it as appears worthy a few words. Here are a brace of volumes by M.
de Kock, over which we are not likely long to linger. An esteemed
contributor to Maga expressed, a few years ago, his and our opinion
concerning this ancient dealer in dirt--namely, that he has no
deliberate intention to corrupt the morals or alarm the delicacy of
his readers, for that morals and delicacy are words of whose meaning
he has not the slightest conception. Paul, every Frenchman tells
you, is not read in France, save by milliners' girls and shopboys,
or by literary porters, who solace the leisure of their lodge by a
laugh over his pages, contraband amongst _gens comme il faut_. No
man is a prophet in his own land; and yet we have certain reasons
for believing that, even in France, Paul has more readers, avowed
or secret, than his countrymen admit. But at any rate, we can offer
the old gentleman (for M. Kock must be waxing venerable, and his
son has for some years been before the public as an author,) the
consolatory assurance, that in England he has numerous admirers,
to judge from the thumbed condition of a set of his works, which
caught our eye last summer on the shelves of a London circulating
library. To these amateurs of "Kockneyisms," whether genuine
cockneys, or naturalised cooks and barbers from Gaul, _Taquinet le
Bossu_ will be welcome. The hunchback, everybody knows, is a great
type in France. Who is not acquainted with the glorious _Mayeux_,
the swearing, fighting, love-making hero of a host of popular songs,
anecdotes, and caricatures, and of more than one romance--especially
of a four-volume one by Ricard, a deceased rival of De Kock?
Well, Paul--who, we must admit, is quite original, and disdains
imitation--has never meddled with the hackneyed veteran Mayeux, but
now creates a hunchback of his own. Taquinet is the dwarf clerk of
a notary, luxuriating in a wage of fifty pounds a-year, and a hunch
of the first magnitude. Pert as a magpie, mischievous and confiding,
devoted to the fair sex, and especially to its taller specimens, he
is a fine subject for Monsieur de Kock, who gets him into all manner
of queer scrapes, some not of the most refined description. The
French hunchback, we must observe, is a genus apart--quite different
from high-shouldered people of other countries. Far from being
susceptible on the score of his dorsal protuberance, he views it in
the light of an excellent joke, a benefaction of nature, placed upon
his spine for the diversion of himself and his fellow-men. The words
_bosse_ and _bossu_ (hunch and hunchback) have various idiomatic and
proverbial applications in France. To laugh like a _bossu_, implies
the _ne plus ultra_ of risibility: _se donner une bosse_--literally,
to give one's-self a hunch--is synonymous with sharing in a jovial
repast where much is eaten and more drunk. An excellent caricature in
the _Charivari_, some years ago, represented a group of half-starved
soldiers sitting round a fire of sticks at the foot of Atlas, and
picking a dromedary's scull--"_Pas moyen de se donner une bosse!_"
exclaims one of the dissatisfied conscripts. On twelve hundred francs
per annum, poor Taquinet often makes the same complaint; and, in
hopes of bettering his fortune, wanders into Germany on a matrimonial
venture, there to be jilted by Fraulein Carottsmann, for a strolling
player with one coat and three sets of buttons, who styles himself
Marquis, because he has been occasionally hissed in the line of
characters designated in France by that aristocratic denomination.
Then there is a general of Napoleon's army who cannot write his name;
and a buxom sutler and a handsome aide-de-camp, sundry grisettes, and
the other _dramatis personæ_ habitually to be met with in the pages
of Paul--the whole set forth in indifferent French, and garnished
with buffoonery and impropriety, after the usual fashion of this zany
of Parisian novelists.
