X.

First impressions--A hero of the "Three Days"--Children's

ball--Life in New-Orleans--A French supper--Omnibuses--

Chartres-street at twilight--Calaboose--Guard-house--The

vicinage of a theatre--French cafes--Scenes in the interior

of a cafe--Dominos--Tobacco-smokers--New-Orleans society.

The last three days I have spent in perambulating the city, hearing,

seeing, and visiting every thing worthy the notice of a Yankee, (and

consequently an inquisitive) tourist.

As I shall again have occasion to introduce you among the strange and

motley groups, and interesting scenes of the Levee, I will not now

resume the thread of my narrative, broken by the conclusion of my last

letter, but take you at once into the "terra incognita" of this city of

contrarieties.

The evening of my visit to the market, through the politeness of

Monsieur D., a young Frenchman who distinguished himself in the great

"Three Days" at Paris, and to whom I had a letter of introduction, was

passed amid the gayety and brilliancy of a French assembly-room. The

building in which this ball was held, is adjacent to the Theatre

d'Orleans, and devoted, I believe, exclusively to public parties, which

are held here during the winter months, or more properly, "the season,"

almost every night. The occasion on which I attended, was one of

peculiar interest. It was termed the "Children's ball;" and it is given

at regular intervals throughout the gay months. I have not learned the

precise object of this ball, or how it is conducted; but these are

unimportant. I merely wish to introduce to you the dazzling crowd

gathered there, so that you may form some conception of the manner and

appearance of the lively citizens of this lively city, who seem disposed

to remunerate themselves for the funereal and appalling silence of the

long and gloomy season, when "pestilence walketh abroad at noon-day," by

giving way to the full current of life and spirits. Adopting, literally,

"Dum vivimus vivamus," for their motto and their "rule of faith and

practice," they manage during the winter not only to make up for the

privations of summer, but to execute about as much dancing, music,

laughing, and dissipation, as would serve any reasonably disposed,

staid, and sober citizens, for three or four years, giving them withal

from January to January for the perpetration thereof.

After taking a light supper at _home_, as I already call my hotel, which

consisted of claret, macaroni, cranberries, peaches, little plates of

fresh grapes, several kinds of cakes and other bonbons, spread out upon

a long polished mahogany table, resembling altogether more the display

upon a confectioner's counter than the _table d'hote_ of a hotel, in

company with Monsieur D. I prepared to walk to the scene of the

evening's amusement. But on gaining the street we observed the

"omnibus" still at its stand at the intersection of Canal and Chartres

streets. The driver, already upon his elevated station, with his bugle

at his lips, was sounding his "signal to make sail," as we should say of

a ship; and thereupon, being suddenly impressed with the advantages the

sixteen legs of his team had over our four, in accomplishing the mile

before us, we without farther reflection, sprang forthwith into the

invitingly open door at the end of the vehicle, and the next instant

found ourselves comfortably seated, with about a dozen others, "in

omnibus."

There are two of these carriages which run from Canal-street through the

whole length of Chartres-street, by the public square, and along the

noble esplanade between the Levee and the main body of the city, as far

as the rail-road; the whole distance being about two miles. The two

vehicles start simultaneously from either place, every half-hour, and

consequently change stands with each other alternately throughout the

day. They commence running early in the morning, and are always on the

move and crowded with passengers till sun-down. For a "bit"

(twelve-and-a-half cents) as it is denominated here, one can ride the

whole distance, or if he choose, but a hundred yards--it is all the same

to the knight of the whip, who mounted on the box in front, guides his

"four-in-hand" with the skill of a professor.

As we drove through the long, narrow and dusky street, the wholesale

mercantile houses were "being" closed, while the retail stores and fancy

shops, were "being" brilliantly lighted up. Carriages, horsemen, and

noisy drays, with their noisier draymen, were rapidly moving in all

directions, while every individual upon the "trottoirs" was hurrying, as

though some important business of the day had been forgotten, or not yet

completed. All around presented the peculiar noise and bustle which

always prevail throughout the streets of a commercial city at the close

of the day.

