University of Virginia Library

2. PART II.

6. VI.

Upon the mighty bosom of the “Father of Waters,”
our gallant ship now proudly floats. The
Mississippi! that noble river, whose magnificent
windings I have traced with my finger upon the
map in my school-boy days, wishing, with all the
adventurous longing of a boy, that I might, like the
good fathers Marquetti and Hennepin, leap into an
Indian's birch canoe, and launching from its source
among the snows and untrodden wilds of the far
north, float pleasantly away under every climate,
down to the cis-Atlantic Mediterranean; where,
bursting from its confined limits, it proudly shoots
into the tideless sea through numerous passages,
like radii from one common centre. My wishes are
now, in a measure, about to be realized. The low,
flat, and interminable marshes, through the heart of

which we are rapidly advancing—the ocean like horizon,
unrelieved by the slightest prominence—the
sullen, turbid waves around us, which yield but
slowly and heavily to the irresistible power of steam
—all familiar characteristics of this river—would
alone assure me that I am on the Mississippi. My
last letter left us in the immediate expectation of
being taken in tow by the “Whale,” then coming
rapidly down the South-West passage, in obedience
to the hundred signals flying at the “fore” of as
many vessels on every side of us. In a few minutes,
snorting and dashing over the long groundswell,
and flinging a cloud of foam from her bows,
she ran alongside of us, and sent her boat on board.
While the little skiff was leaping from wave to wave
to our ship, we had time to observe more attentively
than when in motion, the singular appearance of this
unique class of steamboats.

Her engine is of uncommon power, placed nearer
the centre of the hull than in boats of the usual construction;
her cabin is small, elevated, and placed
near the engine in the centre of the boat. With
the exception of the engine and cabin, she is “flush”
from stem to stern; one quarter of her length abaft
the cabin, and the same portion forward of the boilers
being a broad platform, which extends quite
around the boat, forming a very spacious guard on
either side.

The after part of this guard is latticed for the
purpose of carrying off the water with facility when
thrown back from the wheels. They seldom or
never take passengers up to the city. The usual

price for towing is, I think, about one dollar per
ton. Hence the expense is very great for vessels
of large burthen; and rather than incur it, many
ships, after being towed over the bar, which, at this
season, cannot be crossed otherwise, work their own
way up to town, which, with a fair wind, may be
effected in twenty-four hours, the distance being
but one hundred and five miles; but it not unfrequently
takes them ten or fifteen days. Our captain
informs me that he once lay thirty-six days in
the river before he could reach New-Orleans—but
fortunately, owing to the state of the market, on his
arrival, he realized two hundred per cent. more on
his cargo than he would have done had he arrived
a month carlier.

The jolly-boat from the steamer was now along
side, and the officer in the stern sheets tossed a
small package on our quarter-deck; and then, with
the velocity of an uncaged bird, his little green
cockle-shell darted away from us like a dolphin.
The next moment he stood upon the low deck of
the steamer.

“Go ahead!” loudly was borne over the water,
and with a plunge and a struggle, away she dashed
from us with her loud, regular boom, boom, boom!
throwing the spray around her head, like the huge
gambolling monster from which she derives her
name. With her went our hopes of speedy deliverance
from our present durance. With faces whose
complicated, whimsically-woful expression Lavater
himself could not have analyzed, and as though
moved by one spirit, we turned simultaneously

toward the captain, who leaned against the capstan,
reading one of the letters from the package just received.
There was a cloud upon his brow which
portended no good to our hopes, and which, by a
sympathetic feeling, was attracted to, and heavily
settled upon our own. We turned simultaneously
to the tow-boat: she was rapidly receding in the
distance. We turned again to watch our probable
fate in the captain's face. It spoke as plainly as
face could speak, “gentlemen, no tow-boat.” We
gazed upon each other like school-boys hatching a
conspiracy. Mutual glances of chagrin and dissatisfaction
were bandied about the decks. After
so long a passage, with our port almost in sight,
and our voyage nearly ended, to be compelled to
remain longer in our close prison, and creep like a
winding, day after day, through the sinuosities of
this sluggish Mississipi, was enough to make us
ship-wearied wretches verily,

It was a consummation we had never wished.
There was evidently a rebellion in embryo. The
storm was rapidly gathering, and the thunders had
already begun “to utter their voices.” The whole
scene was infinitely amusing. There could not
have been more feeling exhibited, had an order come
down for the ship to ride a Gibraltar quarantine.

The captain, having quietly finished the perusal

of his letters, now changed at once the complexion
of affairs.

“I have just received advices, gentlemen, from
my consignees in the city, that the market will be
more favourable for my cargo fifteen days hence,
than now; therefore, as I have so much leisure before
me, I shall decline taking the tow-boat, and
sail up to New-Orleans. I will, however, send my
boat aboard the brig off our starboard quarter,
which will take steam, and try to engage passage
for those who wish to leave the ship.”

There was no alternative, and we cheerfully sacrificed
our individual wishes to the interests of
Captain Callighan, whose urbanity, kindness and
gentlemanly deportment, during the whole passage
out, had not only contributed to our comfort and
happiness, but won for him our cordial esteem and
good feelings.[1]

In a few minutes one of our quarter-boats was
along-side, bobbing up and down on the short seas,
with the buoyancy of a cork-float. The first officer,
myself, and another passenger, leaped into
her; and a few dozen long and nervous strokes
from the muscular arms of our men, soon ran us
aboard the brig, whose anchor was already “apeak,”
in readiness for the Whale. As we approached
her, I was struck with her admirable symmetry
and fine proportions—she was a perfect model of
naval architecture. Though rather long for her
breadth of beam, the sharp construction of her bows,

and the easy, elliptical curve of her sides, gave her
a peculiarly light and graceful appearance, which,
united with her taunt, slightly raking taper masts,
and the precision of her rigging, presented to our
view a nautical ensemble, surpassing in elegance
any thing of the kind I had ever before beheld.

We were politely received at the gang-way by
the captain, a gentlemanly, sailor-like looking
young man, with whom, after introducing ourselves,
we descended into the cabin. I had time, however,
to notice that the interior of this very handsome
vessel corresponded with the exterior. The
capstan, the quarter-rail stanchions, the edge of the
companion-way, and the taffrail, were all ornamented
and strengthened with massive brass plates,
polished like a mirror. The binnacle case was of
ebony, enriched with inlaying and carved work. A
dazzling array of steel-headed boarding pikes formed
a glittering crescent half around the main-mast.
Her decks evinced the free use of the “holy-stone,”
and in snowy whiteness, would have put to the
blush the unsoiled floors of the most fastidious
Yankee housewife. Her rigging was not hung on
pins, but run and coiled “man-o'-war fashion,”
upon her decks. Her long boat, amidships, was
rather an ornament than an excrescence, as in most
merchantmen. Forward, the “men” were gathered
around the windlass, which was abaft the foremast,
all neatly dressed in white trousers and shirts, even
to the sable “Doctor” and his “sub,” whose double
banks of ivories were wonderingly illuminative,

as they grinned at the strangers who had so unceremoniously
boarded the brig.

As I descended the mahogany stair-case, supported
by a highly polished balustrade cast in brass,
my curiosity began to be roused, and I found myself
wondering into what pleasure-yacht I had intruded.
She was evidently American; for the
“stars and stripes” were floating over our heads.
Independent of this evidence of her nation, her
bright, golden sides, and peculiar American expression
(for I contend that there is a national and an
individual expression to every vessel, as strongly
marked and as easily defined as the expression of
every human countenance,) unhesitatingly indicated
her country.

My curiosity was increased on entering the
roomy, richly wrought, and tastefully furnished cabin.
The fairest lady in England's halls might
have coveted it for her boudoir. Here were
every luxury and comfort, that wealth and taste
combined could procure. A piano, on which lay
music books, a flute, clarionet, and a guitar of curious
workmanship, occupied one side of the cabin;
on the other stood a sofa, most temptingly inviting
a loll, and a centre table was strewed with pamphlets,
novels, periodicals, poetry, and a hundred little
unwritten elegancies. The transom was ingeniously
constructed, so as to form a superb sideboard,
richly covered with plate, but more richly lined, as
we subsequently had an opportunity of knowing, to
our hearts' content. Three doors with mirrored

pannelling gave egress from the cabin, forward, to
two state rooms and a dining-room, furnished in the
same style of magnificence.

My companions shared equally in my surprise,
at the novelty of every thing around us. I felt a
disposition to return to our ship, fearing that our
proposition to take passage in the brig might be
unacceptable. But before I had come to a decision,
Mr. F., our first officer, with true sailor-like
bluntness, had communicated our situation and
wishes. “Certainly,” replied the captain, “but I
regret that my state-rooms will not accommodate
more than five or six; the others will have to swing
hammocks between decks; if they will do this,
they are welcome.” Although this compliance with
our request was given with the utmost cheerfulness
and alacrity, I felt that our taking passage with
him would be inconvenient and a gross intrusion;
and would have declined saying, that some other
vessel would answer our purpose equally well. He
would not listen to me but in so urgent a manner
requested us to take passage with him, that we reluctantly
consented, and immediately returned to
our ship to relate our success, and transfer our baggage
to the brig. Fortunately, but five of our party,
including two ladies, were anxious to leave the
ship; the remainder choosing rather to remain on
board, and go up to town in her, as the captain flattered
them with the promise of an early arrival
should the wind hold fair.

In less than ten minutes we had bidden farewell,
and wished a speedy passage to our fellow-passengers,

who had so rashly refused to “give up the
ship” and were on our way with “bag and baggage”
to the brig, which now and then rose proudly upon
a long sea, and then slowly and gracefully settled
into its yielding bosom.

We had been on board but a short time when the
Whale, which had already towed four ships and a
brig, one at a time, over the bar, leaving each half a
league up the passage, came bearing down upon us.
In an incredibly short time she brought to ahead of
us, and in less than five minutes had our brig firmly
secured to her by two hawsers, with about fifty fathoms
play.

In the course of half an hour, we arrived where
the five other vessels, which were to accompany us
in tow, were anchored. More than two hours were
consumed in properly securing the vessels to the
tow-boat. Our brig was lashed to her larboard, and
the huge British Indiaman, mentioned in my last
letter, to her starboard side. Two ships sociably
followed, about a cable's length astern, and a Spanish
brig and a French ship, about one hundred
yards astern of these, brought up the rear.

These arrangements completed, the command to
“go ahead” was given, and slowly, one after the
other, the captive fleet yielded to the immense
power of the high-pressure engine. Gradually our
motion through the water became more and more
rapid, till we moved along at the rate of seven knots
an hour. The appearance our convoy presented,
was novel and sublime. It was like a triumph!
The wind though light, was fair, and every vessel

was covered with clouds of snowy canvass. The
loud, deep, incessant booming from the tow-boat—
the black and dense masses of smoke rolling up
and curling and wreathing around the lofty white
sails, then shooting off horizontally through the air,
leaving a long cloudy galaxy astern, contributed
greatly to the novelty of this extraordinary scene.
We are now within twenty miles of the city of
Frenchmen and garlic soups, steamboats and yellow
fever, negroes and quadroons, hells and convents,
soldiers and slaves, and things, and people of every
language and kindred, nation and tribe upon the face
of the earth. From this place you will receive my
next letter, wherein perchance you may find a solution
of the mystery thrown around our beautiful
vessel.

7. VII.

We are at last in New-Orleans, the queen of the
South-west—the American Waterloo, whose Wellington,
“General Jackson”—according to the elegant

ballad I believe still extant in the “Boston
picture-books,”

New-Orleans! the play-thing of monarchs.
“Swapped,” as boys swap their penknives. Discovered
and lost by the French—possessed by the
gold-hunting Spaniard—again ceded to the French
—exchanged for a kingdom with the man who
traded in empires, and sold by him, for a “plum”
to our government!

We arrived between eight and nine last evening,
after a very pleasant run of twenty-eight hours from
the Balize, charmed and delighted of course with
every thing. If we had landed at the entrance of
Vulcan's smithy from so long a sea-passage, it
would have been precisely the same—all would
have appeared “couleur de rose.” To be on land,
even were it a sand bank, is all that is requisite to
render it in the eyes of the new landed passenger, a
Paradise.

During the first part of our sail up the river,
there was nothing sufficiently interesting in the
way of incident or variety of scenery, to merit the
trouble either of narration or perusal. Till we arrived
within forty-five or fifty miles of New-Orleans,
the shores of the river presented the same flat,
marshy appearance previously described. With the
exception of two or three “pilot stations,” near its
mouth, I do not recollect that we passed any dwelling.

These “stations” are situated within a few
miles of the mouth of the river, and are the residences
of the pilots. The one on the left bank of
the river, which I had an opportunity of visiting,
contained about sixteen or eighteen houses, built
upon piles, in the midst of the morass, which is the
only apology for land within twenty leagues. One
third of these are dwelling houses, connected with
each other for the purpose of intercourse, by raised
walks or bridges, laid upon the surface of the mud,
and constructed of timber, logs, and wrecks of vessels.
Were a hapless wight to lose his footing, he
would descend as easily and gracefully into the
bosom of the yielding loam, as into a barrel of
soft soap. The intercourse with the shore, near
which this miserable, isolated congregation of
shanties is imbedded, is also kept up by a causeway
of similar construction and materials.

The pilots, of whom there are from twelve to
twenty at each station, are a hardy, rugged class of
men. Most of them have been mates of merchantmen,
or held some inferior official station in the
navy. The majority of them, I believe, are English,
though Americans, Frenchmen and Spaniards, are
not wanting among their number. The moral
character of this class of men, generally, does not
stand very high, though there are numerous instances
of individuals among them, whose nautical
skill and gentlemanly deportment reflect honour
upon their profession.

It is by no means an unusual circumstance for
the commander of a ship, on entering a harbour, to

resign, pro tem., the charge of his vessel to a pilot,
whom a few years before, while a petty officer under
his command, he may have publicly disgraced
and dismissed from his ship for some misdemeanor.

In eighteen hundred and twenty-seven, when off
Maldonado, ascending the La Plata, a Spanish pilot
came on board a ship of war; and as he stalked aft
from the gangway, with the assumed hauteur of littleness
in power, the penetrating eye of one of the
lieutenants was fixed upon his countenance with a
close and scrutinizing gaze. The eye of the pilot
fell beneath its stern expression for a moment; but
he again raised it, and stealing a quick, furtive, and
apparently recognising glance at the officer, his dark
brown face changed suddenly to the hue of death,
and with a fearful cry, he sprang with the activity
of a cat into the mizen rigging; but before he could
leap over the quarter, the officer had seized a musket
from a marine, and fired: the ball struck him
near the elbow the instant he had cleared the rigging.
A heavy splash was heard in the water, and
as those on deck flew to the stern, a dark spot of
blood upon the water was the only evidence that a
human being had sunk beneath. While they were
engaged in looking upon the spot where he had
plunged, and wondering, without knowing the cause,
at this summary method of proceeding on the part
of the lieutenant, a cry, “there he is,” was heard
and repeated by fifty voices, naval discipline to
the contrary notwithstanding, and about twenty fathoms
astern, the black head of the pilot was seen
emerging from the waves—but the next instant,

with a horrible Spanish curse, he dived from their
sight, and in a few minutes, appeared more than a
hundred yards astern.

It appeared that during the well-known piratical
depredations, a few years previous, in the vicinity
of Key West and Cape St. Antonio, this officer had
the command of a shore expedition against the pirates.
During the excursion he attacked a large
band of them in their retreats, and, after a long and
warmly contested conflict, either slew or took the
whole party prisoners. Among those was the redoubtable
pilot, who held the goodly office of second
in command among those worthy gentlemen. But
as they proceeded to their schooner, which lay half
a league from the shore, the rover, not liking the
prospect which his skill in “second sight” presented
to his fancy, suddenly, with a powerful effort, threw
off the two men between whom he was seated, and
leaping, with both arms pinioned behind him, over
the head of the astonished bow oarsman, disappeared
“instanter;” and while a score of muskets and pistols
were levelled in various directions, made his
appearance, in a few minutes, about a furlong astern,
and out of reach of shot. It was thought useless
to pursue him in a heavy barge, and he effected his
escape. This said swimmer was recognised by
the lieutenant in the person of the pilot; and as the
recognition was mutual, the scene I have narrated
followed.

At sunrise, the morning after leaving the Balize,
we passed the ruins, or rather the former location,
(for the traces are scarcely perceptible) of the old

Spanish for Plaquemine, where, while this country
was under Spanish government, all vessels were
obliged to heave to, and produce their passports for
the inspection of the sage, big-whiskered Dons, who
were there whilom domesticated.

Toward noon, the perpetual sameness of the
shores, (they cannot be termed banks) of the river,
were relieved by clumps of cypress and other trees,
which gradually, as we advanced, increased into
forests, extending back to a level horizon, as viewed
from the mast-head, and overhanging both sides of
the river. Though so late in the season, they still
retained the green freshness of summer, and afforded
an agreeable contrast to the dry and leafless forests
which we had just left at the north. At a distance,
we beheld the first plantation to be seen on ascending
the river. As we approached it, we discovered
from the deck the commencement of the embankment
or “Levée,” which extends, on both sides
of the river, to more than one hundred and fifty miles
above New-Orleans. This levée is properly a dike,
thrown up on the verge of the river, from twenty-five
to thirty feet in breadth, and two feet higher than
high-water mark; leaving a ditch, or fossé, on the
inner side, of equal breadth, from which the earth
to form the levée is taken. Consequently, as the
land bordering on the river is a dead level, and,
without the security of the levée, overflowed at half
tides, when the river is full, or within twenty inches,
as it often is, of the top of the embankment, the
surface of the river will be four feet higher than the
surface of the country; the altitude of the inner side

of the levée being usually six feet above the general
surface of the surrounding land.

This is a startling truth; and at first leads to reflections
by no means favorable in their results, to
the safety, either of the lives or property of the
inhabitants of the lowlands of Louisiana. But
closer observation affords the assurance that however
threatening a mass of water four feet in height,
two thousand five hundred in breadth, and of infinite
length, may be in appearance, experience has
not shown to any great extent, that the residents
on the borders of this river have in reality, more to
apprehend from an inundation, so firm and efficacious
is their levée, than those who reside in more
apparent security, upon the elevated banks of our
flooding rivers of the north. It cannot be denied
that there have been instances where “crevasses”
as they are termed here, have been gradually worn
through the levée, by the attrition of the waters,
when, suddenly starting through in a wiry stream,
they rapidly enlarge to torrents which, with the force,
and noise, and rushing of a mill-race, shoot away
over the plantations, inundating the sugar fields, and
losing themselves in the boundless marshes in the
rear. But on such occasions, which however are
not frequent, the alarm is given and communicated
by the plantation bells, and before half an hour
elapses, several hundred negroes, with their masters,
(who all turn out on these occasions, as at a fire,)
will have gathered to the spot, and at the expiration
of another half-hour, the breach will be stopped,
the danger past, and the “Monarch of rivers,” subdued

by the hand of man, will be seen again moving,
submissively obedient, within his prescribed
limits, sullenly, yet majestically to the ocean.

During the afternoon, we passed successively
many sugar plantations, in the highest state of cultivation.
Owing to the elevation of the levée, and
the low situation of the lands, we could see from
the deck only the upper story of the planters' residences
upon the shore; but from the main top, we
had an uninterrupted view of every plantation which
we passed. As they very much resemble each
other in their general features, a description of one
of them will be with a little variation applicable to
all. Fortunately for me, a slight accident to our
machinery, which delayed us fifteen or twenty
minutes, in front of one of the finest plantations
below New-Orleans, enabled me to put in practice
a short system of espionage upon the premises,
from the main top, with my spy-glass, that introduced
me into the very sanctum of the enchanting
ornamental gardens, in which the palace-like edifice
was half-embowered.

The house was quadrangular, with a high steep
Dutch roof, immensely large, and two stories in
height; the basement or lower story being constructed
of brick, with a massive colonnade of the
same materials on all sides of the building. This
basement was raised to a level with the summit of the
levée, and formed the ground-work or basis of the
edifice, which was built of wood, painted white, with
Venetian blinds, and latticed verandas, supported by
slender and graceful pillars, running round every

side of the dwelling. Along the whole western
front, festooned in massive folds, hung a dark-green
curtain, which is dropped along the whole length
of the balcony in a summer's afternoon, not only
excluding the burning rays of the sun, but inviting
the inmates to a cool and refreshing siesta, in some
one of the half dozen net-work hammocks, which
we discovered suspended in the veranda. The
basement seemed wholly unoccupied, and probably
was no more than an over-ground cellar. At each
extremity of the piazza was a broad and spacious
flight of steps, descending into the garden which
enclosed the dwelling on every side.

Situated about two hundred yards back from the
river, the approach to it was by a lofty massive
gateway which entered upon a wide gravelled walk,
bordered by dark foliaged orange trees, loaded with
their golden fruit. Pomegranate, fig, and lemon
trees, shrubs, plants and exotics of every clime
and variety, were dispersed in profusion over this
charming parterre. Double palisades of lemon
and orange trees surrounded the spot, forming one
of the loveliest and most elegant rural retirements,
that imagination could create or romantic ambition
desire. About half a mile in the rear of the dwelling,
I observed a large brick building with lofty
chimneys resembling towers. This was the sugar-house,
wherein the cane undergoes its several
transmutations, till that state of perfection is
obtained, which renders it marketable.

On the left and diagonally from the dwelling
house we noticed a very neat, pretty village, containing

about forty small snow-white cottages, all
precisely alike, built around a pleasant square, in
the centre of which, was a grove or cluster of
magnificent sycamores. Near by, suspended from
a belfry, was the bell which called the slaves to
and from their work and meals. This village
was their residence, and under the shade of the
trees in the centre of the square, we could discern
troops of little ebony urchins from the age of
eight years downward, all too young to work in the
field, at their play—under the charge of an old,
crippled gouvernante, who, being past “field
service,” was thus promoted in the “home department.”

This plantation was about one mile and a half in
depth from the river, terminating, like all in lower
Louisiana, in an impenetrable cypress swamp; and
about two miles in breadth by the levée. About
one half was waving with the rich long-leafed cane,
and agreeably variegated, exhibiting every delicate
shade from the brightest yellow to the darkest
green. A small portion of the remainder was in
corn, which grows luxuriantly in this country,
though but little cultivated; and the rest lay in
fallow, into which a portion of every plantation is
thrown, alternately, every two years.

By the time I had completed my observations,
spying the richness, rather than “the nakedness”
of the land, the engineer had arranged the
machinery and we were again in motion; passing
rapidly by rich gardens, spacious avenues, tasteful
villas, and extensive fields of cane, bending to the

light breeze with the wavy motion of the sea. Just
before sunset we passed the site of the old fort St.
Mary, and in half an hour after, swept round into
the magnificent curve denominated the “English
Turn.”[2] As we sailed along, gay parties, probably
returning from and going to, the city, on horseback,
in barouches and carriages, were passing along
the level road within the levée; their heads and
shoulders being only visible above it, gave to the
whole cavalcade a singularly ludicrous appearance
—a strange bobbing of heads, hats and feathers,
suggesting the idea of a new genus of locomotives
amusing themselves upon the green sward.

Much to our regret, we did not arrive opposite
the “battle ground” till some time after sunset.
But we were in some measure remunerated for our
disappointment, by gazing down upon the scene of
the conflict from aloft, while as bright and clear a
moon as ever shed its mellow radiance over a
southern landscape, poured its full flood of light
upon the now quiet battle field. I could distinguish
that it was under cultivation, and that
princely dwellings were near and around it; and
my ear told me as we sailed swiftly by, that where

shouts of conflict and carnage once broke fiercely
upon the air, now floated the lively notes of cheerful
music, which were wafted over the waters to the
ship, falling pleasantly upon the ear.

The lights and habitations along the shore now
became more frequent. Luggers, manned by
negroes, light skiffs, with a solitary occupant in
each, and now and then a dark hulled vessel, her
lofty sails, reflecting the bright moon light, appearing
like snowy clouds in the clear blue sky, were
rapidly and in increasing numbers, continually
gliding by us. By these certain indications we
knew that we were not far from the goal so long
the object of our wishes.

We had been anticipating during the morning
an early arrival, when the panorama of the crescent
city should burst upon our view enriched, by the
mellow rays of a southern sun, with every variety
of light and shade that could add to the beauty or
novelty of the scene. But our sanguine anticipations
were not to be realized. The shades of night
had long fallen over the town, when, as we swiftly
moved forward, anxiously trying to penetrate the
obscurity, an interminable line of lights gradually
opened in quick succssion upon our view; and a
low hum, like the far off roaring of the sea, with
the heavy and irregular tolling of a deep mouthed
bell, was borne over the waves upon the evening
breeze, mingling at intervals with loud calls far
away on the shore, and fainter replies still more
distant. The fierce and incessant baying of dogs,
and as we approached nearer, the sound of many

voices, as in a tumult;—and anon, the wild, clear,
startling notes of a bugle, waking the slumbering
echoes on the opposite shore, succeeded by the
solitary voice of some lonely singer, blended with
the thrumming notes of a guitar, falling with
melancholy cadence upon the ear—all gave indications
that we were rapidly approaching the termination
of our voyage.

In a few minutes, as we still shot onward, we
could trace a thousand masts, penciled distinctly
with all their net-work rigging upon the clear
evening sky. We moved swiftly in among them;
and gradually checking her speed, the tow-boat
soon came nearly to a full stop, and casting off the
ship astern, rounded to and left us along side of a
Salem ship, which lay outside of a tier “six deep.”
When the bustle and confusion of making fast had
subsided, we began our preparations to go on shore.
So anxious were we once more to tread “terra
firma,” that we determined not to wait for a messenger
to go half a mile for a carriage, but to walk
through the gayly lighted streets to our hotel in
Canal-street, more than a mile distant. So after
much trouble in laying planks, for the surer footing
of the ladies, from gangway to gangway, we safely
reached, after crossing half a dozen ships, the firm,
immoveable Levée. I will now briefly relate the
little history of our truly elegant brig, as I partially
promised to do in my last, and conclude this long,
long letter.

Her commander was formerly an officer of the
United States navy. He is a graduate of Harvard

University, and presents in his person the admirable
union of the polished gentleman, finished scholar,
and practical seaman. Inheriting a princely fortune
from a bachelor uncle, he returned to Massachusetts,
his native state, and built according to his own taste
the beautiful vessel he now commands. He has
made in her one voyage to India, and two up the
Mediterranean, and is now at this port to purchase
a cargo of cotton for the European market. His
officers are gentlemen of education and nautical science;
his equals and companions in the cabin, though
his subordinates on the deck.

If the imagination of the lonely sailor, as he mechanically
paces his midnight watch, creates an Utopia
in the wide ocean of futurity, if there be a limit
to the enjoyment of a refined seaman's wishes, or a
“ne plus ultra,” to his ambition, they must all be
realized and achieved, by the sole command and
control of a vessel so correctly beautiful as the
D******; so ably officered and manned, so opulent
with every luxury, comfort, and convenience, and
free as the winds to go and come over the “dark
blue sea,” obedient alone to the uncontrolled will
and submissive to the lightest pleasure of her absolute
commander.

8. VIII.

How delightfully comfortable one feels, and how
luxuriantly disposed to quiet,—after having been
tossed, and bruised, and tumbled about, suns ceremonie,
like a bale of goods, or a printer's devil, for
many long weary days and nights upon the slumberless
sea—to be once more cosily established in
a smiling, elegant little parlour, carpeted, curtained,
and furnished with every tasteful convenience that
a comfort loving, home-made bachelor could covet.
In such a pleasant sitting-room am I now most enviably
domesticated, and every thing around me contributes
to the happiness of my situation. A cheerful
coal-fire burns in the grate—(for the day is cloudy,
misty, drizzly, foggy, and chilly, which is the
best definition I can give you, as yet, of a wet December's
day in New-Orleans,)—diffusing an agreeable
temperature throughout the room, and adding,
by contrast with the dark gloomy streets, seen indistinctly
through the moist glass, to the enjoyment
of my comforts. I am now seated by my writing-desk
at a table, drawn at an agreeable distance from

the fire-place—and fully convinced that a man never
feels so comfortably, as when ensconced in a snug
parlour on a rainy day.

A statue of dazzling ebony, by name Antoine, to
which the slightest look or word will give instant
animation, stands in the centre of the room, contrasting
beautifully in colour with the buff paper-hangings
and crimson curtains. He is a slave—about
seventeen years of age, and a bright, intelligent, active
boy, nevertheless—placed at my disposal as
valet while I remain here, by the kind attention of
my obliging hostess, Madame H—. He serves
me in a thousand capacities, as post-boy, cicerone,
&c. and is on the whole, an extremely useful and
efficient attaché.

