University of Virginia Library

THE FRENCH VILLAGE

On the borders of the Mississippi may be seen
the remains of an old French village, which once
boasted a numerous population of as happy and as
thoughtless souls as over danced to a violin. If
content is wealth, as philosophers would fain persuade
us, they were opulent; but they would have
been reckoned miserably poor by those who estimate
worldly riches by the more popular standard.
Their houses were scattered in disorder, like the
tents of a wandering tribe, along the margin of a
deep bayou, and not far from its confluence with
the river, between which and the town was a strip
of rich alluvion, covered with a gigantic growth
of forest trees. Beyond the bayou was a swamp,
which, during the summer heats, was nearly dry,
but in the rainy season presented a vast lake of
several miles in extent. The whole of this morass
was thickly set with cypress, whose interwoven

branches, and close foliage, excluded the sun, and
rendered this as gloomy a spot as the most melancholy
poet ever dreamt of. And yet it was not
tenantless—and there were seasons when its dark
recesses were enlivened by notes peculiar to itself.
Here the young Indian, not yet entrusted to wield
the tomahawk, might be seen paddling his light
canoe among the tall weeds, darting his arrows at
the paroquets that chattered among the boughs,
and screaming and laughing with delight as he
stripped their gaudy plumage. Here myriads of
musquitoes filled the air with an incessant hum,
and thousands of frogs attuned their voices in harmonious
concert, as if endeavouring to rival the
sprightly fiddles of their neighbours; and the owl,
peeping out from the hollow of a blasted tree,
screeched forth his wailing note, as if moved by
the terrific energy of grief. From this gloomy
spot, clouds of miasm rolled over the village,
spreading volumes of bile and dyspepsia abroad
upon the land; and sometimes countless multitudes
of musquitoes, issuing from the humid
desert, assailed the devoted village with inconceivable
fury, threatening to draw from its inhabitants
every drop of French blood which yet
circulated in their veins. But these evils by no
means dismayed, or even interrupted the gaiety of
this happy people. When the musquitoes came,
the monsieurs lighted their pipes, and kept up not
only a brisk fire, but a dense smoke, against the
assailants; and when the fever threatened, the
priest, who was also the doctor, flourished his
lancet, the fiddler flourished his bow, and the
happy villagers flourished their heels, and sang,
and laughed, and fairly cheated death, disease,
and the doctor, of patient and of prey.

Beyond the town, on the other side, was an
extensive prairie—a vast unbroken plain of rich
green, embellished with innumerable flowers of
every tint, and whose beautiful surface presented
no other variety than here and there a huge
mound—the venerable monument of departed ages
—or a solitary tree of stinted growth, shattered
by the blast, and pining alone in the gay desert.
The prospect was bounded by a range of tall
bluffs, which overlooked the prairie—covered at
some points with groves of timber, and at others
exhibiting their naked sides, or high, bald peaks,
to the eye of the beholder. Herds of deer might
be seen here at sunrise, slyly retiring to their coverts,
after rioting away the night on the rich
pasturage. Here the lowing kine lived, if not in
clover, at least in something equally nutritious;
and here might be seen immense droves of French
ponies, roaming untamed, the common stock of
the village, ready to be reduced to servitude by
any lady or gentleman who chose to take the
trouble.

With their Indian neighbours the inhabitants
had maintained a cordial intercourse, which had
never yet been interrupted by a single act of aggression
on either side. It is worthy of remark,
that the French have invariably been more successful
in securing the confidence and affection of
the Indian tribes than any other nation. Others
have had leagues with them, which, for a time,
have been faithfully observed; but the French
alone have won them to the familiar intercourse
of social life, lived with them in the mutual interchange
of kindness; and, by treating them as
friends and equals, gained their entire confidence.
This result, which has been attributed to the sagacious
policy of their government, is perhaps more
owing to the conciliatory manners of that amiable
people, and the absence among them of that insatiable
avarice, that boundless ambition, that reckless
prodigality of human life, that unprincipled
disregard of public and solemn leagues, which, in
the conquests of the British and the Spaniards,
have marked their footsteps with misery, and
blood, and desolation.