Leaving our omniferous vehicle with its omnifarious cargo--among whom,

fore and aft, the chattering of half a dozen languages had all at once,

as we rode along, unceasingly assailed our ears--at the head of Rue St.

Pierre, we proceeded toward Orleans-street. Directly on quitting the

omnibus we passed the famous Calaboos, or Calabozo, the city prison, so

celebrated by all seamen who have made the voyage to New-Orleans, and

who, in their "long yarns" upon the forecastle, in their weary watches,

fail not to clothe it with every horror of which the Calcutta black

hole, or the Dartmoor prison--two horrible bugbears to sailors--could

boast. Its external appearance, however, did not strike me as very

appealing. It is a long, plain, plastered, blackened building, with

grated windows, looking gloomy enough, but not more so than a common

country jail. It is built close upon the street, and had not my

companion observed as we passed along, "That is the Calaboos," I should

not probably have remarked it. On the corner above, and fronting the

"square," is the guard-house, or quarters of the gens d'armes. Several

of them in their plain blue uniforms and side arms, were lounging about

the corner as we passed, mingling and conversing with persons in

citizens' dress. A glance _en passant_ through an open door, disclosed

an apparently well-filled armory. A few minutes walk through an obscure

and miserably lighted part of Rues St. Pierre and Royale, brought us

into Orleans-street, immediately in the vicinity of its theatre. This

street for some distance on either side of the assembly-room, was

lighted with the brightness of noon-day; not, indeed, by the solitary

lamps which, "few and far between," were suspended across the streets,

but by the glare of reflectors and chandeliers from coffee-houses,

restaurateurs, confectionaries and fancy stores, which were clustered

around that nucleus of pleasure, the French theatre.

We were in the French part of the city; but there was no apparent

indication that we were not really in France. Not an American ("Anglo")

building was to be seen, in the vicinity, nor scarcely an American face

or voice discoverable among the numerous, loud-talking, chattering crowd

of every grade and colour, congregated before the doors of the ball-room

and cafes adjoining. Before ascending to the magnificent hall where the

gay dancers were assembled, we repaired to an adjoining cafe, _a la

mode_ New-Orleans, with a pair of Monsieur D.'s friends--whom we

encountered in the lobby while negotiating for tickets--to overhaul the

evening papers, and if need there should be, recruit our spirits. A

French coffee-house is a place well worth visiting by a stranger, more

especially a Yankee stranger. I will therefore detain you a little

longer from the brilliant congregation of beauty and gallantry in the

assembly room, and introduce you for a moment into this cafe and to its

inmates. As the coffee houses here do not differ materially from each

other except in size and richness of decoration, though some of them

certainly are more fashionable resorts than others, the description of

one of them will enable you perhaps to form some idea of other similar

establishments in this city. Though their usual denomination is

"coffee-house," they have no earthly, whatever may be their spiritual,

right to such a distinction; it is merely a "_nomme de profession_,"

assumed, I know not for what object. We entered from the street, after

passing round a large Venetian screen within the door, into a spacious

room, lighted by numerous lamps, at the extremity of which stood an

extensive bar, arranged, in addition to the usual array of glass ware,

with innumerable French decorations. There were several attendants, some

of whom spoke English, as one of the requirements of their station. This

is the case of all _employes_ throughout New-Orleans; nearly every store

and place of public resort being provided with individuals in attendance

who speak both languages. Around the room were suspended splendid

engravings and fine paintings, most of them of the most licentious

description, and though many of their subjects were classical, of a

voluptuous and luxurious character. This is French taste however. There

are suspended in the Exchange in Chartres-street--one of the most

magnificent and public rooms in the city--paintings which, did they

occupy an equally conspicuous situation in Merchant's Hall, in Boston,

would be instantly defaced by the populace.

