16 This refers to an illustrated8 edition of the work.
17 This was an account given by a gentleman at Richmond of his establishment. Six European servants would have kept his house and stables well. “His farm,” he said, “barely sufficed to maintain the negroes residing on it.”
How hospitable9 they were, those Southern men! In the North itself the welcome was not kinder, as I, who have eaten Northern and Southern salt, can testify. As for New Orleans, in spring-time — just when the orchards10 were flushing over with peach-blossoms, and the sweet herbs came to flavor the juleps — it seemed to me the city of the world where you can eat and drink the most and suffer the least. At Bordeaux itself, claret is not better to drink than at New Orleans. It was all good — believe an expert Robert — from the half-dollar Medoc of the public hotel table, to the private gentleman’s choicest wine. Claret is, somehow, good in that gifted place at dinner, at supper, and at breakfast in the morning. It is good: it is superabundant — and there is nothing to pay. Find me speaking ill of such a country! When I do, pone11 me pigris campis: smother12 me in a desert, or let Mississippi or Garonne drown me! At that comfortable tavern13 on Pontchartrain we had a bouillabaisse than which a better was never eaten at Marseilles: and not the least headache in the morning, I give you my word; on the contrary, you only wake with a sweet refreshing14 thirst for claret and water. They say there is fever there in the autumn: but not in the spring-time, when the peach-blossoms blush over the orchards, and the sweet herbs come to flavor the juleps.
I was bound from New Orleans to Saint Louis; and our walk was constantly on the Levee, whence we could see a hundred of those huge white Mississippi steamers at their moorings in the river: “Look,” said my friend Lochlomond to me, as we stood one day on the quay15 —“look at that post! Look at that coffee-house behind it! Sir, last year a steamer blew up in the river yonder, just where you see those men pulling off in the boat. By that post where you are standing16 a mule17 was cut in two by a fragment of the burst machinery18, and a bit of the chimney-stove in that first-floor window of the coffee-house, killed a negro who was cleaning knives in the top-room!” I looked at the post, at the coffee-house window, at the steamer in which I was going to embark19, at my friend, with a pleasing interest not divested20 of melancholy21. Yesterday, it was the mule, thinks I, who was cut in two: it may be cras mihi. Why, in the same little sketch-book, there is a drawing of an Alabama river steamer which blew up on the very next voyage after that in which your humble servant was on board! Had I but waited another week, I might have. . . . These incidents give a queer zest22 to the voyage down the life-stream in America. When our huge, tall, white, pasteboard castle of a steamer began to work up stream, every limb in her creaked, and groaned23, and quivered, so that you might fancy she would burst right off. Would she hold together, or would she split into ten million of shivers? O my home and children! Would your humble servant’s body be cut in two across yonder chain on the Levee, or be precipitated24 into yonder first-floor, so as to damage the chest of a black man cleaning boots at the window? The black man is safe for me, thank goodness. But you see the little accident might have happened. It has happened; and if to a mule, why not to a more docile25 animal? On our journey up the Mississippi, I give you my honor we were on fire three times, and burned our cook-room down. The deck at night was a great firework — the chimney spouted26 myriads27 of stars, which fell blackening on our garments, sparkling on to the deck, or gleaming into the mighty28 stream through which we labored29 — the mighty yellow stream with all its snags.
How I kept up my courage through these dangers shall now be narrated30. The excellent landlord of the “Saint Charles Hotel,” when I was going away, begged me to accept two bottles of the very finest Cognac, with his compliments; and I found them in my state-room with my luggage. Lochlomond came to see me off, and as he squeezed my hand at parting, “Roundabout,” says he, “the wine mayn’t be very good on board, so I have brought a dozen-case of the Medoc which you liked;” and we grasped together the hands of friendship and farewell. Whose boat is this pulling up to the ship? It is our friend Glenlivat, who gave us the dinner on Lake Pontchartrain. “Roundabout,” says he, “we have tried to do what we could for you, my boy; and it has been done de bon coeur” (I detect a kind tremulousness in the good fellow’s voice as he speaks). “I say — hem4! — the a — the wine isn’t too good on board, so I’ve brought you a dozen of Medoc for your voyage, you know. And God bless you; and when I come to London in May I shall come and see you. Hallo! here’s Johnson come to see you off, too!”