This little colony was composed, partly, of emigrants
from France, and partly of natives—not
Indians—but bona fide French, born in America;
but preserving their language, their manners, and
their agility in dancing, although several generations
had passed away since their first settlement.

Here they lived perfectly happy, and well they
might—for they enjoyed, to the full extent, those
three blessings on which our declaration of independence
has laid so much stress—life, liberty,
and the pursuit of happiness. Their lives, it is
true, were sometimes threatened by the miasm
aforesaid; but this was soon ascertained to be an
imaginary danger. For whether it was owing to
their temperance, or their cheerfulness, or their
activity, or to their being acclimated, or to the
want of attraction between French people and
fever, or to all these together—certain it is, that
they were blessed with a degree of health only
enjoyed by the most favoured nations. As to
liberty, the wild Indian scarcely possessed more;
for, although the “grand monarque” had not more
loyal subjects in his wide domains, he had never
condescended to honour them with a single act of
oppression, unless the occasional visits of the commandant
could be so called; who sometimes, when
levying supplies, called upon the village for its
portion, which they always contributed with many
protestations of gratitude for the honour conferred
on them. And as for happiness, they pursued nothing
else. Inverting the usual order, to enjoy
life was their daily business, to provide for its
wants an occasional labour, sweetened by its brief
continuance and its abundant fruit. They had a
large body of land around the village, held in parcels
by individuals, to whom it was granted by the
crown. Most of this was allowed to remain in
open pasturage; but a considerable tract, including
the lands of a number of individuals, was inclosed
in a single fence, and called the “common field,”
in which all worked harmoniously, though each
cultivated his own acres. They were not an agricultural
people, further than the rearing of a few
esculents for the table made them such; relying
chiefly on their large herds, and on the produce
of the chase, for support. With the Indians they
drove an amicable, though not extensive, trade
for furs and peltry; giving them in exchange merchandise
and trinkets, which they procured from
their countrymen at St. Louis. To the latter
place they annually carried their skins, bringing
back a fresh supply of goods for barter, together
with such articles as their own wants required;
not forgetting a large portion of finery for the
ladies, a plentiful supply of rosin and catgut for
the fiddler, and liberal presents for his reverence,
the priest.

If this village had no other recommendation, it
is endeared to my recollection as the birth-place
and residence of Monsieur Baptiste Menou, who
was one of its principal inhabitants when I first
visited it. He was a bachelor of forty, a tall,
lank, hard-featured personage, as straight as a
ramrod, and almost as thin, with stiff, black hair,

sunken cheeks, and a complexion a tinge darker
than that of the aborigines. His person was remarkably
erect, his countenance grave, his gait
deliberate; and when to all this be added an enormous
pair of sable whiskers, it will be admitted
that Mons. Baptiste was no insignificant person.
He had many estimable qualities of mind and
person, which endeared him to his friends, whose
respect was increased by the fact of his having
been a soldier and a traveller. In his youth he
had followed the French commandant in two campaigns;
and not a comrade in the ranks was better
dressed, or cleaner shaved, on parade than Baptiste,
who fought, besides, with the characteristic
bravery of the nation to which he owed his lineage.
He acknowledged, however, that war was not as
pleasant a business as is generally supposed. Accustomed
to a life totally free from constraint, the
discipline of the camp ill accorded with his desultory
habits. He complained of being obliged to
eat, and drink, and sleep, at the call of the drum.
Burnishing a gun, and brushing a coat, and polishing
shoes, were duties beneath a gentleman; and,
after all, Baptiste saw but little honour in tracking
the wily Indians through endless swamps. Besides,
he began to have some scruples as to the
propriety of cutting the throats of the respectable
gentry whom he had been in the habit of considering
as the original and lawful possessors of the
soil. He therefore proposed to resign, and was
surprised when his commander informed him that
he was enlisted for a term, which was not yet
expired. He bowed, shrugged his shoulders, and
submitted to his fate. He had too much honour
to desert, and was too loyal, and too polite, to
murmur; but he, forthwith, made a solemn vow
to his patron saint, never again to get into a scrape
from which he could not retreat whenever it suited
his convenience. It was thought that he owed
his celibacy, in some measure, to this vow. He
had since accompanied the friendly Indians on
several hunting expeditions, towards the sources
of the Mississippi, and had made a trading voyage
to New Orleans. Thus accomplished, he had
been more than once called upon by the commandant
to act as a guide, or an interpreter—
honours which failed not to elicit suitable marks
of respect from his fellow villagers, but which had
not inflated the honest heart of Baptiste with any
unbecoming pride; on the contrary, there was
not a more modest man in the village.