Our party having safely landed on the Levée,
nearly opposite Rue Marigny, we commenced our
long, yet in anticipation, delightful walk to our hotel.
We had disembarked about a quarter of a league
below the cathedral, from the front of which, just
after we landed, the loud report of the evening gun
broke over the city, rattling and reverberating through
the long massively built streets, like the echoing of
distant thunder along mountain ravines. On a firm,
smooth, gravelled walk elevated about four feet, by
a gradual ascent from the street—one side open to
the river, and the other lined with the “Pride of
China,” or India tree, we pursued our way to Chartres-street,
the “Broadway” of New-Orleans. The
moon shone with uncommon brilliancy, and thousands,
even in this lower faubourg, were abroad, enjoying
the beauty and richness of the scene. Now,

a trio of lively young Frenchmen would pass us,
laughing and conversing gayly upon some merry
subject, followed by a slow moving and stately
figure, whose haughty tread, and dark roquelaure
gathered with classic elegance around his form in
graceful folds, yet so arranged as to conceal every
feature beneath his slouched sombrero, except a
burning, black, penetrating eye,—denoted the exiled
Spaniard.

We passed on—and soon the lively sounds of
the French language, uttered by soft voices, were
heard nearer and nearer, and the next moment, two
or three duenna-like old ladies, remarkable for
their “embonpoint” dimensions, preceded a bevy
of fair girls, without that most hideous of all excrescences,
with which women see fit to disfigure their
heads, denominated a “bonnet”—their brown, raven
or auburn hair floating in ringlets behind them.

There was one—a dark-locked girl—a superb
creature, over whose head and shoulders, secured
above her forehead by a brilliant which in the clear
moon burned like a star, waved the folds of a snow-white
veil in the gentle breeze, created by her motion
as she glided gracefully along. She was a
Castilian; and the mellow tones of her native land
gave richness to the light elegance of the French,
as she breathed it like music from her lips.

As we passed on, the number of promenaders increased,
but scarcely a lady was now to be seen.
Every other gentleman we met was enveloped in a
cloud, not of bacchanalian, but tobacconalian incense,
which gave a peculiar atmosphere to the Levée.

Every, or nearly every gentleman carried a sword
cane, apparently, and occasionally the bright hilt of
a Spanish knife, or dirk, would gleam for an instant
in the moon-beams from the open bosom of its possessor,
as, with the lowering brow, and active tread
of wary suspicion, he moved rapidly by us, his
roundabout thrown over the left shoulder and secured
by the sleeves in a knot under the arm, which
was thrust into his breast, while the other arm was
at liberty to attend to his segar, or engage in any
mischief to which its owner might be inclined. This
class of men are very numerous here. They are
easily distinguished by their shabby appearance,
language, and foreign way of wearing their apparel.
In groups—promenading, lounging, and sleeping
upon the seats along the Levée—we passed several
hundred of this canaille of Orleans, before we arrived
at the “Parade,” the public square in front of the
cathedral. They are mostly Spaniards and Portuguese,
though there are among them representatives
from all the unlucky families which, at the building
of Babel, were dispersed over the earth. As to their
mode and means of existence, I have not as yet informed
myself; but I venture to presume that they
resort to no means beneath the dignity of “caballeros!”

After passing the market on our right, a massive
colonnade, about two hundred and fifty feet in
length, we left the Levée, and its endless tier of
shipping which had bordered one side of our walk
all the way, and passing under the China-trees, that
still preserved their unbroken line along the river,

we crossed Levée-street, a broad, spacious esplanade,
running along the front of the main body or
block of the city, separating it from the Levée, and
forming a magnificent thoroughfare along the whole
extensive river-line. From this highway streets
shoot off at right angles, till they terminate in the
swamp somewhat less than a league back from the
river. I have termed New-Orleans the crescent
city in one of my letters, from its being built around
the segment of a circle formed by a graceful curve
of the river at this place. Though the water, or
shore-line, is very nearly semi-circular, the Levée-street,
above mentioned, does not closely follow the
shore, but is broken into two angles, from which
the streets diverge as before mentioned. These
streets are again intersected by others running parallel
with the Levée-street, dividing the city into
squares, except where the perpendicular streets meet
the angles, where necessarily the “squares” are lessened
in breadth at the extremity nearest the river,
and occasionally form pentagons and parallelograms,
with oblique sides, if I may so express it.

After crossing Levée-street, we entered Rue St.
Pierre, which issues from it south of the grand
square. This square is an open green, surrounded
by a lofty iron railing, within which troops of boys,
whose sports carried my thoughts away to “home,
sweet home,” were playing, shouting and merry
making, precisely as we used to do in days long
past, when the harvest-moon would invite us from
our dwellings to the village green, where many and
many a joyful night we have played till the magic

voice of our good old Scotch preceptor was heard
from the door of his little cottage under the elms,
“Laads, laads, it's unco time ye were in bed,
laads,” warning us to our sleepy pillows. The
front of this extensive square was open to the river,
bordered with its dark line of ships; on each side
were blocks of rusty looking brick buildings of
Spanish and French construction, with projecting
balconies, heavy cornices, and lofty jalousies or
barricaded windows. The lower stories of these
buildings were occupied by retailers of fancy wares,
vintners, segar manufacturers, dried fruit sellers,
and all the other members of the innumerable occupations,
to which the volatile, ever ready Frenchman
can always turn himself and a sous into the
bargain. As we passed along, these shops were all
lighted up, and the happy faces, merry songs, and
gay dances therein, occasionally contrasted with
the shrill tone of feminine anger in a foreign tongue,
and the loud, fierce, rapid voices of men mingling
in dispute, added to the novelty and amusement of
our walk. I enumerated ten, out of seventeen successive
shops or cabarets, upon the shelves of
which I could discover nothing but myriads of claret
and Madeira bottles, tier upon tier to the ceiling;
and from this fact I came to the conclusion, that
some of the worthy citizens of New-Orleans must
be most unconscionable “wine-bibbers,” if not
“publicans and sinners,” as subsequent observation
has led me to surmise.

On the remaining side of this square stood the
cathedral, its dark moorish-looking towers flinging

their vast shadows far over the water. The whole
front of the large edifice was thrown into deep
shade, so that when we approached, it presented
one black mingled mass, frowning in stern and
majestic silence upon the surrounding scene.

Leaving this venerable building at the right, we
turned into Chartres-street, the second parallel with
the Levée, and the most fashionable, as well as
greatest business street in the city. As we proceeded,
cafés, confectioners, fancy stores, millineries,
parfumeurs, &c. &c., were passed in rapid
succession; each one of them presenting something
new, and always something to strike the attention
of strangers, like ourselves, for the first time in the
only “foreign” city in the United States.

At the corner of one of the streets intersecting
Chartres-street—Rue St. Louis I believe—we passed
a large building, the lofty basement story of
which was lighted with a glare brighter than that
of noon. In the back ground, over the heads of
two or three hundred loud-talking, noisy gentlemen,
who were promenading and vehemently gesticulating,
in all directions, through the spacious room
—I discovered a bar, with its peculiar dazzling array
of glasses and decanters containing “spirits”—
not of “the vasty deep” certainly, but of whose
potent spells many were apparently trying the
power, by frequent libations. This building—of
which and its uses more anon—I was informed,
was the “French” or “New Exchange.” After
passing Rue Toulouse, the streets began to assume
a new character; the buildings were loftier and

more modern—the signs over the doors bore English
names, and the characteristic arrangements of
a northern dry goods store were perceived, as we
peered in at the now closing doors of many stores
by which we passed. We had now attained the
upper part of Chartres-street, which is occupied almost
exclusively by retail and wholesale dry goods
dealers, jewellers, booksellers, &c., from the northern
states, and I could almost realize that I was
taking an evening promenade in Cornbill, so great
was the resemblance.

As we successively crossed Rues Conti, Bienville
and Douane, and looked down these long straight
avenues, the endless row of lamps, suspended in
the middle of these streets, as well as in all others
in New-Orleans, by chains or ropes, extended from
house to house across, had a fine and brilliant effect,
which we delayed for a moment on the flag-stone
to admire, endeavouring to reach with our eyes the
almost invisible extremity of this line of flame.
Just before we reached the head of Chartres-street,
near Bienville, in the immediate vicinity of which is
the boarding house of Madame H —, where we
intended to take rooms, our way was impeded by a
party of gentlemen in violent altercation in English
and French, who completely blocked up the “trottoir.”
“Sir,” said one of the party—a handsome,
resolute-looking young man—in a calm deliberate
voice, which was heard above every other, and listened
to as well—“Sir, you have grossly insulted me,
and I shall expect from you, immediately—before
we separate—an acknowledgment, adequate to the

injury.” “Monsieur,” replied a young Frenchman
whom he had addressed, in French, “Monsieur, I
never did insult you—a gentleman never insults!
you have misunderstood me, and refuse to listen to
a candid explanation.” “The explanation you have
given sir,” reiterated the first speaker, “is not sufficient—it
is a subterfuge;” here many voices mingled
in loud confusion, and a renewed and more
violent altercation ensued which prevented our
hearing distinctly; and as we had already crossed
to the opposite side of the street, having ladies under
escort, we rapidly passed on our way, but had
not gained half a square before the clamour increased
to an uproar—steel struck steel—one, then another
pistol was discharged in rapid succession—
“guards,” “gens d'armes, gens d'armes,” “guards!
guards!” resounded along the streets, and we arrived
at our hotel, just in time to escape being run
down, or run through at their option probably, by
half a dozen gens d'armes in plain blue uniforms,
who were rushing with drawn swords in their
hands to the scene of contest, perfectly well assured
in our own minds, that we had most certainly arrived
at New-Orleans!

Though affairs of the kind just described are no
uncommon thing here, and are seldom noticed in
the papers of the day—yet the following allusion
to the event of last evening may not be uninteresting
to you, and I will therefore copy it, and terminate
my letter with the extract.

“An affray occurred last night in the vicinity of
Bienville-street, in which one young gentleman was

severely wounded by the discharge of a pistol, and
another slightly injured by a dirk. An “affaire
d'honneur” originated from this, and the parties met
this morning. Dr. — of New-York, one of the
principals, was mortally wounded by his antagonist
M. Le — of this city.”

9. IX.

I know of no sensation so truly delightful and
exciting as that experienced by a traveller, when
he makes his debut in a strange and interesting city.
These feelings have attended me before, in many
other and more beautiful places; but when I sallied
out the morning after my arrival, to survey this
“Key of the Great Valley,” I enjoyed them again
with almost as much zest, as when, a novice to cities
and castellated piles, I first gazed in silent wonder
upon the immense dome which crowns Beacon
Hill, and lingered to survey with a fascinated eye
the princely edifices that surround it.

I shall ever remember, with the liveliest emotions,
my first visit to Boston—the first “CITY,”

(what a charm to a country lad in the appellation)
I had ever seen. It was a delightful summer's
morning, when, urged forward by a gentle wind,
our little, green-painted, coasting packet entered the
magnificent harbour, which, broken and diversified
with its beautiful islands, lay outspread before us
like a chain of lakes sleeping among hills. With
what romantic and youthful associations did I then
gaze upon the lonely sea-washed monument, as we
sailed rapidly by it, where the famous pirate,
“Nick,” murdered his mate; and a little farther on,
upon a pleasant green island, where the bloody
“Robert Kidd” buried treasures that no man could
number, or find!—With what patriotism, almost
kindled into a religion, did I gaze upon the noble
heights of Dorchester as they lifted their twin
summits to the skies on our left, and upon the proud
eminence far to the right, where Warren expired
and liberty was born!

I well remember with what wild enthusiasm I
bounded on shore ere the vessel had quite reached
it, and with juvenile elasticity, ran, rather than
walked, up through the hurry and bustle that always
attend Long Wharf. With what veneration
I looked upon the spot, in State-street, where the
first American blood was shed by British soldiers!
With what reverence I paced “Old Cornhill”—and
with what deep respect I gazed upon the venerable
“Old South,” the scene of many a revolutionary
incident! The site of the “Liberty Tree”
—the “King's” Chapel, where Lionel Lincoln
was married—the wharf, from which the tea was

poured into the dock by the disguised citizens,
and a hundred other scenes and places of interesting
associations were visited, and gave me a pleasure
that I fear can never so perfectly be felt again.
For then, my feelings were young, fresh and buoyant,
and my curiosity, as in after life, had never
been glutted and satiated by the varieties and novelties
of our variegated world. Even the “cannon-ball”
embedded in the tower of Brattle-street church,
was an object of curiosity; the building in which
Franklin worked when an apprentice, was not passed
by, unvisited; and the ancient residence of “Job
Pray” was gazed upon with a kind of superstitious
reverence. I do not pretend to compare my present
feelings with those of that happy period. Although
my curiosity may not be so eager as then, it is full
as persevering; and though I may not experience
the same lively gratification, in viewing strange
and novel scenes, that I felt in boyhood, I certainly
do as much rational and intellectual pleasure; and
obtain more valuable and correct information than I
could possibly gain, were I still guided by the more
volatile curiosity of youth.

In spite of our fatigue of the preceding evening,
and the luxury of a soft, firm bed, wherein one
could sleep without danger of being capsized by a
lee-lurch—a blessing we had not enjoyed for many
a long and weary night—we were up with the sun
and prepared for a stroll about the city. Our first
place of destination was the market-house, a place
which in almost every commercial city is always
worthy the early notice of a stranger, as it is a

kind of “House of Representatives” of the city to
which it belongs, where, during the morning, delegates
from almost every family are found studying
the interests of their constituents by judicious
negotiations for comestibles. If the market at
New-Orleans represents that city, so truly does
New-Orleans represent every other city and nation
upon earth. I know of none where is congregated
so great a variety of the human species, of every
language and colour. Not only natives of the well
known European and Asiatic countries are here to
be met with, but occasionally Persians, Turks,
Lascars, Maltese, Indian sailors from South
America and the Islands of the sea, Hottentots,
Laplanders, and, for aught I know to the contrary,
Symmezonians.

Now should any philanthropic individual, anxious
for the advancement of the noble science of
physiognomy, wish to survey the motley countenances
of these goodly personages, let him on some
bright and sunny morning bend his steps toward
the market-house; for there, in all their variety and
shades of colouring they may be seen, and heard.
If a painting could affect the sense of hearing as
well as that of sight, this market multitude would
afford the artist an inimitable original for the
representation upon his canvass of the “confusion
of tongues.”

As we sallied from our hotel to commence our
first tour of sight seeing, the vast city was just
waking into life. Our sleepy servants were opening
the shutters, and up and down the street a

hundred of their drowsy brethren were at the same
enlightening occupation. Black women, with huge
baskets of rusks, rolls and other appurtenances of
the breakfast table, were crying, in loud shrill
French, their “stock in trade,” followed by milk-criers,
and butter-criers and criers of every thing
but tears: for they all seemed as merry as the
morning, saluting each other gayly as they met,
“Bo' shoo Mumdsal”—“Moshoo! adieu,” &c. &c.,
and shooting their rude shafts of African wit at
each other with much vivacity and humor.

We turned down Canal-street—the broadest in
New-Orleans, and destined to be the most magnificent.
Its breadth I do not know, correctly, but it
is certainly one half wider than Broadway opposite
the Park.—Through its centre runs a double row
of young trees, which, when they arrive at
maturity, will form the finest mall in the United
States, unless the esplanade—a beautiful mall at the
south part of the city, should excel it.

From the head of Canal-street we entered Levée-street,
leaving the custom house, a large, plain,
yellow stuccoed building upon our right, near
which is a huge, dark coloured, unshapely pile of
brick, originally erected for a Bethel church for
seamen, but never finished, and seldom occupied,
except by itinerant showmen, with their wonders.
Levée-street had already begun to assume a bustling,
commerce-like appearance. The horse-drays
were trundling rapidly by, sometimes four abreast,
racing to different parts of the Levée for their loads
—and upon each was mounted a ragged negro,

who, as Jehu-like he drove along, standing upright
and unsupported, resembled “Phaeton in the suds”
—rather than “Phaeton the god-like.”

The stores on our left were all open, and nearly
every one of them, for the first two squares, was
occupied as a clothing or hat store, and kept by
Americans; that is to say, Anglo Americans as
distinguished from the Louisianian French, who
very properly, and proudly too, assume the national
appellation, which we of the English tongue have
so haughtily arrogated to ourselves. As we
approached the market, French stores began to
predominate, till one could readily imagine himself,
aided by the sound of the French language, French
faces and French goods on all sides, to be traversing
a street in Havre or Marseilles. Though I do not
pretend to be a critical connoisseur in French, yet
I could discover a marked and striking difference
between the language I heard spoken every where
and by all classes, in the streets, and the Parisian,
or trans-Atlantic French. The principal difference
seems to be in their method of contracting or
clipping their words, and consequently varying,
more or less, the pronunciation of every termination
susceptible of change. The vowels o and e are
more open, and the a is flatter than in the genuine
French, and often loses altogether its emphatic fulness;
while u, corrupted from its difficult, but peculiarly
soft sound, is almost universally pronounced
as full and plain as oo in moon. This difference
is of course only in pronunciation; the same literature,
and consequently the same words and orthography,

being common both to the creole and
European. The sun had already risen, when I
arrived, after a delightful walk, at the “marché.”—
This is a fine building consisting of a long, lofty
roof, supported by rows of columns on every side.
It is constructed of brick, and stuccoed; and, either
by intention or an effect of the humid atmosphere
of this climate, is of a dingy cream colour.

A broad passage runs through the whole length
of the structure, each side of which is lined with
stalls, where some one, of no particular colour, presides;
and before every pillar, the shining face of
a blackee may be seen glistening from among his
vegetables. As I moved on through a dense mass
of negroes, mulattoes, and non-descripts of every
shade, from “sunny hue to sooty,” all balancing their
baskets skilfully upon their heads, my ears were
assailed with sounds stranger and more complicated
than I ever imagined could be rung upon that marvellous
instrument the human tongue. The “langue
des halles”—the true “Billingsgate” was not only
here perfected but improved upon; the gods and
goddesses of the London mart might even take lessons
from these daughters of Afric, who, enthroned
upon a keg, or three-legged stool, each morning
hold their levée, and dispense their esculent blessings
to the famishing citizens. During the half hour
I remained in the market, I did not see one white
person to fifty blacks. It appears that here servants
do all the marketing, and that gentlemen and ladies
do not, as in Boston, Philadelphia, and elsewhere,
visit the market-places themselves, and select their

own provision for their tables. The market-place
in Philadelphia is quite a general resort and promenade
for early-rising gentlemen, and it is certainly
well worth one's while to visit it more than
once, not only for the gratification of the palate and
the eye, by the inviting display of epicurean delicacies,
but to become more particularly acquainted
with the general habits and manners of the country
people, who always constitute the greater portion
of the multitude at a market. Among them are individuals
from every little hamlet and village for ten
or fifteen miles around the city, and by studying
these people, a tolerably good idea may be formed
by a stranger of the manners and customs of the
inhabitants, (that is, the farming class) of the vicinity.

But here, there is no temptation of the kind to
induce one to visit the market in the city more than
once. He will see nothing to gratify the spirit of
inquiry or observation, in the ignorant, careless-hearted
slaves, whose character presents neither
variety nor interest. However well they may represent
their brethren in the city and on the neighbouring
sugar plantations, they cannot be ranked
among the class of their fellow-beings denominated
citizens, and consequently, are not to be estimated
by a stranger in judging of this community.

So far as regards the intrinsic importance of this
market, it is undoubtedly equal to any other in
America. Vegetables and fruits of all climates are
displayed in bountiful profusion in the vegetable
stalls, while the beef and fish-market is abundantly

supplied, though necessarily without that endless
variety to be found in Atlantic cities.

In front, upon the water, were double lines of
market and fish-boats, secured to the Levée, forming
a small connecting link of the long chain of shipping
and steamboats that extend for a league in
front of the city. At the lower part of the town
lie generally those ships, which having their cargoes
on board, have dropped down the river to
await their turn to be towed to sea. Fronting this
station are no stores, but several elegant private
dwellings, constructed after the combined French
and Spanish style of architecture, almost embowered
in dark, evergreen foliage, and surrounded by parterres.
The next station above, and immediately
adjoining this, is usually occupied by vessels, which,
just arrived, have not yet obtained a berth where
they can discharge their cargoes; though not unfrequently
ships here discharge and receive their
freight, stretching along some distance up the Levée
to the link of market-boats just mentioned.

From the market to the vicinity of Bienville-street,
lies an extensive tier of shipping, often “six
deep,” discharging and receiving cargo, or waiting
for freight. The next link of the huge chain is
usually occupied by Spanish and French coasting
vessels,—traders to Mexico, Texas, Florida, &c.
These are usually polaccas, schooners, and other
small craft—and particularly black, rakish craft,
some of them are in appearance. It would require
but little exercise of the imagination, while surveying
these truculent looking clippers, to fancy any

one of them, clothed in canvass and bounding away
upon the broad sea, the “Black flag” flying aloft,
the now gunless deck bristling with five eighteens
to a side; and her indolent, smoking, dark faced
crew exchanging their jack-knives for sabres and
pistols. There was an instance of recent occurrence,
where a ship was boarded and plundered by
a well-armed and strongly manned schooner, in
company with which, under the peaceful guise of a
merchantman she had been towed down the river
six days previous.

Next to this station (for as you will perceive, the
whole Levée is divided into stations appropriated to
peculiar classes of shipping), commences the range
of steamboats, or steamers, as they are usually
termed here, rivaling in magnitude the extensive
line of ships below. The appearance of so large a
collection of steamboats is truly novel, and must
always strike a stranger with peculiar interest.

The next station, though it presents a more humble
appearance than the others, is not the least interesting.
Here are congregated the primitive navies
of Indiana, Ohio, and the adjoining states,
manned (I have not understood whether they are
officered or not) by “real Kentucks”—“Buck eyes”
—“Hooshers”—and “Snorters.” There were about
two hundred of these craft without masts, consisting
of “flat-boats,” (which resemble, only being
much shorter, the “Down East” gundalow, (gondola)
so common on the rivers of Maine,) and “keel-boats,”
which are one remove from the flat-boat,
having some pretensions to a keel; they somewhat

resemble freighting canal-boats. Besides these are
“arks,” most appropriately named, their contents
having probably some influence with their good-fathers
in selecting an appellation, and other non-descript-craft.
These are filled with produce of all
kinds, brought from the “Upper country,” (as the north
western states are termed here) by the very farmers
themselves who have raised it;—also, horses, cattle,
hogs, poultry, mules, and every other thing raiseable
and saleable are piled into these huge flats,
which an old farmer and half a dozen Goliahs of
sons can begin and complete in less than a week,
from the felling of the first tree to the driving of the
last pin.

When one of these arks is completed, and “every
beast that is good for food” by sevens and scores,
male and female, and every fowl of the air by sevens
and fifties, are entered into the ark,—then entereth
in the old man with his family by “males” only,
and the boat is committed to the current, and after
the space of many days arriveth and resteth at this
Arrarat of all “Up country” Noahs.

These boats, on arriving here, are taken to pieces
and sold as lumber, while their former owners with
well-lined purses return home as deck passengers
on board steamboats. An immense quantity of
whiskey from Pittsburg and Cincinnati, besides, is
brought down in these boats, and not unfrequently,
they are crowded with slaves for the southern
market.

The late excellent laws relative to the introduction
of slaves, however, have checked, in a great measure,

this traffic here, and the Mississippi market
at Natchez has consequently become inundated, by
having poured into it, in addition to its usual stock,
the Louisianian supply. I understand that the
legislature of this rich and enterprising state is
about to pass a law similar to the one above mentioned,
which certainly will be incalculably to her
advantage.

The line of flats may be considered the last link
of the great chain of shipping in front of New-Orleans,
unless we consider as attached to it a kind
of dock adjoining, where ships and steamers often
lie, either worn out or undergoing repairs. From
this place to the first station I have mentioned, runs
along the Levée, fronting the shipping, an uninterrupted
block of stores, (except where they are intersected
by streets,) some of which are lofty and
elegant, while others are clumsy piles of French
and Spanish construction, browned and blackened
by age.

10. X.

The last three days I have spent in perambulating
the city, hearing, seeing, and visiting every
thing worthy the notice of a Yankee, (and consequently
an inquisitive) tourist.

As I shall again have occasion to introduce you
among the strange and motley groups, and interesting
scenes of the Levée, I will not now resume
the thread of my narrative, broken by the conclusion
of my last letter, but take you at once into the
“terra incognita” of this city of contrarieties.

The evening of my visit to the market, through
the politeness of Monsieur D., a young Frenchman
who distinguished himself in the great “Three
Days” at Paris, and to whom I had a letter of
introduction, was passed amid the gayety and brilliancy
of a French assembly-room. The building
in which this ball was held, is adjacent to the Theatre
d'Orleans, and devoted, I believe, exclusively
to public parties, which are held here during the
winter months, or more properly, “the season,”

almost every night. The occasion on which I
attended, was one of peculiar interest. It was
termed the “Children's ball;” and it is given at
regular intervals throughout the gay months. I
have not learned the precise object of this ball, or
how it is conducted; but these are unimportant. I
merely wish to introduce to you the dazzling crowd
gathered there, so that you may form some conception
of the manner and appearance of the lively
citizens of this lively city, who seem disposed to
remunerate themselves for the funereal and appaling
silence of the long and gloomy season, when
“pestilence walketh abroad at noon-day,” by giving
way to the full current of life and spirits. Adopting,
literally, “Dum vivimus vivamus,” for their
motto and their “rule of faith and practice,” they
manage during the winter not only to make up for
the privations of summer, but to execute about as
much dancing, music, laughing, and dissipation, as
would serve any reasonably disposed, staid, and
sober citizens, for three or four years, giving them
withal from January to January for the perpetration
thereof.

After taking a light supper at home, as I already
call my hotel, which consisted of claret, macaroni,
cranberries, peaches, little plates of fresh grapes,
several kinds of cakes and other bonbons, spread
out upon a long polished mahogany table, resembling
altogether more the display upon a confectioner's
counter than the table d' hote of a hotel, in
company with Monsieur D. I prepared to walk to
the scene of the evening's amusement. But on

gaining the street we observed the “omnibus” still
at its stand at the intersection of Canal and Chartres
streets. The driver, already upon his elevated
station, with his bugle at his lips, was sounding his
“signal to make sail,” as we should say of a ship;
and thereupon, being suddenly impressed with the
advantages the sixteen legs of his team had over our
four, in accomplishing the mile before us, we without
farther reflection, sprang forthwith into the
invitingly open door at the end of the vehicle, and
the next instant found ourselves comfortably seated,
with about a dozen others, “in omnibus.”

There are two of these carriages which run from
Canal-street through the whole length of Chartres-street,
by the public square, and along the noble
esplanade between the Levée and the main body of
the city, as far as the rail-road; the whole distance
being about two miles. The two vehicles start
simultaneously from either place, every half-hour,
and consequently change stands with each other
alternately throughout the day. They commence
running early in the morning, and are always on the
move and crowded with passengers till sun-down.
For a “bit” (twelve-and-a-half cents) as it is denominated
here, one can ride the whole distance, or
if he choose, but a hundred yards—it is all the
same to the knight of the whip, who mounted on
the box in front, guides his “four-in-hand” with the
skill of a professor.

As we drove through the long, narrow and dusky
street, the wholesale mercantile houses were “being”
closed, while the retail stores and fancy shops,

were “being” brilliantly lighted up. Carriages,
horsemen, and noisy drays, with their noisier draymen,
were rapidly moving in all directions, while
every individual upon the “trottoirs” was hurrying,
as though some important business of the day had
been forgotten, or not yet completed. All around
presented the peculiar noise and bustle which always
prevail throughout the streets of a commercial
city at the close of the day.

