New Orleans.--Surviving Traces of Spanish and French Occupation.--
Jackson Square.--Cathedral of St. Louis.--The Cemeteries.--
Melancholy Perspectives.--Audubon Park.--Graves for Sale.--The
French Market.-- Mobile and New Orleans as Seen Nearly Thirty
Years Ago.--St. Charles Hotel.--A Dinner at Dr. Mercer's.
The train moved along leisurely over bridges and trestle work, and
through flowery forests, until, we scarcely knew how, we found
ourselves at our temporary destination.
One could see very little of New Orleans in the short space of our
stay, but we made the most of it. The city itself, in its historic and
social aspects, is one of the most interesting in America and the least
American. It has on it yet the traces of former Spanish and French
ownership and occupation, but the equestrian statue of Old Hickory in
Jackson Square, still known by its ancient name, the Place d'Armes,
crowns all the past with the American idea. The monument of General
Jackson is directly in front of the Cathedral of St. Louis of France.
We entered this edifice and noted the reredos back of the high altar,
emblazoned with the arms of St. Louis and the record of his virtues.
While we were there, a large class of boys were being catechized, in
the French tongue; again and again the answers would come in loud
monotone. We noted, also, with interest, the unmistakable Gallic type,
in head and eyes and hair, of the restless young scholars upon the
benches.
Some of our party took carriage drives, and some preferred the
ubiquitous street cars. In various ways we each sought our pleasure. We
went to the cemeteries, with their overground, oven-like tombs,
necessitated by the water-soaked condition of the soil. The French
burial places had that sombre effect which straight lines and extended
alleys ever produce. Why this disposition of line should so impress the
mind is very curious, but I have always found it so. One feels it at
Versailles, as well as in the most up-to-date of places, like Chicago.
The vanishing points of long distances, where, as it were, one can
never hope to reach, produce in the mind a kind of sorrow; while the
curve, which conceals the unseen, urges on to pursue and attain to that
which is beyond. Audubon Park, which we visited, and the Arboretum
produce more pleasing effects by the winding walks and constant variety
of beautiful trees and flowers. It is rather a doleful thing to make
even the very best kept cemeteries places for lounging pleasure.
In the incongruity of such a situation, the frequent little green
lizards flashing over the marble tombstones were a diversion. We caught
one of them, and it was most curious to see it change color in its
nervous alarm. From the most vivid green it became a dull blood red,
and then brown, panting as if its heart would break; and not until it
was well away from us did it return to its normal emerald tint.
It must be confessed that the ludicrous ever lurks near one in such
places, and often, also, that which is sadder than sad. For instance,
in the midst of the silent sombreness of the French cemeteries it was a
dreary incident in the drama of life to see the placards of "For sale"
on monuments whose occupation was gone, for they who were enclosed
therein were, for some cause or another, to be ousted from their rest.
After we left the cemeteries some of our party had an _al fresco_
lunch under some live-oak trees, where an honest German catered to our
wants with the well-known products of the Fatherland. It was hot even
there, but we wiled away an hour or so of rest in most satisfactory
fashion.
We did the French market early in the morning, but possibly we were not
early enough; for the whole place, display, and everything there seemed
tame and commonplace. I found, however, pleasant study in some of the
people, especially the poor, but aristocratic looking women with blue
jean sunbonnets on, market baskets on their arms, and wearing dresses
of most uncrinoline proportions.
We visited the new "St. Charles," where we all had dinner. The stay at
this hotel brought back to mind the time, so long ago, when I first saw
New Orleans. It was in January, 1870, shortly after the close of the
War of the Rebellion. We were at the consecration of Bishop Pierce, at
Mobile, Alabama, and visited New Orleans ere returning home. What
memories came to me of the journey south through the historic
battle-fields of the "Lost Cause"! I remember the long stretch of burnt
locomotives standing on the tracks at Mobile; of Christ Church, where
the consecration of Dr. Pierce was held, with its decoration of orange
branches in fruit and flower; of the brilliant reception held at the
residence of our hostess, Mrs. Perry; and the drawing-room, filled with
flowers and elegantly dressed women; while a wood fire, all aglow, gave
us a reminder that we must make believe it was winter, because it was
January. Then there was the steamboat ride from Mobile _via_ Lake
Pontchartrain, and thence to New Orleans. The city has changed much in
these years. We stayed then at the old St. Charles, surely an old fire
trap, as events proved, but stately for all that. The culmination of
each day was the hotel dinner; and a daily parade, well worth seeing,
was the progress of the ladies across the huge rotunda, through the
lounging crowd, to the dining-room. All that is now gone, and the new
St. Charles gets along without this primitive and, I must say, pleasing
display.