As I am a miserable31 sinner, when Johnson grasped my hand, he said, “Mr. Roundabout, you can’t be sure of the wine on board these steamers, so I thought I would bring you a little case of that light claret which you liked at my house.” Et de trois! No wonder I could face the Mississippi with so much courage supplied to me! Where are you, honest friends, who gave me of your kindness and your cheer? May I be considerably32 boiled, blown up, and snagged, if I speak hard words of you. May claret turn sour ere I do!
Mounting the stream it chanced that we had very few passengers. How far is the famous city of Memphis from New Orleans? I do not mean the Egyptian Memphis, but the American Memphis, from which to the American Cairo we slowly toiled33 up the river — to the American Cairo at the confluence34 of the Ohio and Mississippi rivers. And at Cairo we parted company from the boat, and from some famous and gifted fellow-passengers who joined us at Memphis, and whose pictures we had seen in many cities of the South. I do not give the names of these remarkable35 people, unless, by some wondrous36 chance, in inventing a name I should light upon that real one which some of them bore; but if you please I will say that our fellow-passengers whom we took in at Memphis were no less personages than the Vermont Giant and the famous Bearded Lady of Kentucky and her son. Their pictures I had seen in many cities through which I travelled with my own little performance. I think the Vermont Giant was a trifle taller in his pictures than he was in life (being represented in the former as, at least, some two stories high): but the lady’s prodigious37 beard received no more than justice at the hands of the painter; that portion of it which I saw being really most black, rich, and curly — I say the portion of beard, for this modest or prudent38 woman kept I don’t know how much of the beard covered up with a red handkerchief, from which I suppose it only emerged when she went to bed, or when she exhibited it professionally.
The Giant, I must think, was an overrated giant. I have known gentlemen, not in the profession, better made, and I should say taller, than the Vermont gentleman. A strange feeling I used to have at meals; when, on looking round our little society, I saw the Giant, the Bearded Lady of Kentucky, the little Bearded Boy of three years old, the Captain, (this I THINK; but at this distance of time I would not like to make the statement on affidavit,) and the three other passengers, all with their knives in their mouths making play at the dinner — a strange feeling I say it was, and as though I was in a castle of ogres. But, after all, why so squeamish? A few scores of years back, the finest gentlemen and ladies of Europe did the like. Belinda ate with her knife; and Saccharissa had only that weapon, or a two-pronged fork, or a spoon, for her pease. Have you ever looked at Gilray’s print of the Prince of Wales, a languid voluptuary, retiring after his meal, and noted39 the toothpick which he uses? . . . You are right, madam; I own that the subject is revolting and terrible. I will not pursue it. Only — allow that a gentleman, in a shaky steamboat, on a dangerous river, in a far-off country, which caught fire three times during the voyage —(of course I mean the steamboat, not the country,)— seeing a giant, a voracious40 supercargo, a bearded lady, and a little boy, not three years of age, with a chin already quite black and curly, all plying41 their victuals42 down their throats with their knives — allow, madam, that in such a company a man had a right to feel a little nervous. I don’t know whether you have ever remarked the Indian jugglers swallowing their knives, or seen, as I have, a whole table of people performing the same trick, but if you look at their eyes when they do it, I assure you there is a roll in them which is dreadful.