Leaving our omniferous vehicle with its omnifarious
cargo—among whom, fore and aft, the chattering
of half a dozen languages had all at once, as
we rode along, unceasingly assailed our ears—at the
head of Rue St. Pierre, we proceeded toward Orleans-street.
Directly on quitting the omnibus we
passed the famous Calaboos, or Calabozo, the city
prison, so celebrated by all seamen who have made
the voyage to New-Orleans, and who, in their
“long yarns” upon the forecastle, in their weary
watches, fail not to clothe it with every horror of
which the Calcutta black hole, or the Dartmoor
prison—two horrible bugbears to sailors—could
boast. Its external appearance, however, did not
strike me as very appaling. It is a long, plain,
plastered, blackened building, with grated windows,
looking gloomy enough, but not more so than a
common country jail. It is built close upon the
street, and had not my companion observed as we
passed along, “That is the Calaboos,” I should not
probably have remarked it. On the corner above,
and fronting the “square,” is the guard-house, or
quarters of the gens d'armes. Several of them in

their plain blue uniforms and side arms, were lounging
about the corner as we passed, mingling and
conversing with persons in citizens' dress. A glance
en passant through an open door, disclosed an apparently
well-filled armory. A few minutes walk
through an obscure and miserably lighted part of
Rues St. Pierre and Royale, brought us into Orleans-street,
immediately in the vicinity of its theatre.
This street for some distance on either side of
the assembly-room, was lighted with the brightness
of noonday; not, indeed, by the solitary lamps which,
“few and far between,” were suspended across the
streets, but by the glare of reflectors and chandeliers
from coffee-houses, restaurateurs, confectionaries
and fancy stores, which were clustered around that
nucleus of pleasure, the French theatre.

We were in the French part of the city; but
there was no apparent indication that we were not
really in France. Not an American (“Anglo”)
building was to be seen, in the vicinity, nor scarcely
an American face or voice discoverable among the
numerous, loud-talking, chattering crowd of every
grade and colour, congregated before the doors of
the ball-room and cafés adjoining. Before ascending
to the magnificent hall where the gay dancers
were assembled, we repaired to an adjoining café,
à la mode New-Orleans, with a pair of Monsieur
D.'s friends—whom we encountered in the lobby
while negociating for tickets—to overhaul the evening
papers, and if need there should be, recruit our
spirits. A French coffee-house is a place well
worth visiting by a stranger, more especially a

Yankee stranger. I will therefore detain you a
little longer from the brilliant congregation of beauty
and gallantry in the assembly room, and introduce
you for a moment into this cafe and to its inmates.
As the coffee houses here do not differ materially
from each other except in size and richness of decoration,
though some of them certainly are more
fashionable resorts than others, the description of
one of them will enable you perhaps to form some
idea of other similar establishments in this city.
Though their usual denomination is “coffee-house,”
they have no earthly, whatever may be their spiritual,
right to such a distinction; it is merely a
“nomme de profession,” assumed, I know not for
what object. We entered from the street, after
passing round a large Venetian screen within the
door, into a spacious room, lighted by numerous
lamps, at the extremity of which stood an extensive
bar, arranged, in addition to the usual array of
glass ware, with innumerable French decorations.
There were several attendants, some of whom
spoke English, as one of the requirements of their
station. This is the case of all employés throughout
New-Orleans; nearly every store and place of
public resort being provided with individuals in attendance
who speak both languages. Around the
room were suspended splendid engravings and fine
paintings, most of them of the most licentious description,
and though many of their subjects were
classical, of a voluptuous and luxurious character.
This is French taste however. There are suspended
in the Exchange in Chartres-street—one of
the most magnificent and public rooms in the city—
paintings which, did they occupy an equally conspicuous
situation in Merchant's Hall, in Boston,
would be instantly defaced by the populace.

Around the room, beneath the paintings, were arranged
many small tables, at most of which three
or four individuals were seated, some alternately
sipping negus and puffing their segars, which are
as indispensable necessaries to a Creole at all times,
as his right hand, eye-brows, and left shoulder in
conversation. Others were reading newspapers,
and occasionally assisting their comprehension of
abstruse paragraphs, by hot “coffee,” alias warm
punch and slings, with which, on little japanned salvers,
the active attendants were flying in all directions
through the spacious room, at the beck and
call of customers. The large circular bar was surrounded
by a score of noisy applicants for the liquid
treasures which held out to them such strong temptations.
Trios, couples and units of gentlemen
were promenading the well sanded floor, talking in
loud tones, and gesticulating with the peculiar vehemence
and rapidity of Frenchmen. Others, and by
far the majority, were gathered by twos and by fours
around the little tables, deeply engaged in playing
that most intricate, scientific, and mathematical of
games termed “Domino.” This is the most common
game resorted to by the Creoles. In every café
and cabaret, from early in the morning, when the
luxurious mint-julep has thawed out their intellects
and expanded their organ of combativeness, till late
at night, devotees to this childish amusement will

be found clustered around the tables, with a tonic,
often renewed and properly sangareed, at their
elbows. Enveloped in dense clouds of tobacco-smoke
issuing from their eternal segars—those inspirers
of pleasant thoughts,—to whose density,
with commendable perseverance and apparent good
will, all in the café contribute,—they manœuvre
their little dotted, black and white parallelograms
with wonderful pertinacity and skill. The whole
scene forcibly reminds one, if perchance their fame
hath reached him, of a brace of couplets from a
celebrated poem (a choral ode I believe) composed
upon the shipwreck of its author. The lines are
strikingly applicable to the present subject by
merely substituting “cafe” for “cabin,” and negus-drinkers
for “hogsheads and barrels.”

There are certainly one hundred coffee-houses in
this city—how many more, I know not,—and they
have, throughout the day, a constant ingress and
egress of thirsty, time-killing, news-seeking visiters.
As custom authorises this frequenting of these popular
places of resort, the citizens of New-Orleans
do not, like those of Boston, attach any disapprobation
to the houses or their visiters. And as there
is, in New-Orleans, from the renewal of one half of
its inhabitants every few years, and the constant
influx of strangers, strictly speaking no exclusive
clique or aristocracy, to give a tone to society and

establish a standard of propriety and respectability,
as among the worthy Bostonians, one cannot say to
another, “It is not genteel to resort here—it will
injure your reputation to be seen entering this or
that café.” The inhabitants have no fixed criterion
of what is and what is not “respectable,” in the
northern acceptation of the term. They are neither
guided nor restrained from following their own inclinations,
by any laws of long established society,
regulating their movements, and saying “thus far
shalt thou go, and no farther.” Consequently, every
man minds his own affairs, pursues his own business
or amusement, and lets his neighbours and
fellow-citizens do the same; without the fear of the
moral lash (not law) before his eyes, or expulsion
from “caste” for doing that “in which his soul delighteth.”

Thus you see that society here is a perfect democracy,
presenting variety and novelty enough to
a stranger, who chooses to mingle in it freely, and
feels a disposition impartially to study character.
But a truce to this subject for the present, as I wish
to introduce you into the presence of the fair democrats,
whose fame for beauty is so well established.

Forcing our way through the press around the
door, we entered the lobby, from which a broad
flight of steps conducted us to a first, and then a second
platform, through piles of black servants in attendance
upon their masters and mistresses in the ball-room.
At the second landing our tickets were received,
and we toiled on with difficulty toward the
hall door, with our hats (which the regulations forbid

our wearing even in the entrance) elevated in
the air, for if placed under the arm they would have
been flattened in the squeeze to the very respectable
similitude of a platter, as one unlucky gentleman
near me had an opportunity of testing, to his
full conviction. We were soon drawn within
the current setting into the ball-room, and were
borne onward by the human stream over which a
score or two of chapeaux waved aloft like signals
of distress.—But I have already spun out my letter
to a sufficient length, and lest you should cry “hold,
Macduff,” I will defer your introduction to the beau
monde of New-Orleans till my next.

11. XI.

I have endeavoured to give you, in my hastily
written letters, some notion of this city—its streets,
buildings, inhabitants and various novelties, as they
first struck my eye; and I apprehend that I have
expanded my descriptions, by minuteness of detail,
to a greater length than was necessary or desirable.
But the scenes, individuals, and circumstances I

meet with in my erranting expeditions through the
city, are such as would attract, from their novelty,
the attention of a traveller from the North, and,
consequently, a description of them is neither unworthy
a place in his letters, nor too inconsiderable
to detain the attention of an inquisitive northern
reader, vegetating “at home.”

On entering, from the dimly lighted lobby, the
spacious and brilliant hall, illuminated with glittering
chandeliers, where the beauty, and fashion, and
gallantry of this merry city were assembled, I was
struck with the spirit, life, and splendour of the
scene. From alcoves on every side of the vast
hall, raised a few steps from the floor, and separated
from the area for dancing by an estrade of
slender columns which formed a broad promenade
quite around the room, bright eyes were glancing
over the lively scene, rivalling in brilliancy the
glittering gems that sparkled on brow and bosom.

There were at least five hundred persons in the
hall, two-thirds of whom were spectators. On
double rows of settees arranged around the room,
and bordering the area, were about one hundred
ladies, exclusive of half as many, seated in the
alcoves. In addition to an almost impenetrable
body of gentlemen standing in the vicinity of the
grand entrance, the promenade above alluded to
was filled with them, as they lounged along, gazing
and remarking upon the beautiful faces of the
dark-eyed Creoles,[3] as their expressive and lovely

features were lighted up and instinct with the animation
of the moment; while others, more enviable,
were clustered around the alcoves—most of which
were literally and truly “bowers of beauty,”—gayly
conversing with their fair occupants, as they gracefully
leaned over the balustrade. There were
several cotillions upon the floor, and the dancers
were young masters and misses—I beg their pardon—young
gentlemen and ladies, from four years
old and upward—who were bounding away to the
lively music, as completely happy as innocence
and enjoyment could make them. I never beheld
a more pleasing sight. The carriage of the infantile
gentlemen was graceful and easy: and they
wound through the mazes of the dance with an air
of manliness and elegance truly French. But the
tiny demoiselles moved with the lightness and
grace of fairies. Their diminutive feet, as they
glided through the figure, scarcely touched the
floor, and as they sprang flying away to the livelier
measures of the band, they were scarcely visible,
fluttering indistinctly like humming birds' wings.
They were dressed with great taste in white frocks,
but their hair was so arranged as completely to
disfigure their heads. Some of them, not more
than eight years of age, had it dressed in the extreme
Parisian fashion; and the little martyrs'
natural deficiency of long hair was amply remedied
by that sovereign mender of the defects of nature,
Monsieur le friseur. The young gentlemen were
dressed also in the French mode; that is, in elaborately
embroidered coatees, and richly wrought
frills. Their hair, however, was suffered to grow
long, and fall in graceful waves or ringlets (French
children always have beautiful hair) upon their
shoulders; very much as boys are represented in
old fashioned prints. This is certainly more becoming
than the uncouth round-head custom now
prevalent in the United States, of clipping the hair
short, as though boys, like sheep, needed a periodical
sheering; and it cannot be denied that they
both—sheep and boys—are equally improved in
appearance by the operation.

Turning from the bright and happy faces of the
children, we met on every side the delighted looks
of their parents and guardians, or elder brothers
and sisters, who formed a large portion of the
spectators.

As I promenaded arm in arm with Monsieur D.
through the room, I noticed that at one end of the
hall many of the young misses (or their guardians)
were so unpardonably unfashionable as to suffer
their hair to float free in wild luxuriance over their
necks, waving and undulating at every motion like
clouds; and many of the cheerful joyous faces I
gazed upon, forcibly reminded me of those which
are to be met with, trudging to and from school,
every day at home.

“These are the American children,” observed
my companion; “one half of the hall is appropriated
to them, the other to the French.” “What!”
I exclaimed, “is there such a spirit of rivalry,
jealousy, or prejudice, existing between the French
and American residents here, that they cannot meet
even in a ball-room without resorting to so singular
a method of expressing their uncongeniality of
feeling, as that of separating themselves from each
other by a line of demarcation?”

“By no means,” he replied; “far from it. There
is, I believe, a universal unanimity of feeling among
the parties. There is now no other distinction,
whatever may have existed in former days, either
known or admitted, than the irremediable one of
language. This distinction necessarily exists, and I
am of opinion ever will exist in this city in a greater

or less degree. It is this which occasions the separation
you behold; for, from their ignorance of
each other's language,—an ignorance too prevalent
here, and both inexcusable and remarkable, when
we consider the advantages mutually enjoyed for
their acquisition,—were they indiscriminately mingled,
the result would be a confusion like that of
Babel, or a constrained stiffness and reserve, the
natural consequence of mutual inability to converse,
—instead of that regularity and cheerful harmony
which now reign throughout the crowded hall.”

During our promenade through the room I had
an opportunity of taking my first survey of the
gay world of this city, and of viewing at my leisure
the dark-eyed fascinating Creoles, whose peculiar
cast of beauty and superb figures are everywhere
celebrated. Of the large assembly of ladies
present,—and there were nearly two hundred,
“maid, wife, and widow,”—there were many very
pretty, if coal-black hair, regular features, pale,
clear complexions, intelligent faces, lighted up by

and graceful figures, all of which are characteristic
of the Creole, come under this definition.
There were others who would be called “handsome”
anywhere, except in the Green Mountains,
where a pretty face and a red apple, a homely face
and a lily, are pretty much synonymous terms.
A few were eminently beautiful; but there was
one figure, which, as my eye wandered over the
brilliant assembly, fixed it in a moment. I soon
learned that she was the most celebrated belle of
New-Orleans.

I have certainly beheld far more beauty among
the same number of ladies in a northern ball-room,
than I discovered here. Almost every young lady
in New-England appears pretty, with her rosy
cheeks, intelligent face, and social manners. The
style of beauty at the south is of a more passive
kind, and excitement is requisite to make it speak
to the eye; but when the possessor is animated,
then the whole face, which but a few moments before
was passionless and quiet, becomes radiant and
illuminated with fire and intelligence; and the indolent
repose of the features becomes broken by
fascinating smiles, and brilliant flashes from fine
dark eyes. Till this change is produced, the faec
of the southern lady appears plain and unattractive;
and the promenader through a New-Orleans assembly-room,
where there was no excitement, if such
could be the case, would pronounce the majority of
the ladies decidedly wanting in beauty; but let him
approach and enter into conversation with one of
them, and he would be delighted and surprised at
the magical transformation,

It is certain, that beauty of features and form is
more general in New-England; though in grace
and expression, the south has the superiority.

The difference is usually attributed to climate;
but this never has been demonstrated, and the cause

is still inexplicable. You are probably aware that
the human form, more particularly the female, is
here matured three or four years sooner than at the
north. At the age of thirteen or fourteen, before
their minds are properly developed, their habits
formed, or their passions modified, the features of
young girls become regular, their complexions delicate,
and their figures attain that tournure and womanly
grace, though “beautifully less” in their persons,
found only in northern ladies, at the age of
seventeen or eighteen. The beauty of the latter,
though longer in coming to maturity, and less perfect,
is more permanent and interesting than the
infantile and bewitching loveliness of the former.
In consequence of this early approach to womanhood,
the duration of their personal loveliness is of
proportional limitation. Being young ladies at an
age that would entitle them to the appellation of children
in colder climates, they must naturally retire
much sooner than these from the ranks of beauty.
So when northern ladies are reigning in the full
pride and loveliness of their sex—every feature expanding
into grace and expression—southern ladies,
of equal age, are changing their premature beauty
for the faded hues of premature old age.

The joyous troops of youthful dancers, before ten
o'clock arrived, surrendered the floor to the gentlemen
and ladies, who, till now, had been merely spectators
of the scene, and being resigned into the
hands of their nurses and servants in waiting, were
carried home, while the assembly-room, now converted
into a regular ball-room, rang till long past

the “noon of night” with the enlivening music,
confusion, and revelry of a complete and crowded
rout. Introductions for a partner in the dance
were not the “order of the day,” or rather of the
night. A gentleman had only to single out some
lady among the brilliant assemblage, and though a
total stranger, solicit the honour of dancing with
her. Such self-introductions are of course merely
pro tem., and, like fashionable intimacies formed at
Saratoga, never after recognised. Still, to a stranger,
such absence of all formality is peculiarly pleasant,
and, though every face may be new to him,
he has the grateful satisfaction of knowing that he
can make himself perfectly at home, and form innumerable
delightful acquaintances for the evening,
provided he chooses to be sociable, and make the
most of the enjoyments around him. We left the
hall at an early hour on our return to the hotel.

Crowds of mulatto, French and English hack-drivers
were besieging the door, shouting in bad
French, worse Spanish, and broken English—

“Coachee, massas! jontilhomme ridee!” “Caballeros,
voulez vous tomer mé carriage?” “Wooly
woo querie to ride sir?” “Fiacre Messieurs!” “By
St. Patrick jintilmen—honie, mounseers, woulee
voo my asy riding coach?”—et cetera, mingled with
execrations, heavy blows, exchanged in the way of
friendship, laughter, yells and Indian whoops, composing
a “concord of sweet sounds” to be fully appreciated
only by those who have heard similar
concerts. We, however, effected our escape from
these pupils of Jehu, who, ignorant of our country,

in a city where all the nations of the earth are represented,
wisely addressed us in a Babelic medley
of languages, till we were out of hearing.

Returning, as we came through Rues Royale and
St. Pierre, past the quarter of the “gens d'armes,”
we entered Chartres-street, which was now nearly
deserted. Proceeding through this dark, narrow
street on our way home, meeting now and then an
individual pursuing his hasty and solitary way along
the echoing pavé, we arrived at the new Exchange
alluded to in my first letter, which served the double
purpose of gentlemen's public assembly-room
and café. As we entered from the dimly lighted
street, attracted by the lively crowd dispersed
throughout the spacious room, our eyes were dazzled
by the noon-day brightness shed from innumerable
chandeliers. Having lounged through the
room, filled with smokers, newspaper-readers, promenaders,
drinkers, &c. &c., till we were stunned
by the noise of the multitude, who were talking in
an endless variety of languages, clattering upon the
ear at once, and making “confusion worse confounded,”
my polite friend suggested that we should ascend
to “the rooms,” as they are termed. As I
wished to see every thing in New-Orleans interesting
or novel to a northerner, I readily embraced the
opportunity of an introduction into the penetralium
of one of the far-famed temples which the goddess
of fortune has erected in this, her favourite city.
We ascended a broad flight of steps, one side of
which exhibited many lofty double doors, thrown
wide open, discovering to our view an extensive

hall, in which stood several billiard tables, surrounded
by their “mace and cue” devotees.

But as my letter is now of rather an uncharitable
length, I will defer till my next, farther description
of the deeds and mysteries and unhallowed sacrifices
connected with these altars of dissipation.

12. XII.

My last letter left me on my way up to “the
rooms” over the Exchange, where the goddess of
fortune sits enthroned, with a “cue” for her sceptre,
and a card pack for her “magna charta,” dispensing
alternate happiness and misery to the infatuated
votaries who crowd in multitudes around her altars.
Proceeding along the corridor, we left the billiard-room
on our left, in which no sound was heard
(though every richly-carved, green-covered table
was surrounded by players, while numerous spectators
reclined on sofas or settees around the room)
save the sharp teck! teck! of the balls as they came
in contact with each other, and the rattling occasioned
by the “markers” as they noted the progress
of the game on the large parti-coloured “rosaries”

extended over the centre of the tables. Lingering
here but a moment, we turned an angle of the gallery,
and at the farther extremity came to a glass
door curtained on the inner side, so as effectually to
prevent all observation of the interior. Entering
this,—for New-Orleans,—so carefully guarded
room, we beheld a scene, which, to an uninitiated,
ultra city-bred northerner, would be both novel and
interesting.

The first noise which struck our ears on entering,
was the clear ringing and clinking of silver, mingled
with the technical cries of the gamblers, of “all
set”—“seven red”—“few cards”—“ten black,”
&c.—the eager exclamations of joy or disappointment
by the players, and the incessant clattering of
the little ivory ball racing its endless round in the
roulette-table. On one side of the room was a faro-table,
and on the opposite side a roulette. We approached
the former, which was thronged on three
sides with players, while on the other, toward the
wall, was seated the dealer of the game—the “gentleman
professeur.” He was a portly, respectable
looking, jolly-faced Frenchman, with so little of the
“black-leg” character stamped upon his physiognomy,
that one would be far from suspecting him to
be a gambler by profession. This is a profession
difficult to be conceived as the permanent and only
pursuit of an individual. Your conception of it has
probably been taken, as in my own case, from the
fashionable novels of the day; and perhaps you
have regarded the character as merely the creation
of an author's brain, and “the profession” as a profession,

existing nowhere in the various scenes and
circumstances of life.

There are in this city a very great number of
these infernos, (anglicè “hells”) all of which—
with the exception of a few private ones, resorted
to by those gentlemen who may have some regard
for appearances—are open from twelve at noon till
two in the morning, and thronged by all classes,
from the lowest blackguard upward. They are
situated in the most public streets, and in the most
conspicuous locations. Each house has a bank, as
the amount of funds owned by it is termed. Some
of the houses have on hand twenty thousand dollars
in specie; and when likely to be hard run by heavy
losses, can draw for three or four times that amount
upon the directors of the “bank company.” The
establishing of one of these banks is effected much
as that of any other. Shares are sold, and many
respectable moneyed men, I am informed, become
stockholders; though not ambitious, I believe, to
have their names made public. It is some of the
best stock in the city, often returning an enormous
dividend. They are regularly licensed, and pay
into the state or city treasury, I forget which, annually
more than sixty thousand dollars. From six
to twelve well-dressed, genteel looking individuals,
are always to be found in attendance, to whom salaries
are regularly paid by the directors; and to this
salary, and this occupation, they look for as permanent
a support through life as do members of any
other profession. It is this class of men who are
emphatically denominated “gamblers and black

legs.” The majority of them are Frenchmen,
though they usually speak both French and English.
Individuals, allured by the hope of winning,
are constantly passing in and out of these houses, in
“broad noon,” with the same indifference to what is
termed “public opinion,” as they would feel were
they going into or out of a store.

Those places which are situated in the vicinity of
Canal-street and along the Levée, are generally of a
lower order, and thronged with the canaille of the
city, sailors, Kentucky boatmen, crews of steamboats,
and poor Gallic gentlemen, in threadbare
long-skirted coats and huge whiskers. The room
we were now visiting was of a somewhat higher
order, though not exclusively devoted to the more
genteel adventurers, as, in the very nature of the
thing, such an exclusion would be impossible. But
if unruly persons intrude, and are disposed to be
obstreperous, the conductors of the rooms, of course,
have the power of expelling them at pleasure.

Being merely spectators of the game, we managed
to obtain an advantageous position for viewing
it, from a vacant settee placed by the side of
the portly dealer, who occupied, as his exclusive
right, one side of the large table. Before him were
placed in two rows thirteen cards; the odd thirteenth
capping the double file, like a militia captain
at the head of his company, when marching “two
by two;” the files of cards, however, unlike these
martial files of men, are straight. You will readily
see by the number, that these cards represent every
variety in a pack. The dealer, in addition, has a

complete pack, fitting closely in a silver box, from
which, by the action of a sliding lid, he adroitly and
accurately turns off the cards in dealing. The
players, or “betters,” as they are termed, place their
money in various positions as it respects the thirteen
cards upon the table, putting it either on a
single card or between two, as their skill, judgment,
or fancy may dictate.

As I took my station near the faro-board, the
dealer was just shuffling the cards for a new game.
There were eleven persons clustered around the
table, and as the game was about to commence,
arm after arm was reached forth to the prostrate
cards, depositing one, five, ten, twenty, or fifty dollars,
according to the faith or depth of purse of
their owners. On, around, and between the cards,
dollars were strewed singly or in piles, while the
eyes of every better were fixed immoveably, and,
as the game went on, with a painful intensity, upon
his own deposite, perhaps his last stake. When the
stakes were all laid, the dealer announced it by drawling
out in bad English, “all saat.” Then, damping
his forefinger and thumb, by a summary process
—not quite so elegant as common—he began drawing
off the cards in succession. The card taken off
does not count in the game; the betters all looking
to the one turned up in the box to read the fate of
their stakes. As the cards are turned, the winners
are paid, the money won by the bank swept off with
a long wand into the reservoir by the side of the
banker, and down go new stakes, doubled or lessened
according to the success of the winners—again

is drawled out the mechanical “all set,” and the
same routine is repeated until long past midnight,
while the dealers are relieved every two or three
hours by their fellow-partners in the house.

At the right hand of the dealer, upon the table,
is placed what is denominated “the bank, ”though
it is merely its representative. This is a shallow,
yet heavy metal box, about twenty inches long, half
as many wide, and two deep, with a strong net-work
of wire, so constructed as to cover the box
like a lid, and be secured by a lock. Casting my
eye into this receptacle through its latticed top, I
noticed several layers of U. S. bank notes, from
five to five hundred dollars, which were kept down
by pieces of gold laid upon each pile. About one-fifth
of the case was parted off from the rest, in
which were a very large number of gold ounces and
rouleaus of guineas. The whole amount contained
in it, so far as I could judge, was about six thousand
dollars, while there was more than three thousand
dollars in silver, piled openly and most temptingly
upon the table around the case, in dollars,
halves, and quarters, ready for immediate use. From
policy, five franc pieces are substituted for dollars
in playing; but the winner of any number of them
can, when he ceases playing, immediately exchange
them at the bank for an equal number of dollars.
It often happens that players, either from ignorance
or carelessness, leave the rooms with the five franc
pieces; but should they, five minutes afterward, discover
their neglect and return to exchange them, the
dealer exclaims with an air of surprise—

“Saar! it will be one mistake, saar. I nevair
look you in de fas before, saar!” Thousands of
dollars are got off annually in this manner, and a
very pretty interest the banks derive from their
ingenious method of franking.

Having seen some thousands of dollars change
hands in the course of an hour, and, with feelings
somewhat allied to pity, marked the expression of
despair, darkening the features of the unfortunate
loser, as he rushed from the room with clenched
hands and bent brow, muttering indistinctly within
his teeth fierce curses upon his luck; and observed,
with no sympathizing sensations of pleasure, the
satisfaction with which the winners hugged within
their arms their piles of silver, we turned from the
faro, and crossed the room to the roulette table.
These two tables are as inseparable as the shark
and the pilot fish, being always found together in
every gambling room, ready to make prey of all
who come within their influence. At faro there is
no betting less than a dollar; here, stakes as low
as a quarter are permitted. The players were
more numerous at this table than at the former,
and generally less genteel in their appearance.
The roulette table is a large, long, green-covered
board or platform, in the centre of which, placed
horizontally upon a pivot, is a richly plated round
mahogany table, or wheel, often inlaid with ivory
and pearl, and elaborately carved, about two feet
in diameter, with the bottom closed like an inverted
box cover. Around this wheel, on the inner border,
on alternate little black and red squares, are marked

numbers as high as thirty-six, with two squares
additional, in one a single cipher, in the other
two ciphers; while on the green cloth-covered
board, the same numbers are marked in squares.
The dealer, who occupies one side of the table,
with his metal, latticed case of bank notes and gold
at his right hand, and piles of silver before him,
sets the wheel revolving rapidly, and adroitly spins
into it from the end of his thumb, as a boy would
snap a marble, an ivory ball, one quarter the size of
a billiard ball. The betters, at the same instant,
place their money upon such one of the figures
drawn upon the cloth as they fancy the most likely
to favour them, and intently watch the ball as it
races round within the revolving wheel. When
the wheel stops, the ball necessarily rests upon
some one of the figures in the wheel, and the fortunate
player, whose stake is upon the corresponding
number on the cloth, is immediately paid his winning,
while the stakes of the losers are coolly
transferred by the dealer to the constantly accumulating
heap before him; again the wheel is set
revolving, the little ball rattles around it, and purses
are again made lighter and the bank increased.

As we were about to depart, I noticed in an
interior room a table spread for nearly a dozen persons,
and loaded with all the substantials for a
hearty supper. The dealers, or conductors of the
bank, are almost all bachelors, I believe, or ought
to be, and keep “hall” accordingly, in the same
building where lies their theatre of action, in the
most independent and uproarious style. After the

rooms are closed, which is at about two in the
morning, they retire to their supper table, inviting
all the betters, both winners and losers, who are
present when the playing breaks up, to partake
with them. The invitations are generally accepted;
and those poor devils who in the course
of the evening have been so unfortunate as to have
“pockets to let,” have at least the satisfaction of
enjoying a good repast, gratis, before they go
home and hang themselves.[4]

Having satisfied our curiosity with a visit to this
notable place, we descended into the Exchange,
which was now nearly deserted; a few gentlemen
only were taking their “night caps” at the bar, and
here and there, through the vast room, a solitary

individual was pacing backward and forward with
echoing footsteps.

Leaving the now deserted hall, which at an
earlier hour had resounded with the loud and confused
murmur of a hundred tongues, and the
tramping of a busy multitude, we proceeded to
our hotel through the silent and dimly lighted
streets,[5] without being assassinated, robbed, seized
by the “gens d'armes,” and locked up in the guard-house,
or meeting any other adventure or misadventure
whatever; whereat we were almost
tempted to be surprised, remembering the frightful
descriptions given by veracious letter-writers,
of this “terrible city” of New-Orleans.