In his habits, he was the most regular of men.
He might be seen at any hour of the day, either
sauntering through the village, or seated in front
of his own door, smoking a large pipe formed of a
piece of buck-horn, curiously hollowed out, and
lined with tin; to which was affixed a short stem
of cane from the neighbouring swamp. This pipe

was his inseparable companion; and he evinced
towards it a constancy which would have immortalized
his name, had it been displayed in a better
cause. When he walked abroad, it was to stroll
leisurely from door to door, chatting familiarly
with his neighbours, patting the white-haired
children on the head, and continuing his lounge
until he had peregrinated the village. His gravity
was not a “mysterious carriage of the body
to conceal the defects of the mind,” but a constitutional
seriousness of aspect, which covered as
happy and as humane a spirit as ever existed. It
was simply a want of sympathy between his muscles
and his brains; the former utterly refusing to
express any agreeable sensation which might haply
titillate the organs of the latter. Honest Baptiste
loved a joke, and uttered many and good ones;
but his rigid features refused to smile even at his
own wit—a circumstance which I am the more
particular in mentioning, as it is not common.
He had an orphan niece, whom he had reared
from childhood to maturity,—a lovely girl, of
whose beautiful complexion a poet might say, that
its roses were cushioned upon ermine. A sweeter
flower bloomed not upon the prairie, than Gabrielle
Menou. But as she was never afflicted with weak
nerves, dyspepsia, or consumption, and had but
one avowed lover, whom she treated with uniform
kindness, and married with the consent of all parties,
she has no claim to be considered as the
heroine of this history. That station will be
cheerfully awarded, by every sensible reader, to
the more important personage who will be presently
introduced.

Across the street, immediately opposite to Mons.
Baptiste, lived Mademoiselle Jeanette Duval, a lady
who resembled him in some respects, but in many
others was his very antipode. Like him, she was
cheerful, and happy, and single—but unlike him,
she was brisk, and fat, and plump. Monsieur was
the very pink of gravity; and Mademoiselle was
blessed with a goodly portion thereof,—but hers
was specific gravity. Her hair was dark, but her
heart was light; and her eyes, though black, were
as brilliant a pair of orbs as ever beamed upon the
dreary solitude of a bachelor's heart. Jeanette's
heels were as light as her heart, and her tongue
as active as her heels; so that, notwithstanding
her rotundity, she was as brisk a Frenchwoman
as ever frisked through the mazes of a cotillion.
To sum her perfections, her complexion was of a
darker olive than the genial sun of France confers
on her brunettes, and her skin was as smooth and
shining as polished mahogany. Her whole household
consisted of herself and a female negro servant.
A spacious garden, which surrounded her
house, a pony, and a herd of cattle, constituted, in
addition to her personal charms, all the wealth of