Is it true that M. Honoré de Balzac is married to a female
_millionnaire_, who fell in love with him through his books and his
reputation? If so, let him take our advice and abjure scribbling--at
least till he is in the vein to turn out something better than his
recent productions--better, at least, than the first volume of the
_Député d'Arcis_, now lying before us. What heavy, vulgar trash,
to flow from the pen of a man of his abilities! After beginning
his literary career with a series of worthless books, published
under various pseudonymes, and whose authorship he has since in
vain endeavoured to disclaim, he rose into fame by his _Scènes de
la Vie de Province_, by his _Peau de Chagrin_, his _Père Goriot_,
and other striking and popular works. The hour of his decline then
struck, and he has since been rolling down the hill at a faster rate
than he ascended it. His affectation of originality is wearisome
and nauseous in the extreme. He reminds us of a nurseryman we once
knew, who, despairing of equalling the splendour of a neighbour's
flowers, applied himself to the production of all manner of floral
monstrosities, mistaking distortion for beauty, and eccentricity
for grace. He strains for new conceptions and ideas till he writes
nonsense, or something very little better. And his mania for
introducing the same personages in twenty different books, renders
it necessary to read all in order to understand one. The question
becomes, whether it is worth while going through so much to obtain
so little. Our reply is a decided negative. If the system, however,
be annoying to the reader, for the author it has its advantages. It
is, in fact, a new species of puffery, of considerable ingenuity.
Backwards and forwards, M. de Balzac refers his public; his books
are a system of mutual accommodation and advertisement. Thus, in
the _Député &c._, apropos of a lawsuit, we find in brackets and in
large capitals,--"_See_ UNE TENEBREUSE AFFAIRE." A little farther
on, an allusion being made to the town of Provins, we are requested
to "_See_ PIERRETTE." Similar admonitions are of constant recurrence
in the same author's writings. The plan is really clever, and proves
Paris a step or two ahead of London in the art of advertising. We
have not yet heard of Moses and Doudney stamping on a waistcoat back
an injunction to "Try our trousers," or embroidering on a new surtout
a hint as to the merits of a 'poplin overcoat.' "Buy our bear's
grease!" cries Mr Ross the perfumer. "_Prenez mon ours!_" chimes
in M. Balzac, the author. O Paris! Paris! romantic and republican,
political and poetical, of all the cities of the plain thou art the
queen, and humbug is the chief jewel in thy diadem!
LIFE IN THE "FAR WEST."
PART THE LAST.
No sooner was it known that Los Americanos had arrived, than nearly
all the householders of Fernandez presented themselves to offer the
use of their "salas" for the fandango which invariably celebrated
their arrival. This was always a profitable event; for as the
mountaineers were generally pretty well "flush" of cash when on
their "spree," and as open-handed as an Indian could wish, the sale
of whisky, with which they regaled all comers, produced a handsome
return to the fortunate individual whose room was selected for the
fandango. On this occasion the sala of the Alcalde Don Cornelio Vegil
was selected and put in order; a general invitation was distributed;
and all the dusky beauties of Fernandez were soon engaged in arraying
themselves for the fête. Off came the coats of dirt and "alegnía"
which had bedaubed their faces since the last "funcion," leaving
their cheeks clear and clean. Water was profusely used, and their
cuerpos were doubtless astonished by the unusual lavation. Their long
black hair was washed and combed, plastered behind their ears, and
plaited into a long queue, which hung down their backs. _Enaguas_
of gaudy colour (red most affected) were donned, fastened round the
waist with ornamented belts, and above this a snow-white _camisita_
of fine linen was the only covering, allowing a prodigal display
of their charms. Gold and silver ornaments, of antiquated pattern,
decorate their ears and necks; and massive crosses of the precious
metals, wrought from the gold or silver of their own placeres, hang
pendant on their breasts. The enagua or petticoat, reaching about
half-way between the knee and ancle, displays their well-turned
limbs, destitute of stockings, and their tiny feet, thrust into
quaint little shoes (_zapatitos_) of Cinderellan dimensions. Thus
equipped, with the reboso drawn over their heads and faces, out of
the folds of which their brilliant eyes flash like lightning, and
each pretty mouth armed with its cigarito, they coquettishly enter
the fandango.[2] Here, at one end of a long room, are seated the
musicians, their instruments being generally a species of guitar,
called heaca, _bandolin_, and an Indian drum, called _tombé_--one
of each. Round the room groups of New Mexicans lounge, wrapped in
the eternal sarape, and smoking of course, scowling with jealous
eyes at the more favoured mountaineers. These, divested of their
hunting-coats of buckskins, appear in their bran-new shirts of gaudy
calico, and close fitting buckskin pantaloons, with long fringes
down the outside seam from the hip to the ancle; with mocassins,
ornamented with bright beads and porcupine quills. Each, round his
waist, wears his mountain-belt and scalp-knife, ominous of the
company he is in, and some have pistols sticking in their belt.
