by Mayne Reid
CHAPTER SEVEN.
THE STARTING.
The last bell rings--the "can't-get-away" folks rush ashore--thestaging-plank is drawn in--some heedless wight has to jump for it--thecable is pulled aboard and coiled--the engineer's bell tinkles--thegreat wheels revolve, lashing the brown water into foam--the steam"whistles" and screams at the boilers, and booms from the 'scape-pipe inregular repetitions--neighbouring boats are pressed out of theirplaces--their planks cringe and crackle--guards are broken, or theslight timbers of wheel-houses, causing a cross-fire of curses betweenthe crews--and after some minutes of this pandemoniac confusion, thehuge craft clears herself, and rides out upon the broad bosom of theriver.
She heads up-stream; a few strokes of the revolving paddles and thecurrent is mastered; and the noble boat yielding to the mightypropulsion, cleaves her liquid way, "walking the water like a thing oflife!"
Perchance the boom of a cannon announces her departure; perchance it isanimated by the harmonious swell of brazen instruments; or still moreappropriate, some old "boatman's song," with its lively chorus, is heardissuing from the rude, though not unmusical throats of the "hands"below.
Lafayette and Carrolton are soon passed; the humbler roofs of stores anddwellings sink out of sight; and the noble dome of Saint Charles, thespires of churches, and the towers of the great cathedral, are all ofthe Crescent City that remain above the horizon. These, at length, godown; and the "floating palace" moves on in stately grandeur between thepicturesque shores of the Mississippi.
I have said "picturesque." This word does not satisfy me, nor can Ithink of one that will delineate my idea. I must make use of a phrase,"picturesquely beautiful," to express my admiration of the scenery ofthose shores. I have no hesitation in pronouncing it the finest in theworld.
I am not gazing upon it with a mere cold eye-glance. I cannot separatescenery from its associations--not its associations of the past, butwith the present. I look upon the ruined castles of the Rhine, andtheir story impresses me with a feeling of disgust for what _has been_.I look upon its modern homes and their dwellers; I am equally filledwith disgust for what _is_. In the Bay of Naples I experience a similarfeeling, and roaming "around" the lordly parks of England, I see themthrough an enclosure of wretchedness and rags, till their lovelinessseems an illusion!
Here alone, upon the banks of this majestic river, do I behold wealthwidely diffused, intelligence broadcast, and comfort for all. Here, inalmost every house, do I meet the refined taste of high civilisation--the hospitality of generous hearts combined with the power to dispenseit. Here can I converse with men by thousands, whose souls are free--not politically alone, but free from vulgar error and fanaticsuperstition; here, in short, have I witnessed, not the perfectedness--for that belongs to a far future time--but the most advanced stage ofcivilisation yet reached upon the globe.
A dark shadow crosses my eye-glance, and my heart is stung with suddenpain. It is the shadow of a human being with a black skin. _He is aslave_!
For a moment or two the scene looks black! What is there to admirehere--in these fields of golden sugar-cane, of waving maize, ofsnow-white cotton? What to admire in those grand mansions, with theirorangeries, their flowery gardens, their drooping shade-trees, and theirsoft arbours? All this is but the sweat of the slave!
For a while I behold without admiring. The scene has lost its _couleurde rose_; and a gloomy wilderness is before me! I reflect. Slowly andgradually the cloud passes away, and the brightness returns. I reflectand compare.
True, he with the black skin is a slave--but not a _voluntary_ slave.That is a difference in his favour at least.
In other lands--mine own among them--I see around me slaves as well, andfar more numerous. Not the slaves of an individual, but of anassociation of individuals--a class--an oligarchy. Not slaves of thecorvee--serfs of the feud--but victims of its modern representative thetax, which is simply its commutation, and equally baneful in itseffects.
On my soul, I hold that the slavery of the Louisiana black is lessdegrading than that of the white pleb of England. The poor,woolly-headed helot is the victim of conquest, and may claim to placehimself in the honourable category of a prisoner of war. He has notwilled his own bondage; while you, my grocer, and butcher, and baker--ay, and you, my fine city merchant, who fondly fancy yourself afreeman--ye are voluntary in your serfdom; ye are loyal to a politicaljuggle that annually robs ye of half your year's industry; that annuallyrequires some hundred thousands of your class to be sloughed off intoexile, lest your whole body should gangrene and die. And all thiswithout even a protest. Nay, worse--you are ever ready to cry "crucify"to him who would attempt to counteract this condition--ever ready toglorify the man and the motion that would fix another rivet in yourfetters!
Even while I write, the man who loves you least; he who for fortyyears--for all his life, in fact--has been your systematic enemy, is themost popular of your rulers! Even while I write the Roman wheel isrevolving before your eyes, squibs and crackers sound sweetly in yourears, and you are screaming forth your rejoicings over the acts of aconvention that had for its sole object the strengthening of yourchains! But a short twelve months ago, you were just as enthusiasticfor a war that was equally antagonistic to your interests, equallyhostile to the liberties of your kind! Miserable delusion!
I repeat what I have uttered with a feeling of solemnity. On my soul, Ihold that the slavery of the Louisiana black is less degrading than thatof the white pleb of England.
True, this black man is a _slave_, and there are three millions of hisrace in the same condition. Painful thought! but less painful whenaccompanied by the reflection that the same broad land is trodden by_twenty millions of free and sovereign men_. Three millions of slavesto twenty millions of masters! In mine own land the proportion isexactly reversed!
The truth may be obscure. For all that, I dare say there are some whowill understand it.
Ah! how pleasant to turn from these heart-stirring but painful thoughtsto the calmer contemplation of themes furnished by science and nature.How sweet was it to study the many novel forms that presented themselvesto my eyes on the shores of that magnificent stream! There is apleasaunce even in the retrospect; and as I now sit dreaming over themfar away--perhaps never more to behold them with mortal eye--I amconsoled by a fond and faithful memory, whose magic power enables me torecall them before the eye of my mind in all their vivid colouring ofgreen and gold!