The Crayon Papers: The Creole Village

The Creole Village

A SKETCH FROM A STEAMBOAT

First published in 1887

In traveling about our motley country, I am often reminded of Ariosto's
account of the moon, in which the good paladin Astolpho found everything
garnered up that had been lost on earth. So I am apt to imagine, that many
things lost in the old world are treasured up in the new; having been
handed down from generation to generation, since the early days of the
colonies. A European antiquary, therefore, curious in his researches after
the ancient and almost obliterated customs and usages of his country, would
do well to put himself upon the track of some early band of emigrants,
follow them across the Atlantic, and rummage among their descendants on our
shores.

In the phraseology of New England might be found many an old English
provincial phrase, long since obsolete in the parent country; with some
quaint relics of the roundheads; while Virginia cherishes peculiarities
characteristic of the days of Elizabeth and Sir Walter Raleigh.

In the same way the sturdy yeomanry of New Jersey and Pennsylvania keep up
many usages fading away in ancient Germany; while many an honest,
broad-bottomed custom, nearly extinct in venerable Holland, may be found
flourishing in pristine vigor and luxuriance in Dutch villages, on the
banks of the Mohawk and the Hudson.

In no part of our country, however, are the customs and peculiarities,
imported from the old world by the earlier settlers, kept up with more
fidelity than in the little, poverty-stricken villages of Spanish and
French origin, which border the rivers of ancient Louisiana. Their
population is generally made up of the descendants of those nations,
married and interwoven together, and occasionally crossed with a slight
dash of the Indian. The French character, however, floats on top, as, from
its buoyant qualities, it is sure to do, whenever it forms a particle,
however small, of an intermixture.

In these serene and dilapidated villages, art and nature stand still, and
the world forgets to turn round. The revolutions that distract other parts
of this mutable planet reach not here, or pass over without leaving any
trace. The fortunate inhabitants have none of that public spirit which
extends its cares beyond its horizon, and imports trouble and perplexity
from all quarters in newspapers. In fact, newspapers are almost unknown in
these villages, and as French is the current language, the inhabitants have
little community of opinion with their republican neighbors. They retain,
therefore, their old habits of passive obedience to the decrees of
government, as though they still lived under the absolute sway of colonial
commandants, instead of being part and parcel of the sovereign people, and
having a voice in public legislation.

A few aged men, who have grown gray on their hereditary acres, and are of
the good old colonial stock, exert a patriarchal sway in all matters of
public and private import; their opinions are considered oracular, and
their word is law.

The inhabitants, moreover, have none of that eagerness for gain and rage
for improvement which keep our people continually on the move, and our
country towns incessantly in a state of transition. There the magic
phrases, "town lots," "water privileges," "railroads," and other
comprehensive and soul-stirring words from the speculator's vocabulary, are
never heard. The residents dwell in the houses built by their forefathers,
without thinking of enlarging or modernizing them, or pulling them down and
turning them into granite stores. The trees, under which they have been
born and have played in infancy, flourish undisturbed; though, by cutting
them down, they might open new streets, and put money in their pockets. In
a word, the almighty dollar, that great object of universal devotion
throughout our land, seems to have no genuine devotees in these peculiar
villages; and unless some of its missionaries penetrate there, and erect
banking houses and other pious shrines, there is no knowing how long the
inhabitants may remain in their present state of contented poverty.

In descending one of our great Western rivers in a steam-boat, I met with
two worthies from one of these villages, who had been on a distant
excursion, the longest they had ever made, as they seldom ventured far from
home. One was the great man, or grand seigneur, of the village; not that he
enjoyed any legal privileges or power there, everything of the kind having
been done away when the province was ceded by France to the United States.
His sway over his neighbors was merely one of custom and convention, out of
deference to his family. Beside, he was worth full fifty thousand dollars,
an amount almost equal, in the imaginations of the villagers, to the
treasures of King Solomon.

This very substantial old gentleman, though of the fourth or fifth
generation in this country, retained the true Gallic feature and
deportment, and reminded me of one of those provincial potentates that are
to be met with in the remote parts of France. He was of a large frame, a
ginger-bread complexion, strong features, eyes that stood out like glass
knobs, and a prominent nose, which he frequently regaled from a gold
snuff-box, and occasionally blew, with a colored handkerchief, until it
sounded like a trumpet.

