THE FRENCH VILLAGE
[From the “Western Souvenir,” 1829]
[A long introduction and a concluding summary of the effects of American development have been omitted as not essential to the narrative; and certain obvious corrections have been made in the text.]
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This little colony was composed partly of emigrants from France, and partly of natives—not Indians, but bona fide French, born in America, but preserving their language, their manners, and their agility in dancing, although several generations had passed away since their first settlement. Here they lived perfectly happy, and well they might, for they enjoyed to the full extent those three blessings on which our declaration of independence has laid so much stress—life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Their lives, it is true, were sometimes threatened by the miasm aforesaid; but this was soon ascertained to be an imaginary danger. For whether it was owing to their temperance or their cheerfulness, their activity or their being acclimated, or to the want of attraction between French people and fever, or to all these together, certain it is that they were blessed with a degree of health enjoyed only by the most favoured nations. As to liberty, the wild Indian scarcely possessed more; for although the “grand monarque” had not more loyal subjects in his wide domains, he had never condescended to honor them with a single act of oppression, unless the occasional visits of the Commandant could be so called. He sometimes, when levying supplies, called upon the village for its portion, which they always contributed with many protestations of gratitude for the honor conferred on them. And as for happiness, they pursued nothing else. Inverting the usual order, to enjoy life was their daily business, to provide for its wants an occasional labor, sweetened by its brief continuance, and its abundant fruit. A large tract of land around the village was called the “common field.” Most of this was allowed to remain in open pasturage; but spots of it were cultivated by any who chose to enclose them; and such enclosure gave a firm title to the individual so long as the occupancy lasted, but no longer. They were not an agricultural people, further than the rearing of a few esculents for the table made them such; relying chiefly on their large herds, and on the produce of the chase for support. With the Indians they drove an amicable, though not extensive, trade, for furs and peltry; giving them in exchange, merchandize and trinkets, which they procured from their countrymen at St. Louis. To the latter place they annually carried their skins, bringing back a fresh supply of goods for barter, together with such articles as their own wants required; not forgetting a large portion of finery for the ladies, a plentiful supply of rosin and catgut for the fiddler, and liberal presents for his reverence, the priest.
If this village had no other recommendation, it is endeared to my recollection as the birthplace and residence of Monsieur Baptiste Menou, who was one of its principal inhabitants when I first visited it. He was a bachelor of forty, a tall, lank, hard featured personage, as straight as a ramrod, and almost as thin, with stiff, black hair, sunken cheeks, and a complexion a tinge darker than that of the aborigines. His person was remarkably erect, his countenance grave, his gait deliberate; and when to all this is added an enormous pair of sable whiskers, it will be admitted that Mons. Baptiste was no insignificant person. He had many estimable qualities of mind and person which endeared him to his friends, whose respect was increased by the fact of his having been a soldier and a traveller. In his youth he had followed the French Commandant in two campaigns; and not a comrade in the ranks was better dressed, or cleaner shaved on parade than Baptiste, who fought besides with the characteristic bravery of the nation to which he owed his lineage. He acknowledged, however, that war was not as pleasant a business as is generally supposed. Accustomed to a life totally free from constraint, he complained of being obliged to eat and drink and sleep at the call of the drum. Burnishing a gun, and brushing a coat, and polishing shoes, were duties beneath a gentleman; and after all, Baptiste saw but little honor in tracking the wily Indians through endless swamps. Besides he began to have some scruples as to the propriety of cutting the throats of the respectable gentry whom he had been in the habit of considering as the original and lawful possessors of the soil. He therefore proposed to resign, and was surprised when his commander informed him that he was enlisted for a term, which was not yet expired. He bowed, shrugged his shoulders, and submitted to his fate. He had too much honor to desert, and was too loyal, and too polite, to murmur; but he forthwith made a solemn vow to his patron saint never again to get into a scrape from which he could not retreat whenever it suited his convenience. It was thought that he owed his celibacy in some measure to this vow. He had since accompanied the friendly Indians on several hunting expeditions towards the sources of the Mississippi, and had made a trading voyage to New Orleans. Thus accomplished, he had been more than once called upon by the Commandant to act as a guide, or an interpreter; honors which failed not to elicit suitable marks of respect from his fellow villagers, but which had not inflated the honest heart of Baptiste with any unbecoming pride. On the contrary there was not a more modest man in the village.
