University of Virginia Library

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.