Among the cities of America, New Orleans enjoys a special reputation.
The important position it holds as the key to the great valley of the
Mississippi, of whose commerce it is the natural _entrepot_ as well as
_decharge_--its late rapid growth and aggrandisement--all combine to
render the "Crescent City" one of the most interesting places in the
world, and by far the most interesting in the United States.
A variety of other circumstances have contributed to invest New Orleans
with a peculiar character in the eyes of the American people. The
romantic history of its early settlement--the sub-tropical stamp of its
vegetation, and the truly tropical character of its climate--the
repeated changing of its early owners; the influx and commingling of the
most varied and opposite nationalities; and the _bizarrerie_ of manners
and customs resulting therefrom, could not otherwise than produce a
community of a peculiar kind.
And such has been the result. Go where you will throughout the Atlantic
states, or even through the states of the West, you will find a certain
sentiment of interest attached to the name of the "Crescent City;" and
no one talks of it with indifference. The young Kentuckian, who has not
yet been "down the river," looks forward with pleasant anticipation to
the hour, when he may indulge in a visit to that place of infinite
luxury and pleasure--the Mecca of the Western world.
The growth of New Orleans has been rapid, almost beyond parallel--that
is, dating from the day it became a republican city. Up to that time
its history is scarcely worth recording.
Sixty years have witnessed its increase from a village of 10,000--of
little trade and less importance--to a grand commercial city, numbering
a population of 200,000 souls. And this in the teeth of a pestilential
epidemic, that annually robs it of its thousands of inhabitants.
But for the drawback of climate, New Orleans would, ere this, have
rivalled New York; but it looks forward to a still grander future. Its
people believe it destined to become the metropolis of the world; and in
view of its peculiar position, there is no great presumption in the
prophecy.
New Orleans is not looked upon as a provincial city--it never was one.
It is a true metropolis, and ever has been, from the time when it was
the head-quarters and commercial depot of the gulf pirates, to the
present hour.
Its manners and customs are its own; its fashions are original, or, if
borrowed, it is from the Boulevards, not from Broadway. The latest
_coiffure_ of a Parisian belle, the cut of a coat, or the shape of a
hat, will make its appearance upon the streets of New Orleans, earlier
than on those of New York--notwithstanding the advantage which the
latter has in Atlantic steamers: and, what is more, the coat and hat of
the New Orleanois will be of better fabric, and costlier materials, than
that of the New Yorker. The Creole cares little for expense: he clothes
himself in the best--the finest linen that loom can produce; the finest
cloth that can be fabricated. Hats are worn costing twenty-five dollars
apiece; and the bills of a tailor of the Rue Royale would astonish even
a customer of Stultz. I have myself some recollection of a twelve
guinea coat, made me by one of these Transatlantic artists; but I
remember also that _it was a coat_.
New Orleans, then, may fairly claim to be considered a metropolis; and,
among its many titles there is one which it enjoys _par excellence_,
that is, in being the head-quarters of the _duello_. In no other part
of America, nor haply in the world either, are there so many personal
encounters--nowhere is the sword so often drawn, or the pistol aimed, in
single combat, as among the fiery spirits of the "Crescent City."
Scarcely a week passes without an "affair;" and too often, through the
sombre forest of Pontchartrain, borne upon the still morning air, may be
heard the quick responsive detonations that betoken a hostile meeting--
perhaps the last moments of some noble but misguided youth.
I have said that nearly every week witnesses such a scene--I am writing
of the present. Were I to speak of the past, I should have to make a
slight alteration in my phraseology. Were I to use the phrase, "nearly
every day," it would not invalidate the truth of my assertion; and that
of a period not yet twenty years gone by.
At that time a duel, or a street fight--one or the other--was a diurnal
occurrence: and the notoriety of either ended almost with the hour in
which it came off.
It was difficult for a man of spirit to keep his hand clear of these
embroglios; and even elderly respectable men--men, married and with
grown-up families--were not exempted from duelling, but were expected to
turn out and fight, if but the slightest insult were offered them.
Of course a stranger, ignorant of the customs of the place, and used to
a society where a little liberal "larking" was allowed, would there soon
be cured of his propensity for practical jokes.
But even a sober-minded individual could not always steer himself so as
to escape an adventure. For myself, without being at all of a
pugnacious disposition, I came very nigh tumbling into an "affair"
within twenty-four hours after my first landing in New Orleans; and a
friend, who was my companion, actually _did_ take the field.
The circumstance is scarcely worth relating--and, perhaps, it would be
better, both for my friend and myself if it were left untold.
But there is a dramatic necessity in the revelation. The incident
introduced me to the principal characters of the little drama I have
essayed to set forth; and the circumstances of this introduction--odd
though they were--are required to elucidate the "situation."
I love the sea, but hate sea-travelling. I never "go down to it in
ships" but with great reluctance, and from sheer necessity. My
fellow-voyager felt exactly as I did--both of us were alike weary of the
sea. What was our joy, then, when, after a voyage ranging nearly from
pole to equator--after being "cabined, cribbed, and confined" for a
period of three months--buffeted by billows, and broiled amid
long-continued calms--we beheld the promised land around the mouths of
the mighty Mississippi!
The dove that escaped from the Ark was not more eager to set its claws
upon a branch, than we to plant our feet upon _terra firma_.
The treeless waste did not terrify us. Swamp as it was, and is, we
should have preferred landing in its midst to staying longer aboard, had
a boat been at our service.
As there was none, we were compelled to endure the tedious up-stream
navigation of one hundred miles, before our eyes finally rested upon the
shining cupola of the Saint Charles.
Then we could endure the ship no longer; and our importunities having
produced their effects upon the kindly old skipper, two stout tars were
ordered into the gig, and myself and companion were rapidly "shot" upon
the bank.
It is not easy to describe the pleasurable sensations one has at such a
moment; but if you can fancy how a bird might feel on escaping from its
cage, you may have a very good idea of how we felt on getting clear of
our ship.
We were still several miles below New Orleans; but a wide road wended in
the direction of the city, running along the crest of a great
embankment, known as the "Levee," and taking this road for our guide, we
started forward towards the town.
Story 2, Chapter II.