 | XVIII. The South-west |  |
18. XVIII.
Saddle horses and accountrements—Banks—Granite—Churchmembers—French
mode of dressing—Quadroons—Gay scene and
groups in the streets—Sabbath evening—Duelling ground—An
extensive cotton press—A literary germ—A mysterious institution
—Scenery in the suburbs—Convent—Catholic education.
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
| XVIII. The South-west | |