 | XV.
NEW ORLEANS — ITS HOTEL. The Squibob papers |  |
15. XV.
NEW ORLEANS — ITS HOTEL.
The St. Charles Hotel is a lively and bustling
village of about one thousand inhabitants, pleasantly
situated on the left bank of St. Charles
street, which meanders through the centre of that
sweet and swampy city, New Orleans.
The building presents a fine architectural appearance,
being built of white lime-stone, and
having in front a colonnade of massive pillars,
which have a very imposing effect, in more than
one sense, as they look like marble, and are in facbrick
covered with stucco. But in spite of its
conglomerate character, the structure is a fine one
to gaze upon; and its inhabitants, owners, and
New Orleans at large, are proud and happy in its
possession, and well they may be. The “St.
Charles” is the Mecca of the Southern States.
from the plantation and the last hogshead of sugar
has followed it; when falling leaves and frosty
mornings betoken the approach of winter; when
the Spanish moss waves grandly from the lofty
trees, alone in its verdure, and greasy niggers loll
idly on the river banks, their large mouths watering
over visions of “possum and hominy,” then
does the planter, rejoicing over the account of
sales received from his agent, pack his trunks,
gather together his family and prepare for his
yearly pilgrimage. Having seen his family safely
and comfortably bestowed in their luxurious state-rooms
on board the floating palace that is to take
him to New Orleans, he then proceeds to the
“social hall,” where, after indulging in sundry potent
libations of corn-juice with a good set of fellows
with whom he finds himself at once acquainted,
our planter gladly accepts the invitation of an
innocent-looking youth to play a little game of
“euchre,” “just for amusement.” The game accordingly
commences and the party are soon deeply
up,” and “going it alone.” But the best
of games becomes tiresome at last, and the planter
feels relieved when one of the party proposes to
change the game to “draw-poker” with a dime
“ante,” “just to make it interesting.” Pokers
are drawn and the battle has begun in serious
earnest. Our planter has various success; now
he is ten, perhaps twenty ahead, now five or ten
“out,” when suddenly, the innocent youth having
the deal, he receives a hand of blissful promise,
three queens, a seven, and four. How jealously
our friend examines his hand, holding his cards
tightly together and moving them just sufficiently
to be quite sure there is no mistake about it.
Then with a careless laugh he discards the worthless
seven and four, and says he believes he'll “go
in.” They all “go in,” and a mass of silver,
with one or two aged and crumpled shin-plasters,
adorns the centre of the table. The innocent
youth deals, and our planter, to his great satisfaction,
receives a pair of nines. He slips his cards
the result of the betting. The red-nosed man on
his right “goes a five;” the man with the battered
hat opposite, sees that and goes ten better;
the innocent youth “passes,” and our planter, in
a voice tremulous with emotion, “sees” the last
bet and “goes fifty better.” The man with the
red nose groans and asks if he may take down his
money, but the man with the battered hat, pushing
that article of dress still farther down over his
sinister brow, puts his hands in his pocket and
pulls forth the money. Here it is, twenty, forty,
sixty, “two hundred dollars better!” The planter
is surprised. He takes another secret but earnest
glance at his cards. “A full,” it can't be
beaten. Out comes the old pocket-book, and he
“calls.” “Four kings,” says the man with the
battered hat, and with the most business-like air
imaginable rakes down the money with one hand
and turns over his cards with the other.
Our planter is disgusted, he leaves the table with
an imprecation referring to the soul of the innocent
a little dash at “chuck-a-luck” at which he loses
seven dollars and wins a horn-handled knife and a
pocket-book, tempts fortune no farther during the
voyage. Meanwhile the innocent youth and his
comrades divide the money in the “barber's shop,”
and go on shore at the next landing, well pleased
with their success.
On arriving at the St. Charles the planter's
party are supplied with a parlor and the necessary
sleeping apartments, and commence living at the
rate of about five bales of cotton a week. The
ladies come down to dinner the first day, presenting
perhaps a slightly seedy appearance. Hoops
have not yet been heard of at Kentucky Bend,
and the bareges and organdies of last summer's
wear look but limp and tawdry, and compare unfavorably
with the brilliant silk robes that surround
them. Still our family preserves a confident
and well-satisfied air; they know “there's a
good time coming;” and it is refreshing to observe
the defiant glance they cast upon any individual
at their habiliments. The next day the
chrysalis has opened, the full-painted butterfly
comes forth. “Par” has been to his agents, the
ladies have been to Madame Weasel and Mlle.
Chargenuff, and silk robes, with fearful flounces,
hoops of vast dimensions, point lace, ribbons, and
other flummery, are the order of the day.