The dances--save the mark!--are without form or figure, at least
those in which the white hunters sport the "fantastic toe." Seizing
his partner round the waist with the gripe of a grisly bear, each
mountaineer whirls and twirls, jumps and stamps; introduces Indian
steps used in the "scalp" or "buffalo" dances, whooping occasionally
with unearthly cry, and then subsiding into the jerking step, raising
each foot alternately from the ground, so much in vogue in Indian
ballets. The hunters have the floor all to themselves. The Mexicans
have no chance in such physical force dancing; and if a dancing
Peládo[3] steps into the ring, a lead-like thump from a galloping
mountaineer quickly sends him sprawling, with the considerate
remark--"Quit, you darned Spaniard! you can't 'shine' in this crowd."
During a lull, guagés[4] filled with whisky go the rounds--offered
to and seldom refused by the ladies--sturdily quaffed by the
mountaineers, and freely swallowed by the Peládos, who drown
their jealousy and envious hate of their entertainers in potent
aguardiente. Now, as the guagés are oft refilled and as often
drained, and as night advances, so do the spirits of the mountaineers
become more boisterous, while their attentions to their partners
become warmer--the jealousy of the natives waxes hotter thereat--and
they begin to show symptoms of resenting the endearments which the
mountaineers bestow upon their wives and sweethearts. And now,
when the room is filled to crowding,--with two hundred people,
swearing, drinking, dancing, and shouting--the half-dozen Americans
monopolising the fair, to the evident disadvantage of at least
threescore scowling Peládos, it happens that one of these, maddened
by whisky and the green-eyed monster, suddenly seizes a fair one
from the waist-encircling arm of a mountaineer, and pulls her from
her partner. Wagh!--La Bonté--it is he--stands erect as a pillar for
a moment, then raises his hand to his mouth, and gives a ringing
war-whoop--jumps upon the rash Peládo, seizes him by the body as if
he were a child, lifts him over his head, and dashes him with the
force of a giant against the wall.
The war, long threatened, has commenced; twenty Mexicans draw their
knives and rush upon La Bonté, who stands his ground, and sweeps
them down with his ponderous fist, one after another, as they throng
around him. "Howgh-owgh-owgh-owgh-h!" the well-known war-whoop,
bursts from the throats of his companions, and on they rush to the
rescue. The women scream, and block the door in their eagerness to
escape; and thus the Mexicans are compelled to stand their ground
and fight. Knives glitter in the light, and quick thrusts are given
and parried. In the centre of the room the whites stand shoulder to
shoulder--covering the floor with Mexicans by their stalwart blows;
but the odds are fearful against them, and other assailants crowd up
to supply the place of those who fall.
Alarm being given by the shrieking women, reinforcements of Peládos
rushed to the scene of action, but could not enter the room, which
was already full. The odds began to tell against the mountaineers,
when Kit Carson's quick eye caught sight of a high stool or stone,
supported by three long heavy legs. In a moment he had cleared his
way to this, and in another the three legs were broken off and in
the hands of himself, Dick Wooton, and La Bonté. Sweeping them round
their heads, down came the heavy weapons amongst the Mexicans with
wonderful effect--each blow, dealt by the nervous arms of Wooton
and La Bonté, mowing down a good half-dozen of the assailants. At
this the mountaineers gave a hearty whoop, and charged the wavering
enemy with such resistless vigour, that they gave way and bolted
through the door, leaving the floor strewed with wounded, many
most dangerously; for, as may be imagined, a thrust from the keen
scalp-knife by the nervous arm of a mountaineer was no baby blow, and
seldom failed to strike home--up to the "Green River"[5] on the blade.
