 | A LEGEND OF CARONDELET; OR, FIFTY
YEARS AGO. Legends of the West |  |
A LEGEND OF CARONDELET; OR, FIFTY
YEARS AGO.
There is no knowledge so valuable, as a knowledge
of the world. Thousands have grown grey
in the acquisition of learning, without ever getting
the slightest insight into the human character, while
many seem to be born with an intrinsic perception
of the workings of the human heart. There is a
something called common sense, which books do not
teach, but which, nevertheless, is worth more than
all the lore of antiquity. A man may starve with
his head full of Latin and Greek, while a single
grain of common sense operates like the presence of
the prophet of old upon the widow's cruise. The
fortunate individual who is born with this desirable
quality, bears a charmed existence, and glides along
in the voyage of life with an ease that surprises his
companions. There is a thriftiness about such persons
which is almost miraculous; like those hardy
plants that spring up in the crevices of the rock,
they flourish in the midst of barrenness, when every
thing perishes around them.
To this class belonged Timothy Eleazer Tompkinson,
domicil was situated in a small sea-port of New
England; but who being almost constantly abroad,
was obliged to leave his only son to the care of a
maiden aunt, and to the teaching of a public school.
This amiable youth exhibited, even in childhood,
some of the touches of the disposition which adhered
to him through life. He liked salt water better
than attic wit; and loved to steer his little boat in
the most stormy weather, around the capes and
headlands of the neighbouring sea-coast, better than
to trace out the labyrinths of a problem, or to wander
among the shoals and quicksands of metaphysics.
In his tenderest years, he launched his bark upon the
ocean, with the temerity of a veteran pilot; and
when the gay breeze swept along, and the waves
danced and sparkled in the sun, his little sail might
be seen skimming over the surface like a sea-bird.
Often, as he strolled off in the morning, might the
shrill voice of his aunt, the worthy Miss Fidelity
Tompkinson, be heard hailing him with “Where are
you going, Timmy dear?” “Don't go near the
water, dear;” and as often would he toss his head,
and march on, smiling at the simplicity of his
watchful guardian, and marvelling at the timidity of
women. In vain did the village pedagogue remind
him that time flies swifter than a white squall, and
that in the voyage of life there is but one departure,
which, if taken wrong, can never be corrected.
Tim would listen with a smile, and then placing his
to the beach.
At sixteen, it was concluded that the years and
gifts of Timothy rendered him a suitable candidate
for college honours, and his name was accordingly
entered upon the books of a celebrated institution.
Here he was soon distinguished; not for Latin or logic,
but for cleverness, ingenuity and gymnastic feats.
He never was a great talker, but, on the contrary,
expressed himself with a laudable brevity, and with
that idiomatic terseness of language, which is common
along shore, where a significant sea-phrase answers
all the purpose of a long argument; and he
reasoned plausibly enough, that one who employed
so few words, had little use for any other tongue than
his own, which afforded a copious medium for the
conveyance of his slender stock of ideas. In the
mathematical sciences, he was better skilled. Few
could estimate with more accuracy, the number of
superficial yards, between his own chamber and a
neighbouring orchard; or calculate, with more nicety,
the difference of distance between these points upon
a direct line, or by the meanders of a number of obtuse
angles. He knew the exact height of every
window in the college edifice, and the precise force
required to elevate a projectile from the college green
to the roof of the tutor's boarding-house. He knew
precisely the angle at which an object could be presented
to the retina of a professor's eye; and was
acquainted with the depth of every intellect, and
the measure of every purse in the senior class. In
all the hardihood of a Spartan youth, and was especially
gifted with that thrifty quality called
common sense. He was a lucky boy, too. Though
foremost in every act of mischief, he was always
the last to be found out, or punished; and though
he never studied, he always managed to glide unnoticed
through the college examinations, or to obtain
praise for productions which were strongly suspected
to be not his own. In difficulty or danger, he was
sure to have a device to meet the exigency, and was
so often successful on such occasions, that his companions
compared him to the active animal, which,
when thrown into the air, always lights upon its feet.
It will be readily imagined, that our hero gained
but few scholastic attainments; yet he was, nevertheless,
a general favourite. He was blessed with
the finest temper in the world. His good nature
was absolutely invincible. Although the very
prince of mischief, none suspected him of malice.
In the midst of a bitter reproof, he would smile in
the professor's face; and the senior who treated him
with insolence, was, perhaps, the first to receive
some kind act from his hand. If the faculty
frowned upon him, he had the faculty of turning
the storm into sunshine, and of averting punishment
by a well-timed jest, or compliment. Every body
loved Tim, and Tim loved every body. He hated
study; but then he liked college, because the students
were jolly fellows, and the professors took
which is the result of long endurance.
How long these halcyon days would have lasted,
and whether the name of Timothy Eleazer Tompkinson
would have been numbered among the
alumni of the college, is now beyond the reach of
conjecture; for just as he had attained his twentieth
year, the news came that his father had discharged
the debt of nature, leaving all his other debts unpaid,
his sister fortuneless, and his son a beggar. Our
hero paid the tribute of a tear to the memory of his
departed parent, and more than one drop attested
his sympathy for the desolate condition of his kind
aunt. But he soon brushed the moisture from
either eye, and as the good president condoled with
him in a tone of sincere affection, he acknowledged
with a smile, that his case might have been much
more desperate.
“The worst of it is,” said the reverend principal,
“that you will not be able to take out a degree.”
“I shall be sorry to quit college,” replied the
youth, “but as for the degree, that is neither here
nor there.”
The president shook his head, and took snuff,
while Tim cast a side-long glance out of the window,
gazing wistfully over the green landscape,
which was now decked with the blossoms of spring,
and longing to rove uncontrolled about that beautiful
world, that seemed so redolent of sunshine,
and flowers, and balmy breezes.
“It is a sad thing,” said the president, “for a
wide world.”
“The wider the world is, the better,” said Tim,
“it is a fine thing to have sea-room; and as to its
coldness, I don't regard that; a light heart will
keep a man warm in the stiffest northeaster that ever
blew.”
The worthy president applied his handkerchief
to his nose, then wiped his spectacles, and wondered
how marvellously the wind is tempered to the shorn
lamb.
“Thou hast a bold heart,” said the president,
“still I cannot bear to see you cast forth without a
profession.”
“Oh, never mind that; I'm all the better without
it. To a man without a farthing in his pocket, a
profession is only an incumbrance, which forces
him to wear good clothes, and talk like a book. I
shall put out into the world as light as a feather, and
float along with the breeze.”
Arguments were thrown away upon the common
sense of our hero, who was already panting to exercise
among men, the same devices which had
smoothed all the asperities of college life, which had
won him the affection of his fellow-students, and
gained even the kindness of his superiors.
“There goes,” said the president, as he gazed
after him, “the shrewdest boy, and the greatest
dunce that ever left college—the most obstinate, yet
the most conciliatory spirit.”
Obstinate as he was, there was one point on which
of going to sea, upon the earnest solicitation of
his aunt. It was the only request, from his sole remaining
relative. She had nursed his infancy with
unceasing kindness; she now leaned upon him for
support, and her tears were irresistible. But in
abandoning the ocean, he stipulated for free permission
to roam at large over the wide expanse of
his native country, and in a few days after the intelligence
had arrived of his father's death, he was
seen leaving his native village, with an elastic step,
with a staff in his hand, and a small portmanteau
under his arm.
Here I must leave my hero for the present, and
ask the gentle reader to accompany me to the pleasant
village of Carondelet, or as it is more commonly
called, Vuide Poche, on the margin of the Mississippi.
Although now dwindled into an obscure and
ruinous hamlet, remarkable only for its outlandish
huts and lean ponies, it was then the goodly seat of
a prosperous community. It is situated on the
western shore of the river, in a beautiful little amphitheatre,
which seems to have been scooped out
for the very purpose. The banks of the Mississippi
at this place are composed of a range of hills, rising
abruptly from the water's edge. The town occupies
a sort of cove, formed by a small plat of table
land, surrounded on three sides by hills. The
houses occupy the whole of this little area, including
the hill sides; and are models of primitive
rudeness, carelessness, and comfort. They were
with mud walls; and all the rooms being arranged
on the ground floor, their circumference was often
oddly disproportioned to their height. In a few of
the better sort, spacious piazzas, formed by the projection
of the roof, surrounded the buildings, giving
to them both coolness and a remarkable air of comfort.
The enormous steep roofs were often quadrangular,
so as to form a point in the middle,
surmounted by a ball, a weathercock, or a cross.
Gardens, stocked with fruit trees and flowering
shrubs, encompassed the dwellings, enclosed with
rough stone walls, or stockades made by driving
large stakes in the ground. The dwellings stood
apart, having each its own little domain about it;
and when it is added, that the streets were narrow
and irregular, it will be observed that the whole
scene was odd and picturesque.
The inhabitants presented, as I suppose, a fair
specimen of the French peasantry, as they existed
in France, previous to the first revolution. They
had all the levity, the kindness, and the contentment
which are so well described by Sterne, with a
simplicity which was perfectly childlike. Though
subject, at the date of our tale, to a foreign king,
they were as good republicans as if they had been
trained up in one of our own colonies. They knew
the restraints and distinctions of a monarchy only
by report, practising the most rigid equality among
themselves, and never troubling their heads to inquire
how things were ordered elsewhere. The
numerous colonies, had always the knack of giving
a parental character to their sway, and governed
with so much mildness, that the people never
thought of questioning either the source or extent of
their authority; while the English invariably alienate
the affections of their colonists by oppression.
The inhabitants of Vuide Poche were all plebeians;
a few, who traded with the Indians, had amassed
some little property; the remainder were hunters
and boatmen—men who traversed the great prairies
of the west, and traced the largest rivers to their
sources, fiddling and laughing all the way, lodging
and smoking in the Indian wigwams, and never
dreaming of fatigue or danger.
To return to our story. It was a sultry afternoon
in June. Not a breath of air was stirring—the intense
glare of the sun had driven every animal to
some shelter—the parched soil glowed with heat,
and even the plants drooped. There was, however,
a pleasant coolness, and an inviting serenity among
the dwellings of the French. The trees that stood
thick around them, threw a dense shade, which
contrasted delightfully with the glaring fierceness of
the sun beams. The broad leaf of the catalpa, and
the rich green of the locust, afforded relief to the
eye; bowers of sweet briar and honey-suckle, mingled
with luxuriant clumps of the white and red
rose, gave fragrance to the air, and a romantic
beauty to the scene.
In the cool veranda of one of the largest of those
Near him sat madame, his wife, a dark-eyed,
wrinkled, sprightly old lady; and at her side was a
beautiful girl of seventeen, their only daughter.
The worthy couple had that mahogany tinge of
complexion which belongs to this region; as to
the young lady, politeness compels me to describe
her hue as a brunette—and a beautiful brunette it
was—fading into snow-white upon her neck, and
deepening into a rich damask on her round smooth
cheek. The ladies were sewing; and the gentleman
was puffing his pipe with the composure of a man
who feels conscious that he has a right to smoke his
own tobacco in his own house, and with the deliberation
of one who is master of his own time.
While thus engaged, their attention was attracted
by the apparition of a man leading a jaded horse
along the street. The stranger was young and
slender; his dress had once been genteel, but was
much worn, and showed signs of recent exposure to
the weather. The traveller himself was tanned
and weather-beaten, his hair tangled, and his chin
unshaved; while the sorry nag, which he led by the
bridle, had just life enough left in him to limp upon
three legs. Worn down with fatigue, and covered
with sweat and dust, the new comer halted in the
street, as if unable to proceed, and looked around in
search of a public house. Of a boy, who passed
along, he inquired for a tavern; but the lad, unable
to understand him, shook his head. He put the
same question to several others, with no better success;
we have described above, seeing his embarrassment,
stepped forward and invited him into his porch.
The stranger was no other than our friend
Timothy Eleazer Tompkinson, who, in the course
of a few months, had made his way from New
England to Louisiana. It is unnecessary to recount
the various expedients by which he maintained
himself upon his journey. He was a lawyer, a
doctor, or a mechanic, as occasion required. At
one place, he pleaded a cause before a magistrate;
at another, he drew a tooth; for one man he mended
a lock; for another he set a time-piece; and by
these and similar devices, he not only supported
himself, but procured the means to purchase a horse,
saddle, and bridle. Arrived at the frontier of Kentucky,
his restless spirit still urged him forward,
and he determined to strike across the wilderness
to the French settlements, on the Mississippi. The
distance was nearly three hundred miles, and the
whole region through which he had to travel was
uninhabited, except by Indians. Unaccustomed to
the forest, he must have perished, had he not encountered
a solitary hunter, who, pleased with his
free and bold spirit, voluntarily conducted him
throughout a considerable part of the route, taught
him how to avoid the haunts of the savages, and
instructed him in some of the arts of forest life.
For the last two days he had wandered without
food; and both himself and his horse were nearly
exhausted when he reached the Mississippi, where
ferried him across in their canoes. The arrival of
a stranger at this secluded hamlet, by land, was quite
an event, and little else was talked of, this evening,
at the tea-tables of Carondelet.
M. Dunois, who had traded and travelled, valued
himself highly on his knowledge of the English
language, which he had attempted to teach to his
daughter; and he no sooner discovered that this was
the vernacular tongue of the stranger, than he opened
a conversation in that dialect. The cork was drawn
from a bottle of excellent claret, a pitcher of limpid
water from the fountain was brought, and our
hero having moistened his parched lips, and seated
himself in the coolest veranda of Vuide Poche, felt
quite refreshed. The following dialogue then ensued:
“Pray sir,” said Timothy Eleazer, with his best
college bow, “can you direct me to a tavern?”
“Tavern! vat you call? eh? Oh la! d'auberge
—no, Monsieur, dere is no tavern en Vuide Poche.”
“That is awkward enough—what shall I do? my
horse must be fed, and I am almost starved.”
“Eh bien! you will have some ros bif, and somebody
for eat your cheval? n'est ce pas?”
“I need food and lodging, and know not where
to go.”
“Fude! vat is fude, Marie? Ah ha! aliment.
Sacre! Monsieur is hongry; Loge! here is ver good
place, chez moi. You shall stay vid me. Ver good
loge here, and plenty for eat you, et votre cheval.”
Timothy “hoped he didn't intrude;” but a man
who has been lost in the woods, is not very apt to
stand on ceremony; and as he glanced at the symptoms
of plenty which surrounded him, at the good
humoured hostess, and at the fair Marie, a spectator
would have judged, that his fears of intrusion were
overbalanced by feelings of self gratulation, at having
fallen into the hands of such good Samaritans.
He soon found that the hospitality of this worthy
family was of the most substantial kind. In a moment
his tired nag was led to the stable, and our
hero, so lately a wanderer, found himself an honoured
and cherished guest.
The air of Vuide Poche agreed well with him.
The free and social habits of the French were exactly
to his taste. Although their pockets, as the
name of their town implies, were not lined with
gold, there was plenty in their dwellings, and cheerfulness
in their hearts. He was delighted with the
harmony and the apparent unity, both of feeling and
interest, which bound this little community together.
They were like a single family; their hearts beat
in unison, “as the heart of one man.” There was
but one circle. Though some were poorer than
others, they all mingled in the same dance; and
as none claimed superiority, or attempted to put
others to shame, by affecting a show of wealth, there
was little envy or malice. All were equally illiterate,
with the exception of Mons. Dunois and the
priest, who had travelled, and who spoke, the one
Latin, and the other, as we have seen, English.
these attainments, they were the plainest and most
sociable men in the village, and were reverenced
as much for their benevolence as for their superior
knowledge.
All this chimed so well with the feelings of Mr
Timothy Eleazer Tompkinson, that he resolved
forthwith, to engraft himself upon this vigorous
and cheerful stock. The next thing was to choose
a profession; but he had too much common sense
to suffer so small a matter as this to cause him any
embarrassment. I am not aware of the precise
motive, which determined him to embrace the
practice of physic. It might have been benevolence,
or a conviction of a special vocation for the
healing art; but I rather attribute it to a motive
which I suspect too often allures our youth to become
the disciples of æsculapius, namely, the occult
nature of the science, which enables an adroit
practitioner to cover his ignorance so completely as
to defy detection. Timothy had discovered that
when he practised law, any spectator could expose
the fallacy of his arguments; when he mended clocks,
they often refused to go; but the case was different
with his patients; if, in spite of his drugs, they refused
to go, it was well for them, and for him; and
if they did go, nobody knew whom to blame. To
say the truth, he never presumed to “exhibit” any
drug more active than charcoal, brickdust, or flour;
and his success had heretofore been quite marvellous.
He therefore took the earliest opportunity of disclosing
to his host, that he was a physician, and was
disposed to exercise his calling for the benefit of the
good people of Carondelet.
“Eh bien!” exclaimed M. Dunois, “un medecin!
ver good; ver mosh fine ting for Vuide Poche;
vat can you cure?”
“Oh, I am not particular; I can cure one thing
almost as well as another.”
“You can cure every ting, eh?—de fevre, de
break-bone, de catch-cold—dat is fine ting, you
shall stay chez Vuide Poche.”
So the question was settled.