He was attended by an old negro, as black as ebony, with a huge mouth in a
continual grin; evidently a privileged and favorite servant, who had grown
up and grown old with him. He was dressed in creole style--with white
jacket and trousers, a stiff shirt collar that threatened to cut off his
ears, a bright Madras handkerchief tied round his head, and large gold
earrings. He was the politest negro I met with in a Western tour; and that
is saying a great deal, for, excepting the Indians, the negroes are the
most gentlemanlike personages to be met with in those parts. It is true,
they differ from the Indians in being a little extra polite and
complimentary. He was also one of the merriest; and here, too, the negroes,
however we may deplore their unhappy condition, have the advantage of their
masters. The whites are, in general, too free and prosperous to be merry.
The cares of maintaining their rights and liberties, adding to their
wealth, and making presidents, engross all their thoughts, and dry up all
the moisture of their souls. If you hear a broad, hearty, devil-may-care
laugh, be assured it is a negro's.

Besides this African domestic, the seigneur of the village had another no
less cherished and privileged attendant. This was a huge dog, of the
mastiff breed, with a deep, hanging mouth, and a look of surly gravity. He
walked about the cabin with the air of a dog perfectly at home, and who had
paid for his passage. At dinner time he took his seat beside his master,
giving him a glance now and then out of a corner of his eye, which bespoke
perfect confidence that he would not be forgotten. Nor was he--every now
and then a huge morsel would be thrown to him, peradventure the half-picked
leg of a fowl, which he would receive with a snap like the springing of a
steel-trap--one gulp, and all was down; and a glance of the eye told his
master that he was ready for another consignment.

The other village worthy, traveling in company with the seigneur, was of a
totally different stamp. Small, thin, and weazen faced, as Frenchmen are
apt to be represented in caricature, with a bright, squirrel-like eye, and
a gold ring in his ear. His dress was flimsy, and sat loosely on his frame,
and he had altogether the look of one with but little coin in his pocket.
Yet, though one of the poorest, I was assured he was one of the merriest
and most popular personages in his native village.

Compere Martin, as he was commonly called, was the factotum of the
place-sportsman, schoolmaster, and land surveyor. He could sing, dance,
and, above all, play on the fiddle, an invaluable accomplishment in an old
French Creole village, for the inhabitants have a hereditary love for balls
and fetes; if they work but little, they dance a great deal, and a fiddle
is the joy of their heart.

What had sent Compere Martin traveling with the grand seigneur I could not
learn; he evidently looked up to him with great deference, and was
assiduous in rendering him petty attentions; from which I concluded that he
lived at home upon the crumbs which fell from his table. He was gayest when
out of his sight; and had his song and his joke when forward, among the
deck passengers; but altogether Compere Martin was out of his element on
board of a steamboat. He was quite another being, I am told, when at home
in his own village.

Like his opulent fellow-traveler, he too had his canine follower and
retainer--and one suited to his different fortunes--one of the civilest,
most unoffending little dogs in the world. Unlike the lordly mastiff, he
seemed to think he had no right on board of the steamboat; if you did but
look hard at him, he would throw himself upon his back, and lift up his
legs, as if imploring mercy.

At table he took his seat a little distance from his master; not with the
bluff, confident air of the mastiff, but quietly and diffidently, his head
on one side, with one ear dubiously slouched, the other hopefully cocked
up; his under teeth projecting beyond his black nose, and his eye wistfully
following each morsel that went into his master's mouth.

If Compere Martin now and then should venture to abstract a morsel from his
plate to give to his humble companion, it was edifying to see with what
diffidence the exemplary little animal would take hold of it, with the very
tip of his teeth, as if he would almost rather not, or was fearful of
taking too great a liberty. And then with what decorum would he eat it! How
many efforts would he make in swallowing it, as if it stuck in his throat;
with what daintiness would he lick his lips; and then with what an air of
thankfulness would he resume his seat, with his teeth once more projecting
beyond his nose, and an eye of humble expectation fixed upon his master.

It was late in the afternoon when the steamboat stopped at the village
which was the residence of these worthies. It stood on the high bank of the
river, and bore traces of having been a frontier trading post. There were
the remains of stockades that once protected it from the Indians, and the
houses were in the ancient Spanish and French colonial taste, the place
having been successively under the domination of both those nations prior
to the cession of Louisiana to the United States.

The arrival of the seigneur of fifty thousand dollars, and his humble
companion, Compere Martin, had evidently been looked forward to as an event
in the village. Numbers of men, women, and children, white, yellow, and
black, were collected on the river bank; most of them clad in old-fashioned
French garments, and their heads decorated with colored handkerchiefs, or
white nightcaps. The moment the steamboat came within sight and hearing,
there was a waving of handkerchiefs, and a screaming and bawling of
salutations, and felicitations, that baffle all description.

The old gentleman of fifty thousand dollars was received by a train of
relatives, and friends, and children, and grandchildren, whom he kissed on
each cheek, and who formed a procession in his rear, with a legion of
domestics, of all ages, following him to a large, old-fashioned French
house, that domineered over the village.