The field being won, the whites, too, beat a quick retreat to the
house where they were domiciled, and where they had left their
rifles. Without their trusty weapons they felt, indeed, unarmed;
and not knowing how the affair just over would be followed up, lost
no time in making preparations for defence. However, after great
blustering on the part of the prefecto, who, accompanied by a _posse
comitatus_ of "Greasers," proceeded to the house, and demanded the
surrender of all concerned in the affair--which proposition was
received with a yell of derision--the business was compounded by the
mountaineers promising to give sundry dollars to the friends of two
of the Mexicans, who died during the night of their wounds, and to
pay for a certain amount of masses to be sung for the repose of their
souls in purgatory. Thus the affair blew over; but for several days
the mountaineers never showed themselves in the streets of Fernandez
without their rifles on their shoulders, and refrained from attending
fandangos for the present, and until the excitement had cooled down.
A bitter feeling, however, existed on the part of the men; and one
or two offers of a matrimonial nature were rejected by the papas of
certain ladies who had been wooed by some of the white hunters, and
their hands formally demanded from the respective padres.
La Bonté had been rather smitten with the charms of one Dolores
Salazar--a buxom lass, more than three parts Indian in her blood, but
confessedly the "beauty" of the Vale of Taos. She, by dint of eye,
and of nameless acts of elaborate coquetry, with which the sex so
universally bait their traps, whether in the salons of Belgravia, or
the rancherias of New Mexico, contrived to make considerable havoc in
the heart of our mountaineer; and when once Dolores saw she had made
an impression, she followed up her advantage with all the arts the
most civilised of her sex could use when fishing for a husband.
La Bonté, however, was too old a hunter to be easily caught; and,
before committing himself, he sought the advice of his tried
companion Killbuck. Taking him to a retired spot without the village,
he drew out his pipe and charged it--seated himself cross-legged on
the ground, and, with Indian gravity, composed himself for a "talk."
"Ho, Killbuck!" he began, touching the ground with the bowl of his
pipe, and then turning the stem upwards for "_medicine_"--"Hyar's
a child feels squamptious like, and nigh upon 'gone beaver,' _he_
is--Wagh!"
"Wagh!" exclaimed Killbuck, all attention.
"Old hos," continued the other; "thar's no use câching anyhow what a
niggur feels--so hyar's to 'put out.' You're good for beaver I know;
at deer or buffler, or darned red Injun either, you're 'some.' Now
that's a fact. 'Off-hand,' or 'with a rest,' you make 'em 'come.'
You knows the 'sign' of Injuns slick--Blackfoot or Sioux, Pawnee or
Burntwood, Zeton, Rapaho, Shian, or Shoshonée, Yutah, Piyutah, or
Yamhareek--their trail's as plain as writin', old hos, to you."
"Wagh!" grunted Killbuck, blushing bronze at all these compliments.
"Your sight ain't bad. Elks is elk; black-tail deer ain't
white-tails; and b'ar is b'ar to you, and nothin' else, a long mile
off and more."
"Wa-agh!"
"Thar ain't a track as leaves its mark upon the plains or mountains
but you can read off-hand; that I've see'd myself. But tell me, old
hos, can you make understand the 'sign' as shows itself in a woman's
breast?"