this amiable spinster. But with these she was
rich, as they supplied her table without adding
much to her cares. Her quadrupeds, according
to the example set by their superiors, pursued
their own happiness, without let or molestation,
wherever they could find it—waxing fat or lean,
as nature was more or less bountiful in supplying
their wants; and when they strayed too far, or
when her agricultural labours became too arduous
for the feminine strength of herself and her sable
assistant, every monsieur of the village was proud
of an occasion to serve Mam'selle. And well they
might be; for she was the most notable lady in
the village, the life of every party, the soul of
every frolic. She participated in every festive
meeting, and every sad solemnity. Not a neighbour
could get up a dance, or get down a dose of
bark, without her assistance. If the ball grew
dull, Mam'selle bounced on the floor, and infused
new spirit into the weary dancers. If the conversation
flagged, Jeanette, who occupied a kind of
neutral ground between the young and the old, the
married and the single, chatted with all, and loosened
all tongues. If the girls wished to stroll in
the woods, or romp on the prairie, Mam'selle was
taken along to keep off the wolves and the rude
young men; and, in respect to the latter, she
faithfully performed her office by attracting them
around her own person. Then she was the best
neighbour and the kindest soul! She made the
richest soup, the clearest coffee, and the neatest
pastry in the village; and, in virtue of her confectionary,
was the prime favourite of all the
children. Her hospitality was not confined to
her own domicil, but found its way, in the shape
of sundry savoury viands, to every table in the
vicinity. In the sick chamber she was the most
assiduous nurse, her step was the lightest, and her
voice the most cheerful—so that the priest must
inevitably have become jealous of her skill, had it
not been for divers plates of rich soup, and bottles
of cordial, with which she conciliated his favour,
and purchased absolution for these and other offences.

Baptiste and Jeanette were the best of neighbours.
He always rose at the dawn, and, after
lighting his pipe, sallied forth into the open air,
where Jeanette usually made her appearance at
the same time; for there was an emulation of long
standing between them, which should be the earliest
riser.

“Bon jour! Mam'selle Jeanette,” was his daily
salutation.

“Ah! bon jour! bon jour! Mons. Menou,” was
her daily reply.

Then, as he gradually approximated the little
paling which surrounded her door, he hoped Mam'selle
was well this morning; and she reiterated

the kind enquiry, but with increased emphasis.
Then Monsieur enquired after Mam'selle's pony,
and Mam'selle's cow, and her garden, and every
thing appertaining to her, real, personal, and
mixed; and she displayed a corresponding interest
in all concerns of her kind neighbour. These
discussions were mutually beneficial. If Mam'selle's
cattle ailed, or if her pony was guilty of
any impropriety, who so able to advise her as
Mons. Baptiste? and if his plants drooped, or his
poultry died, who so skilful in such matters as
Mam'selle Jeanette? Sometimes Baptiste forgot
his pipe, in the superior interest of the “tête à
tête,” and must needs step in to light it at Jeanette's
fire, which caused the gossips of the village
to say, that he purposely let his pipe go out, in
order that he might himself go in. But he denied
this; and, indeed, before offering to enter the
dwelling of Mam'selle on such occasions, he usually
solicited permission to light his pipe at Jeanette's
sparkling eyes—a compliment at which,
although it had been repeated some scores of
times, Mam'selle never failed to laugh and curtsey
with great good humour and good breeding.

It cannot be supposed that a bachelor of so much
discernment could long remain insensible to the
galaxy of charms which centred in the person of
Mam'selle Jeanette; and, accordingly, it was currently
reported that a courtship, of some ten years