His black valet de chambre, in white jacket and trousers, and gold
earrings, was met on the shore by a boon, though rustic companion, a tall
negro fellow, with a long good-humored face, and the profile of a horse,
which stood out from beneath a narrow-rimmed straw hat, stuck on the back
of his head. The explosions of laughter of these two varlets on meeting and
exchanging compliments were enough to electrify the country round.

The most hearty reception, however, was that given to Compere Martin.
Everybody, young and old, hailed him before he got to land. Everybody had a
joke for Compere Martin, and Compere Martin had a joke for everybody. Even
his little dog appeared to partake of his popularity, and to be caressed by
every hand. Indeed, he was quite a different animal the moment he touched
the land. Here he was at home; here he was of consequence. He barked, he
leaped, he frisked about his old friends, and then would skim round the
place in a wide circle, as if mad.

I traced Compere Martin and his little dog to their home. It was an old
ruinous Spanish house, of large dimensions, with verandas overshadowed by
ancient elms. The house had probably been the residence, in old times, of
the Spanish commandant. In one wing of this crazy, but aristocratical
abode, was nestled the family of my fellow-traveler; for poor devils are
apt to be magnificently clad and lodged, in the cast-off clothes and
abandoned palaces of the great and wealthy.

The arrival of Compere Martin was welcomed by a legion of women, children,
and mongrel curs; and, as poverty and gayety generally go hand in hand
among the French and their descendants, the crazy mansion soon resounded
with loud gossip and light-hearted laughter.

As the steamboat paused a short time at the village, I took occasion to
stroll about the place. Most of the houses were in the French taste, with
casements and rickety verandas, but most of them in flimsy and ruinous
condition. All the wagons, plows, and other utensils about the place were
of ancient and inconvenient Gallic construction, such as had been brought
from France in the primitive days of the colony. The very looks of the
people reminded me of the villages of France.

From one of the houses came the hum of a spinning wheel, accompanied by a
scrap of an old French chanson, which I have heard many a time among the
peasantry of Languedoc, doubtless a traditional song, brought over by the
first French emigrants, and handed down from generation to generation.

Half a dozen young lasses emerged from the adjacent dwellings, reminding
me, by their light step and gay costume, of scenes in ancient France, where
taste in dress comes natural to every class of females. The trim bodice and
covered petticoat, and little apron, with its pockets to receive the hands
when in an attitude for conversation; the colored kerchief wound tastefully
round the head, with a coquettish knot perking above one ear; and the neat
slipper and tight drawn stocking with its braid of narrow ribbon embracing
the ankle where it peeps from its mysterious curtain. It is from this
ambush that Cupid sends his most inciting arrows.

While I was musing upon the recollections thus accidentally summoned up, I
heard the sound of a fiddle from the mansion of Compere Martin, the signal,
no doubt, for a joyous gathering. I was disposed to turn my steps thither,
and witness the festivities of one of the very few villages I had met with
in my wide tour that was yet poor enough to be merry; but the bell of the
steamboat summoned me to re-embark.

As we swept away from the shore, I cast back a wistful eye upon the
moss-grown roofs and ancient elms of the village, and prayed that the
inhabitants might long retain their happy ignorance, their absence of all
enterprise and improvement, their respect for the fiddle, and their
contempt for the almighty dollar. [Footnote: This phrase, used for the
first time in this sketch, has since passed into current circulation, and
by some has been questioned as savoring I fear, however, my prayer is of
irreverence. The author, therefore, owes it to his orthodoxy to declare
that no irreverence was intended even to the dollar itself; which he is
aware is daily becoming more and more an object of worship.] I fear,
however, my prayer is doomed to be of no avail. In a little while the
steamboat whirled me to an American town, just springing into bustling
and prosperous existence.

The surrounding forest had been laid out in town lots; frames of wooden
buildings were rising from among stumps and burned trees. The place already
boasted a court-house, a jail, and two banks, all built of pine boards, on
the model of Grecian temples. There were rival hotels, rival churches, and
rival newspapers; together with the usual number of judges, and generals,
and governors; not to speak of doctors by the dozen, and lawyers by the
score.

The place, I was told, was in an astonishing career of improvement, with a
canal and two railroads in embryo. Lots doubled in price every week;
everybody was speculating in land; everybody was rich; and everybody was
growing richer. The community, however, was torn to pieces by new doctrines
in religion and in political economy; there were camp meetings, and
agrarian meetings; and an election was at hand, which, it was expected,
would throw the whole country into a paroxysm.

Alas! with such an enterprising neighbor, what is to become of the poor
little Creole village!

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