by Mayne Reid
CHAPTER FIFTY.
THE CITY.
I am strongly in favour of a country life. I am a lover of the chaseand the angle.
Perhaps if I were to analyse the feeling, I might find that thesepredilections have their source in a purer fountain--the love of Natureherself. I follow the deer in his tracks, because they lead me into thewildest solitudes of the forest--I follow the trout in its stream,because I am guided into still retreats, by the margin of shady pools,where human foot rarely treads. Once in the haunts of the fish and thegame, my sporting energy dies within me. My rod-spear pierces the turf,my gun lies neglected by my side, and I yield up my soul to a divinerdalliance with the beauties of Nature. Oh, I am a rare lover of thesylvan scene!
And yet, for all this, I freely admit that the first hours spent in agreat city have for me a peculiar fascination. A world of new pleasuresis suddenly placed within reach--a world of luxury opened up. The soulis charmed with rare joys. Beauty and song, wine and the dance, varytheir allurements. Love, or it may be passion, beguiles you into manyan incident of romantic adventure; for romance may be found within thewalled city. The human heart is its home, and they are but Quixoticdreamers who fancy that steam and civilisation are antagonistic to thepurest aspirations of poetry. A sophism, indeed, is the chivalry of thesavage. His rags, so picturesque, often cover a shivering form and ahungry stomach. Soldier though I may claim to be, I prefer the cheeringroll of the busy mill to the thunder of the cannon--I regard the tallchimney, with its banner of black smoke, a far nobler sight than thefortress turret with its flouting and fickle flag. I hear sweet musicin the plashing of the paddle-wheel; and in my ears a nobler sound isthe scream of the iron horse than the neigh of the pampered war-steed.A nation of monkeys may manage the business of gunpowder: they must bemen to control the more powerful element of steam.
These ideas will not suit the puling sentimentalism of the boudoir andthe boarding-school. The Quixotism of the modern time will be angrywith the rough writer who thus rudely lays his hand upon the helm of themailed knight, and would deflower it of its glory and glossy plumes. Itis hard to yield up prejudices and preconceptions, however false; andthe writer himself in doing so confesses to the cost of a struggle of noordinary violence. It was hard to give up the Homeric illusion, andbelieve that Greeks were men, not demigods--hard to recognise in theorgan-man and the opera-singer the descendants of those heroes portrayedin the poetic pictures of a Virgil; and yet in the days of my dreamyyouth, when I turned my face to the West, I did so under the fullconviction that the land of prose was before me and the land of poetrybehind my back!
Thanks to Saint Hubert and the golden ring of the word "Mexico," I didturn my face in that direction: and no sooner had I set foot on thoseglorious shores, trodden by a Columbus and a Cortez, than I recognisedthe home both of the poetic and the picturesque. In that very land,called prosaic--the land of dollars--I inhaled the very acme of thepoetic spirit; not from the rhythm of books, but expressed in the mostbeautiful types of the human form, in the noblest impulses of the humansoul, in rock and stream, in bird, and leaf and flower. In that verycity, which, thanks to perjured and prejudiced travellers, I had beentaught to regard as a sort of outcast camp, I found humanity in itsfairest forms--progress blended with pleasure--civilisation adorned withthe spirit of chivalry as with a wreath. Prosaic indeed! adollar-loving people! I make bold to assert, that in the concave ofthat little crescent where lies the city of New Orleans will be found apsychological _melange_ of greater variety and interest than exists inany space of equal extent on the globe's surface. There the passions,favoured by the clime, reach their fullest, highest development, Loveand hate, joy and grief, avarice, ambition--all attain to perfectvigour. There, too, the moral virtues are met with in full purity.Cant has there no home, hypocrisy must be deep indeed to avoid exposureand punishment. Genius is almost universal--universal, too, isactivity. The stupid and the slothful cannot exist in this moving worldof busy life and enjoyment.