Killbuck removed the pipe from his mouth, raised his head, and puffed
a rolling cloud of smoke into the air,--knocked the ashes from the
bowl, likewise made his "medicine"--and answered thus:--
"From Red River, away up north amongst the Britishers, to Heely
(Gila) in the Spanish country--from old Missoura to the sea of
Californy, I've trapped and hunted. I knows the Injuns and thar
'sign,' and they knows _me_, I'm thinkin. Thirty winters has snowed
on me in these hyar mountains, and a niggur or a Spaniard[6] would
larn 'some' in that time. This old tool" (tapping his rifle) "shoots
'center,' _she_ does; and if thar's game afoot, this child knows
'bull' from 'cow,' and ought to could. That deer is deer, and goats
is goats, is plain as paint to any but a greenhorn. Beaver's a
cunning crittur, but I've trapped a 'heap;' and at killing meat
when meat's a-running, I'll 'shine' in the biggest kind of crowd.
For twenty year I packed a squaw along. Not one, but a many. First
I had a Blackfoot--the darndest slut as ever cried for fofarraw. I
lodge-poled her on Colter's Creek, and made her quit. My buffler
hos, and as good as four packs of beaver, I gave for old Bull-tail's
daughter. He was head chief of the Ricaree, and 'came' nicely 'round'
me. Thar wasn't enough scarlet cloth, nor beads, nor vermilion in
Sublette's packs for her. Traps wouldn't buy her all the fofarrow she
wanted; and in two years I'd sold her to Cross-Eagle for one of Jake
Hawkin's guns--this very one I hold in my hands. Then I tried the
Sioux, the Shian, and a Digger from the other side, who made the best
mocassin as ever _I_ wore. She was the best of all, and was rubbed
out by the Yutahs in the Bayou Salade. Bad was the best; and after
she was gone under I tried no more.
"Afore I left the settlements I know'd a white gal, and she was some
punkins. I have never seed nothing as 'ould beat her. Red blood
won't 'shine' any ways you fix it; and though I'm hell for 'sign,' a
woman's breast is the hardest kind of rock to me, and leaves no trail
that I can see of. I've hearn you talk of a gal in Memphis county;
Mary Brand you called her oncest. The gal I said _I_ know'd, her
name I disremember, but she stands afore me as plain as Chimley Rock
on Platte, and thirty year and more har'nt changed a feature in her
face, to me.
"If you ask this child, he'll tell you to leave the Spanish slut to
her Greasers, and hold on till you take the trail to old Missoura,
whar white and Christian gals are to be had for axing. Wagh!"
La Bonté rose to his feet. The mention of Mary Brand's name decided
him; and he said--
"Darn the Spaniard! she cant shine with me; come, old hos! let's
move."
And, shouldering their rifles, the two compañeros returned to the
Ronch. More than one of the mountaineers had fulfilled the object of
their journey, and had taken to themselves a partner from amongst
the belles of Taos, and now they were preparing for their return
to the mountains. Dick Wooton was the only unfortunate one. He had
wooed a damsel whose parents peremptorily forbade their daughter to
wed the hunter, and he therefore made ready for his departure with
considerable regret.
The day came, however. The band of mountaineers were already mounted,
and those with wives in charge were some hours on the road, leaving
the remainder quaffing many a stirrup-cup before they left. Dick
Wooton was as melancholy as a buffalo bull in spring; and as he rode
down the village, and approached the house of his lady-love, who
stood wrapped in reboso, and cigarito in mouth, on the sill of the
door, he turned away his head as if dreading to say adios. La Bonté
rode beside him, and a thought struck him.
"Ho, Dick!" he said, "thar's the gal, and thar's the mountains: shoot
sharp's the word."
Dick instantly understood him, and was "himself again." He rode up to
the girl as if to bid her adieu, and she came to meet him. Whispering
one word, she put her foot upon his, was instantly seized round the
waist, and placed upon the horn of his saddle. He struck spurs into
his horse, and in a minute was out of sight, his three companions
covering his retreat, and menacing with their rifles the crowd which
was soon drawn to the spot by the cries of the girl's parents, who
had been astonished spectators of the daring rape.
The trapper and his bride, however, escaped scatheless, and the whole
party effected a safe passage of the mountains, and reached the
Arkansa, where the band was broken up,--some proceeding to Bent's
Fort, and others to the Platte, amongst whom were Killbuck and La
Bonté, still in company.
