The last bell rings--the "can't-get-away" folks rush ashore--the
staging-plank is drawn in--some heedless wight has to jump for it--the
cable is pulled aboard and coiled--the engineer's bell tinkles--the
great wheels revolve, lashing the brown water into foam--the steam
"whistles" and screams at the boilers, and booms from the 'scape-pipe in
regular repetitions--neighbouring boats are pressed out of their
places--their planks cringe and crackle--guards are broken, or the
slight timbers of wheel-houses, causing a cross-fire of curses between
the crews--and after some minutes of this pandemoniac confusion, the
huge craft clears herself, and rides out upon the broad bosom of the
river.
She heads up-stream; a few strokes of the revolving paddles and the
current is mastered; and the noble boat yielding to the mighty
propulsion, cleaves her liquid way, "walking the water like a thing of
life!"
Perchance the boom of a cannon announces her departure; perchance it is
animated by the harmonious swell of brazen instruments; or still more
appropriate, some old "boatman's song," with its lively chorus, is heard
issuing from the rude, though not unmusical throats of the "hands"
below.
Lafayette and Carrolton are soon passed; the humbler roofs of stores and
dwellings sink out of sight; and the noble dome of Saint Charles, the
spires of churches, and the towers of the great cathedral, are all of
the Crescent City that remain above the horizon. These, at length, go
down; and the "floating palace" moves on in stately grandeur between the
picturesque shores of the Mississippi.
I have said "picturesque." This word does not satisfy me, nor can I
think of one that will delineate my idea. I must make use of a phrase,
"picturesquely beautiful," to express my admiration of the scenery of
those shores. I have no hesitation in pronouncing it the finest in the
world.
I am not gazing upon it with a mere cold eye-glance. I cannot separate
scenery from its associations--not its associations of the past, but
with the present. I look upon the ruined castles of the Rhine, and
their story impresses me with a feeling of disgust for what _has been_.
I look upon its modern homes and their dwellers; I am equally filled
with disgust for what _is_. In the Bay of Naples I experience a similar
feeling, and roaming "around" the lordly parks of England, I see them
through an enclosure of wretchedness and rags, till their loveliness
seems an illusion!
Here alone, upon the banks of this majestic river, do I behold wealth
widely diffused, intelligence broadcast, and comfort for all. Here, in
almost every house, do I meet the refined taste of high civilisation--
the hospitality of generous hearts combined with the power to dispense
it. Here can I converse with men by thousands, whose souls are free--
not politically alone, but free from vulgar error and fanatic
superstition; here, in short, have I witnessed, not the perfectedness--
for that belongs to a far future time--but the most advanced stage of
civilisation yet reached upon the globe.
A dark shadow crosses my eye-glance, and my heart is stung with sudden
pain. It is the shadow of a human being with a black skin. _He is a
slave_!
For a moment or two the scene looks black! What is there to admire
here--in these fields of golden sugar-cane, of waving maize, of
snow-white cotton? What to admire in those grand mansions, with their
orangeries, their flowery gardens, their drooping shade-trees, and their
soft arbours? All this is but the sweat of the slave!
For a while I behold without admiring. The scene has lost its _couleur
de rose_; and a gloomy wilderness is before me! I reflect. Slowly and
gradually the cloud passes away, and the brightness returns. I reflect
and 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, and
far more numerous. Not the slaves of an individual, but of an
association of individuals--a class--an oligarchy. Not slaves of the
corvee--serfs of the feud--but victims of its modern representative the
tax, which is simply its commutation, and equally baneful in its
effects.
On my soul, I hold that the slavery of the Louisiana black is less
degrading than that of the white pleb of England. The poor,
woolly-headed helot is the victim of conquest, and may claim to place
himself in the honourable category of a prisoner of war. He has not
willed his own bondage; while you, my grocer, and butcher, and baker--
ay, and you, my fine city merchant, who fondly fancy yourself a
freeman--ye are voluntary in your serfdom; ye are loyal to a political
juggle that annually robs ye of half your year's industry; that annually
requires some hundred thousands of your class to be sloughed off into
exile, lest your whole body should gangrene and die. And all this
without even a protest. Nay, worse--you are ever ready to cry "crucify"
to him who would attempt to counteract this condition--ever ready to
glorify the man and the motion that would fix another rivet in your
fetters!
Even while I write, the man who loves you least; he who for forty
years--for all his life, in fact--has been your systematic enemy, is the
most popular of your rulers! Even while I write the Roman wheel is
revolving before your eyes, squibs and crackers sound sweetly in your
ears, and you are screaming forth your rejoicings over the acts of a
convention that had for its sole object the strengthening of your
chains! But a short twelve months ago, you were just as enthusiastic
for a war that was equally antagonistic to your interests, equally
hostile to the liberties of your kind! Miserable delusion!
I repeat what I have uttered with a feeling of solemnity. On my soul, I
hold that the slavery of the Louisiana black is less degrading than that
of the white pleb of England.
True, this black man is a _slave_, and there are three millions of his
race in the same condition. Painful thought! but less painful when
accompanied by the reflection that the same broad land is trodden by
_twenty millions of free and sovereign men_. Three millions of slaves
to twenty millions of masters! In mine own land the proportion is
exactly reversed!
The truth may be obscure. For all that, I dare say there are some who
will understand it.
Ah! how pleasant to turn from these heart-stirring but painful thoughts
to the calmer contemplation of themes furnished by science and nature.
How sweet was it to study the many novel forms that presented themselves
to my eyes on the shores of that magnificent stream! There is a
pleasaunce even in the retrospect; and as I now sit dreaming over them
far away--perhaps never more to behold them with mortal eye--I am
consoled by a fond and faithful memory, whose magic power enables me to
recall them before the eye of my mind in all their vivid colouring of
green and gold!