An ethnological _melange_ as well this singular city presents. Perhapsno other city exhibits so great a variety of nationalities as in itsstreets. Founded by the French, held by the Spaniards, "annexed" by theAmericans, these three nations form the elements of its population. Butyou may, nevertheless, there meet with representatives of most othercivilised, and of many "savage" people. The Turk in his turban, theArab in his burnouse, the Chinaman with shaven scalp and queue, theblack son of Africa, the red Indian, the swarthy Mestize, yellowMulatto, the olive Malay, the light graceful Creole, and the not lessgraceful Quadroon, jostle each other in its streets, and jostle with thered-blooded races of the North, the German and Gael, the Russ and Swede,the Fleming, the Yankee, and the Englishman. An odd human mosaic--amottled piebald mixture is the population of the Crescent City.
In truth, New Orleans is a great metropolis, more of a city than placesof much greater population either in Europe or America. In passingthrough its streets you feel that you are not in a provincial town. Itsshops exhibit the richest goods, of best workmanship. Palace-likehotels appear in every street. Luxurious _cafes_ invite you into theirelegant saloons. Theatres are there--grand architectural temples--inwhich you may witness the drama well performed in French, and German,and English, and in its season you may listen to the soul-moving musicof the Italian opera. If you are a lover of the Terpsichorean art, youwill fold New Orleans, _par excellence_, the town to your taste.
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I knew the capacities of New Orleans to afford pleasure. I wasacquainted with the sources of enjoyment, yet I sought them not. Aftera long interval of country life I entered the city without a thought ofits gaieties--a rare event in the life even of the most sedate. Themasquerades, the quadroon-balls, the drama, the sweet strains of theOpera, had lost their attractions for me. No amusement could amuse meat that moment. One thought alone had possession of my heart--Aurore!There was room for no other.
I pondered as to how I should act.
Place yourself in my position, and you will surely acknowledge it adifficult one. First, I was in love with this beautiful quadroon--inlove beyond redemption. Secondly, she, the object of my passion, wasfor _sale_, and by _public auction_! Thirdly, I was jealous--ayjealous, of that which might be sold and bought like a bale of cotton,--a barrel of sugar! Fourthly, I was still uncertain whether I shouldhave it in my power to become the purchaser. I was still uncertainwhether my banker's letter had yet reached New Orleans. Ocean steamerswere not known at this period, and the date of a European mail could notbe relied upon with any degree of certainty. Should that not come tohand in due time, then indeed should my misery reach its culminatingpoint. Some one else would become possessed of all I held dear onearth--would be her lord and master--with power to do aught--oh God! theidea was fearful. I could not bear to dwell upon it.
Again, even should my letter reach me in time, would the amount Iexpected be enough? Five hundred pounds sterling--five times five--twenty-five hundred dollars! Would twenty-five hundred be the price ofthat which was priceless?
I even doubted whether it would. I knew that a thousand dollars was atthat time the "average value" of a slave, and it was rare when oneyielded twice that amount. It must be a strong-bodied man--a skilfulmechanic, a good blacksmith, an expert barber, to be worth such a sum!
But for Aurore. Oh! I had heard strange tales of "fancy prices," forsuch a "lot"--of brisk competition in the bidding--of men with longpurses and lustful thoughts eagerly contending for such a prize.
Such thoughts might harrow the soul even under the most ordinarycircumstances! what was their effect upon me? I cannot describe thefeelings I experienced.
Should the sum reach me in time--should it prove enough--should I evensucceed in becoming the _owner_ of Aurore, what then? What if myjealousy were well founded? What if she loved me not? Worse dilemmathan ever. I should only have her body--then her heart and soul
wouldbe another's. I should live in exquisite torture--the slave of a slave!
Why should I attempt to purchase her at all? Why not make a boldeffort, and free myself from this delirious passion? She is not worthyof the sacrifice I would make for her. No--she has deceived me--surelyshe has deceived me. Why not break my promise, plighted though it be inwords of fervid love? Why not flee from the spot, and endeavour toescape the torture that is maddening both my heart and brain? Oh! whynot?
In calmer moments, such questions might be thought worthy of an answer.I could not answer them. I did not even entertain them,--though, likeshadows, they flitted across my mind. In the then state of my feelings,prudence was unknown. Expediency had no place. I would not havelistened to its cold counsels. You who have passionately loved canalone understand me. I was resolved to risk fortune, fame, life--all--to possess the object I so deeply adored.