These two once more betook themselves to trapping, the Yellow Stone
being their chief hunting-ground. But we must again leap over months
and years, rather than conduct the reader through all their perilous
wanderings, and at last bring him back to the camp on Bijou, where
we first introduced him to our mountaineers; and as we have already
followed them on the Arapaho trail, which they pursued to recover
their stolen animals from a band of that nation, we will once again
seat ourselves at the camp on Boiling Spring, where they had met a
strange hunter on a solitary expedition to the Bayou Salade, and
whose double-barrelled rifle had excited their wonder and curiosity.
From him they learned also that a large band of Mormons were
wintering on the Arkansa, _en route_ to the Great Salt Lake and Upper
California; and as our hunters had before fallen in with the advanced
guard of these fanatic emigrants, and felt no little wonder that
such helpless people should undertake so long a journey through the
wilderness, the stranger narrated to them the history of the sect,
which we will also shortly transcribe for the benefit of the reader.
The Mormons were originally of the sect known as "Latter-day
Saints," which sect flourishes wherever Anglo-Saxon gulls are found
in sufficient numbers to swallow the egregious nonsense of fanatic
humbugs who fatten upon their credulity. In the United States they
especially abounded; but, the creed becoming "slow," one Joe Smith, a
_smart_ man, arose from its ranks, and instilled a little life into
the decaying sect.
Joe, better known as the "Prophet Joe," was taking his siesta one
fine day, upon a hill in one of the New England States, when an angel
suddenly appeared to him, and made known the locality of a new Bible
or Testament, which contained the history of the lost tribes of
Israel; that these tribes were no other than the Indian nations which
possessed the continent of America at the time of its discovery,
and the remains of which still existed in their savage state; that,
through the agency of Joe, these were to be reclaimed, collected
into the bosom of a church to be there established, according to
principles which would be found in the wonderful book--and which
church was gradually to receive into its bosom all other churches,
sects, and persuasions, with "unanimity of belief and perfect
brotherhood."
After a certain probation, Joe was led in body and spirit to the
mountain by the angel who first appeared to him, was pointed out the
position of the wonderful book, which was covered by a flat stone,
on which would be found two round pebbles, called Urim and Thummim,
and through the agency of which the mystic characters inscribed on
the pages of the book were to be deciphered and translated. Joe found
the spot indicated without any difficulty, cleared away the earth,
and discovered a hollow place formed by four flat stones; on removing
the topmost one of which sundry plates of brass presented themselves,
covered with quaint and antique carving; on the top lay Urim and
Thummim, (commonly known to the Mormons as Mummum and Thummum, the
pebbles of wonderful virtue,) through which the miracle of reading
the plates of brass was to be performed.
Joe Smith, on whom the mantle of Moses had so suddenly fallen,
carefully removed the plates and hid them, burying himself in woods
and mountains whilst engaged in the work of translation. However, he
made no secret of the important task imposed upon him, nor of the
great work to which he had been called. Numbers at once believed
him, but not a few were deaf to belief, and openly derided him.
Being persecuted, (as the sect declares, at the instigation of the
authorities,) and many attempts being made to steal his precious
treasure, Joe, one fine night, packed his plates in a sack of beans,
bundled them into a Jersey waggon, and made tracks for the West. Here
he completed the great work of translation, and not long after gave
to the world the "Book of Mormon," a work as bulky as the Bible, and
called "of Mormon," for so was the prophet named by whose hand the
history of the lost tribes had been handed down in the plates of
brass thus miraculously preserved for thousands of years, and brought
to light through the agency of Joseph Smith.
The fame of the Book of Mormon spread over all America, and even to
Great Britain and Ireland. Hundreds of proselytes flocked to Joe, to
hear from his lips the doctrine of Mormonism; and in a very brief
period the Mormons became a numerous and recognised sect, and Joe was
at once, and by universal acclamation, installed as the head of the
Mormon church, and was ever known by the name of the "Prophet Joseph."