13. XIII.

At the commendable hour of one in the morning,
as was hinted in my last letter, we safely arrived at
our hotel, and roused the slumbering porter from
his elysian dreams by the tinkling of a little bell
pendant over the private door for “single gentlemen,
—belated;” and ascended through dark passages
and darker stairways to our rooms, lighted by
the glimmer of a solitary candle fluttering and flickering
by his motion, in the fingers of the drowsy
“guardian of doors,” who preceded us.

We had finished our late supper, and, toasting
our bootless feet upon the burnished fender, were
quietly enjoying the agreeable warmth of the glowing
coals, and relishing, with that peculiar zest
which none but a smoker knows, a real Habana,—
when we were suddenly startled from our enjoyment
by the thrilling, fearful cry, of “Fire! fire!”
which, heard in the silence of midnight, makes a
man's heart leap into his throat, while he springs
from his couch, as if the cry “To arms—to arms!”

had broken suddenly upon his slumbers. “Fire!
fire! fire!” rang in loud notes through the long
halls and corridors of the spacious hotel, startling
the affrighted sleepers from their beds, and at the
same instant a fierce, red glare flashed through our
curtained windows. The alarm was borne loudly
and wildly along the streets—the rapid clattering of
footsteps, as some individual hastened by to the
scene of the disaster, followed by another, and another,
was in a few seconds succeeded by the loud,
confused, and hurried tramping of many men, as
they rushed along shouting with hoarse voices the
quick note of alarm. We had already sprung to
the balcony upon which the window of our room
opened. For a moment our eyes were dazzled by
the fearful splendour of the scene which burst upon
us. The whole street,—lofty buildings, towers, and
cupolas — reflected a wild, red glare, flashed upon
them from a stupendous body of flame, as it rushed
and roared, and flung itself toward the skies, which,
black, lowering, and gloomy, hung threateningly
above. Two of those mammoth steamers which
float upon the mighty Mississippi, were, with nearly
two thousand bales of cotton on board, wrapped in
sheets of fire. They lay directly at the foot of
Canal-street; and as the flames shot now and then
high in the air, leaping from their decks as though
instinct with life, this broad street to its remotest
extremity in the distant forests, became lurid with
a fitful reddish glare, which disclosed every object
with the clearness of day. The balconies, galleries,
and windows, were filled with interested spectators;
and every street and avenue poured forth its
hundreds, who thundered by toward the scene of
conflagration. I have a mania for going to fires.
I love their blood-stirring excitement; and, as in
an engagement, the greater the tumult and danger,
the greater is the enjoyment. I do not, however,
carry my “incendiary passion” so far as to be vexed
because an alarm that turns me out of a warm bed
proves to be only a “false alarm,” but when a fire
does come in my way, I heartily enjoy the excitement
necessarily attendant upon the exertions
made to extinguish it. You will not be surprised,
then, that although I had not had “sleep to my
eyes, nor slumber to my eyelids,” I should be unwilling
to remain a passive and distant spectator of
a scene so full of interest. Our hotel was a quarter
of a mile from the fire, and yet the heat was sensibly
felt at that distance. Leaving my companion
to take his rest, I descended to the street, and falling
into the tumultuous current setting toward the
burning vessels, a few moments brought me to the
spacious platform, or wharf, in front of the Levée,
which was crowded with human beings, gazing
passively upon the fire; while the ruddy glare reflected
from their faces, gave them the appearance,
so far as complexion was concerned, of so many
red men of the forest. As I elbowed my way
through this dense mass of people, who were shivering,
notwithstanding their proximity to the fire, in
the chilly morning air, with one side half roasted,
and the other half chilled—the ejaculations—

“Sacré diable!” “Carramba!” “Marie, mon

Dieu!” “Mine Got vat a fire!” “By dad, an its
mighty waarm”—“Well now the way that ar' cotton
goes, is a sin to Crockett!”—fell upon the ear,
with a hundred more, in almost every patois and dialect,
whereof the chronicles of grammar have made
light or honourable mention.

As I gained the front of this mass of human beings,
that activity which most men possess, who
are not modelled after “fat Jack,” enabled me to
gain an elevation whence I had an unobstructed
view of the whole scene of conflagration. The
steamers were lying side by side at the Levée, and
one of them was enveloped in wreaths of flame,
bursting from a thousand cotton bales, which were
piled, tier above tier, upon her decks. The inside
boat, though having no cotton on board, was rapidly
consuming, as the huge streams of fire lapped and
twined around her. The night was perfectly calm,
but a strong whirlwind had been created by the
action of the heat upon the atmosphere, and now
and then it swept down in its invisible power, with
the “noise of a rushing mighty wind,” and as the
huge serpentine flames darted upward, the solid
cotton bales would be borne round the tremendous
vortex like feathers, and then—hurled away into the
air, blazing like giant meteors—would descend
heavily and rapidly into the dark bosom of the
river. The next moment they would rise and
float upon the surface, black unshapely masses of
tinder. As tier after tier, bursting with fire, fell in
upon the burning decks, the sweltering flames, for
a moment smothered, preceded by a volcanic discharge

of ashes, which fell in showers upon the
gaping spectators, would break from their confinement,
and darting upward with multitudinous large
wads of cotton, shoot them away through the air,
filling the sky for a moment with a host of flaming
balls. Some of them were borne a great distance
through the air, and falling lightly upon the surface
of the water, floated, from their buoyancy, a long
time unextinguished. The river became studded
with fire, and as far as the eye could reach below
the city, it presented one of the most magnificent,
yet awful spectacles, I had ever beheld or imagined.
Literally spangled with flame, those burning fragments
in the distance being diminished to specks of
light, it had the appearance, though far more dazzling
and brilliant, of the starry firmament. There
were but two miserable engines to play with this
gambolling monster, which, one moment lifting itself
to a great height in the air, in huge spiral
wreaths, like some immense snake, at the next
would contract itself within its glowing furnace, or
coil and dart along the decks like troops of fiery
serpents, and with the roaring noise of a volcano.

There are but few “fires” in New-Orleans, compared
with the great number that annually occur in
northern cities. This is owing, not wholly to the
universally prevalent style of building with brick,
but in a great measure to the very few fires requisite
for a dwelling house in a climate so warm as
this. Consequently there is much less interest
taken by the citizens in providing against accidents
of this kind, than would be felt were conflagrations

more frequent. The miserably manned engines
now acting at intervals upon the fire, presented a
very true exemplification of the general apathy.
To a New-Yorker or Bostonian, accustomed to the
activity, energy, and military precision of their deservedly
celebrated fire companies, the mob-like
disorder of those who pretended to work the engines
at this fire, would create a smile, and suggest something
like the idea of a caricature.

After an hour's toil by the undisciplined firemen,
assisted by those who felt disposed to aid in extinguishing
the flame, the fire was got under, but
not before one of the boats was wholly consumed,
with its valuable cargo. The inner boat was saved
from total destruction by the great exertions of
some few individuals, “who fought on their own
hook.”

The next morning I visited the scene of the disaster.
Thousands were gathered around, looking
as steadily and curiously upon the smouldering
ruins as if they had possessed some very peculiar
and interesting attraction. The river presented a
most lively scene. A hundred skiffs, wherries,
punts, dug-outs, and other non-descript craft, with
equally euphonic denominations, were darting about
in all directions, each propelled by one or two individuals,
who were gathering up the half saturated
masses of cotton, that whitened the surface of the
river as far as the eye could reach. Several unlucky
wights, in their ambitious eagerness to obtain
the largest piles of this “snow-drift,” would lose
their equilibrium, and tumble headlong with their

wealth of cotton into the water. None of them,
however, were drowned, their mishaps rather exciting
the merriment of their companions and of the
crowds of amused spectators on shore, than creating
any apprehensions for their safety.

The misfortune of one shrivelled-up old Portuguese,
who had been very active in securing a due
proportion of the cotton, occasioned no little laughter
among the crowd on the Levée. After much
fighting, quarreling, and snarling, he had filled his
little boat so completely, that his thin, black, hatchet-face,
could only be seen protruding above the snowy
mass in which he was imbedded. Seizing his oars
in his long bony hands, he began to pull for the
shore with his prize, when a light wreath of blue
smoke rose from the cotton and curled very ominously
over his head. All unconscious, he rowed
on, and before he gained the shore, the fire burst in
a dozen places at once from his combustible cargo,
and instantly enveloped the little man and his boat
in a bright sheet of flame; with a terrific yell he
threw himself into the water, and in a few moments
emerged close by the Levée, where he was picked
up, with no other personal detriment than the loss
of the little forelock of gray hair which time had
charitably spared him.

In one instance, two skiffs, with a single individual
in each, attracted attention by racing for a
large tempting float of cotton, which drifted along
at some distance in the stream. Shouts of encouragement
rose from the multitude as they watched
the competitors, with the interest similar to that felt

upon a race-course. The light boats flew over the
water like arrows on the wing. They arrived at
the same instant at the object of contest, one on
either side, and the occupants, seizing it simultaneously,
and without checking the speed of their
boats, bore the mass of cotton through the water
between them, ploughing and tossing the spray in
showers over their heads. Gradually the boats
stopped, and a contest of another kind began. Neither
would resign his prize. After they had remained
leaning over the sides of their boats for a
moment, grasping it and fiercely eyeing each other,
some words were apparently exchanged between
them, for they mutually released their hold upon
the cotton, brought their boats together and secured
them; then, stripping off their roundabouts, placed
themselves on the thwarts of their boats in a pugilistic
attitude, and prepared to decide the ownership
of the prize, by an appeal to the “law of arms.”
The other cotton-hunters desisted from their employment,
and seizing their oars, pulled with shouts
to the scene of contest. Before they reached it,
the case had been decided, and the foremost of the
approaching boatmen had the merit of picking from
the water the conquered hero, who, after gallantly
giving and taking a dozen fine rounds, received an
unlucky “settler” under the left ear, whereupon he
tumbled over the side, and was fast sinking, when
he was taken out, amid the shouts of the gratified
spectators, with his hot blood effectually cooled,
though not otherwise injured. The more fortunate
victor deliberately lifted the prize into the boat, and
fixing a portion on the extremity of an oar, set it
upright, and rowed to shore amid the cheers and
congratulations of his fellows, who now assembling
in a fleet around him, escorted him in triumph.

14. XIV.

Canal-street, as I have in a former letter observed,
with its triple row of young sycamores,
extending throughout the whole length, is one of
the most spacious, and destined at no distant period,
to be one of the first and handsomest streets
in the city. Every building in the street is of
modern construction, and some blocks of its brick
edifices will vie in tasteful elegance with the
boasted granite piles of Boston.

Yesterday, after a late dinner, the afternoon
being very fine, I left my hotel, and without any
definite object in view, strolled up this street. The
first object which struck me as worthy of notice
was a small brick octagon church, enclosed by a
white paling, on the corner of Bourbon-street.

The entrance was overgrown with long grass, and
the footsteps of a worshipper seemed not to have
pressed its threshold for many an unheeded Sunday.
In its lonely and neglected appearance, there
was a silent but forcible comment upon that censurable
neglect of the Sabbath, which, it has been
said, prevails too generally among the citizens of
New-Orleans. In front of this church, which is
owned, I believe, by the Episcopalians, stands a
white marble monument, surmounted by an urn,
erected in memory of the late Governor Claiborne.
With this solitary exception, there are no public
monuments in this city. For a city so ancient, (that
is, with reference to cis-Atlantic antiquity) as New-Orleans,
and so French in its tastes and habits, I
am surprised at this; as the French themselves
have as great a mania for triumphal arches, statues,
and public monuments, as had the ancient Romans.
But this fancy they seem not to have imported
among their other nationalities; or, perhaps, they
have not found occasions for its frequent exercise.

The government house, situated diagonally opposite
to the church, and retired from the street,
next attracted my attention. It was formerly a
hospital, but its lofty and spacious rooms are now
converted into public offices. Its snow-white front,
though plain, is very imposing; and the whole structure,
with its handsome, detached wings, and large
green, thickly covered with shrubbery in front, luxuriant
with orange and lemon trees, presents, decidedly,
one of the finest views to be met with in
the city. These two buildings, with the exception

of some elegant private residences, are all that are
worth remarking in this street, which, less than a
mile from the river, terminates in the swampy commons,
every where surrounding New-Orleans, except
on the river side.

Not far beyond the government house, the Mall,
which ornaments the centre of Canal-street, forms
a right angle, and extends down Rampart-street to
Esplanade-street, and there making another right
angle, extends back again to the river, nearly surrounding
the “city proper” with a triple row of
sycamores, which, in the course of a quarter of a
century, for grandeur, beauty, and convenience, will
be without a parallel. The city of New-Orleans is
planned on a magnificent scale, happily and judiciously
combining ornament and convenience. Let
the same spirit which foresaw and provided for its
present greatness, animate those who will hereafter
direct its public improvements, and New-Orleans,
in spite of its bug-bear character and its unhealthy
location, will eventually be the handsomest, if not
the largest city in the United States.

Following the turning of the Mall, I entered Rampart-street,
which, with its French and Spanish
buildings, presented quite a contrast to the New-England-like
appearance of that I had just quitted.
There are some fine buildings at the entrance of
this street, which is not less broad than the former.
On the right I passed a small edifice, much resembling
a Methodist meeting-house, such as are seen
in northern villages, which a passing Frenchman,
lank and tall, in answer to my inquiry, informed me

was “L'eglise Evangelique, Monsieur,” with a
touch of his chapeau, and a wondrous evolution of
his attenuated person. This little church was as
neglected, and apparently unvisited as its episcopalian
neighbour. A decayed, once-white paling surrounded
it; but the narrow gate, in front of the edifice,
probably constructed to be opened and shut by
devout hands, was now secured by a nail, whose red
coat of rust indicated long and peaceable possession
of its present station over the latch. Comment again,
thought I, as I passed on down the street, to where
I had observed, not far distant, a crowd gathered
around the door of a large white-stuccoed building,
burthened by a clumsy hunch-backed kind of tower,
surmounted by a huge wooden cross.

On approaching nearer, I discovered many carriages
extended in a long line up the street, and a
hearse with tall black plumes, before the door of the
building, which, I was informed, was the Catholic
chapel. Passing through the crowd around the entrance,
I gained the portico, where I had a full view
of the interior, and the ceremony then in progress.
In the centre of the chapel, in which was neither
pew nor seat, elevated upon a high frame or altar,
over which was thrown a black velvet pall, was
placed a coffin, covered also with black velvet. A
dozen huge wax candles, nearly as long and as large
as a ship's royal-mast, standing in candlesticks five
feet high, burned around the corpse, mingled with
innumerable candles of the ordinary size, which
were thickly sprinkled among them, like lesser
stars, amid the twilight gloom of the chapel. The

mourners formed a lane from the altar to the door,
each holding a long, unlighted, wax taper, tipped at
the larger end with red, and ornamented with fanciful
paper cuttings. Around the door, and along
the sides of the chapel, stood casual spectators,
strangers, and negro servants without number. As
I entered, several priests and singing-boys, in the
black and white robes of their order, were chanting
the service for the dead. The effect was solemn
and impressive. In a few moments the ceremony
was completed, and four gentlemen, dressed in deep
mourning, each with a long white scarf, extending
from one shoulder across the breast, and nearly to
the feet, advanced, and taking the coffin from its
station, bore it through the line of mourners, who
fell in, two and two behind them, to the hearse, which
immediately moved on to the grave-yard with its
burthen, followed by the carriages, as in succession
they drove up to the chapel, and received the mourners.
The last carriage had not left the door, when
a man, followed by two little girls, entered from the
back of the chapel, and commenced extinguishing the
lights:—he, with an extinguisher, much resembling
in size and shape an ordinary tunnel, affixed to the
extremity of a rod ten feet long, attacking the larger
ones, while his youthful coadjutors operated with
the forefinger and thumb upon the others. In a
few moments every light, except two or three, was
extinguished, and the “Chapel of the Dead” became
silent and deserted.

To this chapel the Roman Catholic dead are
usually brought before burial, to receive the last holy

office, which, saving the rite of sepulture, the living
can perform for the dead. These chapels are the
last resting-places of their bodies, before they are
consigned for ever to the repose of the grave. To
every Catholic then, among all temples of worship,
these chapels—his last home among the dwelling-places
of men—must be objects of peculiar sanctity
and veneration.

Burial-grounds, even in the humblest villages, are
always interesting to a stranger. They are marble
chronicles of the past; where, after studying the
lively characters around him, he can retire, and over
a page that knows no flattery, hold communion
with the dead.

The proposition that “care for the dead keeps
pace with civilization” is, generally, true.—The
more refined and cultivated are a people, the more
attention they pay to the performance of the last
offices for the departed. The citizens of the
United States will not certainly acknowledge themselves
second to any nation in point of refinement.
But look at their cemeteries. Most of them crown
some bleak hill, or occupy the ill-fenced corners of
some barren and treeless common, overrun by
cattle, whose preference for the long luxuriant grass,
suffered to grow there by a kind of prescriptive
right, is matter of general observation. Our neglect
of the dead is both a reproach and a proverb. Look
at England; every village there has its rural burying-ground,
which on Sundays is filled with the
well-dressed citizens and villagers, who walk among
the green graves of parents, children, or friends,

deriving from their reflections the most solemn and
impressive lesson the human heart can learn. In
America, on the contrary, the footsteps of a solitary
individual, the slow and heavy tramp of a funeral
procession, or the sacrilegious intrusion of idle
school-boys—who approach a grave but to deface
its marble—are the only disturbers of the graveyard's
loneliness.

But even, England is behind France. There
every tomb-stone is crowned with a chaplet of
roses, and every grave is a variegated bed of
flowers. Spain, dark and gloomy Spain! is behind
all. Whoever has rambled among her gloomy
cemeteries, or gazed with feelings of disgust and
horror, upon the pyramids of human sculls, bleaching
in those Golgothas, the Campos santos of Monte
Video, Buenos Ayres, and South America generally,
need not be reminded how little they venerate
what once moved—the image of God! The
Italians singularly unite the indifference of the
Spaniards with the affection of the French in their
respect for the dead. Compare the “dead vaults”
of Italia's cities, with the pleasant cemeteries in her
green vales! Without individualising the European
nations, I will advert to the Turks, who, though not
the most refined, are a sensitive and reflecting people,
and pay great honours to their departed friends,
as the mighty “City of the Dead” which encompasses
Constantinople evinces. But the cause of
this respect is to be traced, rather to their Moslem
creed, than to the intellectual character, or refinement
of the people.

To what is to be attributed the universal indifference
of Americans to honouring the dead, by those
little mementos and marks of affection and respect
which are interwoven with the very religion of other
countries? There are not fifty burial-grounds
throughout the whole extent of the Union, which
can be termed beautiful, rural, or even neat. The
Bostonians, in the possession of their lonely and
romantic Mount Auburn, have redeemed their
character from the almost universal charge of apathy
and indifference manifested by their fellow countrymen
upon this subject. Next to Mount Auburn,
the cemetery in New-Haven is the most beautifully
picturesque of any in this country. In Maine there
is but one, the burial-place in Brunswick, deserving
of notice. Its snow-white monuments glance here
and there in bold relief among the dark melancholy
pines which overshadow it, casting a funereal gloom
among its deep recesses, particularly appropriate
to the sacred character of the spot.

I intended to devote this letter to a description
of my visit to the Roman Catholic burying-ground
of this city, the contemplation of which has given
occasion to the preceding remarks, and from which
I have just returned; but I have rambled so far and
so long in my digression, that I shall have scarcely
time or room to express all I intended in this sheet.
But that I need not encroach with the subject upon
my next, I will complete my remarks here, even at
the risk of subjecting myself to—with me—the
unusual charge of brevity.

Leaving the chapel, I followed the procession

which I have described, for at least three quarters of
a mile down a long street or road at right angles
with Rampart-street, to the place of interment.
The priests and boys, who in their black and white
robes had performed the service for the dead, leaving
the chapel by a private door in the rear of the
building, made their appearance in the street leading
to the cemetery, as the funeral train passed
down, each with a black mitred cap upon his head,
and there forming into a procession upon the side
walk, they moved off in a course opposite to the
one taken by the funeral train, and soon disappeared
in the direction of the cathedral. Two priests, however,
remained with the procession, and with it, after
passing on the left hand the “old Catholic cemetery,”
which being full, to repletion is closed and
sealed for the “Great Day,” arrived at the new
burial-place. Here the mourners alighted from
their carriages, and proceeded on foot to the tomb.
The priests, bare-headed and solemn, were the last
who entered, except myself and a few other strangers
attracted by curiosity.

This cemetery is quite out of the city; there being
no dwelling or enclosure of any kind beyond it.
On approaching it, the front on the street presents
the appearance of a lofty brick wall of very great
length, with a spacious gateway in the centre.
This gateway is about ten feet deep; and one passing
through it, would imagine the wall of the same
solid thickness. This however is only apparent.
The wall which surrounds, or is to surround the
four sides of the burial-ground, (for it is yet uncompleted,)

is about twelve feet in height, and ten in
thickness. The external appearance on the street
is similar to that of any other high wall, while to a
beholder within, the cemetery exhibits three stories
of oven-like tombs, constructed in the wall, and
extending on every side of the grave-yard. Each
of these tombs is designed to admit only a single
coffin, which is enclosed in the vault with masonry,
and designated by a small marble slab fastened in
the face of the wall at the head of the coffin, stating
the name, age, and sex of the deceased. By a
casual estimate I judged there were about eighteen
hundred apertures in this vast pile of tombs. This
method, resorted to here from necessity, on account
of the nature of the soil, might serve as a hint
to city land-economists.

When I entered the gateway, I was struck with
surprise and admiration. Though destitute of trees,
the cemetery is certainly more deserving, from its
peculiarly novel and unique appearance, of the attention
of strangers, than (with the exception of that
at New-Haven, and Mount Auburn,) any other in
the United States. From the entrance to the opposite
side through the centre of the grave-yard, a
broad avenue or street extends nearly an eighth of a
mile in length; and on either side of this are innumerable
isolated tombs, of all sizes, shapes, and descriptions,
built above ground. The idea of a Lilliputian
city was at first suggested to my mind on looking
down this extensive avenue. The tombs in
their various and fantastic styles of architecture—if
I may apply the term to these tiny edifices—resembled

cathedrals with towers, Moorish dwellings,
temples, chapels, palaces, mosques—substituting
the cross for the crescent—and structures of almost
every kind. The idea was ludicrous enough; but
as I passed down the avenue, I could not but indulge
the fancy that I was striding down the Broadway
of the capital of the Lilliputians. I mention
this, not irreverently, but to give you the best idea I
can of the cemetery, from my own impressions.
Many of the tombs were constructed like, and
several were, indeed, miniature Grecian temples;
while others resembled French, or Spanish edifices,
like those found in “old Castile.” Many of them,
otherwise plain, were surmounted by a tower supporting
a cross. All were perfectly white, arranged
with the most perfect regularity, and distant little
more than a foot from each other. At the distance
of every ten rods the main avenue was intersected
by others of less width, crossing it at right angles,
down which tombs were ranged in the same novel
and regular manner. The whole cemetery was
divided into squares, formed by these narrow streets
intersecting the principal avenue. It was in reality
a “City of the Dead.” But it was a city composed
of miniature palaces, and still more diminutive villas.

The procession, after passing two-thirds of the
way up the spacious walk, turned down one of the
narrower alleys, where a new tomb, built on a line
with the others, gaped wide to receive its destined
inmate. The procession stopped. The coffin was
let down from the shoulders of the bearers, and rolled
on wooden cylinders into the tomb. The mourners

silently gathered around; every head was bared;
and amid the deep silence that succeeded, the calm,
clear, melancholy voice of the priest suddenly swelled
upon the still evening air, in the plaintive chant
of the last service for the dead. “Requiescat in
pace!” was slowly chanted by the priest,—repeated
in subdued voices by the mourners, and echoing
among the tombs, died away in the remotest
recesses of the cemetery.

The dead was surrendered to the companionship
of the dead—the priest and mourners moved slowly
away from the spot, and the silence of the still
evening was only broken by the clinking of the careless
mason, as he proceeded to wall up the aperture
in the tomb.

As night was fast approaching, I hastened to leave
the place; and, taking a shorter route than by the
principal avenue, I came suddenly upon a desolate
area, without a tomb to relieve its dank and muddy
surface, dotted with countless mounds, where the
bones of the moneyless, friendless stranger lay buried.
There was no stone to record their names
or country. Fragments of coffins were scattered
around, and new-made graves, half filled with water,
yawned on every side awaiting their unknown
occupants; who, perchance, may now be “laying
up store for many years” of anticipated happiness.
Such is the nature of the soil here, that it is impossible
to dig two feet below the surface without
coming to water. The whole land seems to be only
a thin crust of earth, of not more than three feet in
thickness, floating upon the surface of the water.

Consequently, every grave will have two feet or
more of water in it, and when a coffin is placed
therein, some of the assistants have to stand upon
it, and keep it down till the grave is re-filled with
the mud which was originally thrown from it, or it
would float. The citizens, therefore, having a very
natural repugnance to being drowned, after having
died a natural death upon their beds, choose to have
their last resting-place a dry one; and hence the
great number of tombs, and the peculiar features
of this burial-place.

Returning, I glanced into the old Catholic cemetery,
in the rear of the chapel before alluded to. It
was crowded with tombs, though without displaying
the systematic arrangement observed in the one I had
just left. There is another burying-place, in the
upper faubourg, called the Protestant cemetery.
Here, as its appellation indicates, are buried all
who are not of “Holy Church.” There are in
it some fine monuments, and many familiar names
are recorded upon the tomb-stones. Here moulder
the remains of thousands, who, leaving their distant
homes, buoyant with all the hopes and visions of
youth, have been suddenly cut down under a foreign
sun, and in the spring time of life. When present
enjoyment seemed prophetic of future happiness,
they have found here—a stranger's unmarbled
grave! A northerner cannot visit this cemetery,
and read the familiar names of the multitudes who
have ended their lives in this pestilential climate,
without experiencing emotions of the most affecting
nature. Here the most promising of our northern

young men have found an untimely grave:
and, as she long has been, so New-Orleans continues,
and will long continue to be, the charnel-house
of the pride and nobleness of New-England.

15. XV.

A quondam fellow-student, who has been some
months a resident of this city, surprised and gratified
me this morning with a call. With what strong
—more than brotherly affection, we grasp the hand
of an old friend and fellow-toiler in academic groves!
No two men ever meet like old classmates a year
from college!

After exchanging congratulations, he kindly offered
to devote the day to the gratification of my
curiosity, and accompany me to all those places invested
with interest and novelty in the eye of a
stranger, which I had not yet visited.

On my replying in the negative to his inquiry,
“If I had visited the rail-way?” we decided on
making that the first object of our attention. Though

more than a mile distant, we concluded, as the morning
was uncommonly fine, to proceed thither on foot,
that we might, on the way, visit the venerable convent
of the Ursulines, the old Spanish barracks, and
one or two other places of minor interest.

Sallying from our hotel, we crossed to the head
of Chartres-street, and threaded our way among the
busy multitude, who, moving in all directions, on
business or pleasure, thronged its well-paved side-walks.
On both sides of the way, for several squares,
the buildings were chiefly occupied by wholesale
and retail dry goods dealers, who are mostly northerners;
so that a Yankee stranger feels himself
quite at home among them; but before he reaches
the end of the long, narrow street, he might imagine
himself again a stranger, in a city of France. The
variety of the streets, here, is almost as great as the
diversity of character among the people. New-Orleans
seems to have been built by a universal
subscription, to which every European nation has
contributed a street, as it certainly has citizens.
From one, which to a Bostonian looks like an old
acquaintance, you turn suddenly into another that
reminds you of Marseilles. Here a street lined with
long, narrow, grated windows, in dingy, massive
buildings, surrounded by Moorish turrets, urns, grotesque
ornaments of grayish stone and motley arabesque,
would bring back to the exiled Castilian the
memory of his beloved Madrid. In traversing the
next, a Parisian might forget that the broad Atlantic
rolled between him and the boasted city of his nativity.
Here is one that seems to have been transplanted

from the very midst of Naples; while its
interesting neighbour reminds one of the quakerlike
plainness of Philadelphia. There are not, it is
true, many which possess decidedly an individual
character; for some of them contain such a heterogeneous
congregation of buildings, that one cannot
but imagine their occupants, in emigrating from
every land under heaven, to have brought their own
houses with them. The most usual style of building
at present, is after the Boston school—if I may
so term the fashion of the plain, solid, handsome
brick and granite edifices, which are in progress
here, as well as in every other city in the union; a
style of architecture which owes its origin to the
substantial good taste of the citizens of the goodly
“city of notions.” The majority of structures in
the old, or French section of New-Orleans, are after
the Spanish and French orders. This style of
building is not only permanent and handsome, but
peculiarly adapted, with its cool, paved courts, lofty
ceilings, and spacious windows, to this sultry climate;
and I regret that it is going rapidly out of
fashion. Dwellings of this construction have, running
through their centre, a broad, high-arched passage,
with huge folding-doors, or gates, leading from
the street to a paved court in the rear, which is
usually surrounded by the sleeping-rooms and offices,
communicating with each other by galleries
running down the whole square. In the centre of
this court usually stands a cistern, and placed around
it, in large vases, are flowers and plants of every
description. In their love for flowers, the Creoles
are truly and especially French. The glimpses one
has now and then, in passing through the streets,
and by the ever-open doors of the Creoles' residences,
of brilliant flowers and luxuriantly blooming
exotics, are delightfully refreshing, and almost sufficient
to tempt one to a “petit larceny.” You may
know the residence of a Creole here, even if he resides
in a Yankee building, by his mosaic-paved
court-yard, filled with vases of flowers.