They breakfast at ten o'clock in the ladies' ordinary,
an operation which takes two hours and a
half; then they go forth “shopping” (a groan
comes in here from every Benedict who reads this
paper) until three; then “Adeline the hairdresser,”
performs the most remarkable feats with
their natural locks and the new braids they have
purchased, and at half-past four they descend to
dinner, arrayed in such magnificence as Solomon
in all his glory never began to have the least
idea of.
Dinner, which consists principally in an animated
contest with the waiters, who won't bring
any thing they are sent for, but will persist in carrying
the table, lasts an hour or two, and then our ladies
adjourn to the parlor, where sitting around in
groups, surrounded by their favorite beaux, they
gaze affably on the grand crowd of masculine individuals
that surround the door, not one of whom
knows a lady present, and not one of whom but
wishes he knew them all. However, “a cat may
look upon a king,” and we doubt not that Adam
after being kicked out of Paradise, frequently
went and peeped longingly into the gate of that
garden. So continue to gaze, O Jones, Smith,
and Robinson! and envy as you may the happy
fellows who have had introductions.
In the evening our ladies go to the French
opera, (where the performance is a matter of secondary
interest to the struggle of the spectators
to out-do each other in richness of attire,) or to
theaters, or — it is a fact — to the circus, more
tastefully termed the “horse-opera,” which last is
patronized to a greater extent in this city than
oysters and cold turkey, and they retire.
But on Monday evenings the St. Charles is in
its glory, for then comes off the weekly “hop.”
A hop is generally supposed to be a small and informal
dancing party, at which the ordinary dinner
dress may be worn with respectability.
But as the ladies from Mississippi, and Tennessee,
and Louisiana, and Kentucky, and Arkansas,
and Milliken's Bend, and every other part of the
world, have a large number of party dresses of
amazing beauty and richness, and not a very great
number of opportunities of displaying them, it so
happens that our “hops” at the St. Charles Hotel,
are what in other places are denominated full-dress
balls. Here you may see the celebrated
Mrs. A —, whose first husband left her in possession
of such an immense estate, accompanied by
her niece, the lovely Miss A —, the belle of
Alabama; the dashing and magnificent widow
B —, whose four hundred bales a year are her
least attraction; the exquisitely beautiful Mrs.
and conversation have made her the belle of
the St. Charles; Mrs. D —, quiet but observing;
pretty Miss E —, from Kentucky; lively
Miss F —, the Philadelphia heiress; Mrs. G—,
tall, stately, and always tastefully dressed; little
Miss H —, with her hair done à la Chinoise,
and her feet in the same style; the pretty Misses
J—, Kentucky beauties; Miss K—, superbly
dressed, whose dress-maker's bill is fifteen hundred
dollars a year; Madame L—, the “Admirable
Crichton” of the female sex, from Mobile;
and so on through the alphabet, including
all the wealth, fashion, beauty, and extravagance
of the South.
It was at one of these gay reünions that dear
little Miss B—, one of the prettiest and best
girls in the world, asked Butterfield, who stood
sweltering in the corner, how he enjoyed himself.
“Hops,” replied the sage, “have a soporific
tendency, and I do mainly incline to sleep.”
“You look,” said little Miss B—, “as if a
your bier.”
Amos acknowledged the malt by a cheerful
guffaw, and looking down on his swelling form
murmured, “Larger,” and subsided into an arm-chair.
Annually at the St. Charles are given those grand
dress balls, which have attained a Union-wide celebrity,
and which are well worth travelling over
the Union to attend.
Three thousand invitations were issued to the
grand ball of this season, and a more crowded,
uncomfortable, or magnificent spectacle I never
expect to witness. The large suite of rooms were
crowded to excess by the most lovely, bewitching,
and animated crowd that ever were assembled.
Dancing was impossible, they could not do the
schottisch, there was not room to pump arms.
But it was a glorious spectacle, and so select. I
observed among the masses on that gay occasion,
the curvilinear proboscis of a well-known Hebrew,
of mankind by selling shirts on Canal
street. He was enjoying himself greatly in a full
flow of the finest spirits, when he suddenly
“paused in mid career,” blenched, and his face assumed
a fine expression of humility and confusion.
Looking about for the cause of this appearance,
I descried Butterfield gazing upon the victim with
a highly virtuous and indignant glance. “What
are you looking at the man for?” said I; “you
don't know him.”
“Don't I?” said Amos in a vindictive whisper;
“but I do though. Sell shirts, Sir; sold me
a shirt without any —, well,” added he in modest
confusion, “when I came to examine it I found
it was like Halley's comet, or that fox that æsop
tells about after he got out of the trap.”
