have carried a sword in morethan one field of action. What I then held only as a theory, I havesince proved as an experience. The "drill" is a delusion. The standingarmy a cheat.

  In another hour I was wandering through the streets of the CrescentCity, no longer thinking of military affairs. My reflections wereturned into a far different channel. The social life of the New-World,with all its freshness and vigour, was moving before my eyes, like apanorama; and despite of my assumption of the _nil admirari_, I couldnot help _wondering as I went_.

  And one of my earliest surprises--one that met me on the very thresholdof Transatlantic existence--was the discovery of my own utteruselessness. I could point to my desk and say, "There lie the proofs ofmy erudition--the highest prizes of my college class." But of what usethey? The dry theories I had been taught had no application to thepurposes of real life. My logic was the prattle of the parrot. Myclassic lore lay upon my mind like lumber; and I was altogether about aswell prepared to struggle with life--to benefit either my fellow-man ormyself--as if I had graduated in Chinese mnemonics.

  And oh! ye pale professors, who drilled me in syntax and scansion, yewould deem me ungrateful indeed were I to give utterance to the contemptand indignation which I then felt for ye--then, when I looked back uponten years of wasted existence spent under your tutelage--then, when,after believing myself an educated man, the illusion vanished, and Iawoke to the knowledge that I _knew nothing_!

  With some money in my purse, and very little knowledge in my head, Iwandered through the Streets of New Orleans, wondering as I went.

  Six months later, and I was traversing the same streets, with verylittle money in my purse, but with my stock of knowledge vastlyaugmented. During this six months I had acquired an experience of theworld more extensive, than in any six years of my previous life.

  I had paid somewhat dearly for this experience. My travelling fund hadmelted away in the alembic of cafes, theatres, masquerades, and"quadroon" balls. Some of it had been deposited in that bank (faro)which returns neither principal nor interest!

  I was almost afraid to "take stock" of my affairs. At length with aneffort I did so; and found, after paying my hotel bills, a balance in myfavour of exactly twenty-five dollars! Twenty-five dollars to live uponuntil I could write home, and receive an answer--a period of threemonths at the least--for I am talking of a time antecedent to theintroduction of Atlantic steamers.

  For six months I had been sinning bravely. I was now all repentance,and desirous of making amends. I was even willing to engage in someemployment. But my cold classic training, that had not enabled me toprotect my purse, was not likely to aid me in replenishing it; and inall that busy city I could find no office that I was fitted to fill!

  Friendless--dispirited--a little disgusted--not a little anxious inregard to my immediate future, I sauntered about the streets. Myacquaintances were becoming scarcer every day. I missed them from theirusual haunts--the haunts of pleasure. "Whither had they gone?"

  There was no mystery in their disappearance. It was now mid-June. Theweather had become intensely hot, and every day the mercury mountedhigher upon the scale. It was already dancing in the neighbourhood of100 degrees of Fahrenheit. In a week or two might be expected thatannual but unwelcome visitor known by the soubriquet of "Yellow Jack,"whose presence is alike dreaded by young and old; and it was the terrorinspired by him that was driving the fashionable world of New Orleans,like birds of passage, to a northern clime.

  I am not more courageous than the rest of mankind.

  I had no inclination to make the acquaintance of this dreaded demon ofthe swamps; and it occurred to me, that I, too, had better get out ofhis way. To do this, it was only necessary to step on board asteamboat, and be carried to one of the up-river towns, beyond the reachof that tropical malaria in which the _vomito_ delights to dwell.

  Saint Louis was at this time the place of most attractive name; and Iresolved to
go thither; though how I was to live there I could nottell--since my funds would just avail to land me on the spot.

  Upon reflection, it could scarce be "out of the frying-pan into thefire," and my resolution to go to Saint Louis became fixed. So, packingup my _impedimenta_, I stepped on board the steamboat "Belle of theWest," bound for the far "City of the Mounds."