University of Virginia Library

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.