In his habits he was the most regular of men. He might be seen at any hour of the day, either sauntering through the village, or seated in front of his own door, smoking a large pipe formed of a piece of buckhorn, curiously hollowed out, and lined with tin; to which was affixed a short stem of cane from the neighboring swamp. This pipe was his inseparable companion; and he evinced towards it a constancy which would have immortalized his name, had it been displayed in a better cause. When he walked abroad, it was to stroll leisurely from door to door, chatting familiarly with his neighbours, patting the white-haired children on the head, and continuing his lounge, until he had peregrinated the village. His gravity was not a “mysterious carriage of the body to conceal the defects of the mind,” but a constitutional seriousness of aspect, which covered as happy and as humane a spirit as ever existed. It was simply a want of sympathy between his muscles and his brains; the former utterly refusing to express any agreeable sensation which might happily titillate the organs of the latter. Honest Baptiste loved a joke, and uttered many, and good ones; but his rigid features refused to smile even at his own wit—a circumstance which I am the more particular in mentioning, as it is not common. He had an orphan niece whom he had reared from childhood to maturity,—a lovely girl, of whose beautiful complexion a poet might say that its roses were cushioned upon ermine. A sweeter flower bloomed not upon the prairie than Gabrielle Menou. But as she was never afflicted with weak nerves, dyspepsia or consumption, and had but one avowed lover, whom she treated with uniform kindness, and married with the consent of all parties, she has no claim to be considered as the heroine of this history. That station will be awarded by every sensible reader to the important personage who will be presently introduced.
Across the street, immediately opposite to Mons. Baptiste, lived Mademoiselle Jeannette Duval, a lady who resembled him in some respects, but in many others was his very antipode. Like him, she was cheerful and happy, and single; but unlike him, she was brisk, and fat, and plump. Monsieur was the very pink of gravity; and Mademoiselle was blessed with a goodly portion thereof,—but hers was specific gravity. Her hair was dark, but her heart was light, and her eyes, though black, were as brilliant a pair of orbs as ever beamed upon the dreary solitude of a bachelor’s heart. Jeannette’s heels were as light as her heart, and her tongue as active as her heels, so that notwithstanding her rotundity, she was as brisk a Frenchwoman as ever frisked through the mazes of a cotillion. To sum her perfections, her complexion was of a darker olive than the genial sun of France confers on her brunettes, and her skin was as smooth and shining as polished mahogany. Her whole household consisted of herself and a female negro servant. A spacious garden, which surrounded her house, a pony, and a herd of cattle, constituted, in addition to her personal charms, all the wealth of this amiable spinster. But with these she was rich, as they supplied her table without adding much to her cares. Her quadrupeds, according to the example set by their superiors, pursued their own happiness without let or molestation, wherever they could find it—waxing fat or lean, as nature was more or less bountiful in supplying their wants; and when they strayed too far, or when her agricultural labours became too arduous for the feminine strength of herself and her sable assistant, every monsieur of the village was proud of an occasion to serve Mam’selle. And well they might be, for she was the most noticeable lady in the village, the life of every party, the soul of every frolic. She participated in every festive meeting, and every sad solemnity. Not a neighbor could get up a dance, or get down a dose of bark, without her assistance. If the ball grew dull, Mam’selle bounced on the floor, and infused new spirit into the weary dancers. If the conversation flagged, Jeannette, who occupied a kind of neutral ground between the young and the old, the married and the single, chatted with all, and loosened all tongues. If the girls wished to stroll in the woods, or romp on the prairie, Mam’selle was taken along to keep off the wolves and the rude young men; and in respect to the latter, she faithfully performed her office by attracting them around her own person. Then she was the best neighbour and the kindest soul! She made the richest soup, the clearest coffee, and the neatest pastry in the village; and in virtue of her confectionery was the prime favourite of all the children. Her hospitality was not confined to her own domicile, but found its way in the shape of sundry savoury viands, to every table in the vicinity. In the sick chamber she was the most assiduous nurse, her step was the lightest, and her voice the most cheerful—so that the priest must inevitably have become jealous of her skill, had it not been for divers plates of rich soup, and bottles of cordial, with which she conciliated his favour, and purchased absolution for these and other offences.
Baptiste and Jeannette were the best of neighbours. He always rose at the dawn, and after lighting his pipe, sallied forth into the open air, where Jeannette usually made her appearance at the same time; for there was an emulation of long standing between them, which should be the earlier riser.
“Bon jour! Mam’selle Jeannette,” was his daily salutation.