On arriving at Toulouse-street, which is the fifth
intersecting Chartres-street, we turned into it, and
pursued our way to the basin, in the rear of the city,
which I was anxious to visit. A spectator in this street,
on looking toward either extremity, can discover
shipping. To the east, the dense forest of masts,
bristling on the Mississippi, bounds his view; while,
at the west, his eye falls upon the humbler craft,
which traverse the sluggish waters of Lake Pontchartrain.
This basin will contain about thirty
small vessels. There were lying along the pier,
when we arrived, five or six miserable-looking
sloops and schooners, compared to which, our
“down easters” are packet ships. These ply regularly
between New-Orleans and Mobile, and by
lading and discharging at this point, have given to
this retired part of the city quite a business-like and
sea-port air. The basin communicates with the
lake, four miles distant, by means of a good canal.
A mile below the basin, a rail-way has been lately
constructed from the Mississippi to the lake, and
has already nearly superseded the canal; but of this
more anon.

Leaving the basin, we passed a treeless green,
which, we were informed by a passer-by, was dignified
by the classical appellation of “Congo Square.”
Here, our obliging informant gave us to understand,
the coloured “ladies and gentlemen” are accustomed
to assemble on gala and saints' days, and to
the time of outlandish music, dance, not the “Romaika,”
alas! but the “Fandango;” or, wandering
in pairs, tell their dusky loves, within the dark shadows,
not of jungles or palm groves, but of their own
sable countenances. As the Congoese élite had
not yet left their kitchens, we, of course, had not the
pleasure of seeing them move in the mystic dance,
upon the “dark fantastic toe,” to the dulcet melody
of a Congo banjo.

From the centre of this square, a fine view of the
rear of the Cathedral is obtained, nearly a mile distant,
at the head of Orleans-street, which terminates
opposite the square. In this part of the town the
houses were less compact, most of them of but one
story, with steep projecting roofs, and graced by
parterres; while many of the dwellings were half
embowered with the rich green foliage of the fragrant
orange and lemon trees. At the corner of
rues St. Claude and St. Anne, we passed a very
pretty buff-coloured, stuccoed edifice, retired from
the street, which we were informed was the Masonic
lodge. There are several others, I understand,
in various parts of the city. A little farther,
on rue St. Claude, in a lonely field, is a small plain
building, denominated the College of Orleans, which
has yet obtained no literary celebrity. Opposite to

this edifice is the foot of Ursuline-street, up which
we turned, in our ramble over the city, and proceeded
toward the river. It may appear odd to you, that
we should ascend to the river; but such is the case
here. You are aware, from the descriptions in one
of my former letters, that the surface of the Mississippi,
at its highest tide, is several feet higher than
the surrounding country; and that it is restrained
from wholly inundating it, only by banks, or levées,
constructed at low stages of the water. No where
is this fact so evident as in New-Orleans. For the
purpose of cleansing the city, water is let in at the
heads of all those streets which terminate upon the
river, by aqueducts constructed through the base of
the Levée, and this artificial torrent rushes from the
river down the gutters, on each side of the streets,
with as much velocity as, in other places, it would
display in seeking to mingle with the stream. Sometimes
the impetus is sufficient to carry the dirty torrents
quite across the city into the swamps beyond.
But when this is not the case, it must remain in the
deep drains and gutters along the side-walks, impregnated
with the quintessence of all the filth encountered
in its Augean progress, exhaling its noisome
effluvia, and poisoning the surrounding atmosphere.
All the streets in the back part of the city are bordered
on either side with a canal of an inky-coloured,
filthy liquid, (water it cannot be termed)
from which arises an odour or incense by no means
acceptable to the olfactory sensibilities. The streets
running parallel with the river, having no inclination
either way, are, as a natural consequence of their
situation, redolent of these Stygian exhalations.
Why New-Orleans is not depopulated to a man,
when once the yellow fever breaks out in it, is a
miracle. From the peculiarity of its location, and
a combination of circumstances, it must always be
more or less unhealthy. But were the police, which
is at present rather of a military than a civil character,
regulated more with a view to promote the comfort
and health of the community, the evil might be
in a great measure remedied, and many hundred
lives annually preserved.

On ascending Ursuline-street, we remarked what
I had previously noticed in several other streets,
upon the doors of unoccupied dwellings, innumerable
placards of “Chambre garnie,” “Maison à louer,”
“Apartement à louer,” &c. On inquiry, I ascertained
that their former occupants had been swept
away by the cholera and yellow fever, which have
but a few weeks ceased their ravages. Four out
of five houses, which we had seen advertised to let,
in different parts of the city, were French, from
which I should judge that the majority of the victims
were Creoles. The effects of the awful reign
of the pestilence over this devoted city, have not
yet disappeared. The terrific spirit has passed by,
but his lingering shadow still casts a funereal gloom
over the theatre of his power. The citizens generally
are apparelled in mourning; and the public
places of amusement have long been closed.

The old Ursuline convent stands between Ursuline
and Hospital streets, and opposite to the barracks,
usually denominated the “Old Spanish Barracks.”

Crossing rue Royale, we first visited those
on the south side of Hospital-street. On inquiring
of an old, gray-headed soldier, standing in front of
a kind of guard-house, if the long, massive pile of
brick, which extended from the street more than
two hundred feet to the rear, “were the barracks?”
he replied, with genuine Irish brogue, “Which barracks,
jintlemen?” Ignorant of more than one place
of the kind, we repeated the question with emphasis.
“Why yes, yer 'onours, its thim same they
are, an' bad luck to the likes o' them.” We inquired
“if the regiment was quartered here?” “The rigiment
is it, jintlemen! och, but it's not here at all,
at all; divil a rigiment has been in it (the city meaning)
this many a month. The sogers, what's come
back, is quarthered, ivery mother's son o' them, in
the private hoose of a jintleman jist by.”

“Why did they leave the city?”

“For fear o' the cholery, sure. But there's a rigiment
ixpicted soon, and they'll quarther here, jintlemen;
and we're repeerin' the barracks to contain
thim, till the new ones is ericted; 'cause these is
not the illigant barracks what's goin' to be ericted,
sure.”

Finding our Milesian so communicative, we questioned
him farther, and obtained much interesting
information. From the street, the barracks, which
are now unoccupied, present the appearance of a
huge arcade, formed by a colonnade of massive brick
pillars, running along its whole length. Some portion
of the front was stuccoed, giving a handsome
appearance to that part of the building. The whole

is to be finished in the same manner, and when completed,
the structure will be a striking ornament to
New-Orleans: probably a rival of the “splendid
new edifice” about to be erected in a lower part of
the city. Though called the “Spanish Barracks,”
I am informed that they were erected by the Duke
of Orleans, when he governed this portion of the
French possessions. Immediately opposite to the
barracks, in the convent yard, are two very ancient
wooden guard-houses, blackened and decayed with
age, about thirty feet in height, looking very much
like armless windmills, or mammoth pigeon-houses.

The convent next invited our notice. It has, till
within a few years, been very celebrated for its
school for young ladies, who were sent here from
all the southern part of the Union, and even from
Europe. A few years since, a new convent was
erected two miles below the city, whither the Ursuline
ladies have removed; and where they still
keep a boarding-school for young ladies, which is
highly and justly celebrated. The old building is
now occupied by the public schools. Desirous of
visiting so fine a specimen of cis-atlantic antiquity,
and at the same time to make some observation of
the system of education pursued in this city, we
proceeded toward the old gateway of the convent,
to apply for admittance.

We might have belaboured the rickety gate till
doomsday, without gaining admittance, had not an
unlucky, or rather, lucky stroke which we decided
should be our last, brought the old wicket rattling
about our ears, enveloping us in clouds of dust, as

it fell with a tremendous crash upon the pavement.
At this very alarming contre temps, we had not
time to make up our minds whether to beat a retreat,
or encounter the assault of an ominously
sounding tongue, which thundered “mutterings
dire,” as with anger in her eye, and wonder in
her mien, the owner rushed from a little porter's
lodge, which stood on the right hand within the
gate,

We succeeded in appeasing the ire of the offended
janitress, and proceeded across a deserted court
covered with short grass, to the principal entrance
of the convent, which stands about seventy feet
back from the street.

This edifice presents nothing remarkable, except
its size, it being about one hundred feet in front, by
forty deep. Its aspect is venerable, but extremely
plain, the front being entirely destitute of ornament
or architectural taste. It is stuccoed, and apparently
was once white, but it is now gray with rust
and age. It may be called either a French or Spanish
building, for it equally evinces both styles of
architecture; presenting that anomaly, characteristic
of those old structures which give a fine antiquated
air to that part of the city. Massive pilasters with
heavy cornices, tall, deep windows, huge doorways,
and flat roofs, are the distinguishing features of this
style of building. Never more than two, the dwellings
are usually but one very lofty story in height,

and covered with a light yellow stucco, in imitation
of dingy-white, rough hewn marble. In internal
arrangement and decorations, and external appearance,
they differ but little from each other. As we
passed under the old, sunken portal, the confused
muttering of some hundred treble tongues, mingled,
now and then, with a deep bass grumble of authority,
burst upon our ears, and intimated our proximity
to the place where “young ideas are taught
to shoot.” Wishing to gratify our curiosity by
rambling through the convent's deserted halls and
galleries, before we entered the rooms whence the
noise proceeded, we ascended a spacious winding
stairway; but there was nothing to be seen in the
second story, except deserted rooms, and we ascended
yet another staircase to a low room in the
attic, formerly the dormitory of the nunnery. While
on our return to the first floor, a gentleman, M.
Priever, who was, as we afterward ascertained,
principal of the public schools of the city, encountered
us on the stairs, and politely invited us to visit
the different school-rooms within the building. We
first accompanied him to the extremity of a long
gallery, where he ushered us into a pleasant room,
in which a dozen boys were sitting round a table,
translating Latin exercises into French. This class,
he informed us, he had just taken from the primary
school below stairs, to instruct in the elementary
classics. From this gentleman we ascertained that
there were in the city two primary schools, one
within the convent walls, and the other a mile distant,
in the northern faubourg. From these two
schools, when properly qualified, the pupils are removed
into the high, or classic school, kept within
the convent. He observed that he had the supervision
of these three schools—the high, and two
primary—though each had its own particular teacher.
The principals of the two convent schools are
gentlemen distinguished both for urbanity and literary
endowments. In the classical school, pupils
can obtain almost every advantage which a collegiate
course would confer upon them. The
French and Spanish languages form a necessary
part of their education; and but few young men resort
to northern colleges from New-Orleans. It is
the duty of the principal often to visit the primary
schools—select from their most promising pupils,
those qualified to enter the high school—form them
into classes by daily recitations in his own room,
(in which employment he was engaged when we
entered,) and then pass them over to the teacher of
the school they are prepared to enter.

With Mons. P. we visited the classical school,
where fifty or sixty young gentlemen were pursuing
the higher branches of study. The instructer
was a Frenchman, as are all the other teachers.
In this, and the other departments, the greater portion
of the students also are of French descent;
and probably about one-third, in all the schools, are
of American parentage. Mons. P. informed me
that the latter usually acquired, after being in the
school six weeks, or two months, sufficient French
for all colloquial purposes. He observed that the
majority of the scholars, in all the departments,

spoke both languages (French and English,) with
great fluency. After hearing two or three classes
translate Greek and Latin authors into French, and
one or two embryo mathematicians demonstrate
Euclid, in the same tongue, we proceeded to the
opposite wing of the building, and were ushered
into the rattle, clangor, and confusion of the primary
department. We were politely received by Mons.
Bigot, a Parisian, a fine scholar, and an estimable
man. You have visited infant schools for boys, I
believe; recall to mind the novel and amusing scenes
you there beheld, and you will have an idea of this
primary school. The only difference would be, that
here the pupils are rough, tearing boys, from fifteen
years of age to three. Here, as in the former, they
marched and counter-marched, clapped their hands,
stamped hard upon the floor, and performed various
evolutions for the purpose of circulating the blood,
which by sitting too long is apt to stagnate, and
render them, particularly in this climate, dull and
sleepy. We listened to some of their recitations,
which were in the lowest elementary branches, and
took our leave under infinite obligations to the politeness
and attention of the gentlemanly superintendents.

Besides these, there are private schools for both
sexes. The majority of the young ladies are educated
by the Ursulines at the convent, in the lower
faubourg. Some of the public schools are exclusively
for English, and others exclusively for French
children. Many pupils are also instructed by private
tutors, particularly in the suburbs.

16. XVI.

In a preceding letter, I have alluded to an intended
visit to the rail-way; near which, on my way
thither, my last letter left me, in company with B.,
after having paid a visit to the Ursuline convent.
On leaving Ursuline-street, which terminates at the
river, we proceeded a short distance to the rail-road,
along the Levée, which was lined with ships, bearing
the flags of nearly all the nations of the earth.
The length of this rail-way is about five miles, terminating
at Lake Pontchartrain. Its advantages to
New-Orleans are incalculable. It has been to the
city literally “an avenue of wealth” already. The
trade carried on through this medium, bears no mean
proportion to the river commerce. Ports, heretofore
unknown to Orleans, as associated with traffic,
carry on, now, a regular and important branch of
trade with her. By it, a great trade is carried on
with Mobile and other places along the Florida
coast, and by the same means, the mails are transported
with safety and rapidity. The country between
New-Orleans and the nearest shore of the
lake, is low, flat, marshy, and covered with a half-drowned

and stunted forest. The lake, though near
the city, formerly was inaccessible. Vessels laden
with their valuable cargoes might arrive at the termination
of the lake within sight of the city, but
the broad marsh extending between them and the
far-off towers of the wished-for mart, might as well
have been the cloud-capped Jura, for any means of
communication it could afford. But the rail-way
has overcome this obstacle: coasting vessels, which
traverse the lake in great numbers, can now receive
and discharge their cargoes at the foot of the
rail-way, upon a long pier extending far out into the
lake. The discharged cargoes are piled upon the
cars and in twenty minutes are added to the thousand
shiploads, heaped upon the Levée; or, placed
upon drays, are trundling to every part of the city.

When we arrived at the rail-way, the cars for
passengers, eight or ten in number, were standing
in a line under a long roof, which covers the end
of the rail-way. A long train of baggage or cargo-cars
were in the rear of these, all heavily laden.
The steam-car, puffing and blowing like a bustling
little man in a crowd, seemed impatient to dart forward
upon the track. We perceived that all was
ready for a start; and barely had time to hasten to
the ticket-office, throw down our six “bits” for two
tickets, and spring into the only vacant seats in one
of the cars, before the first bell rang out the signal
for starting.

All the cars were full; including two or three
behind, appropriated to coloured gentlemen and ladies.
Again the bell gave the final signal; and

obedient thereto, our fiery leader moved forward,
smoking like a race-horse, slowly and steadily at
first—then, faster and faster, till we flew along the
track with breathless rapidity. The rail-road, commencing
at the Levée, runs for the first half mile
through the centre of a broad street, with low detached
houses on either side. A mile from the Levée
we had left the city and all dwellings behind us,
and were flying through the fenceless, uninhabited
marshes, where nothing meets the eye but dwarf
trees, rank, luxuriant undergrowth, tall, coarse grass,
and vines, twisting and winding their long, serpentine
folds around the trunks of the trees like huge,
loathsome water-snakes. By the watch, we passed
a mile-stone every three minutes and a half; and
in less than nineteen minutes, arrived at the lake.
Here, quite a village of handsome, white-painted
hotels, cafés, dwellings, store-houses, and bathing
rooms, burst at once upon our view; running past
them, we gradually lessened our speed, and finally
came to a full stop on the pier, where the rail-road
terminates. Here we left the cars, which came
thumping against each other successively, as they
stopped; but the points of contact being padded,
prevented any very violent shock to the occupants.
The pier, constructed of piles and firmly planked
over, was lined with sloops and schooners, which
were taking in and discharging cargo, giving quite
a bustling, business-like air to this infant port.
Boys, ragged negroes, and gentlemen amateurs,
were fishing in great numbers farther out in the
lake; others were engaged in the delicate amusement
of cray-fishing, while on the right the water
was alive with bathers, who, disdaining the confined
limits enclosed by the long white bathing-houses,
which stretched along the south side of the pier,
and yielding to the promptings of a watery ambition,
were boldly striking out into the sluggish depths.
To the east, the waters of the lake and sky met,
presenting an ocean horizon to the untravelled citizens,
who can have no other conception of the reality
without taking a trip to the Balize. Light
craft were skimming its waveless surface, under the
influence of a gentle breeze, in all directions. A
steamer, bearing the United States mail from Mobile,
was seen in the distance, rolling out clouds
of black smoke, and ploughing and dashing on her
rapid way to the pier.

Retracing our steps to the head of the pier, we
entered a very handsome café, or hotel, crowded
with men. The eternal dominos were rattling on
every table, glasses were ringing against glasses,
and voices were heard, in high-toned conversation,
in all languages, with mingled oaths and laughter;
the noise and confusion were sufficient, without a
miracle, to make a deaf man hear. All these persons,
probably, were from the city, and had come
down to the lake to amuse themselves, or kill an
hour. The opposite café was equally crowded;
while the billiard-rooms adjoining were filled with
spectators and players. Clouds of tobacco-smoke
enveloped the multitude, and the rooms rung with
“Sacre bleu!” “Mon Dieu!” “Diable!” and blunt
English oaths of equal force and import.

The first bell for the return had rung, and the passengers
rushed to the cars, which were soon filled; the
signal for starting was given, and the locomotive
again led the van, with as much apparent importance
as that with which the redoubtable and twice immortal
Major Downing might be supposed to precede his
gallant “rigiment of down easters.” We had passed
two-thirds of the distance when we were alarmed by
a sudden and tremendous shouting from the forward
car. The cry was echoed involuntarily along the
whole train, and every head was instantly darted
from the windows. The cause of the alarm was
instantly perceptible. Less than a quarter of a
mile ahead, a cow was lying very quietly and composedly,
directly in the track of the flying cars. The
shouts of the frightened passengers on discovering
her, either petrified her with utter fear—for such
yellings and whoopings were never heard before on
this side Hades—or did not reach her, for she kept
her position with the most complacent nonchalance.
The engineer instantly stopped the locomotive, but
though our momentum was diminished, it was too
late to effect his object; in thirty seconds from the
first discovery of the cow, the engine passed over
the now terrified animal, with a jump—jump—and
a grinding crash, and with so violent a shock as
nearly to throw the car from the track; the next,
and the next car followed—and the poor animal, the
next instant, was left far behind, so completely severed,
that the rear cars passed over her without
any perceptible shock.

In a few minutes afterward, we arrived at the city,

having been one minute longer in returning than in
going to the lake. The rail-way has become, if not
a very fashionable, at least a very general resort, for
a great portion of the inhabitants of New-Orleans,
particularly on Sabbaths and holydays. Lake Pontchartrain,
the destination of all who visit the rail
road for an excursion of pleasure, is, to New-Orleans,
what Gray's Ferry was in the olden time to
the good citizens of Philadelphia; or Jamaica pond
is, at present, to the most worthy citizens of the
emporium of notions; or what “Broad's” is to the
gay citizens of Portland.[6] When we alighted from
the car, the omnibus was at its stand at the head of
the rail-way; so, jumping into it, with twenty others,
the horn was blown with an emphasis, the whip was
cracked with a series of inimitable flourishes, and
in fifteen minutes after leaving the car, we were
safely deposited near our hotel. If our jolting ride
home, through the rough, deep-guttered streets, did
not increase our appetite for the good things awaiting
us at the table d'hote, it at least demonstrated to
us the superiority of rail-ways over unpaved streets,
which every now and then are intersected, for the sake
of variety, with a gutter of no particular width, and
a foot and a half deep, more or less, by the “lead.”

17. XVII.

During my accustomed peregrinations around
the city yesterday, I dropped into the hall of the
legislature, which was in session in the government
house,—that large, handsome edifice, erected on
Canal-street, alluded to in a former letter. The
senate and house of representatives were literally
both upper houses, being convened on the second
floor of the building.

The rooms are large and sufficiently comfortable,
though devoid of any architectural display.
The number of senators is seventeen; of representatives,
fifty. The majority, in both houses, are Creoles:

there being, as I was informed, nine, out of
the seventeen senators, French, and a small French
majority in the house. The residue are citizenized
northerners, and individuals from other states, who
embody no mean portion of the political talents and
statesman-like qualities of the legislature. Among
many, to whom I had the pleasure of an introduction,
and whose public characters are well and
honourably known, I will mention Mr. Tenney, a
native of New-Hampshire, and an alumnus of Dartmouth
college. He has, like many other able and
enterprising sons of New-England, struggled with
no little distinction through all the vicissitudes of a
young lawyer's career, till the suffrages of his adopted
fellow-citizens have elevated him to the honourable
station of senator, in the legislature of the state
which he has chosen for his home. There are
other northerners also, who, though in different stations,
have arrived at distinction here. Their catalogue
is not large, but it is brilliant with genius.
The honourable career of the accomplished and lamented
Gurley is well known to you. He was a
man eminently distinguished, both for his public and
social virtues; and in his death his adopted state
has lost one of the brightest stars of her political
constellation. And Ripley too, though shining in
a southern sky, sheds a distinguished lustre over
the “land of the north”—the country of his birth.

There is generally a large amount of business
brought before this legislature, and its sessions seldom
terminate before March or April. In their
transactions, as a legislative body, there is a total

absence of those little, though natural prejudices,
which might be presumed to exist among members,
so different from each other in education, language,
and peculiarity of thought. If a bill is introduced
by an American, the French members do not feel a
disposition to oppose its passage on that account;
nor, when it is brought in by a Frenchman, do they
support it more eagerly or unanimously for that
reason. A spirit of mutual cordiality, as great as
can be looked for in a political assembly, pervades
their whole body, to the entire exclusion of local
prejudices. Neither is there an exclusive language
used in their legislative proceedings. It is not necessary
that the American members should speak
French, or vice versa, though it would be certainly
more agreeable were it universally understood by
them; as all speeches made by Frenchmen, are
immediately translated into English, while those
made by the Americans are repeated again, by the
translator, to the French part of the house, in their
own language. This method not only necessarily
consumes a great deal of time, and becomes excessively
tedious to all parties, but diminishes, as do
all translations, the strength, eloquence, and force
of a speech; and, of course, lessens the impression.
It is not a little amusing, to study the whimsical
contortions of a Frenchman, while, with shrugging
shoulders and restless eyes, he listens to, and
watches the countenance of, some American party
opponent, who may have the floor. The latter
thunders out his torrent of eloquence, wherein the
nicest epithets are not, perhaps, the most carefully
chosen, in his zeal to express his political gall
against his Gallic opponent; while monsieur fidgets
about in happy ignorance, till the honourable member
concludes,—when he jumps up, runs his open
hand, chin, and nose, almost in the face of the interpreter,
“arrectis auribus,” and chafing like a
lion; and before the last sentence is hurriedly completed,
flings down his gantlet,—throws his whole
soul into a rush of warm eloquence, beneath the
edifying sound of which, his American antagonist
feels that it is now his time to look foolish, which
he does with a most commendable expression of
mock sang froid, upon his twitching, try-to-be philosophic
features.

The president of the senate and speaker of the
house are Frenchmen: it is expected, however,
that gentlemen filling these stations will readily
speak French and English. By an act of a former
legislature, slaves from other states could not be
sold in this state, nor even those belonging to Louisiana,
unless they were owned here previous to the
passage of the law. The penalties for a violation
of this law were fine and imprisonment to the
vender, and the forfeiture of the slave, or his value.
The law occasioned greater inconvenience to the
citizens of the state, than its framers had foreseen.
It again became a subject-matter for legislation, and
a large portion of the members advocated its repeal.
This was the subject of discussion when I was
present, and the question of repeal was ably and
warmly supported by Mr. Tenney, who is one of
the state senators. Though he is doubtful whether

the repeal will be effected this session, he is sanguine
that it will be carried during the next annual
assembly of the legislature.[7]

Leaving the government house, with its assembled
wisdom, I repaired to my hotel, where I was
to await the arrival of a friend, who had invited me
to accompany him in a ride a few miles below the
city on the banks of the river. I believe, in all
my letters, I have yet been silent respecting this
hotel; I will, however, while waiting for my equestrian
friend, remedy that deficiency; for true to
your wish, I will write of all and every thing worthy
of notice; and I am half of your mind, that whatever
is worthy the attention of a tourist, merits the
passing record of his pen. “Bishop's hotel,” so
designated from its landlord, has been recently constructed,
and is one of the largest in the Union.
The Tremont possesses more architectural elegance;
and Barnum's, the pride of Baltimore, is a
handsomer structure. In the appearance of Bishop's,
there is nothing imposing, but its height. It has
two fronts, one on Camp, the other on Commonstreet.
It is uniformly, with the exception of an
angular tower, five stories in height; its bar-room
is more than one hundred feet in length, and universally
allowed to be the most splendid in America.
The dining room, immediately over it, on the second
floor, is of the same size; in which from two hundred
and fifty to three hundred dine daily, of whom,
probably, not twenty are French. The table is

burthened with every luxury which can be procured
in this luxurious climate. The servants are numerous,
and with but two or three exceptions, slaves.
They are willing, active, and intelligent. In this
important point, Bishop's hotel is every way superior
to the Tremont. There “pampered menials,”
whose every look and manner speak as plainly as
anything but the tongue can speak, “if you desire
anything of us, sir, be mighty civil, or you may
whistle for it, for be assured, sir, that we are every
whit as good as you.” The insolence of these servants
is already proverbial. But white servants,
any where, and under any circumstances, are far
from agreeable. In this point, and it is by no means
an unimportant one, Bishop's is unequivocally superior
to the Boston palace. With the coloured
servant it is in verity, “Go, and he goeth—Come,
and he cometh—Do this, and he doeth it.”

The sleeping apartments are elegantly furnished,
and carpeted, and well ventilated. There are two
spacious drawing-rooms, contiguous to the magnificent
dining hall, where lounging gentlemen can feel
quite at home; and one of these contains a piano
for the musical. From the top of the tower, which
is one of the most elevated stations in the city, there
is, to repay the fatigue of climbing the “weary,
winding way,” to the summit—a fine panoramic
view of the whole city, with its sombre towers, flat
roofs, long, dark, narrow streets, distant marshes,
and the majestic Mississippi, sweeping proudly
away to the north, and to the south, alive with dashing
steamers, and glancing with white sails. The

horizon, on every side, presents the same low, level,
unrelieved line, that for ever meets the eye, which
way soever it turns in the lower regions of the
Mississippi. A day or two after I arrived here, I
ascended to the top of this tower. The morning
was brilliant, and the atmosphere was so pure, that
distant objects seemed to be viewed through the
purest crystalline medium. I would recommend
every stranger, on his arrival at New-Orleans, to
receive his first general impression of the city, from
this eminence. He will regret, however, equally
with others, that the pleasure he derives from the
prospect cannot be enhanced by the aid of a good
telescope, or even a common ship's spy-glass in
either of which articles, the “lookout” is singularly
deficient; but the enterprise, good taste, and obliging
manner of Mr. Bishop have contributed in all
else, throughout his extensive establishment, to the
comfort, content, and amusement, of his numerous
guests. A peculiarity in this hotel, and in one or
two others here, is the exclusion of ladies from
among the number of boarders; it is, properly, a
bachelor establishment. There are, however, hotels
of high rank in the city, where ladies and families
are accommodated. They are kept by ladies, and
often agreeably unite, with the public character of
a hotel, the pleasures and advantages of social society.
The boarding-house of Madame Wilkinson,
widow of the late Gen. Wilkinson, a lady distinguished
for her talents and accomplishments; that
of Madame Herries, the widow of a titled foreigner,
I believe, in Canal-street, and one or two others
kept in good style, in Chartres-street, are the principal
in the city.