standing, had been slyly conducted on his part,
and as cunningly eluded on hers. It was not
averred that Baptiste had actually gone the fearful
length of offering his hand, or that Jeanette
had been so imprudent as to discourage, far less
reject, a lover of such respectable pretensions.
But there was thought to exist a strong hankering
on the part of the gentleman, which the lady had
managed so skilfully as to keep his mind in a kind
of equilibrium, like that of the patient animal between
the two bundles of hay—so that he would
sometimes halt in the street, midway between the
two cottages, and cast furtive glances, first at the
one, and then at the other, as if weighing the
balance of comfort; while the increased volumes
of smoke, which issued from his mouth, seemed
to argue that the fire of his love had other fuel
than tobacco, and was literally consuming the inward
man. The wary spinster was always on the
alert on such occasions, manœuvring like a skilful
general according to circumstances. If honest
Baptiste, after such a consultation, turned on his
heel, and retired to his former cautious position at
his own door, Mam'selle rallied all her attractions,
and by a sudden demonstration drew him again
into the field; but if he marched with an embarrassed
air towards her gate, she retired into her
castle, or kept shy, and, by able evolutions, avoided
every thing which might bring matters to an issue.
Thus the courtship continued longer than the siege
of Troy, and Jeanette maintained her freedom,
while Baptiste, with a magnanimity superior to
that of Agamemnon, kept his temper, and smoked
his pipe in good humour with Jeanette and all the
world.

Such was the situation of affairs when I first
visited this village, about the time of the cession
of Louisiana to the United States. The news of
that event had just reached this sequestered spot,
and was but indifferently relished. Independently
of the national attachment which all men feel, and
the French so justly, the inhabitants of this region
had reason to prefer, to all others, the government
which had afforded them protection without constraining
their freedom, or subjecting them to any
burthens; and with the kindest feelings towards
the Americans, they would willingly have dispensed
with any nearer connection than that
which already existed. They, however, said little
on the subject; and that little was expressive of
their cheerful acquiescence in the honour done
them by the American people, in buying the country,
which the emperor had done them the honour
to sell.

It was on the first day of the Carnival that I
arrived in the village, about sunset, seeking shelter
only for the night, and intending to proceed on my
journey in the morning. The notes of the violin,

and the groups of gaily attired people who thronged
the street, attracted my attention, and induced me
to enquire the occasion of this merriment. My
host informed me that a “king ball” was to be
given at the house of a neighbour, adding the
agreeable intimation, that strangers were always
expected to attend without invitation. Young and
ardent, little persuasion was required to induce me
to change my dress, and hasten to the scene of
festivity. The moment I entered the room, I felt
that I was welcome. Not a single look of surprise,
not a glance of more than ordinary attention,
denoted me as a stranger or an unexpected
guest. The gentlemen nearest the door bowed as
they opened a passage for me through the crowd,
in which for a time I mingled, apparently unnoticed.
At length a young gentleman, adorned
with a large nosegay, approached me, invited
me to join the dancers, and, after enquiring my
name, introduced me to several females, among
whom I had no difficulty in selecting a graceful
partner. I was passionately fond of dancing, so
that, readily imbibing the joyous spirit of those
around me, I advanced rapidly in their estimation.
The native ease and elegance of the females, reared
in the wilderness and unhacknied in the forms of
society, surprised and delighted me as much as
the amiable frankness of all classes. By and by
the dancing ceased, and four young ladies of exquisite
beauty, who had appeared during the evening
to assume more consequence than the others,
stood alone on the floor. For a moment their
arch glances wandered over the company who
stood silently around, when one of them, advancing
to a young gentleman, led him into the circle,
and, taking a large bouquet from her own bosom,
pinned it upon the left breast of his coat, and pronounced
him “KING!” The gentleman kissed his
fair elector, and led her to a seat. Two others
were selected almost at the same moment. The
fourth lady hesitated for an instant, then advancing
to the spot where I stood, presented me her hand,
led me forward, and placed the symbol on my
breast, before I could recover from the surprise
into which the incident had thrown me. I regained
my presence of mind, however, in time to
salute my lovely consort; and never did king
enjoy, with more delight, the first fruits of his
elevation—for the beautiful Gabrielle, with whom
I had just danced, and who had so unexpectedly
raised me, as it were, to the purple, was the freshest
and fairest flower in this gay assemblage.