“Ah! bon jour! Mons. Menou,” was her daily reply.
Then as he gradually approximated the little paling which surrounded her door, he hoped Mam’selle was well this morning, and she reiterated the kind inquiry, but with increased emphasis. Then Monsieur enquired after Mam’selle’s pony and Mam’selle’s cow, and her garden, and everything appertaining to her, real, personal and mixed; and she displayed a corresponding interest in all concerns of her kind neighbour. These discussions were mutually beneficial. If Mam’selle’s cattle ailed, or if her pony was guilty of an impropriety, who was so able to advise her as Mons. Baptiste? And if his plants drooped, or his poultry died, who so skilful in such matters as Mam’selle Jeanette? Sometimes Baptiste forgot his pipe in the superior interest of the “tête à tête,” and must needs step in to light it at Jeannette’s fire, which caused the gossips of the village to say that he purposely let his pipe go out, in order that he might himself go in. But he denied this, and, indeed, before offering to enter the dwelling of Mam’selle on such occasions, he usually solicited permission to light his pipe at Jeannette’s sparkling eyes, a compliment at which, although it had been repeated some scores of times, Mam’selle never failed to laugh and curtesy, with great good humour and good breeding.
It cannot be supposed that a bachelor of so much discernment could long remain insensible to the galaxy of charms which centered in the person of Mam’selle Jeannette; and accordingly it was currently reported that a courtship of some ten years standing had been slyly conducted on his part, and as cunningly eluded on hers. It was not averred that Baptiste had actually gone the fearful length of offering his hand; or that Jeannette had been so imprudent as to discourage, far less reject, a lover of such respectable pretensions. But there was thought to exist a strong hankering on the part of the gentleman, which the lady had managed so skilfully as to keep his mind in a kind of equilibrium, like that of the patient animal between the two bundles of hay—so that he would sometimes halt in the street, midway between the two cottages, and cast furtive glances, first at the one, and then at the other, as if weighing the balance of comfort, while the increased volumes of smoke which issued from his mouth seemed to argue that the fire of his love had other fuel than tobacco, and was literally consuming the inward man. The wary spinster was always on the alert on such occasions, manœuvering like a skilful general according to circumstances. If honest Baptiste, after such a consultation, turned on his heel and retired to his former cautious position at his own door, Mam’selle rallied all her attractions, and by a sudden demonstration drew him again into the field; but if he marched with an embarrassed air towards her gate, she retired into her castle, or kept shy, and by able evolutions avoided everything which might bring matters to an issue. Thus the courtship continued longer than the siege of Troy, and Jeannette maintained her freedom, while Baptiste with a magnanimity superior to that of Agamemnon, kept his temper, and smoked his pipe in good humour with Jeannette and all the world.
Such was the situation of affairs when I first visited this village, about the time of the cession of Louisiana to the United States. The news of that event had just reached this sequestered spot, and was but indifferently relished. Independently of the national attachment, which all men feel, and the French so justly, the inhabitants of this region had reason to prefer to all others the government which had afforded them protection without constraining their freedom, or subjecting them to any burthens; and with the kindest feelings towards the Americans, they would willingly have dispensed with any nearer connexion than that which already existed. They, however, said little on the subject; and that little was expressive of their cheerful acquiescence in the honor done them by the American people, in buying the country which the Emperor had done them the honor to sell.
It was on the first day of the Carnival that I arrived in the village, about sunset, seeking shelter only for the night, and intending to proceed on my journey in the morning. The notes of the violin and the groups of gaily attired people who thronged the street attracted my attention, and induced me to inquire the occasion of this merriment. My host informed me that a “King Ball” was to be given at the house of a neighbour, adding the agreeable intimation that strangers were always expected to attend without invitation. Young and ardent, I required little persuasion to change my dress, and hasten to the scene of festivity. The moment I entered the room, I felt that I was welcome. Not a single look of surprise, not a glance of more than ordinary attention, denoted me as a stranger, or an unexpected guest. The gentlemen nearest the door, bowed as they opened a passage for me through the crowd, in which for a time I mingled, apparently unnoticed. At length a young gentleman adorned with a large nosegay approached me, invited me to join the dancers, and after inquiring my name, introduced me to several females, among whom I had no difficulty in selecting a graceful partner. I was passionately fond of dancing, so that readily imbibing the joyous spirit of those around me, I advanced rapidly in their estimation. The native ease and elegance of the females, reared in the wilderness, and unhackneyed in the forms of society, surprised and delighted me, as much as the amiable frankness of all classes. By and by the dancing ceased, and four young ladies of exquisite beauty, who had appeared during the evening to assume more consequence than the others, stood alone on the floor. For a moment their arch glances wandered over the company who stood silently around, when one of them advancing to a young gentleman led him into the circle, and taking a large bouquet from her own bosom, pinned it upon the left breast of his coat, and pronounced him “KING!” The gentleman kissed his fair elector, and led her to a seat. Two others were selected almost at the same moment. The fourth lady hesitated for an instant, then advancing to the spot where I stood, presented me her hand, led me forward and placed the symbol on my breast, before I could recover from the surprise into which the incident had thrown me. I regained my presence of mind, however, in time to salute my lovely consort; and never did king enjoy with more delight the first fruits of his elevation; for the beautiful Gabrielle, with whom I had just danced, and who had so unexpectedly raised me, as it were, to the purple, was the freshest and fairest flower in this assemblage.