Apart from this usage, which they practise in common with many thousand most estimable citizens, the Vermont gentleman, and the Kentucky whiskered lady — or did I say the reverse? — whichever you like my dear sir — were quite quiet, modest, unassuming people. She sat working with her needle, if I remember right. He, I suppose, slept in the great cabin, which was seventy feet long at the least, nor, I am bound to say, did I hear in the night any snores or roars, such as you would fancy ought to accompany the sleep of ogres. Nay43, this giant had quite a small appetite, (unless, to be sure, he went forward and ate a sheep or two in private with his horrid44 knife — oh, the dreadful thought! — but IN PUBLIC, I say, he had quite a delicate appetite,) and was also a tea-totaler. I don’t remember to have heard the lady’s voice, though I might, not unnaturally45, have been curious to hear it. Was her voice a deep, rich, magnificent bass46; or was it soft, fluty, and mild? I shall never know now. Even if she comes to this country, I shall never go and see her. I HAVE seen her, and for nothing.
You would have fancied that, as after all we were only some half-dozen on board, she might have dispensed47 with her red handkerchief, and talked, and eaten her dinner in comfort: but in covering her chin there was a kind of modesty48. That beard was her profession: that beard brought the public to see her: out of her business she wished to put that beard aside as it were: as a barrister would wish to put off his wig49. I know some who carry theirs into private life, and who mistake you and me for jury-boxes when they address us: but these are not your modest barristers, not your true gentlemen.
Well, I own I respected the lady for the modesty with which, her public business over, she retired50 into private life. She respected her life, and her beard. That beard having done its day’s work, she puts it away in her handkerchief; and becomes, as far as in her lies, a private ordinary person. All public men and women of good sense, I should think, have this modesty. When, for instance, in my small way, poor Mrs. Brown comes simpering up to me, with her album in one hand, a pen in the other, and says, “Ho, ho, dear Mr. Roundabout, write us one of your amusing,” &c .&c., my beard drops behind my handkerchief instantly. Why am I to wag my chin and grin for Mrs. Brown’s good pleasure? My dear madam, I have been making faces all day. It is my profession. I do my comic business with the greatest pains, seriousness, and trouble: and with it make, I hope, a not dishonest livelihood51. If you ask Mons. Blondin to tea, you don’t have a rope stretched from your garret window to the opposite side of the square, and request Monsieur to take his tea out on the centre of the rope? I lay my hand on this waistcoat, and declare that not once in the course of our voyage together did I allow the Kentucky Giant to suppose I was speculating on his stature52, or the Bearded Lady to surmise53 that I wished to peep under the handkerchief which muffled54 the lower part of her face. “And the more fool you,” says some cynic. (Faugh, those cynics, I hate ’em!) Don’t you know, sir, that a man of genius is pleased to have his genius recognized; that a beauty likes to be admired; that an actor likes to be applauded; that stout old Wellington himself was pleased, and smiled when the people cheered him as he passed? Suppose you had paid some respectful compliment to that lady? Suppose you had asked that giant, if, for once, he would take anything at the liquor-bar? you might have learned a great deal of curious knowledge regarding giants and bearded ladies, about whom you evidently now know very little. There was that little boy of three years old, with a fine beard already, and his little legs and arms, as seen out of his little frock, covered with a dark down. What a queer little capering55 satyr! He was quite good-natured, childish, rather solemn. He had a little Norval dress, I remember: the drollest little Norval.
I have said the B. L. had another child. Now this was a little girl of some six years old, as fair and as smooth of skin, dear madam, as your own darling cherubs56. She wandered about the great cabin quite melancholy. No one seemed to care for her. All the family affections were centred on Master Esau yonder. His little beard was beginning to be a little fortune already, whereas Miss Rosalba was of no good to the family. No one would pay a cent to see HER little fair face. No wonder the poor little maid was melancholy. As I looked at her, I seemed to walk more and more in a fairy tale, and more and more in a cavern57 of ogres. Was this a little fondling whom they had picked up in some forest, where lie the picked bones of the queen, her tender mother, and the tough old defunct58 monarch59, her father? No. Doubtless they were quite good-natured people, these. I don’t believe they were unkind to the little girl without the moustaches. It may have been only my fancy that she repined because she had a cheek no more bearded than a rose’s.