Around the room, beneath the paintings, were arranged many small tables,

at most of which three or four individuals were seated, some alternately

sipping negus and puffing their segars, which are as indispensable

necessaries to a Creole at all times, as his right hand, eye-brows, and

left shoulder in conversation. Others were reading newspapers, and

occasionally assisting their comprehension of abstruse paragraphs, by

hot "coffee," alias warm punch and slings, with which, on little

japanned salvers, the active attendants were flying in all directions

through the spacious room, at the beck and call of customers. The large

circular bar was surrounded by a score of noisy applicants for the

liquid treasures which held out to them such strong temptations. Trios,

couples and units of gentlemen were promenading the well sanded floor,

talking in loud tones, and gesticulating with the peculiar vehemence and

rapidity of Frenchmen. Others, and by far the majority, were gathered by

twos and by fours around the little tables, deeply engaged in playing

that most intricate, scientific, and mathematical of games termed

"Domino." This is the most common game resorted to by the Creoles. In

every cafe and cabaret, from early in the morning, when the luxurious

mint-julep has thawed out their intellects and expanded their organ of

combativeness, till late at night, devotees to this childish amusement

will be found clustered around the tables, with a tonic, often renewed

and properly sangareed, at their elbows. Enveloped in dense clouds of

tobacco-smoke issuing from their eternal segars--those inspirers of

pleasant thoughts,--to whose density, with commendable perseverance and

apparent good will, all in the cafe contribute,--they manoeuvre their

little dotted, black and white parallelograms with wonderful pertinacity

and skill. The whole scene forcibly reminds one, if perchance their fame

hath reached him, of a brace of couplets from a celebrated poem (a

choral ode I believe) composed upon the ship-wreck of its author. The

lines are strikingly applicable to the present subject by merely

substituting "cafe" for "cabin," and negus-drinkers for "hogsheads and

barrels."

"The cafe filled with thickest smoke,

Threat'ning every soul to choke:

Negus-drinkers crowding in,

Make a most infernal din."

There are certainly one hundred coffee-houses in this city--how many

more, I know not,--and they have, throughout the day, a constant ingress

and egress of thirsty, time-killing, news-seeking visiters. As custom

authorises this frequenting of these popular places of resort, the

citizens of New-Orleans do not, like those of Boston, attach any

disapprobation to the houses or their visiters. And as there is, in

New-Orleans, from the renewal of one half of its inhabitants every few

years, and the constant influx of strangers, strictly speaking no

exclusive _clique_ or aristocracy, to give a tone to society and

establish a standard of propriety and respectability, as among the

worthy Bostonians, one cannot say to another, "It is not genteel to

resort here--it will injure your reputation to be seen entering this or

that cafe." The inhabitants have no fixed criterion of what is and what

is not "respectable," in the northern acceptation of the term. They are

neither guided nor restrained from following their own inclinations, by

any laws of long established society, regulating their movements, and

saying "thus far shalt thou go, and no farther." Consequently, every man

minds his own affairs, pursues his own business or amusement, and lets

his neighbours and fellow-citizens do the same; without the fear of the

moral lash (not law) before his eyes, or expulsion from "caste" for

doing that "in which his soul delighteth."

Thus you see that society here is a perfect democracy, presenting

variety and novelty enough to a stranger, who chooses to mingle in it

freely, and feels a disposition impartially to study character. But a

truce to this subject for the present, as I wish to introduce you into

the presence of the fair democrats, whose fame for beauty is so well

established.

Forcing our way through the press around the door, we entered the lobby,

from which a broad flight of steps conducted us to a first, and then a

second platform, through piles of black servants in attendance upon

their masters and mistresses in the ball-room. At the second landing our

tickets were received, and we toiled on with difficulty toward the hall

door, with our hats (which the regulations forbid our wearing even in

the entrance) elevated in the air, for if placed under the arm they

would have been flattened in the squeeze to the very respectable

similitude of a platter, as one unlucky gentleman near me had an

opportunity of testing, to his full conviction. We were soon drawn

within the current setting into the ball-room, and were borne onward by

the human stream over which a score or two of chapeaux waved aloft like

signals of distress.--But I have already spun out my letter to a

sufficient length, and lest you should cry "hold, Macduff," I will defer

your introduction to the _beau monde_ of New-Orleans till my next.