The ceremony was soon explained to me. On the first day of the Carnival, four self-appointed kings, having selected their queens, give a ball, at their own proper costs, to the whole village. In the course of that evening the queens select, in the manner described, the kings for the ensuing day, who choose their queens, in turn, by presenting the nosegay and the kiss. This is repeated every evening in the week, the kings for the time being giving the ball at their own expense, and all the inhabitants attending without invitation. On the morning after each ball, the kings of the preceding evening make small presents to their late queens, and their temporary alliance is dissolved. Thus commenced my acquaintance with Gabrielle Menou, who, if she cost me a few sleepless nights, amply repaid me in the many happy hours for which I was indebted to her friendship.
I remained several weeks at this hospitable village. Few evenings passed without a dance, at which all were assembled, young and old; the mothers vying in agility with their daughters, and the old men setting examples of gallantry to the young. I accompanied their young men to the Indian towns, and was hospitably entertained. I followed them to the chase, and witnessed the fall of many a noble buck. In their light canoes I glided over the turbid waters of the Mississippi, or through the labyrinths of the morass, in pursuit of water fowl. I visited the mounds where the bones of thousands of warriors were mouldering, overgrown with prairie violets and thousands of nameless flowers. I saw the moccasin snake basking in the sun, the elk feeding on the prairie; and returned to mingle in the amusements of a circle, where, if there was not Parisian elegance, there was more than Parisian cordiality.
Several years passed away before I again visited this country. The jurisdiction of the American government was now extended over this immense region, and its beneficial effects were beginning to be widely disseminated. The roads were crowded with the teams, and herds, and families of emigrants, hastening to the land of promise. Steamboats navigated every stream, the axe was heard in every forest, and the plough broke the sod whose verdure had covered the prairie for ages.
It was sunset when I reached the margin of the prairie on which the village is situated. My horse, wearied with a long day’s travel, sprang forward with new vigour, when his hoof struck the smooth, firm road which led across the plain. It was a narrow path, winding among the tall grass, now tinged with the mellow hues of autumn. I gazed with delight over the beautiful surface. The mounds, and the solitary trees, were there, just as I had left them; and they were familiar to my eye as the objects of yesterday. It was eight miles across the prairie, and I had not passed half the distance when night set in. I strained my eyes to catch a glimpse of the village; but two large mounds and a clump of trees, which intervened, defeated my purpose. I thought of Gabrielle, and Jeannette, and Baptiste, and the priest—the fiddles, dances, and French ponies; and fancied every minute an hour, and every foot a mile, which separated me from scenes and persons so deeply impressed on my imagination.
At length I passed the mounds, and beheld the lights twinkling in the village, now about two miles off, like a brilliant constellation in the horizon. The lights seemed very numerous—I thought they moved; and at last discovered that they were rapidly passing about. “What can be going on in the village?” thought I—then a strain of music met my ear—“they are going to dance,” said I, striking my spurs into my jaded nag, “and I shall see all my friends together.” But as I drew near, a volume of sounds burst upon me such as defied all conjecture. Fiddles, flutes and tambourines, drums, cow-horns, tin trumpets, and kettles mingled their discordant notes with a strange accompaniment of laughter, shouts and singing. This singular concert proceeded from a mob of men and boys, who paraded through the streets, preceded by one who blew an immense tin horn, and ever and anon shouted, “Cha-ri-va-ry! Charivary!” to which the mob responded “Charivary!” I now recollected having heard of a custom which prevails among the American French of serenading at the marriage of a widow or widower, with such a concert as I now witnessed; and I rode towards the crowd, who had halted before a well known door, to ascertain who were the happy parties.
“Charivary!” shouted the leader.
“Pour qui?” said another voice.
“Pour Mons. Baptiste Menou. Il s’est marié!”
“Avec qui?”
“Avec Mam’selle Jeannette Duval—Charivary!”
“Charivary!” shouted the whole company, and a torrent of music poured from the full band—tin kettles, cow-horns and all.
The door of the little cabin, whose hospitable threshold I had so often crossed, now opened, and Baptiste made his appearance,—the identical, lank, sallow, erect personage with whom I had parted several years before, with the same pipe in his mouth. His visage was as long and as melancholy as ever, except that there was a slight tinge of triumph in its expression, and a bashful casting down of the eye, reminding one of a conqueror, proud but modest in his glory. He gazed with an embarrassed air at the serenaders, bowed repeatedly, as if conscious that he was the hero of the night, and then exclaimed,
“For what make you this charivary?”
“Charivary!” shouted the mob; and the tin trumpets gave an exquisite flourish.
“Gentlemen!” expostulated the bridegroom, “for why you make this charivary for me? I have never been marry before—and Mam’selle Jeannette has never been marry before!”
Roll went the drum!—cow-horns, kettles, tin trumpets and fiddles poured forth volumes of sound, and the mob shouted in unison.
“Gentlemen! pardonnez moi—” supplicated the distressed Baptiste. “If I understan dis custom, which have long prevail vid us, it is vat I say—ven a gentilman, who has been marry before, shall marry de second time—or ven a lady have de misfortune to lose her husban, and be so happy to marry some odder gentilman, den we make de charivary—but ’tis not so wid Mam’selle Duval and me. Upon my honor we have never been marry before dis time!”
“Why, Baptiste,” said one, “you certainly have been married and have a daughter grown.”
“Oh, excuse me sir! Madame Ste. Marie is my niece. I have never been so happy to be marry, until Mam’selle Duval have do me dis honneur.”
“Well, well! it’s all one. If you have not been married, you ought to have been, long ago—and might have been, if you had said the word.”
“Ah, gentilmen, you mistake.”
“No, no! there’s no mistake about it. Mam’selle Jeanette would have had you ten years ago, if you had asked her.”
“You flatter too much,” said Baptiste, shrugging his shoulders; and finding that there was no means of avoiding the charivary, he with great good humour accepted the serenade, and according to custom invited the whole party into his house.
I retired to my former quarters, at the house of an old settler—a little shrivelled, facetious Frenchman, whom I found in his red flannel nightcap, smoking his pipe, and seated like Jupiter in the midst of clouds of his own creating.
“Merry doings in the village!” said I, after we had shaken hands.
“Eh, bien! Mons. Baptiste is marry to Mam’selle Jeannette.”
“I see the boys are making merry on the occasion.”
“Ah Sacré! de dem boy! they have play hell to-night.”
“Indeed! how so?”
“For make dis charivary—dat is how so, my friend. Dis come for have d’ Americain government to rule de countrie. Parbleu! they make charivary for de old maid, and de old bachelor!”
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ALBERT PIKE
1809–1891
Albert Pike was a pioneer and a free lance. From school-teaching in old Newburyport he broke away in 1831 to the new Southwest. Successively explorer, editor, and lawyer in New Mexico and Arkansas for some fifteen years, he found time also to gratify a strong literary impulse. On his journey out he sent to the American Monthly Magazine (1831) both prose and verse, and to the same journal five years later his Letters from Arkansas. Meantime (1834) he had published in Boston the thin volume from which is taken the following tale. Hymns to the Gods appeared in Blackwood for June, 1839 (volume xlv, page 819; see also volume xlvii, page 354), with a letter dated at Little Rock, August 15, 1838. (The American Cyclopedia puts the original publication of these at Boston, 1831.) After serving against Mexico and in the Confederacy, he gave himself mainly to the practice of the law. But he edited the Memphis Appeal, 1867–1868, published volumes of his verse in 1854, 1873, and 1882, and wrote extensively, as an adept, on freemasonry.
Though Pike has more narrative directness than Hall, he is usually loose in narrative structure. Plot seems of smaller concern to him than setting. The abundance of vivid detail and some nervous force in the phrase make his sketches permanently convincing as description.