A memory also abides with me which I surely may rehearse. It was a
dinner given to visiting ecclesiastics and lay dignitaries at the
hospitable home of Dr. Mercer in Canal Street. If I am right, he was a
bachelor; he lived in great elegance in his own house. The dinner was
thoroughly Southern, and so intended. I still have pleasing
reminiscences of the gumbo soup; and a boned turkey, boiled, and
stuffed with oysters, ought not, and can not, ever be forgotten. It was
pallid, but palatable, in its moist modesty, and a cut right through
its entire circumference was something to be brought away as a grateful
remembrance, safely disposed within the inner man.
V
Impressions of New Orleans.--Its Harbor.--The Levee at Night.--Southern
Texas.--Its Forests, Flowers, and Birds.--The Prairie Pool.
We left New Orleans at 8.40 P.M., on Monday, with visions of broad,
unpaved streets embowered in trees; of stately mansions in enclosed
gardens; of the huge levee, which, like a giant laid at length, pushes
its shoulders against the ever-threatening flood of the mighty
Mississippi. Our ladies, too, had additional memories of the shopping
districts; of ill-smelling open drains which offended them; of
ravishing summer goods of cotton and silk from the looms of France; of
exquisite bijouterie tempting to one's purse; of great square paving
blocks which seemed made to float; and over all the remembrance of the
yellow flag of Spain, of the lily of France, and of the awakened
bravery of the eagle of America, strangely rousing up to war, and we
hoped to conquest.
The great river at New Orleans is ever an object of interest. The huge
three-sided bend which forms the harbor has a width varying from 1,500
to 3,000 feet, and a depth of from 60 to more than 200 feet. This great
body of water has at times a current of five miles an hour. It is the
aggregate of a river system extending more than 100,000 miles. You may
put together the Amazon, the Nile, the Ganges, and all the river
systems of the earth, and they would scarcely approach the magnificent
showing of the Father of Waters and its tributaries as it flows on by
New Orleans to the sea.
As we looked back from our ferry-boat over the levee, luminous with its
electric lights, at the huge bulk of the wonderful river over which we
were passing, and then thought of all we had already seen in the few
short days of our trip, and of all that was yet before us, we felt that
rest in our dear "Lucania" would be welcome, and that we could well
afford to sleep through Louisiana and wake in Texas.
When we woke up after our night's ride from New Orleans, we found
ourselves in the southern part of that wondrous State, Texas. One is
not surprised that its vast extent should have awakened in its first
adventurous settlers the dream of an independent "Lone Star Empire."
How could it be otherwise then, before the time and space annihilating
forces of steam and electricity had been discovered and applied? Now
all is different. The great pulses of life and trade throb all through
the world, in a wondrous fashion, of which our fathers could not even
dream. Everywhere is now a centre to touch all else with influences.
It was lovely in the fresh morning light to look out over this jocund
land. This is how it impressed dear Mrs. Morgan, and I transcribe
directly from her diary, kindly placed at my disposal.
"Tuesday, April 19th.--Up early; a most exquisite morning. We pass
through luxuriant forests of live oak, magnolia, and other trees of
various kinds, draped in some places with southern moss, in others with
beautiful creepers, among them the rich wistaria in full bloom.
"A heavy storm during the night left all the foliage sparkling with
raindrops; and the songs of the birds and the odors from the refreshed
earth added to the charm. It was a day of delight. Sat almost all the
morning on the piazza in rear of the car in a state of beatitude.
"After the forest came sugar plantations--one of 5,000 acres, off which
the owner last year made a million pounds of sugar. The cane, as we saw
it, just coming up, resembled corn in its early growth. We also saw
immense tracts of cotton, and then came the prairie, a seemingly
boundless expanse of green, gemmed with lovely wild flowers. There were
acres of beautiful blue larkspur, crimson phlox, varieties of poppies,
and other yellow flowers, besides many that I failed to recognize as we
rushed along. Here, too, the mocking-birds perched on the wires and
sang to us, and the poet of the party was inspired to write his lines
on 'A Prairie Pool,' one of many which we passed on our way."
I here give the little poem to which Mrs. Morgan refers. The fatigues
of the day before were yet upon me, and I ensconced myself near one of
the windows to have a silent, quiet little spell all to myself. It was
while thus abstracted, that one of the many pools, left by the recent
storm, looked at me with its sunlit face and said as follows: