 | XXV. The South-west |  |
25. XXV.
Land at the Levée—African porters—First impression of passing
travellers—“Natchez under the Hill”—A dizzy road—A rapid descent—View
from the summit—Fine scenery in the vicinity—Reservoir—A
tawny Silenus—A young Apollo—Warriors “hors du
combat”—Indian females—Mississippian backwoodsmen—Mansion
House.
Since the date of my last letter, a period sufficiently
long to enable me to make my observations
with correctness has elapsed; and from memoranda
collected during the interval, I shall prepare this
and subsequent letters from this place.
We landed last evening at the Levée, amid the
excitement, noise, and confusion which always attend
the arrival or departure of a steamer in any
place. But here the tumult was varied and increased
by the incessant jabbering, hauling, pulling,
kicking and thumping, of some score or two of
ebony-cheeked men and urchins, who were tumbling
over each other's heads to get the first trunk.
“Trunk, massa—trunk! I take you baggage.”
“You get out, for a nigger!” exclaimed a tall,
strapping fellow, as black as night, to his brother
ebony. “I'm the gemman, massa, what care de
I'm what's always waits on um gentlemans from de
boats!” roared another; and stooping to take one
of the handles, the other was instantly grappled by
a rival, and both giving a simultaneous jerk, the
subject of the contest flew violently from their hands,
and was instantly caught up by the first “gemman,”
and borne off in triumph. This little by-play
was acted, with variations, in every part of the cabin,
where there was either a gentleman or a trunk
to form the subject.
On landing, there was yet another trial of the
tympanum.
“Carriage, massa—mighty bad hill to walk up!”
was vociferated on all sides; and
“No, no, no!” was no argument with them for
a cessation of attack; denial only made them more
obstinate; and, like true soldiers, they seemed to
derive courage from defeat.
Forcing my way through the dingy crowd—for
four out of five of them were black, and, “by the
same token,” as ragged as Falstaff's regiment, of
shirtless memory—I followed my athletic pioneer;
who, with my heavy baggage poised accurately upon
his head, moved as rapidly and carelessly along
the thronged Levée as though he carried no weight
but his own thick cranium. On looking round me
for a moment, on landing, I was far from agreeably
impressed with the general appearance of the buildings.
This part of the town is not properly Natchez
—and strangers passing up and down the river, who
have had the opportunity of seeing only this place,
their heads, gone on their way, with impressions
very inaccurate and unfavourable. These impressions,
derived only, but justly, from this repulsive
spot, have had a tendency to depreciate the city,
and fasten upon it a bad name, which it is very far
from meriting. Like the celebrated “Five Points,”
in New-York, “Natchez under the Hill,” as it has
been aptly named, has extended its fame throughout
the United States, in wretched rhyme and viler
story. For many years it has been the nucleus of
vice upon the Mississippi. But, for two or three
years past, the establishment of respectable mercantile
houses, and an excellent hotel, combined
with an efficient police, and a spirit of moral reform
among the citizens, has, in a great measure, redeemed
the place—changed its repulsive character
and cancelled its disgraceful name. Though now
on the high way of reform, there is still enough of
the cloven-hoof visible, to enable the stranger to
recognise that its former reputation was well earned.
The principal street, which terminates at the ascent
of the hill, runs parallel with the river, and is
lined on either side with a row of old wooden houses;
which are alternately gambling-houses, brothels,
and bar-rooms: a fair assemblage! As we
passed through the street—which we gained with
difficulty from the boat, picking our way to it as
we could, through a filthy alley—the low, broken,
half-sunken side-walks, were blocked up with fashionably-dressed
young men, smoking or lounging,
tawdrily arrayed, highly rouged females, sailors,
pigs, dogs, and dirty children. The sounds of
profanity and Bacchanalian revels, well harmonizing
with the scene, assailed our ears as we passed hastily
along, through an atmosphere of tobacco smoke
and other equally fragrant odours. After a short
walk we emerged into a purer air, and in front of
a very neat and well-conducted hotel. From near
this place, extending along the Levée to the north,
commences the mercantile part of the “landing,”
lined with stores and extensive warehouses, in which
is transacted a very heavy business. The whole of
this lower town is built upon a reclaimed flat, from
one to two hundred yards broad, and half a mile in
length; bounded upon one side by the river, and on
the other by the cliff or bluff, upon which Natchez
stands, and which rises abruptly from the Batture,
to the height of one hundred and sixty feet. This
bluff extends along the river, more or less varied
and broken, for several miles; though at no point
so abrupt and bold as here, where it bears the peculiar
characteristics of the wild scenery of “Dover
cliffs.” The face of the cliff at Natchez is not a
uniform precipice, but, apparently by the provident
foresight of nature, broken by an oblique shelf or
platform, gradually inclining from the summit to
the base. With but a little excavation, a fine road
has been constructed along this way, with an inclination
sufficiently gentle to enable the heaviest
teams to ascend with comparative ease. One side
of the road is of course bounded by a perpendicular
cliff; the other by empty air and a dizzy precipice:
ascent and descent of drays, carriages, horsemen,
and porters, enjoys a tolerably fair alternative of being
squeezed uncomfortably close against the bluff,
or pitched, with a summerset, into some of the
yawning chimneys on the flats beneath. For the
whole length of this ascent, which is nearly a quarter
of a mile, there is no kind of guard for the protection
of the passengers. Yet, I have been told,
no lives have ever been lost here. One poor fellow,
a short time since, having taken a drop too
much, and reeling too near the verge, lost his equilibrium,
and over he went. But it is hard to kill a
drunkard, except with the “pure spirit” itself; and
the actor in this “drop scene” being “a gem of
sweet Erin,” stuck to the sod, and slid comfortably,
though rapidly, to the bottom. The next moment
he was seen gathering himself up out of a sand-heap,
with “By St. Pathrick! but that was a jewel
of a lape!—and it's my bright new baiver castor
that's smashed by it to smitherins.”
On arriving at the summit of the hill, I delayed
a moment, for the double purpose of taking breath
and surveying the scene spread out around me.
Beneath lay the roofs of warehouses, stores, and
dwellings, scattered over a flat, sandy surface, which
was bordered, on the water side, by hundreds of
up-country flat-boats, laden with the produce of the
rich farming states bordering the Ohio and “Upper
Mississippi.” Lower down, steamers were taking
in and discharging freight; while the mingled
sounds of the busy multitude rose like the hum of
two ships, which, with their towering masts, gay
flags, and dark hulls, agreeably relieved the otherwise
long and unbroken line of boats. To the north
the river spreads its noble bosom till lost in the distance;
while the continuous line of cliffs, extending
along its shore like a giant wall, seem to speak
in the language of power, “thus far shalt thou flow
and no farther, and here shall thy proud waves be
stayed.” To the south, the view is confined by the
near projection of the obtruding cliffs. Yet the river
stretches boldly out many miles on its course
toward the sea, till lost to sight within the bosom of
the distant forests which bound the southern horizon.
To the west, the eye travels over the majestic
breadth of the river, here a mile wide, and rests for
a moment upon level and richly cultivated fields
beyond, a quiet village and noble forests, which
spread away to the west like a vast sea of waving
foliage, till they blend with the bending sky, forming
a level and unbroken horizon. Turning from
this scene of grandeur and beauty to the east,
Natchez, mantled with rich green foliage like a garment,
with its handsome structures and fine avenues,
here a dome and there a tower, lies immediately
before me. It is the very contrast to its straggling
namesake below. The city proper consists
of six streets, at right angles with the river, intersected
by seven others of the same length, parallel
with the stream. The front, or first parallel street,
is laid out about one hundred yards back from the
verge of the bluff, leaving a noble green esplanade
its beauty, but is highly useful as a promenade and
parade ground. Shade trees are planted along the
border, near the verge of the precipice, beneath
which are placed benches, for the comfort of the
lounger. From this place the eye commands one
of the most extensive prospects to be found on the
Mississippi. To a spectator, standing in the centre
of this broad, natural terrace, the symmetrical arrangement
of the artificial scenery around him is
highly picturesque and pleasing.
On his right, to the south, a noble colonnaded structure,
whose heavy appearance is gracefully relieved
by shrubbery, parterres, and a light latticed summer-house,
crowning a gentle eminence in the rear,
and half suspended over the precipice, strikes his
eye with a fine effect. From this admirable foreground,
gently sloping hills, with here and there a
white dwelling, half concealed in foliage, spread
away into the country. Between this edifice and
the forest back ground rise the romantic ruins of
Fort Rosalie, now enamelled with a rich coating of
verdure. On his left, at the northern extremity of
the esplanade, upon the beautiful eminence, gradually
yet roundly swelling away from the promenade,
stands another private residence, nearly resembling
and directly opposite to the other, its
lofty colonnades glancing in the sun—a magnificent
garden spreading out around it, luxuriant with foliage—diversified
with avenues and terraces, and
adorned with grottoes and summer-houses. Imagine
these handsome residences, flanking the city,
of the broad terrace before the town,
with the mighty flood of the Mississippi rolling
some hundred feet beneath you—the dark forests
of Louisiana stretching away to infinity in the west,
with Natchez—its streets alive with promenaders,
gay equipages and horsemen—immediately before
you, and you will form some idea of this beautiful
city and its environs from this point. But as the
spot upon which the town is built, originally a cluster
of green hills, has been, by levelling and filling,
converted into a smooth surface, with a very slight
inclination to the verge of the cliff, a small portion
only of the city is visible. The buildings on the
front street face the river, and, with the exception
of one or two private houses, with galleries and
shrubbery, reminding one of the neat and beautiful
residences on the “coast,”[1] possess no peculiar
interest. The town is entered from the parade by
rude bridges at the termination of each street, spanning
a dry, dilapidated brick aqueduct of large dimensions,
which has been constructed along the
whole front of the city, but is now, from some unknown
cause, suffered to fall to ruin. It was probably
intended as a reservoir and conductor of the
water which, after heavy rains, rushes violently
down the several streets of the city.
As I was crossing from the bluff to the entrance
of one of the principal streets—a beautiful avenue
rich foliage, nearly meeting above, formed a continued
arcade as far as the eye could penetrate—my
attention was arrested by an extraordinary group,
reclining in various attitudes under the grateful
shade of the ornamental trees which lined the way.
With his back firmly planted against a tree, as
though there existed a sympathetic affinity between
the two, sat an athletic Indian with the neck
of a black bottle thrust down his throat, while the
opposite extremity pointed to the heavens. Between
his left forefinger and thumb he held a corncob,
as a substitute for a stopper. By his side, his
blanket hanging in easy folds from his shoulders,
stood a tall, fine-looking youth, probably his son,
his raven hair falling in masses over his back, with
his black eyes fixed upon the elder Indian, as a faithful
dog will watch each movement of his intemperate
master. One hand supported a rifle, while
another was carelessly suspended over his shoulder.
There was no change in this group while I remained
in sight; they were as immoveable as
statues. A little in the rear, lay several “warriors”
fast locked in the arms of Bacchus or Somnus, (probably
both,) their rifles lying beside them. Near
them a knot of embryo chiefs were gamboling in all
the glorious freedom of “sans culottes.” At a little
distance, half concealed by huge baskets apparently
just unstrapped from their backs, filled with the
motley paraphernalia of an Indian lady's wardrobe,
sat, cross-legged, a score of dark-eyed, brown-skinned
girls and women, laughing and talking in
would have done, whose “lords” lay thus supine
at their feet. Half a score of miserable,
starved wretches, “mongrel, whelp and hound,”
which it were an insult to the noble species to term
dogs, wandering about like unburied ghosts “seeking
what they might devour,” completed the novel
and picturesque ensemble of the scene.
On the opposite side of the way was another of a
different character, but not less interesting. Seated
in a circle around their bread and cheese, were half
a dozen as rough, rude, honest-looking countrymen
from the back part of the state, as you could find
in the nursery of New-England's yeomanry. They
are small farmers—own a few negroes—cultivate a
small tract of land, and raise a few bales of cotton,
which they bring to market themselves. Their
carts are drawn around them forming a barricade to
their camp, for here, as is customary among them,
instead of putting up at taverns, they have encamped
since their arrival. Between them and
their carts are their negroes, who assume a “cheek
by jowl” familiarity with their masters, while jokes,
to season their homely fare, accompanied by astounding
horse-laughs, from ivory-lined mouths that
might convey a very tolerable idea of the crater of
Etna, pass from one group to the other, with perfect
good will and a mutual contempt for the nicer
distinctions of colour.
Crossing the narrow bridge, I entered at once
into the body of the city, which is built as compactly
within itself and aloof from the suburbs as
in a few moments, after traversing two sides of a
well-built square on fine side walks, I arrived at
the “Mansion house,” an extensive and commodious
brick edifice said to be one of the best hotels
in the south west—except Bishop's—agreeably impressed
with this, my first coup d'œil of a city, so
extensively celebrated for the opulence, taste and
hospitality of its inhabitants.
| XXV. The South-west | |