Had there been a newspaper in Carondelet, the
name of Doctor Timothy Eleazer Tompkinson
“from the United States,” would, doubtless, have
figured in its columns. But as there was no such
thing, our hero resorted to other means of acquiring
notoriety. In the first place, having procured a
suitable cabin, the whole village was searched for
phials, and gallipots, and little boxes, and big bottles,
which being filled with liquids and unguents,
of various hues, were “wisely set for show,” at the
window. But the greatest affair of all, was a certain
machine, for the invention of which, Doctor
Tompkinson ought to have had a patent. This was
no other than a wheel, turning on an axis, and surrounded
by an immovable rim, within which it
revolved. Upon the wheel, Timothy wrote the
name of every disease which he could recollect, as
well as every dreadful accident to which flesh is
the remedy for any disorder was required, the
wheel was set in motion, and on its stopping, the
cure was found opposite the disease. The honest
villagers crowded to see the “magic wheel,” and
vied in their courtesies to its fortunate possessor,
who was rising fast into celebrity, when his prospects
were clouded by an untoward event.
In the midst of the village stood the chapel—a
low oblong building, whose gable end was presented
to the street, and behind which was a cemetery,
where all the graves were marked by great wooden
crosses, instead of tombstones. Here the good
catholics repaired every morning and evening to
perform their devotions, and confess their peccadilloes
to the priest. Hither one morning, at an earlier
hour than usual, was seen repairing, the fair Marie
Dunois, with a step as light as the zephyr, and a
face radiant as the dawn. Kneeling beside the
worthy old man, who placed his withered hand
upon her raven locks, she began in a low, earnest
tone, to unburthen her mind. Suddenly the ecclesiastic
started from his seat, exclaiming,
“Ah the insolent! how did he dare to make such
an avowal?”
“He meant no harm, I assure you, father,” replied
Marie.
“How do you know that?”
“He told me so, with his own mouth. He said
that he valued my happiness more than his own;
his shop, than offend me.”
“Very pretty talk, truly! Do you not know that
he is a heretic, and that no reliance can be placed in
him?”
“Very true, father Augustin, but then he is so
agreeable.”
“Besides, he is a Yankee; and does not understand
your language.”
“Oh, I understand him very well; and he says
he will teach me to speak English. Don't you
think him very handsome, father Augustin?”
“I am afraid, my child, that this adventurer has
imposed too much upon your youth and innocence.”
“No, indeed, father Augustin, I am old enough
to know when a gentleman is sincere, and all that.
Don't you think Doctor Tompkinson plays beautifully
on the flute? and on the violin, he plays almost
as well as you, father.”
“Pshaw! go, go, I shall inform your parents.”
“Oh dear, I have no objection to that; they will
feel highly honoured by Doctor Tompkinson's partiality
for me.”
Nevertheless, the pretty Marie blushed, and cast
down her eyes, when she met her father at breakfast
that morning, and no sooner was that meal
despatched, than she hastened to her own room.
Presently came father Augustin, and after an hour's
conference, Monsieur Dunois, evidently much agitated,
sallied forth in search of our hero.
“Vel sair!” he exclaimed as they met, “I ave
found you out! I ave catch de Yankee!”
“How?”
“How! you ave court my daughter; dat is how!
sacre! you ave make love avec ma Marie, dat is
how enough, Monsieur docteur.”
“My dear sir, pray be composed, there is some
mistake.”
“Dere is no mistake. I vill not be compose—I
vill not be impose, too! diable! Suppose some
gentilhomme court ma Marie contrair to my
vish, shall I sit down compose?”
“Really sir, I see no reason for this passion,”
replied the cautious Timothy, who saw his advantage
in keeping cool.
“Sair, I ave raison,”—exclaimed the enraged
Frenchman, “I ave too mosch raison. Vous etez
traitre! you are de sly dem rogue! You very
pretty docteur! very ansome Yankee docteur! can
you no mix de physique, and draw de blood,
vidout make love avec all de French gal?”
“I assure you, sir, the ladies have misconstrued
something that I have said merely in jest—.”
“Jest! vat is jest? ah ha! raillerie; fon—vat
sair, you court ma fille for fon? very ansome fon!
you make love avec de French gal for fon, eh?
Suppose bam bye you marry some of dem for fon!
diable! Suppose, may be, I break all your bone,
for fon, vid my canne, eh, how you like him?”
“My dear sir, if you will tell me coolly, what
you complain of, I will endeavour to explain.”
“Sair, I complain for many ting. I sorry for
you make love avec ma fille, vidout my leave—
dat is von ting; I very mosch incense for you court
ma chile for fon—dat is nodder ting; den I ave
raison to be fache for you faire la cour a two,
tree lady all same tem.”