Richardson's, a large hotel on Conti-street, is a
bachelor establishment, where the up-country merchants
usually put up, when they arrive in the city
to purchase goods; though many of them, from
choice or economy, remain as boarders or lodgers
on board the steamers which bring them to New-Orleans,
and on which, with their goods, they return
to their homes. Young unmarried men here, usually
have single furnished rooms, where they lodge,
breakfast, and sup, dining at some hotel. There
are, in some of the streets, long blocks of one story
houses, with but one or two rooms in each, built
purposely to be let out to bachelors. Indeed, there
are neither hotels nor boarding-houses enough to
accommodate one-tenth part of this class of forlorn
bipeds. This independent way of living, in practice
among so large a portion of the citizens and
sojourners, in this city of anomalies, necessarily produces
a peculiarity of character and habits among
its observers, which has its natural and deteriorating
effect upon the general state of society.

18. XVIII.

I INTENDED in my last letter, to give you some
account of an equestrian excursion along the banks
of the river, and of a visit to the new Ursuline convent,
two miles below the city; but a long digression
about hotels and bachelors brought me to the
end of my letter before I could even mention the
subject. I will now fulfil my intention, in this
letter, which will probably be the last you will receive
from me, dated at New-Orleans.

Mounting our horses, at the door of the hotel,
which were accoutred with clinking curbs, flashing
martingales, and high-pummelled Spanish saddles,
covered with blue broadcloth, the covering and
housings being of one piece, as is the fashion here,
we proceeded by a circuitous route to avoid the
crowded front streets, toward the lower faubourg.
In our ride, we passed the banks of the city, most
of which are in Bienville-street or its vicinity.
With but one exception, there is nothing in their
external appearance to distinguish them from the

other ordinary buildings, by which they are surrounded.
The one referred to, whose denomination
I do not recollect, is decidedly one of the handsomest
structures in the south. It is lofty and
extensive, with an imposing front and handsome
columns, and stuccoed, so as to resemble the finest
granite. And so perfect is the resemblance, that
one can only assure himself that it is a deception,
by reflecting that this beautiful material is used
here little except in ornamental work; it being imported
in small quantities from a great distance, by
water, and its transportation being attended with
too much expense to admit of its general adoption,
as a material for building. The episcopal and
presbyterian churches we also passed; both are
plain buildings. Under the latter, an infant school
is kept, which has been but lately organized, and is
already very flourishing. It is under the care of
northerners, as are most schools in this place,
which are not French.

Of the permanent population of this city—which
does not exceed fifty-one or two thousand, of whom
thirty thousand are coloured—between fifteen and
sixteen thousand are Catholics, and nearly six
thousand Protestants; among whom are about
seven hundred communicants. The Catholic communicants
number about six thousand and five
hundred. There are ten Protestant churches, over
which preside but seven or eight clergymen.
Though the number of the former so much exceeds
that of the latter, there are in this city in all, but

six churches and chapels of the Catholic denomination,
in which about twenty-five priests regularly
officiate. There is here but one church to every
three thousand and two hundred inhabitants, the
estimate, for the most religious nations, being a
church and clergyman for about every one thousand
of the population.

As we rode along, I was struck with the appearance
of the peculiar dress worn by the French inhabitants.
The gentlemen, almost without exception,
wear pantaloons of blue cottonade, coarse and
unsightly in its appearance, but which many exquisites
have recently taken a fancy to adopt.
Their coats are seldom well fashioned; narrow,
low collars, large flat buttons, hardly within hail of
each other, and long, narrow skirts being the bon-ton.
Their hats are all oddly shaped, and between
the extremity of their pantaloons and their ill-shaped
shoes, half a yard of blue striped yarn stocking
shocks the fastidious eye. The ladies dress with
taste, but it is French taste; with too much of the
gew-gaw to please the plain republican, and, “by
the same token,” correct taste of a northerner.
Many fine women, with brunette complexions, are
to be seen walking the streets with the air of donnas.
They wear no bonnets, but as a substitute,
fasten a veil to the head; which, as they move,
floats gracefully around them. These are termed
“quadroons,” one quarter of their blood being tinged
with African. I have heard it remarked, that some
of the finest looking women in New-Orleans are

“quadroons.” I know not how true this may be,
but they certainly have large fine eyes, good features,
magnificent forms, and elegantly shaped feet.

If a stranger should feel disposed to judge, whether
the British watch-word, “Beauty and Booty,”
was based on a sufficient consideration, let him promenade
the streets at twilight, and he will be convinced
of the propriety of its first item. Then,
windows, balconies, and doors, are alive with bright
eyes, glancing scarfs, gay, bonnetless girls, playing
children, and happy groups of every age. Street
after street, square after square, will still present to
him the same delightful scene of happy faces, and
merry voices. The whole fair population seem to
have abandoned their houses for the open air. How
the bachelors of New-Orleans thread their way at
sunset, through these brilliant groups of dark, sparkling
eyes, without being burned to a cinder, passeth
my comprehension. Every Sunday evening there
is an extra turn out, when the whole city may be
found promenading the noble Levée. This is an
opportunity, which no stranger should omit, to observe
the citizens under a new aspect. A ramble
through the various streets, a few twilights successively,
and a promenade on the Levée, on a Sabbath
evening, will bring all the fair Creoles of the
city, in review before him, and if that will not repay
him for his trouble, let him go play “dominos!”

In our ride, we passed the commercial library.
Its collection is valuable but not large. By the politeness

of Monsieur D. I received a card for admittance
during my stay; and I have found it an
agreeable oasis of rest, after rambling for hours
about the city. Its advantages in a place like this,
where there are no circulating libraries, are very
great. Passing the rail-way, in the vicinity of
which is the Gentilly road, the famous duelling
ground, we arrived at the “cotton press,” a short
distance below, on the left, fronting the river. It
is a very extensive brick building with wings,
having a yard in the rear, capable of containing fifty
thousand bales of cotton. There is a rail-way, extending
from the river to the press, on which the
cotton is conveyed from the steamers, passing under
a lofty arched way through the centre of the building,
to the yard. All the cotton brought down the
river, in addition to its original compression by
hand, as it is baled up on the plantations, is again
compressed by steam here, which diminishes the
bale cubically, nearly one third. A ship can consequently
take many more bales, than if the cotton
were not thus compressed. There are, also, one or
two more steam cotton-presses in the upper part of
the city, which I have not had an opportunity of
visiting. After passing this last building we overtook
a cart loaded with negroes, proceeding to the
country. To our inquiry, one of them answered,—
while the others exhibited ivory enough to sheathe
a ship's bottom, “We Wirginny niggurs, Massas:
new massa, he juss buy us, and we be gwine to he
plantation. Plenty sugar dere, massa!” They all
appeared contented and happy, and highly elated at
their sweet anticipations. Say not that the slavery
of the Louisiana negroes is a bitter draught.

An old, plain, unassuming, and apparently deserted
building, a little retired from the road and half-hidden
in shrubbery, next attracted our attention.
Over its front was a sign informing us that it was
the “Lyceum pour les jeunes gens.” We could
not learn whether it had teacher or pupil, but from
appearances we inferred that it was minus both.
A padre, in the awkward black gown peculiar to
his order, which is seldom laid aside out of doors,
passed just at this time; and to our inquiries respecting
the lyceum, though framed, me judice, in
very respectable lingua Franca, he deigned us no
other reply than a pleasant smile, and a low-toned,
sonorous “Benedicite.” With others, we were
equally unsuccessful. One, of whom we inquired,
and who appeared as though he might find an amber-stone
among a heap of pebbles, if he were previously
informed that it was the colour of whiskey
—replied, “Why, I dont cozactly know, stranngers,
seeing I aint used to readin', overmuch, but to my
eye, it looks consarnedly like a tavern-sign.”

“Why do you think so, my man?”

“Why, you see, I can't, somehow, make out the
first part; but the last word spells gin, as slick as a
tallow whistle—I say, strannger, ye haint got nothin
o' no small-sized piccaiune about ye, have ye?”—
We threw our intelligent informant, who was no
doubt some stray prodigal son from old Kentuck or
down east—though his ignorance of the art of

reading belied his country—the required fee for his
information, and continued our ride. We were now
quite out of the city; the noble Mississippi rolled
proudly toward the sea on our right, its banks unrelieved
by a single vessel:—while on our left, embowered
in shrubbery, public and private buildings
lined the road, which wound pleasantly along the
level borders of the river.

Shortly after leaving the Lyceum, we noticed on
our left, at some distance from the road, a large
building, of more respectable appearance and dimensions
than the last. A sign here too informed
us, whatever our ingenious literary sign-reader might
have rendered it, that there was the “College Washington.”
Our information respecting this institution
was in every respect as satisfactory as that which
we had obtained concerning the Lyceum. Not an
individual urchin, or grave instructer, was to be seen
at the windows, or within the precincts. Its halls
were silent and deserted. I have made inquiries,
since I returned, of old residents, respecting it. No
one knows any thing of it. Some may have heard
there was such a college. Some may even have seen
the sign, in passing: but the majority learned for
the first time, from my inquiries, that there was
such an institution in existence. So we are all
equally wise respecting it. Passing beautiful cottages,
partially hidden in foliage, tasteful villas, and
deserted mansions, alternately, our attention was
attracted by a pretty residence, far from the road,
at the extremity of an extensive grass-plat, void of
shrub or any token of horticultural taste. Had the

grounds been ornamented, like all others in the
vicinity, with shrubbery, it would have been one of
the loveliest residences on the road; but, as it was,
its aspect was dreary. We were informed that it
was the residence of the British consul; but he
seems to have left his national passion for ornamental
gardening, shrubbery walks, and park-like
grounds, at home; denying himself their luxurious
shade and agreeable beauty, in a climate where,
alone, they are really necessary for comfort—where
the cool covert of a thickly foliaged tree is as great
a luxury to a northerner, as a welling fountain in
the desert to the fainting Arab.

In a short ride from the residence of the consul,
we arrived opposite to the Ursuline convent, a
very large and handsome two-story edifice, with a
high Spanish roof, heavy cornices, deep windows,
half concealed by the foliage of orange and lemon
trees, and stuccoed, in imitation of rough white
marble. Three other buildings, of the same size,
extended at the rear of this main building, forming
three sides of the court of the convent, of which
area this formed the fourth, each building fronting
within upon the court, as well as without. There
are about seventy young ladies pursuing a course
of education here—some as boarders, and others as
day scholars. The boarders are kept very rigidly.
They are permitted to leave the convent, to visit
friends in the city, if by permission of parents, but
once a month. None are allowed to see them, unless
they first obtain written permission, from the
parents or guardians of the young ladies.

As my friend had an errand at the convent, we
called. Proceeding down a long avenue to the portal
on the right side of the grounds, we entered, and
applied our riding whips to the door for admission.
We were questioned by an unseen querist, as to
our business there, as are all visiters. The voice
issued from a tin plate, perforated with innumerable
little holes, and resembling a colander fixed in the
wall, on one side of the entrance. If the visiters
give a good account of themselves, and can show
good cause why they should speak with any of the
young ladies, they are told to open the door at the
left; whereupon, they find themselves in a long,
dimly-lighted apartment, without any article of furniture,
except a backless form. Three sides of this
room are like any other—but, the fourth is open
to the inner court, and latticed from the ceiling to
the floor, like a summer-house. Approaching the
lattice, the visiter, by placing his eye to the apertures,
has a full view of the interior, and the three
inner fronts of the convent. A double cloister extends
above and below, and around the whole court;
where the young ladies may be seen walking, studying,
or amusing themselves. She, for whom the
visiter has inquired, now approaches the grate demurely
by the side of one of the elderly ladies of
the sisterhood; and the visiter, placing his lips to
an aperture, as to the mouth of a speaking trumpet,
must address her, and thus carry on his conversation;
while the elder nun stands within earshot,
that peradventure she may thereby be edified.

The young ladies are here well and thoroughly

educated;—even dancing is not prohibited, and is
taught by a professor from the city. The religious
exercises of the convent are of course Roman Catholic;
but no farther than the daily routine of formal
religious services, are the tenets of their faith
inculcated upon the minds of the pupils. Some
Protestant young ladies, allured by the romantic
and imposing character of the Catholic religion,
embrace it: but a few years after leaving the convent,
are generally sufficient to efface their new faith
and bring them back to the religion of their childhood.
But the instances are very rare in which a
Protestant becomes a religieuse, or leaves the convent
a Catholic: though a great portion of the young
ladies under the charge of the Ursuline sisterhood
are of Protestant parentage.

The remainder of our ride was past orange gardens
and French villas, so like all we had passed
nearer the city, that they presented no variety; after
riding a mile below the convent, we turned our
horses' heads back to the city, and in less than an
hour arrived at our hotel just in time to sit down to
one of Bishop's sumptuous dinners.

19. XIX.

I HAVE just returned from a visit to the scene of
American resolution and individual renown—the
battle-ground of New-Orleans. The Aceldama,
where one warrior-chief drove his triumphal car
over the grave of another—the field of “fame and
of glory” from which the “hero of two wars” plucked
the chaplet which encircles his brow, and the
éclat which has elevated him to a throne!—

The field of battle lies between five and six miles
below the city, on the left bank, on the New-Orleans
side of the river. The road conducting us to it,
wound pleasantly along the Levée; its unvarying
level relieved by delightful gardens, and pleasant
country seats—(one of which, constructed like a
Chinese villa, struck me as eminently tasteful and
picturesque)—skirting it upon one side, and by the
noble, lake-like Mississippi on the other, which,
bearing upon its waveless bosom a hundred white
sails, and a solitary tow-boat leading, like a conqueror,
a fleet in her train—rolled silently and majestically

past to the ocean. When, in our own
estimation, and, no doubt, in that of our horses, we
had accomplished the prescribed two leagues, we
reined up at a steam saw-mill, erected and in full
operation on the road-side, and inquired for some
directions to the spot—not discerning in the peaceful
plantations before us, any indications of the
scene of so fierce a struggle as that which took
place, when England and America met in proud
array, and the military standards of each gallantly
waved to the “battle and the breeze.” Although,
on ascending the river in the ship, I obtained a
moonlight glance of the spot, I received no impression
of its locale> sufficiently accurate to enable me
to recognise it under different circumstances. An
extensive, level field was spread out before us, apparently
the peaceful domain of some planter, who
probably resided in a little piazza-girted cottage
which stood on the banks of the river. But this
field, we at once decided, could not be the battle-field—so
quiet and farm-like it reposed. “There,”
was our reflection, “armies can never have met!
there, warriors can never have stalked in the pride
of victory with
Yet peaceful as it slumbered there, that domain had
once rung with the clangor of war. It was the battle-field!
But silence now reigned

In reply to our inquiries, made of one apparently
superintending the steam-works, we received simply
the tacit “Follow me gentlemen!” We gladly accommodated
the paces of our spirited horses to
those of our obliging and very practical informant,
who alertly preceded us, blessing the stars which
had given us so unexpectedly a cicerone, who, from
his vicinity to the spot must be au fait in all the
interesting minutiæ of so celebrated a place. Following
our guide a few hundred yards farther down
the river-road, we passed on the left hand a one
story wooden dwelling-house situated at a short distance
back from the road, having a gallery, or portico
in front, and elevated upon a basement story of
brick, like most other houses built immediately on
the river. This, our guide informed us, was “the
house occupied by General Jackson as head-quarters:
and there,” he continued, pointing to a planter's
residence two or three miles farther down the
river, “is the mansion-house of General, (late
governor, Villeré) which was occupied by Sir Edward
Packenham as the head-quarters of the British
army.”

“But the battle-ground—where is that sir?” we
inquired, as he silently continued his rapid walk in
advance of us.

“There it is,” he replied after walking on a minute
or two longer in silence, and turning the corner
of a narrow, fenced lane which extended from the
river to the forest-covered marshes—“there it is,
gentlemen,”—and at the same time extended his
arm in the direction of the peaceful plain, which we

had before observed,—spread out like a carpet, it
was so very level—till it terminated in the distant
forests, by which and the river it was nearly enclosed.
Riding a quarter of a mile down the lane
we dismounted, and leaving our horses in the road,
sprang over a fence, and in a few seconds stood
upon the American breast-works!

“When,” said a mercurial friend lately, in describing
his feelings on first standing upon the same
spot—“when I leaped upon the embankment, my
first impulse was to give vent to my excited feelings
by a shout that might have awakened the
mailed sleepers from their sleep of death.” Our
emotions—for strong and strange emotions will be
irresistibly excited in the breast of every one, “to
war's dark scenes unused,” on first beholding the
scene of a sanguinary conflict, between man and
man, whether it be grisly with carnage, pleasantly
waving with the yellow harvest, or carpeted with
green—our emotions, though perhaps equally deep,
exhibited themselves very differently. For some
moments, after gaining our position, we stood wrapped
in silence. The wild and terrible scenes of
which the ground we trod had been the theatre,
passed vividly before my mind with almost the distinctness
of reality, impressing it with reflections of
a deep and solemn character. I stood upon the
graves of the fallen! Every footfall disturbed human
ashes! Human dust gathered upon our shoes
as the dust of the plain! My thoughts were too full
for utterance. “On the very spot where I stand”—
thought I, “some gallant fellow poured out the best

blood of his heart! Here, past me, and around me,
flowed the sanguinary tide of death!—The fierce
battle-cry—the bray of trumpets—the ringing of
steel on steel—the roar of artillery hurling leaden
and iron hail against human breasts—the rattling of
musketry—the shouts of the victor, and the groans
of the wounded, were here mingled—a whirlwind
of noise and death!”

“Under those two oaks, which you see about
half a mile over the field, Sir Edward was borne,
by his retreating soldiers, to die”—said our guide,
suddenly interrupting my momentary reverie. I
looked in the direction indicated by his finger, and
my eyes rested upon a venerable oak, towering in
solitary grandeur over the field, and overshadowing
the graves of the slain, who, in great numbers, had
been sepultured beneath its shadow. How many
eyes were fixed, with the fond recollection of their
village homes amid clustering oaks in distant England,
upon this noble tree—which, in a few moments,
amid the howl of war, were closed for ever
in the sleep of the dead! Of how many last looks
were its branches the repositories! How many
manly sighs were wafted toward its waving summit
from the breast of many a brave man, who was
never more to behold the wave of a green tree upon
the pleasant earth!

It has been stated that Sir Edward Packenham
fell, and was buried under this oak, or these oaks,
(for I believe there are two,) but I have been informed,
since my return from the field, by a gentleman
who was commander of a troop of horse in the

action, that when the British retreated, he saw from
the parapet the body of General Packenham lying
alone upon the ground, surrounded by the dead and
wounded, readily distinguishable by its uniform;
and, that during the armistice for the burial of the
dead, he saw his body borne from the field by the
British soldiers, who afterward conveyed it with
them in their retreat to their fleet.

The rampart of earth upon which we stood, presented
very little the appearance of having ever
been a defence for three thousand breasts; resembling
rather one of the numerous dikes constructed
on the plantations near the river, to drain the very
marshy soil which abounds in this region, than the
military defences of a field of battle. It was a
grassy embankment, extending, with the exception
of an angle near the forest—about a mile in a
straight line from the river to the cypress swamps
in the rear; four feet high, and five or six feet
broad. At the time of the battle it was the height
of a man, and somewhat broader than at present,
and along the whole front ran a fossé, containing
five feet of water, and of the same breadth as the
parapet. This was now nearly filled with earth,
and could easily be leaped over at any point. The
embankment throughout the whole extent is much
worn, indented and, occasionally, levelled with the
surface of the plain. Upon the top of it, before the
battle, eight batteries were erected, with embrasures
of cotton bales, piled transversely. Under cover of
this friendly embankment, the Americans lay perdus,

but not idle, during the greater portion of the
battle.

A daring Tennessean, with a blanket tied round
him, and a hat with a brim of enormous breadth,
who seemed to be fighting “on his own hook,” disdaining
to raise his rifle over the bank of earth and
fire, in safety to his person, like his more wary fellow
soldiers, chose to spring, every time he fired,
upon the breastwork, where, balancing himself, he
would bring his rifle to his cheek, throw back his
broad brim, take sight and fire, while the enemy
were advancing to the attack, as deliberately as
though shooting at a herd of deer; then leaping
down on the inner side, he would reload, mount the
works, cock his beaver, take aim, and crack again.
“This he did,” said an English officer, who was
taken prisoner by him, and who laughingly related
it as a good anecdote to Captain D *****, my informant
above alluded to—“five times in rapid succession,
as I advanced at the head of my company,
and though the grape whistled through the air over
our heads, for the life of me I could not help smiling
at his grotesque demi-savage, demi-quaker figure,
as he threw back the broad flap of his castor to obtain
a fair sight—deliberately raised his rifle—shut
his left eye, and blazed away at us. I verily believe
he brought down one of my men at every
shot.”

As the British resolutely advanced, though columns
fell like the tall grain before the sickle at the
fire of the Americans, this same officer approached

at the head of his brave grenadiers amid the rolling
fire of musketry from the lines of his unseen foes,
undaunted and untouched. “Advance, my men!”
he shouted as he reached the edge of the fossé—
“follow me!” and sword in hand he leaped the
ditch, and turning amidst the roar and flame of a
hundred muskets to encourage his men, beheld to
his surprise but a single man of his company upon
his feet—more than fifty brave fellows, whom he
had so gallantly led on to the attack, had been shot
down. As he was about to leap back from his dangerous
situation, his sword was shivered in his grasp
by a rifle ball, and at the same instant the daring
Tennessean sprang upon the parapet and levelled
his deadly weapon at his breast, calmly observing,
“Surrender, strannger—or, I may perforate ye!”
“Chagrined,” said the officer, at the close of his
recital, “I was compelled to deliver to the bold fellow
my mutilated sword, and pass over into the
American lines.”

“Here,” said our guide and cicerone, advancing a
few paces up the embankment, and placing his foot
emphatically upon the ground, “here fell Renie.”

This gallant man, with the calf of his leg shot
away by a cannon-ball, leaped upon the breastworks
with a shout of exultation, and was immediately
shot through the heart, by an American private.
Packenham, the favourite elêve of Wellington,
and the “beau ideal” of a British soldier, after
receiving a second wound, while attempting to rally
his broken columns, fell directly in front of our position,

not far from where Renie received his death-wound.
In the disorder and panic of the first retreat
of the British, he was left bleeding and forsaken
among the dead and dying. Not far from this
melancholy spot, Gibbes received his mortal wound;
and near the place where this gallant officer fell,
one of the staff of the English general was also shot
down. The whole field was fruitful with scenes of
thrilling interest. I should weary you by individualizing
them. There was scarcely a spot on
which I could cast my eyes, where a soldier had
not poured out his life-blood. “As I stood upon
the breast-works,” said Captain Dunbar, “after the
action, the field of battle before me was so thickly
strewn with dead bodies, that I could have walked
fifty yards over them without placing my foot upon
the ground.” How revolting the sight of a field
thus sown must be to human nature! Man must
indeed be humbled at such a spectacle.

We walked slowly over the ground, which annually
waves with undulating harvests of the rich
cane. Our guide was intelligent and sufficiently
communicative without being garrulous. He was
familiar with every interesting fact associated with
the spot, and by his correct information rendered
our visit both more satisfactory and agreeable than
it otherwise would have been.

“Here gentilhommes, j'ai findé some bullet for
you to buy,” shouted a little French mulatto at the
top of his voice, who, among other boys of various
hues, had followed us to the field, “me, j'ai trop—

too much;” and on reaching us, this double-tongued
urchin turned his pockets inside out and discharged
upon the ground a load of rusty grape shot, bullets,
and fragments of lead—his little stock in trade,
some, if not all of which, I surmised, had been manufactured
for the occasion.

“Did you find them on the battle-ground, gar
çon?”

“Iss—oui, Messieurs, me did, de long-temps.”

I was about to charge him with having prepared
his pockets before leaving home, when Mr. C. exhibited
a grape shot that he had picked from the
dark soil in which it was half buried. I bought for
a piccaiune,[8] the smallest currency of the country,
the “load of grape,” and we pursued our walk over
the field, listening with much interest to the communications
of our guide, conjuring up the past
scenes of strife and searching for balls; which by
and by began to thicken upon us so fast, that we
were disposed to attribute a generative principle to
grape-shot. We were told by our cicerone that they
were found in great numbers by the ploughmen, and
disposed of to curious visiters. On inquiring of him
if false ones were not imposed upon the unsuspecting,
he replied “No—there is no need of that—
there is an abundance of those which are genuine.”

“I'm got half a peck on um to hum, mysef, I'se
found,” exclaimed a little negro in a voice that
sounded like the creaking of a shoe, bolting off at

the same time for the treasure, like one of his own
cannon-balls. What appalling evidence is this
abundance of leaden and iron hail strewed over the
field, of the terrible character of that war-storm
which swept so fearfully over it. Flattened and
round balls, grape of various sizes, and non-descript
bits of iron were the principal objects picked up in
our stroll over the ground.

The night was rapidly approching—for we had
lingered long on this interesting spot—and precluded
our visit to the oaks, to which it had been our
intention to extend our walk; and as we turned to
retrace our steps with our pockets heavy with
metal, something rang to the touch of my foot,
which, on lifting and cleansing it from the loam, we
discovered to be the butt-piece of a musket. As
this was the most valuable relic which the field afforded,
C. was invested with it, for the purpose of
placing it in the museum of Codman's amateur collection,
for the benefit of the curious, when he returns
to that land of curious bipeds, where such
kind of mementos are duly estimated. Twilight
had already commenced, as, advancing over the
same ground across which the gallant Packenham
led his veteran army, we fearlessly leaped the fossé
and, unresisted, ascended the parapet. Hastening
to free our impatient horses from their thraldom, we
mounted them, and—not forgetting a suitable douceur,
by way of “a consideration” to our obliging
cicerone—spurred for the city. As we arrived at
the head of the lane and emerged again upon the
high-way, I paused for an instant upon the summit
of the Levée to take a last view of the battle-ground

which lay in calm repose under the gathering twilight—challenging
the strongest exercise of the imagination
to believe it ever to have borne other than
its present rural character, or echoed to other sounds
than the whistle of the careless slave as he cut the
luxuriant cane, the gun of the sportsman, or the
melancholy song of the plough-boy.