Would you wish your own daughter, madam, to have a smooth cheek, a modest air, and a gentle feminine behavior, or to be — I won’t say a whiskered prodigy60, like this Bearded Lady of Kentucky — but a masculine wonder, a virago61, a female personage of more than female strength, courage, wisdom? Some authors, who shall be nameless, are, I know, accused of depicting62 the most feeble, brainless, namby-pamby heroines, for ever whimpering tears and prattling63 commonplaces. YOU would have the heroine of your novel so beautiful that she should charm the captain (or hero, whoever he may be) with her appearance; surprise and confound the bishop64 with her learning; outride the squire65 and get the brush, and, when he fell from his horse, whip out a lancet and bleed him; rescue from fever and death the poor cottager’s family whom the doctor had given up; make 21 at the butts66 with the rifle, when the poor captain only scored 18; give him twenty in fifty at billiards67 and beat him; and draw tears from the professional Italian people by her exquisite68 performance (of voice and violoncello) in the evening; — I say, if a novelist would be popular with ladies — the great novel-readers of the world — this is the sort of heroine who would carry him through half a dozen editions. Suppose I had asked that Bearded Lady to sing? Confess, now, miss, you would not have been displeased69 if I had told you that she had a voice like Lablache, only ever so much lower.
My dear, you would like to be a heroine? You would like to travel in triumphal caravans71; to see your effigy72 placarded on city walls; to have your levees attended by admiring crowds, all crying out, “Was there ever such a wonder of a woman?” You would like admiration73? Consider the tax you pay for it. You would be alone were you eminent74. Were you so distinguished75 from your neighbors I will not say by a beard and whiskers, that were odious76 — but by a great and remarkable intellectual superiority — would you, do you think, be any the happier? Consider envy. Consider solitude77. Consider the jealousy78 and torture of mind which this Kentucky lady must feel, suppose she should hear that there is, let us say, a Missouri prodigy, with a beard larger than hers? Consider how she is separated from her kind by the possession of that wonder of a beard? When that beard grows gray, how lonely she will be, the poor old thing! If it falls off, the public admiration falls off too; and how she will miss it — the compliments of the trumpeters, the admiration of the crowd, the gilded79 progress of the car. I see an old woman alone in a decrepit80 old caravan70, with cobwebs on the knocker, with a blistered81 ensign flapping idly over the door. Would you like to be that deserted82 person? Ah, Chloe! To be good, to be simple, to be modest, to be loved, be thy lot. Be thankful thou art not taller, nor stronger, nor richer, nor wiser than the rest of the world!
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1
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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pone
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| n.玉米饼 | |
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smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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spouted
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| adj.装有嘴的v.（指液体）喷出( spout的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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confluence
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| n.汇合，聚集 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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voracious
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| adj.狼吞虎咽的，贪婪的 | |
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plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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victuals
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| n.食物；食品 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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46
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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52
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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53
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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55
capering
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| v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的现在分词 )；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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56
cherubs
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| 小天使，胖娃娃( cherub的名词复数 ) | |
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cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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58
defunct
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| adj.死亡的；已倒闭的 | |
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monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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prodigy
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| n.惊人的事物，奇迹，神童，天才，预兆 | |
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virago
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| n.悍妇 | |
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depicting
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| 描绘，描画( depict的现在分词 )； 描述 | |
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63
prattling
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的现在分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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65
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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66
butts
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| 笑柄( butt的名词复数 )； （武器或工具的）粗大的一端； 屁股； 烟蒂 | |
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67
billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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68
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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69
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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71
caravans
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| （可供居住的）拖车（通常由机动车拖行）( caravan的名词复数 )； 篷车； （穿过沙漠地带的）旅行队（如商队） | |
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72
effigy
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| n.肖像 | |
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73
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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76
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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77
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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78
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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79
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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80
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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81
blistered
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| adj.水疮状的，泡状的v.（使）起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 )；（使表皮等）涨破，爆裂 | |
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82
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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