This ceremony was soon explained to me. On
the first day of the Carnival, four self-appointed
kings, having selected their queens, give a ball, at
their own proper costs, to the whole village. In
the course of that evening the queens select, in
the manner described, the kings for the ensuing

day, who choose their queens, in turn, by presenting
the nosegay and the kiss. This is repeated
every evening in the week;—the kings, for the
time being, giving the ball at their own expense,
and all the inhabitants attending without invitation.
On the morning after each ball, the kings
of the preceding evening make small presents to
their late queens, and their temporary alliance is
dissolved. Thus commenced my acquaintance
with Gabrielle Menou, who, if she cost me a few
sleepless nights, amply repaid me in the many
happy hours for which I was indebted to her
friendship.

I remained several weeks at this hospitable village.
Few evenings passed without a dance, at
which all were assembled, young and old; the
mothers vying in agility with their daughters,
and the old men setting examples of gallantry to
the young. I accompanied their young men to
the Indian towns, and was hospitably entertained.
I followed them to the chase, and witnessed the
fall of many a noble buck. In their light canoes
I glided over the turbid waters of the Mississippi,
or through the labyrinths of the morass, in pursuit
of water fowl. I visited the mounds, where the
bones of thousands of warriors were mouldering,
overgrown with prairie violets and thousands of
nameless flowers. I saw the mocasin snake basking
in the sun, the elk feeding on the prairie; and

returned to mingle in the amusements of a circle,
where, if there was not Parisian elegance, there
was more than Parisian cordiality.

Several years passed away before I again visited
this country. The jurisdiction of the American
government was now extended over this immense
region, and its beneficial effects were beginning to
be widely disseminated. The roads were crowded
with the teams, and herds, and families of emigrants,
hastening to the land of promise. Steamboats
navigated every stream, the axe was heard
in every forest, and the plough broke the sod
whose verdure had covered the prairie for ages.

It was sunset when I reached the margin of the
prairie on which the village is situated. My horse,
wearied with a long day's travel, sprung forward
with new vigour when his hoof struck the smooth,
firm road which led across the plain. It was a
narrow path, winding among the tall grass, now
tinged with the mellow hues of autumn. I gazed
with delight over the beautiful surface. The
mounds and the solitary trees were there, just
as I had left them, and they were familiar to my
eye as the objects of yesterday. It was eight
miles across the prairie, and I had not passed
half the distance when night set in. I strained
my eyes to catch a glimpse of the village, but
two large mounds, and a clump of trees which
intervened, defeated my purpose. I thought of

Gabrielle, and Jeanette, and Baptiste, and the
priest—the fiddles, dances, and French ponies;
and fancied every minute an hour, and every foot
a mile, which separated me from scenes and persons
so deeply impressed on my imagination.

At length I passed the mounds, and beheld the
lights twinkling in the village, now about two
miles off, like a brilliant constellation in the horizon.
The lights seemed very numerous—I thought
they moved, and at last discovered that they were
rapidly passing about. “What can be going on
in the village?” thought I—then a strain of music
met my ear—“they are going to dance,” said I,
striking my spurs into my jaded nag, “and I shall
see all my friends together.” But as I drew near
a volume of sounds burst upon me, such as defied
all conjecture. Fiddles, flutes and tambourines,
drums, cow-horns, tin trumpets, and kettles, mingled
their discordant notes with a strange accompaniment
of laughter, shouts, and singing. This
singular concert proceeded from a mob of men
and boys who paraded through the streets, preceded
by one who blew an immense tin horn, and
ever and anon shouted, “Cha-ri-va-ry! Charivary!”
to which the mob responded, “Charivary!” I
now recollected to have heard of a custom which
prevails among the American French, of serenading,
at the marriage of a widow or widower, with
such a concert as I now witnessed; and I rode

towards the crowd, who had halted before a well-known
door, to ascertain who were the happy
parties.

“Charivary!” shouted the leader.

