France formerly possessed in North America a vast empire, extending from
Labrador to the Floridas, and from the shores of the Atlantic to the
most distant lakes of Upper Canada.
Four great rivers, deriving their sources from the same mountains,
divided these immense regions: the river St. Lawrence, which is lost to
the east in the gulf of that name; the Western River, whose waters flow
on to seas unknown; the river Bourbon, which runs from south to north
into Hudson’s Bay; and the Mississippi, whose waters fall from north to
south into the Gulf of Mexico.
The last-named river, in its course of more than a thousand leagues,
waters a delicious country, called by the inhabitants of the United
States the New Eden, to which the French left the pretty appellation of
Louisiana. A thousand other rivers, tributaries of the Mississippi--the
Missouri, the Illinois, the Arkansas, the Wabache, the Tennessee--enrich
it with their mud and fertilize it with their waters. When all these
rivers have been swollen by the deluges of winter, uprooted trees,
forming large portions of forests torn down by tempests, crowd about
their sources. In a short time the mud cements the torn trees together,
and they become enchained by creepers, which, taking root in every
direction, bind and consolidate the débris. Carried away by the foaming
waves, the rafts descend to the Mississippi, which, taking possession
of them, hurries them down towards the Gulf of Mexico, throws them upon
sandbanks, and so increases the number of its mouths. At intervals the
swollen river raises its voice whilst passing over the resisting heaps,
and spreads its overflowing waters around the colonnades of the forests,
and the pyramids of the Indian tombs: and so the Mississippi is the Nile
of these deserts. But grace is always united to splendor in the scenes
of Nature: while the mid-stream bears away towards the sea the dead
trunks of pine-trees and oaks, the lateral currents on either side
convey along the shores floating islands of pistias and nenuphars,
whose yellow roses stand out like little pavilions. Green serpents, blue
herons, pink flamingoes, and baby crocodiles embark as passengers on
these rafts of flowers; and the brilliant colony, unfolding to the wind
its golden sails, glides along slumberingly till it arrives at some
retired creek in the river.
The two shores of the Mississippi present the most extraordinary
picture. On the western border vast savannahs spread away farther than
the eye can reach, and their waves of verdure, as they recede, appear
to rise gradually into the azure sky, where they fade away. In these
limitless meadows herds of three or four thousand wild buffaloes wander
at random. Sometimes, cleaving the waters as it swims, a bison, laden
with years, comes to repose among the high grass on an island of the
Mississippi, its forehead ornamented with two crescents, and its ancient
and slimy beard giving it the appearance of a god of the river throwing
an eye of satisfaction upon the grandeur of its waters, and the wild
abundance of its shores.
[Illustration: 013]
Such is the scene upon the western border; but it changes on the
opposite side, which forms an admirable contrast with the other shore.
Suspended along the course of the waters, grouped upon the rocks and
upon the mountains, and dispersed in the valleys, trees of every
form, of every color, and of every perfume, throng and grow together,
stretching up into the air to heights that weary the eye to follow. Wild
vines, bignonias, coloquintidas, intertwine each other at the feet of
these trees, escalade their trunks, and creep along to the extremity of
their branches, stretching from the maple to the tulip-tree, from the
tulip-tree to the holly-hock, and thus forming thousands of grottoes,
arches and porticoes. Often, in their wanderings from tree to tree,
these creepers cross the arm of a river, over which they throw a bridge
of flowers. Out of the midst of these masses, the magnolia, raising
its motionless cone, surmounted by large white buds, commands all the
forest, where it has no other rival than the palm-tree, which gently
waves, close by, its fans of verdure.
A multitude of animals, placed in these retreats by the hand of the
Creator, spread about life and enchantment. From the extremities of the
avenues may be seen bears, intoxicated with the grape, staggering
upon the branches of the elm-trees; cariboos bathe in the lake;
black-squirrels play among the thick foliage; mocking-birds, and
Virginian pigeons not bigger than sparrows, fly down upon the turf,
reddened with strawberries; green parrots with yellow heads, purple
woodpeckers, cardinals red as fire, clamber up to the very tops of the
cypress-trees; humming-birds sparkle upon the jessamine of the Floridas;
and bird-catching serpents hiss while suspended to the domes of the
woods, where they swing about like the creepers themselves.
