I
An odd feature of New Orleans is the way homes of all ranks, in so many
sections of it, are mingled. The easy, bright democracy of the thing is
what one might fancy of ancient Greeks; only, here there is a general
wooden frailty.
A notable phase of this characteristic is the multitude of small, frame,
ground-story double cottages fronting endwise to the street, on lots that
give either side barely space enough for one row of twelve-foot rooms with
windows on a three-foot alley leading to the narrow backyard.
Thus they lie, deployed in pairs or half-dozens, by hundreds, in the
variable intervals that occur between houses and gardens of dignity and
elegance; hot as ovens, taking their perpetual bath of the great cleanser,
sunshine. Sometimes they open directly upon the banquette (sidewalk), but
often behind as much as a fathom of front-yard, as gay with flowers as a
girl's hat, and as fragrant of sweet-olive, citronelle, and heliotrope as
her garments. In the right-hand half of such a one, far down on the Creole
side of Canal street, and well out toward the swamp, lived our friend the
entomologist.
Just a glance at it was enough to intoxicate one's fancy. It seemed to
confess newness of life, joy, passion, temperance, refinement, aspiration,
modest wisdom, and serene courage. You would say there must live two
well-mated young lovers--but one can't always tell.