20. XX.

The spacious bar-room of our magnificent hotel,
as I descended to it on Sabbath morning, resounded
to the footsteps of a hundred gentlemen, some promenading
and in earnest conversation—some hastening
to, or lounging about the bar, that magnet of
attraction to thirsty spirits, on which was displayed
a row of rapidly disappearing glasses, containing
the tempting, green-leaved, mint-julep—while, along
the sides of the large room, or clustered around the
tall, black columns, which extended through the
centre of the hall, were others, some tête à tête, and
others again smoking, and sipping in quiet their
morning potation. A few, with legs à la Trollope,
upon the tables, were reading stray papers, and at
the farther extremity of the hall, standing around a

lofty desk, were ranks of merchants similarly engaged.
My northern friend, with whom I had
planned a visit to the cathedral, met me at the door
of the hotel, around which, upon the side-walk, was
gathered a knot of fashionably dressed, cane-wearing
young men, talking, all together, of a duel that
had taken place, or was about to “come off,” we
could not ascertain exactly which, from the few
words heard in passing to the street. This, by the
by, is a frequent theme of conversation here, and
too often based upon facts to be one of light moment.[9]

The morning was cloudless and beautiful. The
air was mild, and for the city, elastic and exhilarating.
The sun shone down warm and cheerfully,
enlivening the spirits, and making all things glad
with its brightness. The whole city had come
forth into the streets to enjoy it; and as we passed
from Camp-steet across Canal, into Chartres-street,
all the gay inhabitants, one would verily believe,
had turned out as to a gala. The long, narrow

streets were thronged with moving multitudes, and
flashing with scarfs, ribbons, and feathers. Children,
with large expressive eyes, and clustering
locks, their heads surmounted with tasselled caps
and fancy hats, arrayed in their “brightest and
best,” bounded along behind their more soberly arrayed,
but not less gay parents, followed by gaudily
dressed slaves, who chattered incessantly with half-suppressed
laughter to their acquaintances on the
opposite trottoir. Clerks, just such looking young
men as you will meet on Sabbath mornings in
Broadway, or Cornhill—released from their six
days' confinement—lounged by us arm in arm, as
fine as the tailor and hair-dresser could make them.
Crowds, or gangs of American and English sailors,
mingling most companionably, on a cruise through
the city, rolled jollily along—the same careless independent
fellows that they are all the world over.
I have observed that in foreign ports, the seamen
of these once hostile nations link together like brothers.
This is as it should be. The good feeling
existing generally among all classes of Americans
toward the mother country, must be gratifying both
to reflecting Americans and to Englishmen. These
sons of Neptune were all dressed nearly alike in
blue jackets, and full white trowsers, with black
silk handkerchiefs knotted carelessly around their
necks, and confined by some nautical breast-pin, in
the shape of a foul anchor, a ship under her three
top-sails, or plain gold hearts, pierced by arrows.
Sailors are very sentimental fellows on shore! In
direct contrast to these frank-looking, open-browed
tars, who yawed along the side-walk, as a landsman
would walk on a ship's deck at sea, we passed,
near the head of Bienville-street, a straggling crew
of some Spanish trader, clothed in tarry pantaloons
and woollen shirts, and girt about with red and blue
sashes, bucanier fashion, with filthy black whiskers,
and stealthy glowing eyes, who glided warily along
with lowering brows. The unsailor-like French
sailor—the half horse and half alligator Kentucky
boatman—the gentlemanly, carelessly-dressed cotton
planter—the pale valetudinarian, from the north,
whose deep sunken eye told of suicidal vigils over
the midnight lamp—a noble looking foreigner, and
a wretched beggar—a troop of Swiss emigrants,
from the grandsire to the infant, and a gang of
Erin's toil-worn exiles—all mingled en masse—swept
along in this living current; while, gazing down upon
the moving multitude from lofty balconies, were
clusters of bright eyes, and sunny faces flashed
from every window.

As we approached the cathedral, a dark-hued and
finely moulded quadroon, with only a flowing veil
upon her head, glided majestically past us. The elegant
olive-browned Louisianese—the rosy-cheeked
maiden from La belle riviere—the Parisian gentilhomme—a
dignified, light-mustachoed palsgrave,
and a portly sea-captain—the haughty Englishman
and prouder southerner—a blanketed Choctaw, and
a negro in uniform—slaves and freed-men of every
shade, elbowed each other very familiarly as they
traversed in various directions the crowded side-walks.

Crossing rue St. Louis, we came in collision
with a party of gens d'armes with drawn swords in
their hands, which they used as walking canes, leading
an unlucky culprit to the callaboose—that
“black-hole” of the city. Soldiers in splendid uniforms,
with clashing and jingling accoutrements,
were continually hurrying past us to parade. At
the corner of Toulouse-street we met a straggling
procession of bare-headed, sturdy-looking priests,
in soiled black surplices and fashionable boots, preceded
by half a dozen white-robed boys, bare-legged
and dirty. By this dignified procession, among
which the crowd promiscuously mingled as they
passed along, and whose august approach is usually
notified by the jingling of the “sacring bell,” was
borne the sacred “host.” They hastily passed us,
shoved and jostled by the crowd, who scarcely gave
way to them as they hastened on their ghostly message.
These things are done differently in Buenos
Ayres or Rio Janeiro, where such a procession is
escorted by an armed guard, and a bayonet thrust,
or a night in a Spanish prison, is the penalty for
neglecting to genuflect, or uncover the heretical
head. As we issued from Chartres-street—where
all “nations and kingdoms and tongues” seemed
to have united to form its pageant of life—upon the
esplanade in front of the cathedral, we were surprised
by the sound of martial music pealing clearly
above the confusion of tongues, the tramp of feet,
and the rattling of carriages. On and around the
noble green, soldiers in various uniforms, some of
them of a gorgeous and splendid description, were

assembling for parade. Members of the creole
regiment—the finest body of military men I ever
beheld, with the exception of a Brazilian regiment
of blacks—were rapidly marshalling in the square.
And mounted huzzars, with lofty caps and in glittering
mail, were thundering in from the various streets,
their spurs, chains and sabres, ringing and jingling
warlike music, as they dashed up to the rendezvous.

At the head of this noble square, so variegated
and tumultuous with its dazzling mimicry of war,
rose in solemn and imposing grandeur the venerable
cathedral, lifting its heavy towers high above the
emmet-crowd beneath. Its doors, in front of which
was extended a line of carriages, were thronged
with a motley crowd, whose attention was equally
divided between the religious ceremonies within the
temple and the military display without. We forced
our way through the mass, which was composed of
strangers like ourselves—casual spectators—servants—hack-drivers—fruit
sellers, and some few,
who, like the publican, worshipped “afar off.”

It was the celebration of the Eucharist. Within,
crowds were kneeling upon the pavement under the
corridor and along the aisles—some in attitudes of
the profoundest humility and awe. Others were
kneeling, as nominal Protestants stand in prayer,
without intention or feeling of humility; but merely
assuming the posture as a matter of form. Among
these last were many young Frenchmen, whose
pantaloons were kept from soiling by white handkerchiefs
as they kneeled, playing with their watch-guards,
twirling their narrow-brimmed silk hats, or

gazing idly about over the prostrate multitude.
Here and there kneeled a fine female figure; and
dark eyes from artfully arranged veils wandered
every where but over the missal, clasped in unconscious
fingers. At the base of a massive column
two fair girls, kneeling side by side, were laughingly
whispering together. But there were also
venerable sires with locks of snow, and aged matrons,
and manly forms of men, and graceful women,
maidens and children, who bowed with their faces
to the ground in deep devotion. As we entered,
the solemn peal of an organ, mingled with the deep
toned voices of the priests chanting the imposing
mass, rolled over the prostrate assembly; at the
same moment the host was elevated and the multitude,
bowing their foreheads to the pavement, profoundly
adored this Roman schechinah, or visible
presence of the Saviour.

Having, with some difficulty, worked our way
through the worshippers, who, after the solemn
service of the consecration of the bread and wine
was finished, arose from their knees, we gained an
eligible situation by one of the pillars which support
the vaulted roof, and there took our post of observation.
A marble font of holy water stood near
us on our right hand, into which all true Catholics
who entered or departed from the church, dipped
the tip of a finger, with the greatest possible veneration;
and therewith—the while moving their lips
with a brief, indistinctly-heard prayer—crossed
themselves upon both the forehead and the breast.
This ceremony was also performed by proxy. A

very handsome French lady entered the church,
while we leaned against the column, and advancing
directly to the font, dipped her ungloved finger into
the consecrated laver, made the sign of the cross
first upon her own fine forehead, and then turning,
stooped down and crossed affectionately and prayerfully
the pure, olive brows of two beautiful little
girls who followed her, and the forehead of an infant
borne in the arms of a slave; who, dipping her tawny
fingers in the water, blessed her own black forehead;
and then all passed up the aisle toward the
altar—a sanctified family! How like infant baptism,
this beautiful and affecting little scene of a
mother thus blessing in the sincerity of her heart,
her innocent offspring! White, black, and yellow—
the rich and the poor, the freeman and slave, all
dipped in the same font—were all blessed by the
same water. A beautiful emblem of the undistinguishing
blood of the Saviour of the world!

Not far from this holy vessel, behind a table or
temporary altar, sat a man with a scowling brow
and a superstitious eye, coarsely dressed, without
vest or cravat. Before him lay a large salver strewed
in great profusion with pieces of silver coin from
a bit to a dollar. On the centre, and only part of
the waiter not piled with money, lay a silver crucifix.
At the moment this display caught our eyes,
and before we had time to form any conjectures as
to its object, a mulatress gave us the desired explanation.
Crossing from the broad aisle of the
church, she reverently approached the spot and
kneeling before the altar, added a quarter of a dollar

to the glittering pile, and bending over, kissed first
the feet, then the knees, hands, and wounded side
of the image, while real tears flowed down her saffron
cheeks. Elevating her prostrate form, she
passed to the font, dipped her finger in the holy water
and disappeared amid the crowd at the door. A
gay demoiselle tripping lightly past us, bent on one
knee before the waiter, threw down upon it a heavy
piece of silver, and, less humble than the one who
had preceded her, imprinted a kiss upon the metal
lips of the image and glided from the cathedral.
She was followed by a lame negro, darker than
Othello, uglier and more clumsy than Caliban, who
for a piccaiune, which tinkled upon the salver, had
the privilege of saluting the senseless image from
head to foot in the most devotional and lavish manner.
A little child, led by its nurse, followed, and
timidly, at the direction of its coloured governess,
kissed the calm and expansive forehead of the
sculptured idol. During the half hour we remained,
there was a continual flow of the current of devotees
to this spot, in their way to and from the high altar.
But I observed that ten blacks approached the crucifix
for every white!

This altar with its enriched salver is merely a
Roman Catholic “contribution-box,”—a new way
of doing an old thing. Some of the Protestant
churches resound with a sacred hymn, or the voice
of the clergyman reading a portion of the liturgy or
discipline, calculated to inspire charitable feelings,
while the contribution-box or bag makes its begging
tour among the pews. In the cathedral the same

feelings are excited by an appeal to the senses
through the silent exhibition of the sufferings of the
Redeemer. With one, the ear is the road to the
heart, with the other, the eye; but if it is only
reached, it were useless to quibble about the medium
of application.

I lingered long after the great body of the congregation
had departed. Here and there, before a
favourite shrine—the tutelary guardian of the devotee—kneeled
only a solitary individual. Close by
my side, before the pictured representation of a
martyrdom, bent a female form enveloped in mourning
robes, her features concealed in the folds of a
rich black veil. Far off, before the distant shrine
of the Virgin Mother, knelt a very old man engaged
in inaudible prayer, with his head pressed upon the
cold stone pavement. Slowly and reflectingly I
paced the deserted aisles toward the high altar,
which stood in the midst of a splendid and dazzling
creation of gold and silver, rich colouring, architectural
finery, and gorgeous decorations, burning tapers,
and candlesticks like silver pillars; the whole
extending from the pavement to the ceiling, and all
so mingled and confused in the religious gloom of
the church, that I was unable to analyse or form
any distinct idea of it. But the coup d'œil was unrivalled
by any display I had ever seen in an American
temple.

At the lower termination of the side aisles of the
cathedral, stood dark mahogany confessionals, with
blinds at the sides—reminding one of sentry boxes.
These, however, were deserted and apparently seldom

occupied. Sins must be diminished here, or
penitents have grown more discreet than in former
times! In a little while the cathedral, save by a
poor woman kneeling devoutly before a wretched
picture, which I took to be a representation of the
martyrdom of saint Peter, became silent and deserted.
While gazing upon the image of the Virgin Mary,
arrayed like a prima donna, and profusely decorated
with finery, standing pensively within an isolated
niche, to the left of the grand altar, a slight noise,
and the simultaneous agitation of a curtain, drew
my attention to the entrance of a trio of young
ladies, through a side door hitherto concealed behind
the arras, preceded by an elderly brown-complexioned
lady, of the most duenna-like physiognomy
and bearing. Without noticing the presence
of a stranger and a heretic—for I was gazing most
undevoutly and heretically upon the jewelled image
before me as they entered—they dipped the tips of
their fingers in a font of holy water which stood by
the entrance—passed into the centre aisle in front
of the great crucifix, and kneeling in a cluster upon
a rich carpet, spread upon the pavement over the
crypts of the distinguished dead, by a female slave
who attended them, were at once engaged in the
most absorbing devotion. After a short period they
arose—bowed sweepingly to the crucifix, genuflected
most gracefully with a sort of familiar nod of
recognition before the shrine of the Virgin, and
moistening the ends of their fingers again in the
marble basin, quietly disappeared.

I was now alone in the vast building. Though

the current of human life flowed around its walls,
with a great tumult of mingled sounds, yet only a
noise, like the faintly heard murmuring of distant
surf, penetrated its massive walls, and broke a silence
like that of the grave which reigned within.
The illustrious dead slept beneath the hollow pavement,
which echoed to my foot-fall like a vaulted
sepulchre. The ghastly images of slaughtered men
looked down upon me from the walls, with agony
depicted on their pale and unearthly countenances,
seen indistinctly through the dim twilight of the
place. The melancholy tapers burned faintly before
the deserted shrines, increasing, rather than
illuminating the gloom of the venerable temple.
Gradually, under the combined influence of these
gloomy objects, I felt a solemnity stealing over me,
awed and depressed by the tomb-like repose that
reigned around. Suddenly the clear light of noon-day
flashed in through the drawn curtain, and another
worshipper entered. Turning to take a last
glance at the interior of this imposing fabric, so
well calculated to excite the religious feelings of
even a descendant of the Puritans, I drew aside the
curtain, and the next moment was involved in the
life, bustle, and tumult of the streets of a large city,
whose noise, confusion, and bright sunshine contrasted
strangely with the perfect stillness and “dim
religious light” of the cathedral.

21. XXI.

“Do you attend the Theatre d'Orleans to night?”
inquired a young Bostonian, forgetful of his orthodox
habits—last Sabbath evening, twirling while he
spoke a ticket in his fingers—“you know the maxim—when
one is in Rome”—

“I have not been here quite long enough yet to
apply the rule,” said I; “is not the theatre open on
other evenings of the week?” “Very seldom,” he
replied, “unless in the gayest part of the season—
though I believe there is to be a performance some
night this week; I will ascertain when and accompany
you.”

You are aware that the rituals, or established
forms of the Roman church, do not prohibit amusements
on this sacred day. The Sabbath, consequently,
in a city, the majority of whose inhabitants
are Catholics, is not observed as in the estimation
of New-Englanders, or Protestants it should be.
The lively Orleanese defend the custom of crowding
their theatres, attending military parades, assembling

in ball-rooms, and mingling in the dangerous
masquerade on this day, by wielding the scriptural
weapon—“the Sabbath was made for man—not
man for the Sabbath;” and then making their own
inductions, they argue that the Sabbath is, literally,
as the term imports, a day of rest, and not a day of
religious labour. They farther argue, that religion
was bestowed upon man, not to lessen, but to augment
his happiness—and that it ought therefore to
infuse a spirit of cheerfulness and hilarity into the
mind—for cheerfulness is the twin-sister of religion.

Last evening, as I entered my room, after a visit
to two noble packet ships just arrived from New-York,
which as nearly resemble “floating palaces”
as any thing not described in the Arabian tales
well can—I discovered, lying upon my table, a
ticket for the American or Camp-street theatre,
folded in a narrow slip of a play-bill, which informed
me that the laughable entertainment of the “Three
Hunchbacks,” with the interesting play of “Cinderella,”
was to constitute the performance of the night:
Cinderella, that tale which, with Blue Beard, the
Forty Thieves, and some others, has such charms
for children, and which, represented on the stage,
has the power to lead stern man, with softened feelings,
back to infancy. In a few moments afterward
my Boston friend, who had left the ticket in
my room, came in with another for the French
theatre, giving me a choice between the two. I
decided upon attending both, dividing the evening
between them. After tea we sallied out, in company
with half of those who were at the supper-table,

on our way to the theatre. The street and adjacent
buildings shone brilliantly, with the glare of
many lamps suspended from the theatre and coffee
houses in the vicinity. A noisy crowd was gathered
around the ticket-office—the side-walks were
filled with boys and negroes—and the curb-stone
was lined with coloured females, each surrounded
by bonbons, fruit, nuts, cakes, pies, gingerbread,
and all the other et cetera of a “cake-woman's
commodity.” Entering the theatre, which is a plain
handsome edifice, with a stuccoed front, and ascending
a broad flight of steps, we passed across the
first lobby, down a narrow aisle, opened through
the centre of the boxes into the pit or parquette, as
it is here termed, which is considered the most eligible
and fashionable part of the house. This is
rather reversing the order of things as found with
us at the north. The pews, or slips—for the internal
arrangement, were precisely like those of a
church—were cushioned with crimson materials,
and filled with bonnetless ladies, with their heads
dressed à la Madonna. We seated ourselves near
the orchestra. The large green curtain still concealed
the mimic world behind it; and I embraced
the few moments of delay previous to its rising, to
gaze upon this Thespian temple of the south, and
a New Orleans audience.

The “parquette” was brilliant with bright eyes
and pretty faces; and upon the bending galaxy of
ladies which glittered in the front of the boxes
around it, I seemed to gaze through the medium of
a rainbow. There were, it must be confessed, some

plain enough faces among them; but, at the first
glance of the eye, one might verily have believed
himself encircled by a gallery of houris. The general
character of their faces was decidedly American;
exactly such as one gazes upon at the Tremont
or Park theatre; and I will henceforward
eschew physiognomy, if “I guess” would not have
dropped more naturally from the lips of one half
who were before me, while conversing, than “I
reckon.” There were but few French faces among
the females; but, with two or three exceptions,
these were extremely pretty. Most of the delicately-reared
Creoles, or Louisianian ladies, are
eminently beautiful. A Psyche-like fascination
slumbers in their dark, eloquent eyes, whose richly
fringed lids droop timidly over them—softening but
not diminishing their brilliance. Their style of
beauty is unique, and not easily classed. It is neither
French nor English, but a combination of both,
mellowed and enriched under a southern sky.—
They are just such creatures as Vesta and Venus
would have moulded, had they united to form a
faultless woman.

The interior of the house was richly decorated;
and the panneling in the interior of the boxes was
composed of massive mirror-plates, multiplying the
audience with a fine effect. The stage was lofty,
extensive, and so constructed, either intentionally
or accidentally, as to reflect the voice with unusual
precision and distinctness. The scenery was in
general well executed: one of the forest scenes
struck me as remarkably true to nature, both in

colouring and design. While surveying the gaudy
interior, variegated with gilding, colouring, and mirrors,
the usual cry of “Down, down?—Hats off,”
warned us to be seated. The performance was
good for the pieces represented. The company,
with the indefatigable Caldwell at its head, is strong
and of a respectable character. When the second
act was concluded we left the house; and passing
through a parti-coloured mob, gathered around the
entrance, and elbowing a gens d'armes or two,
stationed in the lobby in terrorem to the turbulent—
we gained the street, amidst a shouting of “Your
check, sir! your check!—Give me your check—
Please give me your check!—check!—check!—
check!” from a host of boys, who knocked one another
about unmercifully in their exertions to secure
the prizes, which, to escape a mobbing, we threw
into the midst of them; and jumping into a carriage
in waiting, drove off to the French theatre, leaving
them embroiled in a pêle mêle, in which the sciences
of phlebotomy and phrenology were “being” tested
by very practical applications.

After a drive of half a league or more through
long and narrow streets, dimly lighted by swinging
lamps, we were set down at the door of the Theatre
d'Orleans, around which a crowd was assembled of
as different a character, from that we had just escaped,
as would have met our eyes had we been
deposited before the Theatre Royale in Paris. The
street was illuminated from the brilliantly lighted
cafés and cabarets, clustered around this “nucleus”
of gayety and amusement. As we crossed the

broad pavé into the vestibule of the theatre, the rapidly
enunciated, nasal sounds of the French language
assailed our ears from every side. Ascending
the stairs and entering the boxes, I was struck
with the liveliness and brilliancy of the scene,
which the interior exhibited to the eye. “Magnificent!”
was upon my lips—but a moment's observation
convinced me that its brilliancy was an
illusion, created by numerous lights, and an artful
arrangement and lavish display of gilding and colouring.
The whole of the interior, including the stage
decorations and scenic effect, was much inferior to
that of the house we had just quitted. The boxes—
if caverns resembling the interior of a ship's longboat,
with one end elevated three feet, and equally
convenient, can be so called—were cheerless and
uncomfortable. There were but few females in
the house, and none of these were in the pit, as at
the other theatre. Among them I saw but two or
three pretty faces; and evidently none were of the
first class of French society in this city. The
house was thinly attended, presenting, wherever I
turned my eyes, a “beggarly account of empty
boxes.” I found that I had chosen a night, of all
others, the least calculated to give me a good idea
of a French audience, in a cis-Atlantic French theatre.
After remaining half an hour, wearied with a
tiresome ritornello of a popular French air—listening
with the devotion of a “Polytechnique” to the
blood-stirring Marseilloise hymn—amused at the
closing scene of a laughable comédie, and edified
by the first of a pantomine, and observing, that with
but one lovely exception, the Mesdames du scêne
were very plain, and the Messieurs very handsome,
we left the theatre and returned to our hotel, whose
deserted bar-room, containing here and there a
straggler, presented a striking contrast to the noise
and bustle of the multitude by which it was thronged
at noonday. In general, strangers consider
the tout ensemble of this theatre on Sabbath evenings,
and on others when the élite of the New-Orleans
society is collected there, decidedly superior
to that of any other in the United States.

Beside the theatres there are other public buildings
in this city, deserving the attention of a stranger,
whose institution generally reflects the highest
eulogium upon individuals, and the public. The
effects of the benevolence of the generous M. Poydras,
will for ever remain monuments of his piety
and of the nobleness of his nature. Generation
after generation will rise up from the bosom of this
great city and “call him blessed.” The charitable
institutions of this city are lights which redeem the
darker shades of its moral picture. Regarded as
originators of benevolence, carried out into efficient
operation, the Orleanese possess a moral beauty in
their character as citizens and men, infinitely transcending
that of many other cities ostensibly living
under a higher code of morals. In the male and
female orphan asylums, which are distinct institutions,
endowed by the donations of M. Poydras—in
a library for the use of young men, and in her hospitals
and various charitable institutions, mostly sustained
by Roman Catholic influence and patronage,

whose doors are ever open to the stranger and the
moneyless—the poor and the lame—the halt and
the blind—and unceasingly send forth, during the
fearful scourges which lay waste this ill-fated city,
angels of mercy in human forms to heal the sick—
comfort the dying—bind up the broken-hearted—
feed the hungry, and clothe the naked—in these institutions—the
ever living monuments of her humanity—New-Orleans,
reviled as she has been
abroad, holds a high rank among the cities of Christendom.

An original and able writer, with one or two extracts
from whom I will conclude this letter, in allusion
to this city says—“the French here, as elsewhere,
display their characteristic urbanity and politeness,
and are the same gay, dancing, spectacle-loving
people, that they are found to be in every
other place. There is, no doubt, much gambling
and dissipation practised here, and different licensed
gambling houses pay a large tax for their licenses.
Much has been said abroad about the profligacy of
manners and morals here. Amidst such a multitude,
composed in a great measure of the low people
of all nations, there must of course be much
debauchery and low vice. But all the disgusting
forms of vice, debauchery and drunkenness, are assorted
together in their own place. Each man has
an elective attraction to men of his own standing
and order.

“This city necessarily exercises a very great influence
over all the western country. There is no
distinguished merchant, or planter, or farmer, in the

Mississippi valley, who has not made at least one
trip to this place. Here they see acting at the
French and American theatres. Here they go to
see at least, if not to take a part in, the pursuits of
the “roulette and temple of Fortune.” Here they
come from the remote and isolated points of the
west to behold the “city lions,” and learn the ways
of men in great towns; and they necessarily carry
back an impression, from what they have seen, and
heard. It is of inconceivable importance to the
western country, that New-Orleans should be enlightened,
moral, and religious. It has a numerous
and respectable corps of professional men, and
issues a considerable number of well edited papers.

“The police of the city is at once mild and energetic.
Notwithstanding the multifarious character
of the people, collected from every country and
every climate, notwithstanding the multitude of boatmen
and sailors, notwithstanding the mass of the
people that rushes along the streets is of the most
incongruous materials, there are fewer broils and
quarrels here than in almost any other city. The
municipal and the criminal courts are prompt in
administering justice, and larcenies and broils are
effectually punished without any just grounds of
complaint about the “law's delay.” On the whole
we conclude, that the morals of those people, who
profess to have any degree of self-respect, are not
behind those of the other cities of the Union.

“Much has been said abroad, in regard to the
unhealthiness of this city; and the danger of a residence
here for an unacclimated person has been exaggerated.

This circumstance, more than all others,
has retarded its increase. The chance of an unacclimated
young man from the north, for surviving
the first summer, is by some considered only as
one to two. Unhappily, when the dog-star is in
the sky, there is but too much probability that the
epidemic will sweep the place with the besom of
destruction. Hundreds of the unacclimated poor
from the north, and more than half from Ireland,
fall victims to it. But the city is now furnished
with noble water works; and is in this way supplied
with the healthy and excellent water of the river.
Very great improvements have been recently made
and are constantly making, in paving the city, in
removing the wooden sewers, and replacing them
by those of stone. The low places, where the waters
used to stagnate, are drained, or filled up.
Tracts of swamp about the town are also draining,
or filling up; and this work, constantly pursued,
will probably contribute more to the salubrity of
the city, than all the other efforts to this end united.”

22. XXII.

This is the last day of my sojourn in the great
emporium of the south-west. To-morrow will find
me threading the majestic sinuosities of the Mississippi,
the prisoner of one of its mammoth steamers,
on my way to the state whose broad fields and undulating
hills are annually whitened with the fleece-like
cotton, and whose majestic forests glitter with
the magnificent and silvery magnolia—where the
men are chivalrous, generous, and social, and the
women so lovely,

A gentleman to whom I brought a letter of introduction
called yesterday—a strange thing for men
so honoured to do—and invited me to ride with him
to his plantation, a few miles from the city. He
drove his own phaeton, which was drawn by two
beautiful long-tailed bays. After a drive of a mile
and a half, we cleared the limits of the straggling,
and apparently interminable faubourgs, and, emerging

through a long narrow street upon the river
road, bounded swiftly over its level surface, which
was as smoth as a bowling-green—saving a mud-hole
now and then, where a crevasse had let in upon
it a portion of the Mississippi. An hour's drive, after
clearing the suburbs, past a succession of isolated
villas, encircled by slender columns and airy
galleries, and surrounded by richly foliaged gardens,
whose fences were bursting with the luxuriance
which they could scarcely confine, brought us in
front of a charming residence situated at the head
of a broad, gravelled avenue, bordered by lemon and
orange trees, forming in the heat of summer, by
arching naturally overhead, a cool and shady promenade.
We drew up at the massive gate-way
and alighted. As we entered the avenue, three or
four children were playing at its farther extremity,
with noise enough for Christmas holidays; two of
them were trundling hoops in a race, and a third
sat astride of a non-locomotive wooden horse, waving
a tin sword, and charging at half a dozen young
slaves, who were testifying their bellicose feelings
by dancing and shouting around him with the noisiest
merriment.

“Pa! pa!” shouted the hoop-drivers as they discovered
our approach—“Oh, there's pa!” re-echoed
the pantalette dragoon, dismounting from his dull
steed, and making use of his own chubby legs as the
most speedy way of advancing, “oh, my papa!”
—and, sword and hoops in hand, down they all
came upon the run to meet us, followed helter-skelter
by their ebony troop, who scattered the gravel

around them like hail as they raced, turning summersets
over each other, without much diminution
of their speed. They came down upon us altogether
with such momentum, that we were like to be
carried from our feet by this novel charge of infantry
and laid hors du combat, upon the ground. The
playful and affectionate congratulations over between
the noble little fellows and their parent, we
walked toward the house, preceded by our trundlers,
with the young soldier hand-in-hand between us,
followed close behind by the little Africans, whose
round shining eyes glistened wishfully—speaking
as plainly as eyes could speak the strong desire,
with which their half-naked limbs evidently sympathized
by their restless motions, to bound ahead,
contrary to decorum, “wid de young massas!”

Around the semi-circular flight of steps, ascending
to the piazza of the dwelling,—the columns of
which were festooned with the golden jasmine and
luxuriant multiflora,—stood, in large green vases, a
variety of flowers, among which I observed the tiny
flowerets of the diamond myrtle, sparkling like
crystals of snow, scattered upon rich green leaves—
the dark foliaged Arabian jasmine silvered with its
opulently-leaved flowers redolent of the sweetest
perfume,—and the rose-geranium, breathing gales of
fragrance upon the air. From this point the main
avenue branches to the right and left, into narrower,
yet not less beautiful walks, which, lined with ever-green
and flowering shrubs, completely encircled
the cottage. At the head of the flight of steps
which led from this Hesperean spot to the portico,

we were met by a little golden-haired fairy, as light
in her motion as a zephyr, and with a cheek—not
alabaster, indeed, for that is an exotic in the south
—but like a lily, shaded by a rose leaf, and an eye
of the purest hue, melting in its own light. With
an exclamation of delight she sprang into her father's
arms. I was soon seated upon one of the
settees in the piazza,—whose front and sides were
festooned by the folds of a green curtain—in a high
frolic with the trundlers, the dismounted dragoon
and my little winged zephyr. You know my penchant
for children's society. I am seldom happier
than when watching a group of intelligent and
beautiful little ones at play. For those who can in
after life enter con amore, into the sports of children,
tumble with and be tumbled about by them,
it is like living their childhood over again. Every
romp with them is death to a score of gray hairs.
Their games, moreover, present such a contrast to
the rougher contests of bearded children in the game
of life, where money, power, and ambition are the
stake, that it is refreshing to look at them and mingle
with them, even were it only to realize that human
nature yet retains something of its divine original.