The last of these accusations was unjust. Timothy
had not really intended to pay his devotions to
more than one lady. But the females all admired
him, and in their confidential conversations with the
priest, who was no great connoisseur in the affairs
of the heart, spoke of him in such high terms of approbation,
as to induce the holy man to believe that
he was actually playing the coquette. What Monsieur
Dunois and the priest believed, soon became
the belief of the village; and the men all condemned,
while the ladies sympathized with, the ingenious
stranger. The doctor, of course, changed his lodging;
and ceased to have any intercourse with Made-moiselle
Dunois, except by means of expressive
glances, and significant pressures of the hand, as
they met in the dances, which occurred almost
every evening.
Things now looked gloomy; our friend Timothy
lost his practice; and a fortunate circumstance it was
for him, as well as for those who might otherwise
have been his patients. He now had leisure to
make hunting excursions, and expeditions upon the
water; and his skill in the management of a boat, as
well as his courage and address in every emergency,
soon gained him friends. His vivacity, his versatility
he became a daring hunter, a skilful woodsman,
and a favourite of all the young men of the village.
Such was the posture of affairs, and Doctor Tompkinson
was sitting one evening in his lonely room,
quite out of patients, as a punster would say, when
he was called, in haste, to visit a young lady, who
had met with the misfortune of having a fish-bone
stuck in her throat. The priest had exercised all
his skill—the old ladies had exhausted their receipts,
without effect; and, as a last resort, it was
determined to consult Doctor Tompkinson and the
magic wheel. Our hero, with great alacrity,
brushed the dust from the neglected machine, set it
in motion, and waited patiently until it stopped,
when opposite to the word “choking” was found
“bleeding.” The doctor, somewhat perplexed,
repeated the experiment; but, the result being the
same, resolved to obey the oracle, and trust to fortune.
Having prepared his bandages, and lancet,
he repaired to the sufferer, who, opening her eyes
and beholding the operator brandishing a bright
instrument, and naturally supposing that the part
affected would be the first point of attack, and that
her throat would be cut from ear to ear, uttered a
terrific scream, and—out flew the bone! “St
Anthony! what a miraculous cure!” exclaimed the
priest; “Ste Genevieve! what a noble physician!”
cried all the ladies: and the whole village of Vuide
Poche was alive with wonder, and loud in praise of
the consummate sagacity of the young American.
pinnacle of public favour—never did Doctor Tompkinson
shake so many hard hands, or receive so
many bright smiles and courtesies, as on this evening.
The news soon flew to the tea-table of
Monsieur Dunois, who had already begun to repent
of his harshness to our hero, and whose ardent feelings,
easily excited, now prompted him to the
opposite extreme. Seeing the object of his solicitude
passing his door, while the first gush of returning
kindness was flowing through his heart, he rushed
out and caught him in his arms. “Ah mon ami!”
exclaimed he, “I ave been mistake! I ave been
impose! you are de grand medecin! you shall
marry avec my gal!” and without waiting for any
reply, he dragged him into the house.
Shortly after this event, the smartest and merriest
wedding, that ever was seen in Carondelet, was
celebrated under the hospitable roof of Monsieur
Dunois, and our hero became the happy husband of
the beautiful and artless Marie. On that night,
every fiddle and every foot in Vuide Poche did
its duty; even the priest wore his best robes, and
kindest smile, at the marriage feast of the lucky
heretic. Mr Tompkinson immediately abandoned
the practice of physic; the magic wheel disappeared;
and he embarked in business as an Indian trader.
Here his genius found an appropriate field. With
his band of adventurous boatmen, he navigated the
long rivers of the west, to their tributary fountains;
he visited the wigwams of tribes afar off, to whom
chased the buffalo over plains, until then, untrodden
by any human foot, but that of the savage; and returned
laden with honest spoil. Year after year he
pursued this toilsome traffic; until, having earned a
competency, he sat down contented, and waxed as
fat, as lazy, and as garrulous, as any of his townsmen.
He grew as swarthy as his neighbours, and
as he wore a capot and smoked a short pipe, no one
would have suspected that he was not a native, had
it not been for his aunt, the worthy Miss Fidelity
Tompkinson, who occupied the best room in his
mansion, and who resolutely refused, through life,
to eat gumbo-soup, to speak French, or to pay any
reverence to that respectable man, the priest.
| A LEGEND OF CARONDELET; OR, FIFTY
YEARS AGO. Legends of the West | |