If all is silence and repose in the savannahs on the other side of the
river, all here, on the contrary, is sound and motion; peckings against
the trunks of the oaks, frictions of animals walking along as they
nibble or crush between their teeth the stones of fruits, the roaring of
the waves, plaintive cries, dull bellowings and mild cooings, fill these
deserts with a tender yet wild harmony. But when a breeze happens to
animate these solitudes, to swing these floating bodies, to confound
these masses of white, blue, green, and pink, to mix all the colors and
to combine all the murmurs, there issue such sounds from the depths of
the forests, and such things pass before the eyes, that I should in
vain endeavor to describe them to those who have never visited these
primitive fields of Nature.
After the discovery of the Mississippi by Father Marquette and the
unfortunate La Salle, the first Frenchmen who established themselves at
Biloxi and at New Orleans entered into an alliance with the Natchez, an
Indian nation whose power was redoubtable in those countries. Quarrels
and jealousies subsequently ensanguined the land of hospitality. Amongst
these savages there was an old man named Chactas, * who, on account of
his age, wisdom and knowledge of the affairs of life, was the patriarch
and the beloved of the deserts. Like many other men, he had acquired
virtue by calamity. Not only were the forests of the New World filled
with his misfortunes, but he bore the tale of his calamities even to the
shores of France. Kept at the galleys at Marseilles by a cruel act of
injustice, restored to liberty, and presented to Louis XIV., he had
conversed with the great men of that age, and had been present at the
fêtes of Versailles, at the tragedies of Racine, and at the funeral
orations of Bossuet: in one word, the savage had contemplated society at
the moment of its greatest splendor.
For several years Chactas, restored to the bosom of his country, had
been in the enjoyment of repose. Nevertheless, Providence granted him
even this favor dearly: the old man had become blind. A young girl
used to accompany him on the hills of the Mississippi, just as Antigone
formerly guided the steps of Odipus over the Cithæron, or as Malvina
conducted Ossian over the rocks of Morven.
In spite of the numerous acts of injustice to which Chactas had been
subjected by the French, he was very partial to them. He ever remembered
Fénélon, whose guest he had been, and desired an opportunity for
rendering service to the fellow-countrymen of that virtuous man. A
favorable occasion presented itself. In 1725 a Frenchman named
René, driven thither by his passions and his misfortunes, arrived at
Louisiana. He ascended the Mississippi as far as the territory of the
Natchez, and asked to be accepted as a warrior of that nation.
Chactas, having questioned him, and finding him not to be shaken in
his resolution, adopted him as a son, and united him to an Indian girl
called Céluta. Shortly after this marriage the savages prepared to go
beaver-hunting.
On account of the respect with which the Indian tribes regarded the old
man, Chactas, although blind, was appointed by the council of the wise
men to command the expedition. Prayers and fasts commenced, the jugglers
interpreted the dreams, the manitous were consulted, sacrifices
of tobacco were offered up, fillets of elk-tongues were burnt, the
assistants examining whether they sputtered in the flames, in order
to ascertain the will of the genii; and at length they started, after
having partaken of the sacred dog. René was of the party.
* The harmonious voice.
With the assistance of the counter-currents, the pirogues reascended the
Mississippi, and reached the bed of the Ohio. One moonlight night, while
all the Natchez were asleep at the bottom of their pirogues, and the
Indian fleet, under a crowd of beast-skin sails, was flying before a
mild breeze, René, who had remained alone with Chactas, asked him to
tell the story of his adventures. The old man consented to satisfy his
curiosity, and began in these words:--
[Illustration: 016]
[Illustration: 017]
[Illustration: 019]