The proprietor of the delightful spot which lay
spread out around me—a lake of foliage—fringed
by majestic forest trees, and diversified with labyrinthyne
walks,—had, the preceding summer, consigned
to the tomb the mother of his “beautiful
ones.” They were under the care of a dignified
lady, his sister, and the widow of a gentleman formerly

distinguished as a lawyer in New-England.
But like many other northern ladies, whose names
confer honour upon our literature, and whose talents
elevate and enrich our female seminaries of education,
she had independence enough to rise superior
to her widowed indigence; and had prepared to
open a boarding school at the north, when the death
of his wife led her wealthier brother to invite her to
supply a mother's place to his children, to whom
she was now both mother and governess. The
history of this lady is that of hundreds of her country-women.
There are, I am informed, many instances
in the south-west, of New-England's daughters
having sought, with the genuine spirit of independence,
thus to repair their broken fortunes. The
intelligent and very agreeable lady of the late President
H., of Lexington, resides in the capacity of
governess in a distinguished Louisianian family,
not far from the city. Mrs. Thayer, formerly an
admired poet and an interesting writer of fiction, is
at the head of a seminary in an adjoining state.
And in the same, the widow of the late president
of its college is a private instructress in the family
of a planter. And these are instances, to which I
can add many others, in a country where the occupation
of instructing, whether invested in the president
of a college or in the teacher of a country
school, is degraded to a secondary rank. In New-England,
on the contrary, the lady of a living collegiate
president is of the elite, decidedly, if not at the
head, of what is there termed “good society.” Here,
the same lady, whether a visiter for the winter, or
a settled resident, must yield in rank—as the laws
of southern society have laid it down—to the lady
of the planter. The southerners, however, when
they can secure one of our well-educated northern
ladies in their families, know well how to appreciate
their good fortune. Inmates of the family, they are
treated with politeness and kindness; but in the
soirée, dinner party, or levée, the governess is
thrown more into the back-ground than she would
be in a gentleman's family, even in aristocratic
England; and her title to an equality with the gay,
and fashionable, and wealthy circle by whom she
is surrounded, and her challenge to the right of
caste, is less readily admitted. But this illiberal
jealousy is the natural consequence of the crude
state of American society, where the line of demarcation
between its rapidly forming classes is yet so
uncertainly defined, that each individual who is anxious
to be, or even to be thought, of the better file,
has to walk circumspectly, lest he should inadvertently
be found mingling with the canaille. The
more uncertain any individual is of his own true
standing, the more haughtily and suspiciously will
he stand aloof, and measure with his eye every
stranger who advances within the limits of the prescribed
circle.

Education in this state has been and is still very
much neglected. Appropriations have been made
for public schools; but, from the fund established
for the purpose, not much has as yet been effected.
Many of the males, after leaving the city-schools,
or the care of tutors, are sent, if destined for a professional

career, to the northern colleges; others to
the Catholic institutions at St. Louis and Bardstown,
and a few of the wealthier young gentlemen
to France. The females are educated, either by
governesses, at the convents, or at northern boarding-schools.
Many of them are sent to Paris when
very young, and there remain until they have completed
their education. The majority of the higher
classes of the French population are brought up
there. This custom of foreign education—like that
in the Atlantic states, under the old regime, when,
to be educated a gentleman, it was considered necessary
for American youth to enter at Eton, and
graduate from Oxford or Cambridge—must have a
very natural tendency to preserve and cherish an
attachment for France, seriously detrimental to genuine
patriotism.—But all this is a digression.

After a kind of bachelor's dinner, in a hall open
on two sides for ventilation, even at this season of
the year—sumptuous enough for Epicurus, and
served by two or three young slaves, who were
drilled to a glance of the eye—crowned by a luxurious
dessert of fruits and sweet-meats, and graced
with wine, not of the chasse-cousin vintage, so common
in New England, but of the pure outre-mer—
we proceeded to the sugar-house or sucrérie, through
a lawn which nearly surrounded the ornamental
grounds about the house, studded here and there
with lofty trees, which the good taste of the original
proprietor of the domain had left standing in their
forest majesty. From this rich green sward, on
which two or three fine saddle-horses were grazing,

we passed through a turn-stile into a less lovely,
but more domestic enclosure, alive with young negroes,
sheep, turkies, hogs, and every variety of domestic
animal that could be attached to a plantation.
From this diversified collection, which afforded a
tolerable idea of the interior of Noah's ark, we entered
the long street of a village of white cottages,
arranged on either side of it with great regularity.
They were all exactly alike, and separated by equal
spaces; and to every one was attached an enclosed
piece of ground, apparently for a vegetable garden;
around the doors decrepit and superannuated negroes
were basking in the evening sun—mothers
were nursing their naked babies, and one or two
old and blind negresses were spinning in their doors.
In the centre of the street, which was a hundred
yards in width, rose to the height of fifty feet a
framed belfry, from whose summit was suspended
a bell, to regulate the hours of labour. At the foot
of this tower, scattered over the grass, lay half a
score of black children, in puris naturalibus, frolicking
or sleeping in the warm sun, under the surveillance
of an old African matron, who sat knitting
upon a camp-stool in the midst of them.

We soon arrived at the boiling-house, which was
an extensive brick building with tower-like chimnies,
numerous flues, and a high, steep roof, reminding
me of a New England distillery. As we entered,
after scaling a barrier of sugar-casks with
which the building was surrounded, the slaves, who
were dressed in coarse trowsers, some with and
others without shirts, were engaged in the several

departments of their sweet employment; whose
fatigues some African Orpheus was lightening with
a loud chorus, which was instantly hushed, or rather
modified, on our entrance, to a half-assured whistling.
A white man, with a very unpleasing physiognomy,
carelessly leaned against one of the brick
pillars, who raised his hat very respectfully as we
passed, but did not change his position. This was
the overseer. He held in his hand a short-handled
whip, loaded in the butt, which had a lash four or
five times the length of the staff. Without noticing
us, except when addressed by his employer, he remained
watching the motions of the toiling slaves,
quickening the steps of a loiterer by a word, or
threatening with his whip, those who, tempted by
curiosity, turned to gaze after us, as we walked
through the building.

The process of sugar-making has been so often
described by others, that I can offer nothing new
or interesting upon the subject. But since my
visit to this plantation, I have fallen in with an ultramontane
tourist or sketcher, a fellow-townsman and
successful practitioner of medicine in Louisiana,
who has kindly presented me with the sheet of an
unpublished MS. which I take pleasure in transcribing,
for the very graphic and accurate description
it conveys of this interesting process.

“The season of sugar-making,” says Dr. P. “is
termed, by the planters of the south, the `rolling
season;' and a merry and pleasant time it is too—
for verily, as Paulding says, the making of sugar
and the making of love are two of the sweetest occupations

in this world. It commences—the making
of sugar I mean—about the middle or last of October,
and continues from three weeks to as many
months, according to the season and other circumstances;
but more especially the force upon the
plantation, and the amount of sugar to be made.
As the season approaches, every thing assumes a
new and more cheerful aspect. The negroes are
more animated, as their winter clothing is distributed,
their little crops are harvested, and their wood
and other comforts secured for that season; which,
to them, if not the freeest, is certainly the gayest
and happiest portion of the year. As soon as the
corn crop and fodder are harvested, every thing is
put in motion for the grinding. The horses and
oxen are increased in number and better groomed;
the carts and other necessary utensils are overhauled
and repaired, and some hundred or thousand
cords of wood are cut and ready piled for the manufacture
of the sugar. The sucrérie, or boiling
house, is swept and garnished—the mill and engine
are polished—the kettles scoured—the coolers
caulked, and the purgerie, or draining-house, cleaned
and put in order, where the casks are arranged
to receive the sugar.

The first labour in anticipation of grinding, is
that of providing plants for the coming year; and
this is done by cutting the cane, and putting it in
matelas, or matressing it, as it is commonly called.
The cane is cut and thrown into parcels in different
parts of the field, in quantities sufficient to plant
several acres, and so arranged that the tops of one

layer may completely cover and protect the stalks
of another. After the quantity required is thus secured,
the whole plantation force, nearly, is employed
in cutting cane, and conveying it to the mill.
The cane is divested of its tops, which are thrown
aside, unless they are needed for plants, which is
often the case, when they are thrown together in
rows, and carefully protected from the inclemencies
of the weather. The stalks are then cut as near as
may be to the ground, and thrown into separate parcels
or rows, to be taken to the mill in carts, and expressed
as soon as possible. The cane is sometimes
bound together in bundles, in the field, which
facilitates its transportation, and saves both time
and trouble. As soon as it is harvested, it is placed
upon a cane-carrier, so called, which conveys it to
the mill, where it is twice expressed between iron
rollers, and made perfectly dry. The juice passes
into vats, or receivers, and the baggasse or cane-trash,
(called in the West Indies migass,) is received into
carts and conveyed to a distance from the sugar-house
to be burnt as soon as may be. Immediately
after the juice is expressed, it is distributed to the
boilers, generally four in succession, ranged in solid
masonry along the sides of the boiling-room, where
it is properly tempered, and its purification and
evaporation are progressively advanced. The French
have commonly five boilers, distinguished by the
fanciful names of grande—propre—flambeau—sirop,
and battérie.

In the first an alkali is generally put to temper
the juice; lime is commonly used, and the quantity

is determined by the good judgment and experience
of the sugar-maker. In the last kettle—the teach as
it is termed—the sugar is concentrated to the granulating
point, and then conveyed into coolers, which
hold from two to three hogsheads. After remaining
here for twenty-four hours or more, it is removed to
the purgerie, or draining-house, and placed in hogsheads,
which is technically called potting. Here
it undergoes the process of draining for a few days
or weeks, and is then ready for the market. The
molasses is received beneath in cisterns, and when
they become filled, it is taken out and conveyed into
barrels or hogsheads and shipped. When all the
molasses is removed from the cistern, an inferior
kind of sugar is re-manufactured, which is called
cistern-sugar, and sold at a lower price. When
the grinding has once commenced, there is no cessation
of labour till it is completed. From beginning
to end, a busy and cheerful scene continues.
The negroes
work from eighteen to twenty hours,
Though to lighten the burden as much as possible,
the gang is divided into two watches, one taking the
first, and the other the last part of the night; and
notwithstanding this continued labour, the negroes
improve in condition, and appear fat and flourishing.
“They drink freely of cane-juice, and the sickly
among them revive and become robust and healthy.”
After the grinding is finished, the negroes have several
holidays, when they are quite at liberty to
dance and frolic as much as they please; and the
cane-song—which is improvised by one of the
gang, the rest all joining in a prolonged and unintelligible
chorus—now breaks night and day upon
the ear, in notes “most musical, most melancholy.”
This over, planting recommences, and the same routine
of labour is continued, with an intermission—
except during the boiling season, as above stated—
upon most, if not all plantations, of twelve hours in
twenty-four, and of one day in seven throughout
the year.

Leaving the sugar-house, after having examined
some of the most interesting parts of the process so
well described by Dr. P., I returned with my polite
entertainer to the house. Lingering for a moment
on the gallery in the rear of the dwelling-house, I
dwelt with pleasure upon the scene which the domain
presented.

The lawn, terminated by a snow-white paling,
and ornamented here and there by a venerable survivor
of the aboriginal forest, was rolled out before
me like a carpet, and dotted with sleek cows, and
fine horses, peacefully grazing, or indolently reclining
upon the thick grass, chewing the cud of
contentment. Beyond the lawn, and extending farther
into the plantation, lay a pasture containing a
great number of horses and cattle, playing together,
reposing, feeding, or standing in social clusters
around a shaded pool. Beyond, the interminable
cane-field, or plantation proper, spread away without

fence or swell, till lost in the distant forests which
bounded the horizon. On my left, a few hundred
yards from the house, and adjoining the pasture,
stood the stables and other plantation appurtenances,
constituting a village in themselves—for planters
always have a separate building for everything.
To the right stood the humble yet picturesque village
or “quarter” of the slaves, embowered in
trees, beyond which, farther toward the interior of
the plantation, arose the lofty walls and turreted
chimneys of the sugar-house, which, combined with
the bell-tower, presented the appearance of a country
village with its church-tower and the walls of
some public edifice, lifting themselves above the
trees. Some of the sugar-houses are very lofty and
extensive, with noble wings and handsome fronts,
resembling—aside from their lack of windows—college
edifices. I have seen two which bore a striking
resemblance, as seen from the river, to the Insane
Hospital near Boston. It requires almost a fortune
to construct one. The whole scene before me was
extremely animated. Human figures were moving
in all directions over the place. Some labouring in
the distant field, others driving the slow-moving
oxen, with a long, drawling cry—half naked negro
boys shouting and yelling, were galloping horses as
wild as themselves—negresses of all sizes, from
one able to carry a tub to the minikin who could
“tote” but a pint-dipper, laughing and chattering as
they went, were conveying water from a spring to
the wash-house, in vessels adroitly balanced upon
their heads. Slaves sinking under pieces of machinery,
and other burdens, were passing and repassing
from the boiling-house and negro quarter.
Some were calling to others afar off, and the merry
shouts of the black children at their sports in their
village, reminding me of a school just let out, mingled
with the lowing of cows, the cackling of geese,
the bleating of lambs, the loud and unmusical clamour
of the guinea-hen, agreeably varied by the
barking of dogs, and the roaring of some young
African rebel under maternal castigation.

Passing from this plantation scene through the
airy hall of the dwelling, which opened from piazza
to piazza through the house, to the front gallery,
whose light columns were wreathed with the delicately
leaved Cape-jasmine, rambling woodbine
and honeysuckle, a lovelier and more agreeable
scene met my eye. I stood almost embowered in
the foliage of exotics and native plants, which stood
upon the gallery in handsome vases of marble and
China-ware. The main avenue opened a vista to
the river through a paradise of althea, orange, lemon,
and olive trees, and groves and lawns extended on
both sides of this lovely spot,

terminating at the villas of adjoining plantations.
The Mississippi—always majestic and lake-like in
its breadth—rolled past her turbid flood, dotted here
and there by a market-lugger, with its black crew
and clumsy sails. By the Levée, on the opposite
shore, lay a brig, taking in a cargo of sugar from
the plantation, whose noble colonnaded mansion ros
like a palace above its low, grove-lined margin, and
an English argosy of great size, with black spars
and hull, was moving under full sail down the middle
of the river. As I was under the necessity of
returning to the city the same evening, I took leave
of the youthful family of my polite host, who clustered
around us as we walked along the avenue to
the gate-way, endeavouring to detain us till the next
morning. The young rogue of a dragoon, who was
now metamorphosed into a trumpeter—what a singular
propensity little chubby boys have for the
weapons and apparel of war!—a most mischievous
little cupidon of but two or three summers' growth,
was very desirous of accompanying us to town, on
seeing us seated in the carriage; but finding that
his eloquent appeals were unheeded, he took a fancy
to a noble pointer, spotted like a leopard, which accompanied
me, and clinging around the neck of the
majestic and docile creature, as we drove from the
gate, said in a half playful, half pettish tone, “Me
ride dis pretty dog-horse, den.” The sensible animal
stood like a statue till the little fellow relaxed his
embrace, when he darted after the carriage, then a
quarter of a mile from the gate, bounding like a stag.
The cries of “Pa, bring me this,” and “Pa, bring
me that,” were soon lost in the distance, and rolling
like the wind over the level road along the banks of
the river, we arrived in the city and alighted at Bishop's
a few minutes after seven.

23. XXIII.

Once more I am floating upon the “Father of
rivers.” New-Orleans, with its crowd of “mingled
nations,” is seen indistinctly in the distance.
We are now doubling a noble bend in the river,
which will soon hide the city from our sight; but
scenes of rural enchantment are opening before us
as we advance, which will amply and delightfully
repay us for its absence.

What a splendid panorama of opulence and beauty
is now spread out around us! Sublimity is wanting
to make the painting perfect—but its picturesque
effect is unrivalled.

Below us a few miles, indistinctly seen though
the haze, a dense forest of masts, and here and
there a tower, designate the emporium of commerce
—the key of the mighty west. The banks are
lined and ornamented with elegant mansions, displaying,
in their richly adorned grounds, the wealth
and taste of their possessors; while the river, now

moving onward like a golden flood, reflecting the
mellow rays of the setting sun, is full of life. Vessels
of every size are gliding in all directions over
its waveless bosom, while graceful skiffs dart merrily
about like white-winged birds. Huge steamers
are dashing and thundering by, leaving long trains
of wreathing smoke in their rear. Carriages filled
with ladies and attended by gallant horsemen, enliven
the smooth road along the Levée; while the
green banks of the Levée itself are covered with gay
promenaders. A glimpse through the trees now
and then, as we move rapidly past the numerous
villas, detects the piazzas, filled with the young,
beautiful, and aged of the family, enjoying the rich
beauty of the evening, and of the objects upon which
my own eyes rest with admiration.

The scene has changed. The moon rides high
in the east, while the western star hangs trembling
in the path of the sun. Innumerable lights twinkle
along the shores, or flash out from some vessel as
we glide rapidly past. How exhilarating to be upon
the water by moonlight! But a snow-white sail, a
graceful barque, and a woodland lake—with a calm,
clear, moon-light, sleeping upon it like a blessing—
must be marshalled for poetical effect. There is nothing
of that here. Quiet and romance are lost in
sublimity, if not in grandeur. The great noise of
rushing waters—the deep-toned booming of the
steamer—the fearful rapidity with which we are
borne past the half-obscured objects on shore and
in the stream—the huge columns of black smoke
rolling from the mouths of the gigantic chimneys,

and spangled with showers of sparks, flying like
trains of meteors shooting through the air; while a
proud consciousness of the power of the dark hull
beneath your feet, which plunges, thundering onward—a
thing of majesty and life—adds to the majesty
and wonder of the time.

The passengers have descended to the cabin;
some to turn in, a few to read, but more to play at
the ever-ready card-table. The pilot (as the helmsman
is here termed) stands in his lonely wheelhouse,
comfortably enveloped in his blanket-coat—
the hurricane deck is deserted, and the hands are
gathered in the bows, listening to the narration of
some ludicrous adventure of recent transaction in
the city of hair-breadth escapes. Now and then a
laugh from the merry auditors, or a loud roar from
some ebony-cheeked fireman, as he pitches his
wood into the gaping furnace, breaks upon the stillness
of night, startling the echoes along the shores.
What beings of habit we are! How readily do we
accustom ourselves to circumstances! The deep
trombone of the steam-pipe—the regular splash of
the paddles—and the incessant rippling of the water
eddying away astern, as our noble vessel flings
it from her sides, no longer affect the senses, unless
it may be to lull them into a repose well meet for
contemplation. They are now no longer auxiliaries to
the scene—habit has made them a part of it: and I
can pace the deck with my mind as free and undisturbed
as though I were in a lonely boat, upon “the
dark blue sea,” with no sound but the beating of
my own heart, to break the silence. A few short

hours have passed, and the grander characters of
the scene are mellowed down, by their familiarity
with my senses, into calm and quiet loneliness.

Having secured a berth in one corner of the spacious
cabin, where I could draw the rich crimsoned
curtains around me, and with book or pen pass my
time somewhat removed from the bustle, and undisturbed
by the constant passing of the restless passengers,
I began this morning to look about me upon
my fellow-travellers, seeking familiar faces, or
scanning strange ones, by Lavater's doubtful rules.

Our passengers are a strange medley, not only
representing every state and territory washed by
this great river, but nearly every Atlantic and
trans-Atlantic state and nation. In the cabin are
the merchants and planters of the “up country;”
and on deck, emigrants, return-boatmen, &c. &c.
I may say something more of them hereafter, but
not at present, as the scenery through which we are
passing is too attractive to keep me longer below.
So, to the deck. We are now about sixty miles
above New-Orleans, and the shores have presented,
the whole distance, one continued line of noble mansions,
some of them princely and magnificent, intermingled,
at intervals, with humbler farm-houses.

I think I have remarked, in a former letter, that
the plantations along the river extend from the Levée
to the swamps in the rear; the distance across
the belt of land being, from the irregular encroachment
of the marshes, from one to two or three miles.
These plantations have been, for a very long period,
under cultivation for the production of sugar crops.

As the early possessor of large tracts of land had
sons to settle, they portioned off parallelograms to
each; which, to combine the advantages of exportation
and wood, extended from the river to the
flooded forest in the rear. These, in time, portioned
off to their children, while every occupant of a
tract erected his dwelling at the head of his domain,
one or two hundred yards from the river. Other
plantations retain their original dimensions, crowned,
on the borders of the river, with noble mansions,
embowered in the ever-green foliage of the dark-leaved
orange and lemon trees. The shores, consequently,
present, from the lofty deck of a steamer,
—from which can be had an extensive prospect of the
level country—a very singular appearance.

Farm-houses thickly set, or now and then separated
by a prouder structure, line the shores with
tasteful parterres and shady trees around them;
while parallel lines of fence, commencing at these
cottages, frequently but a few rods apart, extend
away into the distance, till the numerous lines
dwindle apparently to a point, and present the appearance
of radii diverging from one common centre.
A planter thus may have a plantation a league
in length, though not a furlong in breadth. The regularity
of these lines, the flatness of the country,
and the fac simile farm-houses, render the scenery
in general rather monotonous; though some charming
spots, that might have been stolen from Paradise,
fully atone for the wearisome character of
the rest. We have passed several Catholic churches,

prettily situated, surrounded by the white monuments
of the dead. On our right, the lofty walls
of a huge edifice, just completed, and intended for
a university, rear themselves in the midst of a vast
plain, once an extensive sugar plantation. This
embryo institution is under state patronage. It is
a noble brick building, advantageously situated for
health, beauty, and convenience; and calculated,
from its vast size, to accommodate a large number
of students. It is to be of a sectarian character,
devoted, I understand, to the interest of the Roman
church.

A mile above, the towers and crosses of a pile of
buildings, half hidden by a majestic grove of noble
forest trees, attract the attention of the traveller.
They are the convent du Sacre Cœur,”—the nursery
of the fair daughters of Louisiana. There are
two large buildings, exclusive of the chapel and the
residence of the officiating priest. The site is eminently
beautiful, and, compared with the general
tameness of the scenery in this region, romantic.
A padre, in his long black gown, is promenading
the Levée, and the windows of the convent are relieved
by the presence of figures, which, the spy-glass
informs us, are those of the fair prisoners;
who, perhaps with many a sigh, are watching the
rapid motion of our boat, with its busy, bustling
scene on board, contrasting it with their incarcerated
state, probably inducing reflections of a melancholy
cast, with ardent aspirations for the “wings
of a dove.”

The education of females is well attended to in
this state; though the peculiar doctrines of the
Roman Catholic church are inculcated with their
tasks.

The villages of Plaquemine and Donaldsonville,
the latter formerly the seat of government, are pleasant,
quiet, and rural. The latter is distinguished
by a dilapidated state-house, which lifts itself above
the humbler dwellings around it, and adds much to
the importance and beauty of the town in the eye
of the traveller as he sails past. But the streets of
the village are solitary; and closed stores and deserted
taverns add to their loneliness. Between
New-Orleans and Baton Rouge, a distance of one
hundred and seventeen miles, the few villages upon
the river all partake, more or less, of this humble
and dilapidated character. Baton Rouge is now
in sight, a few miles above. As we approach it
the character of the scene changes. Hills once
more relieve the eye, so long wearied with gazing
upon a flat yet beautiful country. These are the
first hills that gladden the sight of the traveller as
he ascends the river. They are to the northerner
like oases in a desert. How vividly and how agreeably
does the sight of their green slopes, and graceful
undulations, conjure up the loved and heart-cherished
scenes of home!

We are now nearly opposite the town, which is
pleasantly situated upon the declivity of the hill,
retreating over its brow and spreading out on a plain
in the rear, where the private dwellings are placed,

shaded and half embowered in the rich foliage of
that loveliest of all shade-trees, “the pride of
China.” The stores and other places of business
are upon the front street, which runs parallel with
the river. The site of the town is about forty feet
above the highest flood, and rises by an easy and
gentle swell from the water. The barracks, a short
distance from the village, are handsome and commodious,
constructed around a pentagonal area—
four noble buildings forming four sides, while the
fifth is open, fronting upon the river. The buildings
are brick, with lofty colonnades and double galleries
running along the whole front. The columns are
yellow-stuccoed, striking the eye with a more pleasing
effect, than the red glare of brick. The view
of these noble structures from the river, as we passed,
was very fine. From the esplanade there is an
extensive and commanding prospect of the inland
country—the extended shores, stretching out north
and south, dotted with elegant villas, and richly
enamelled by their high state of cultivation. The
officers are gentlemanly men, and form a valuable
acquisition to the society of the neighbourhood.
This station must be to them an agreeable sinecure.
The town, from the hasty survey which I was enabled
to make of it, must be a delightful residence.
It is neat and well built; the French and Spanish
style of architecture prevails. The view of the
town from the deck of the steamer is highly beautiful.
The rich, green swells rising gradually from
the water—its pleasant streets, bordered with the
umbrageous China tree—its colonnaded dwellings—
its mingled town and rural scenery, and its pleasant
suburbs, give it an air of quiet and novel beauty,
such as one loves to gaze upon in old landscapes
which the imagination fills with ideal images of its
own.

The scenery now partakes of another character.
The rich plantations, waving with green and golden
crops of cane, are succeeded here and there by a cotton
plantation, but more generally by untrodden forests,
hanging over the banks, which are now for a
hundred miles of one uniform character and height—
being about twenty feet above the highest floods.
Now and then a “squatter's” hut, instead of relieving,
adds to the wild and dreary character of
the scene. This class of men with their families,
are usually in a most wretched and squalid condition.
As they live exposed to the fatal, poisonous
miasma of the swamp, their complexions are cadaverous,
and their persons wasted by disease.
They sell wood to the steamboats for a means of
subsistence—seldom cultivating what little cleared
land there may be around them. There are exceptions
to this, however. Many become eventually
purchasers of the tracts on which they are
settled, and lay foundations for fine estates and future
independence.

Loftus's height, a striking eminence crowned
by Fort Adams, appears in the distance. It is a
cluster of cliffs and hills nearly two hundred feet in
height. The old fort can just be discerned with a
glass, surmounting a natural platform, half way up

the side of the most prominent hill. The works
present the appearance of a few green mounds, and
though defaced by time, still bear evidence of
having been a military post. The position is
highly commanding and romantic. The scenery
around would be termed striking, even in Maine,
that romantic land of rocks, and cliffs, and mountains.
A small village is at the base of the hills,
containing a few stores. Cotton is exported hence,
and steamers are now at the landing taking it in.

As we were passing the place on our way up
the river, a white signal was displayed from a pole
held by some one standing on the shore. In a few
moments we came abreast of the fort, and in obedience
to the fluttering signal, our steamer rounded
gracefully to, and put her jolly boat off for the
expected passengers. The boat had scarcely touched
the bank, before the boatmen at one leap gained
the baggage which lay piled upon the Levée, and
tumbling it helter-skelter into the bottom of the
boat, as though for life and death, called out, so as
to be heard far above the deafening noise of the
rushing steam as it hissed from the pipe, “Come
gentlemen, come, the boat's a-waiting.” The new
passengers had barely time to pass into the boat
and balance themselves erect upon the thwarts, before,
impelled by the nervous arms of the boatmen,
she was cutting her way through the turbid waves
to the steamer, which had been kept in her position
against the strong current of the river, by an occasional
revolution of her wheels. The instant she
struck her side the boat was cleared immediately

of “bag and baggage,” at the “risk of the owners”
truly—and the hurrying passengers had hardly
gained a footing upon the guard, before the loud,
brief command, “go ahead,” was heard, followed
by the tinkling of the engineer's bell, the dull groaning
of the ponderous, labouring engine, and the
heavy dash of the water, as strongly beaten by the
vast fins of this huge “river monster.”