The Quadroon: Adventures in the Far West. Reid Mayne
distance. No mountains meet the view – there is not a mountain in all Louisiana; but the tall dark wall of cypress, rising against the western rim of the sky, produces an effect very similar to a mountain background.
On my own side of the river the view is more gardenesque, as it consists principally of the enclosed pleasure-ground of the plantation Besançon. Here I study objects more in detail, and am able to note the species of trees that form the shrubbery. I observe the Magnolia, with large white wax-like flowers, somewhat resembling the giant nympha of Guiana. Some of these have already disappeared, and in their stead are seen the coral-red seed-cones, scarce less ornamental than the flowers themselves.
Side by side with this western-forest queen, almost rivalling her in beauty and fragrance, and almost rivalling her in fame, is a lovely exotic, a native of Orient climes – though here long naturalised. Its large doubly-pinnate leaves of dark and lighter green, – for both shades are observed on the same tree; its lavender-coloured flowers hanging in axillary clusters from the extremities of the shoots; its yellow cherry-like fruits – some of which are already formed, – all point out its species. It is one of the meliaceae, or honey-trees, – the “Indian-lilac,” or “Pride of China” (Melia azedarach). The nomenclature bestowed upon this fine tree by different nations indicates the estimation in which it is held. “Tree of Pre-eminence,” lays the poetic Persian, of whose land it is a native; “Tree of Paradise” (Arbor de Paraiso), echoes the Spaniard, of whose land it is an exotic. Such are its titles.
Many other trees, both natives and exotics, meet my gaze. Among the former I behold the “catalpa,” with its silvery bark and trumpet-shaped blossoms; the “Osage orange,” with its dark shining leaves; and the red mulberry, with thick shady foliage, and long crimson calkin-like fruits. Of exotics I note the orange, the lime, the West Indian guava (Psidium pyriferum), and the guava of Florida, with its boxwood leaves; the tamarisk, with its spreading minute foliage, and splendid panicles of pale rose-coloured flowers; the pomegranate, symbol of democracy – “the queen who carries her crown upon her bosom” – and the legendary but flowerless fig-tree, here not supported against the wall, but rising as a standard to the height of thirty feet.
Scarcely exotic are the yuccas, with their spherical heads of sharp radiating blades; scarcely exotic the cactacea, of varied forms – for species of both are indigenous to the soil, and both are found among the flora of a not far-distant region.
The scene before my window is not one of still life. Over the shrubbery I can see the white-painted gates leading to the mansion, and outside of these runs the Levee road. Although the foliage hinders me from a full view of the road itself, I see at intervals the people passing along it. In the dress of the Creoles the sky-blue colour predominates, and the hats are usually palmetto, or “grass,” or the costlier Panama, with broad sun-protecting brims. Now and then a negro gallops past, turbaned like a Turk; for the chequered Madras “toque” has much the appearance of the Turkish head-dress, but is lighter and even more picturesque. Now and then an open carriage rolls by, and I catch a glimpse of ladies in their gossamer summer-dresses. I hear their clear ringing laughter; and I know they are on their way to some gay festive scene. The travellers upon the road – the labourers in the distant cane-field, chanting their chorus songs – occasionally a boat booming past on the river – more frequently a flat silently floating downward – a “keel,” or a raft with its red-shirted crew – are all before my eyes, emblems of active life.
Nearer still are the winged creatures that live and move around my window. The mock-bird (Turdus polyglotta) pipes from the top of the tallest magnolia; and his cousin, the red-breast (Turdus migratorius), half intoxicated with the berries of the melia, rivals him in his sweet song. The oriole hops among the orange-trees, and the bold red cardinal spreads his scarlet wings amidst the spray of the lower shrubbery.
Now and then I catch a glimpse of the “ruby-throat,” coming and going like the sparkle of a gem. Its favourite haunt is among the red and scentless flowers of the buck-eye, or the large trumpet-shaped blossoms of the bignonia.
Such was the view from the window of my chamber. I thought I never beheld so fair a scene. Perhaps I was not looking upon it with an impartial eye. The love-light was in my glance, and that may have imparted to it a portion of its couleur de rose. I could not look upon the scene without thinking of that fair being, whose presence alone was wanted to make the picture perfect.
Chapter Twenty
My Journal
I varied the monotony of my invalid existence by keeping a journal.
The journal of a sick chamber must naturally be barren of incident. Mine was a diary of reflections rather than acts. I transcribe a few passages from it – not on account of any remarkable interest which they possess – but because, dotted down at the time, they represent more faithfully some of the thoughts and incidents that occurred to me during the remainder of my stay on the plantation Besançon.
July 12th. – To-day I am able to sit up and write a little. The weather is intensely hot. It would be intolerable were it not for the breeze which sweeps across my apartment, charged with the delicious perfume of the flowers. This breeze blows from the Gulf of Mexico, by Lakes Borgne, Pontchartrain, and Maauepas. I am more than one hundred miles from the Gulf itself – that is, following the direction of the river – but these great inland seas deeply penetrate the delta of the Mississippi, and through them the tidal wave approaches within a few miles of New Orleans, and still farther to the north. Sea-water might be reached through the swamps at a short distance to the rear of Bringiers.
This sea-breeze is a great benefit to the inhabitants of Lower Louisiana. Without its cooling influence New Orleans during the summer months would hardly be habitable.
Scipio tells me that a new “overseer” has arrived on the plantation, and thinks that he has been appointed through the agency of Mass’r Dominick. He brought a letter from the avocat. It is therefore probable enough.
My attendant does not seem very favourably impressed with the new comer, whom he represents as a “poor white man from de norf, an a Yankee at daat.”
Among the blacks I find existing an antipathy towards what they are pleased to call “poor white men” – individuals who do not possess slave or landed property. The phrase itself expresses this antipathy; and when applied by a negro to a white man is regarded by the latter as a dire insult, and usually procures for the imprudent black a scoring with the “cowskin,” or a slight “rubbing down” with the “oil of hickory.”
Among the slaves there is a general impression that their most tyrannical “overseers” are from the New England States, or “Yankees,” as they are called in the South. This term, which foreigners apply contemptuously to all Americans, in the United States has a restricted meaning; and when used reproachfully it is only applied to natives of New England. At other times it is used jocularly in a patriotic spirit; and in this sense every American is proud to call himself a Yankee. Among the southern blacks, “Yankee” is a term of reproach, associated in their minds with poverty of fortune, meanness of spirit, wooden nutmegs, cypress hams, and such-like chicanes. Sad and strange to say, it is also associated with the whip, the shackle, and the cowhide. Strange, because these men are the natives of a land peculiarly distinguished for its Puritanism! A land where the purest religion and strictest morality are professed.
This would seem an anomaly, and yet perhaps it is not so much an anomaly after all. I had it explained to me by a Southerner, who spoke thus: —
“The countries where Puritan principles prevail are those which produce vice, and particularly the smaller vices, in greatest abundance. The villages of New England – the foci of blue laws and Puritanism. – furnish the greatest number of the nymphes du pavé of New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and New Orleans; and even furnish a large export of them to the Catholic capital of Cuba! From the same prolific soil spring most of the sharpers, quacks, and cheating traders, who disgrace the American name. This is not an anomaly. It is but the inexorable result of a pseudo-religion. Outward observance, worship, Sabbath-keeping, and the various forms, are engrafted in the mind; and thus, by complicating the true duties which man