“Pour qui?” said another voice.

“Pour Mons. Baptiste Menou, il est marié?”

“Avec qui?”

“Avec Mam'selle Jeanette Duval—Charivary!”

“Charivary!” shouted the whole company, and
a torrent of music poured from the full band—tin
kettles, cow-horns and all.

The door of the little cabin, whose hospitable
threshold I had so often crossed, now opened, and
Baptiste made his appearance—the identical, lank,
sallow, erect personage, with whom I had parted
several years before, with the same pipe in his
mouth. His visage was as long and as melancholy
as ever, except that there was a slight tinge of
triumph in its expression, and a bashful casting
down of the eye—reminding one of a conqueror,
proud but modest in his glory. He gazed with an
embarrassed air at the serenaders, bowed repeatedly,
as if conscious that he was the hero of the
night, and then exclaimed—

“For what you make this charivary?”

“Charivary!” shouted the mob; and the tin
trumpets gave an exquisite flourish.

“Gentlemen!” expostulated the bridegroom,
“for why you make this charivary for me? I

have never been marry before—and Mam'selle
Jeanette has never been marry before!”

Roll went the drum!—cow-horns, kettles, tin
trumpets, and fiddles, poured forth volumes of
sound, and the mob shouted in unison.

“Gentlemen! pardonnez-moi—” supplicated the
distressed Baptiste. “If I understan dis custom,
which have long prevail vid us, it is vat I say—
ven a gentilman, who has been marry before, shall
marry de second time—or ven a lady have de
misfortune to loose her husban, and be so happy
to marry some odder gentilman, den we make de
charivary—but 'tis not so wid Mam'selle Duval
and me. Upon my honour we have never been
marry before dis time!”

“Why, Baptiste,” said one, “you certainly have
been married, and have a daughter grown.”

“Oh, excuse me, sir! Madame St. Marie is
my niece; I have never been so happy to be marry,
until Mam'selle Duval have do me dis honneur.”

“Well, well! it's all one. If you have not been
married, you ought to have been, long ago:—and
might have been, if you had said the word.”

“Ah, gentilmen, you mistake.”

“No, no! there's no mistake about it. Mam'selle
Jeanette would have had you ten years ago,
if you had asked her.”

“You flatter too much,” said Baptiste, shrugging
his shoulders;—and finding there was no

means of avoiding the charivary, he, with great
good humour, accepted the serenade, and, according
to custom, invited the whole party into his
house.

I retired to my former quarters, at the house of
an old settler—a little, shrivelled, facetious Frenchman,
whom I found in his red flannel night-cap,
smoking his pipe, and seated like Jupiter in the
midst of clouds of his own creating.

“Merry doings in the village!” said I, after we
had shaken hands.

“Eh, bien! Mons. Baptiste is marry to Mam'selle
Jeanette.”

“I see the boys are making merry on the occasion.”

“Ah, sacre! de dem boy! they have play hell
to night.”

“Indeed! how so?”

“For make dis charivary—dat is how so, my
friend. Dis come for have d' Americain government
to rule de countrie. Parbleu! they make
charivary for de old maid and de old bachelor!”

I now found that some of the new settlers, who
had witnessed this ludicrous ceremony without
exactly understanding its application, had been
foremost in promoting the present irregular exhibition,
in conjunction with a few degenerate French,
whose love of fun outstripped their veneration for
their ancient usages. The old inhabitants, although

they joined in the laugh, were nevertheless
not a little scandalised at the innovation. Indeed,
they had good reason to be alarmed; for their
ancient customs, like their mud-walled cottages,
were crumbling to ruins around them, and every
day destroyed some vestige of former years.