“You don't tell me that,” said I.
“It's so,” replied Butterfield; “look here,” and
pulling me into a corner, he drew from the pocket
of his vest a crumpled piece of paper, which
thrusting into my hand he whispered, “Read
that,” and disappeared.
I opened the paper and with some difficulty deciphered
the following touching and beautiful
“Oh! were we but alone, in some region wild and woody,
I'd like to punch your head, old Shylock, Nazareth — dy.
A cambric shirt to me you once did make a sale of,
But when I took it home, I found you'd cut the — off;
Whether to make a cravat, or whether to wipe your nose, Sir,
I really do not know, but on me you did impose, Sir.
Like a man without a wife, like a ship without a sail, Sir,
The most useless thing in life, was that shirt without a —, Sir,
`Vall it ish vary goot,' old Shylock Nazareth — dy,
But I'd like to make you wear it, yes indeed, Sir, would I.”
The touching and plaintive character of this
morceau affected me beyond description; it does,
I think, great credit to Butterfield's acknowledged
poetical ability.
I should say that there was a great deal of hospitality
in New Orleans, which (with some notable
exceptions) appears to be graduated pretty
closely to the number of bales of cotton annually
shipped to that city, by the recipient.[1]
As there
cotton at all, and of course have a great deal of
leisure time at their disposal, it follows that “the
Rotunda” of the St. Charles is pretty constantly
filled. This “Rotunda” forms the centre of the
building; it contains about half-an acre of tesselated
floor, and is furnished with most comfortable,
cushioned arm-chairs. Here, if you take a seat
between the hours of eleven A. M. and two P. M.,
you will have the pleasure of seeing every white
male inhabitant of New Orleans, and the majority
of those inhabitants of the whole United States
that are worth knowing, and with whom you have
acquaintance. They come and go, a constant
panorama of familiar forms and faces.
The origin of the word “Rotunda” is singular,
and not generally known. At the risk of appearing
pedantic, I will “norate” it. Many years
ago, shortly after the foundation of Rome, a distinguished
architect of those days, named Claudius
that ever was surmounted by a dome. This building
was originally intended for a “savings institution,”
but the Roman that officiated as cashier
having left with the funds, it was used successively
as a market, dance-house, theatre, and Presbyterian
meeting-house, and finally fell into decay
and became a mere mass of ruin. Such it remained
until the time of the Emperor Alexander
Severus, when that monarch one day, accompanied
by his courtiers, came down to examine the
ruins, with a view to purchasing the lot on which
they lay. Here the Emperor's eyes were attracted
by the fallen dome, which he gazed on with
great curiosity, and finally picking his steps over
the stones and rubbish that intervened, he found
his way beneath it. The ancient Romans had the
same partiality for cheap distinction that animates
the modern Yankees; they lost no opportunity of
leaving their autograph in all public and private
places; the consequence was, that when the Emperor
looked up he was amazed at the number of
It was quite black with ancient and respectable
appellations. “Ha!” said the Emperor
Alexander Severus, with the air of a man that
has made a great discovery, (and with an utter
disregard of all grammatical rules,) “It's been
wrote under.”
His principal courtier, Naso Sneakellius, instantly
repeated the remark, with sycophantic reverence
to the by-standers, getting about as near it
as that stupid official generally did to every thing:
“The Emperor,” he said “says that this has been
a Rotunda. Hats off!”
The Romans all bowed with great solemnity,
not having the most dim or distant idea of the
joke, and the interior of a dome from that day to
this has been called a Rotunda.
I have not told you one-half of the greatness
and magnificence of the “St. Charles,” but I have
not time nor paper to continue. I can only add
that it is a most agreeable place to pass the winter,
that the proprietor is pleasant and attentive to his
St. Charles Hotel will make a great Haul,) and
that any one who doubts that it is a delightful
place of sojourn had better proceed there at once
and have his mind set at rest, which can be done
at small expense. Fain would I tell you of “the
St. Louis,” and of the theatres, and of the opera,
and of the “Boston Club,” (so called from the
sanctity of appearance and dignified demeanor of
its members, who are a right nice set of gentlemen,
and hospitable to strangers, cotton or no
cotton,) but as the man who lost his watch said,
“I have no time.” The other wonders of New-Orleans
for this present, must go unrecorded by
this veracious historian, for he is compelled to dessicate.
Adieu, should I write again, you will undoubtedly
hear from me.
Prof., etc.
| XV.
NEW ORLEANS — ITS HOTEL. The Squibob papers | |