Upon enquiry, I found that many causes of discontent
had combined to embitter the lot of my
simple-hearted friends. Their ancient allies, the
Indians, had sold their hunting grounds, and their
removal deprived the village of its only branch of
commerce. Surveyors were busily employed in
measuring off the whole country, with the avowed
intention, on the part of the government, of converting
into private property those beautiful regions
which had heretofore been free to all who trod
the soil or breathed the air. Portions of it were
already thus occupied. Farms and villages were
spreading over the country with alarming rapidity,
deforming the face of nature, and scaring the elk
and the buffalo from their long frequented ranges.
Yankees and Kentuckians were pouring in, bringing
with them the selfish distinctions and destructive
spirit of society. Settlements were planted
in the immediate vicinity of the village; and the
ancient heritage of the ponies was invaded by the
ignoble beasts of the interlopers. Certain pregnant
indications of civil degeneration were alive
in the land. A county had been established, with

a judge, a clerk, and a sheriff; a court-house and
jail were about to be built; two lawyers had
already made a lodgment at the county site; and
a number of justices of the peace, and constables,
were dispersed throughout a small neighbourhood
of not more than fifty miles in extent. A brace
of physicians had floated in with the stream of
population, and several other persons of the same
cloth were seen passing about, brandishing their
lancets in the most hostile manner. The French
argued very reasonably from all these premises—
that a people who brought their own doctors expected
to be sick, and that those who commenced
operations in a new country, by providing so many
engines and officers of justice, must certainly intend
to be very wicked and litigious. But when the
new comers went the fearful length of enrolling
them in the militia; when the sheriff, arrayed in
all the terrors of his office, rode into the village,
and summoned them to attend the court as jurors;
when they heard the judge enumerate to the grand
jury the long list of offences which fell within their
cognizance;—these good folks shook their heads,
and declared that this was no longer a country for
them.

From that time the village began to depopulate.
Some of its inhabitants followed the footsteps of
the Indians, and continue, to this day, to trade
between them and the whites—forming a kind of

link between civilised and savage men. A larger
portion, headed by the priest, floated down the
Mississippi, to seek congenial society among the
sugar plantations of their countrymen in the south.
They found a pleasant spot on the margin of a
large bayou, whose placid stream was enlivened
by droves of alligators, sporting their innocent
gambols on its surface. Swamps, extending in
every direction, protected them from further intrusion.
Here a new village arose, and a young
generation of French was born, as happy and as
careless as that which is passing away.

Baptiste alone adhered to the soil of his fathers,
and Jeanette, in obedience to her marriage vow,
cleaved to Baptiste. He sometimes talked of following
his clan, but when the hour came he could
never summon fortitude to pull up his stakes. He
had passed so many happy years of single blessedness
in his own cabin, and had been so long accustomed
to view that of Jeanette with a wistful eye,
that they had become necessary to his happiness.
Like other idle bachelors, he had had his day-dreams,
pointing to future enjoyment. He had
been, for years, planning the junction of his domains
with those of his fair neighbour; had
arranged how the fences were to intersect, the
fields to be enlarged, and the whole to be managed
by the thrifty economy of his partner. All these
plans were now about to be realised; and he wisely

concluded that he could smoke his pipe, and talk
to Jeanette, as comfortably here as elsewhere;
and as he had not danced for many years, and
Jeanette was growing rather too corpulent for
that exercise, he reasoned that even the deprivation
of the fiddles and king balls could be borne.
Jeanette loved comfort too; but having, besides,
a sharp eye for the main chance, was governed
by a deeper policy. By a prudent appropriation
of her own savings, and those of her husband, she
purchased from the emigrants many of the fairest
acres in the village, and thus secured an ample
property.

A large log house has since been erected in the
space between the cottages of Baptiste and Jeanette,
which form wings to the main building, and
are carefully preserved in remembrance of old
times. All the neighbouring houses have fallen
down, and a few heaps of rubbish, surrounded by
corn fields, show where they stood. All is changed,
except the two proprietors, who live here in ease
and plenty, exhibiting, in their old age, the same
amiable character, which, in early life, won for
them the respect and love of their neighbours and
of each other.