The South-West, by a Yankee. In Two Volumes. Volume 1

XIX.

I have just returned from a visit to the scene of American resolution and individual renown—the battle-ground of New-Orleans. The Aceldama, where one warrior-chief drove his triumphal car over the grave of another—the field of "fame and of glory" from which the "hero of two wars" plucked the chaplet which encircles his brow, and the éclat which has elevated him to a throne!—

The field of battle lies between five and six miles below the city, on the left bank, on the New-Orleans side of the river. The road conducting us to it, wound pleasantly along the Levée; its unvarying level relieved by delightful gardens, and pleasant country seats—(one of which, constructed like a Chinese villa, struck me as eminently tasteful and picturesque)—skirting it upon one side, and by the noble, lake-like Mississippi on the other, which, beating upon its waveless bosom a hundred white sails, and a solitary tow-boat leading, like a conqueror, a fleet in her train—rolled silently and majestically past to the ocean. When, in our own estimation, and, no doubt, in that of our horses, we had accomplished the prescribed two leagues, we reined up at a steam saw-mill, erected and in full operation on the road-side, and inquired for some directions to the spot—not discerning in the peaceful plantations before us, any indications of the scene of so fierce a struggle as that which took place, when England and America met in proud array, and the military standards of each gallantly waved to the "battle and the breeze." Although, on ascending the river in the ship, I obtained a moonlight glance of the spot, I received no impression of its locale sufficiently accurate to enable me to recognise it under different circumstances. An extensive, level field was spread out before us, apparently the peaceful domain of some planter, who probably resided in a little piazza-girted cottage which stood on the banks of the river. But this field, we at once decided, could not be the battle-field—so quiet and farm-like it reposed. "There," was our reflection, "armies can never have met! there, warriors can never have stalked in the pride of victory with

"—— garments rolled in blood!"

Yet peaceful as it slumbered there, that domain had once rung with the clangor of war. It was the battle-field! But silence now reigned

In reply to our inquiries, made of one apparently superintending the steam-works, we received simply the tacit "Follow me gentlemen!" We gladly accommodated the paces of our spirited horses to those of our obliging and very practical informant, who alertly preceded us, blessing the stars which had given us so unexpectedly a cicerone, who, from his vicinity to the spot must be au fait in all the interesting minutiæ of so celebrated a place. Following our guide a few hundred yards farther down the river-road, we passed on the left hand a one story wooden dwelling-house situated at a short distance back from the road, having a gallery, or portico in front, and elevated upon a basement story of brick, like most other houses built immediately on the river. This, our guide informed us, was "the house occupied by General Jackson as head-quarters: and there," he continued, pointing to a planter's residence two or three miles farther down the river, "is the mansion-house of General, (late governor, Villeré) which was occupied by Sir Edward Packenham as the head-quarters of the British army."

"But the battle-ground—where is that sir?" we inquired, as he silently continued his rapid walk in advance of us.

"There it is," he replied after walking on a minute or two longer in silence, and turning the corner of a narrow, fenced lane which extended from the river to the forest-covered marshes—"there it is, gentlemen,"—and at the same time extended his arm in the direction of the peaceful plain, which we had before observed,—spread out like a carpet, it was so very level—till it terminated in the distant forests, by which and the river it was nearly enclosed. Riding a quarter of a mile down the lane we dismounted, and leaving our horses in the road, sprang over a fence, and in a few seconds stood upon the American breast-works!

"When," said a mercurial friend lately, in describing his feelings on first standing upon the same spot—"when I leaped upon the embankment, my first impulse was to give vent to my excited feelings by a shout that might have awakened the mailed sleepers from their sleep of death." Our emotions—for strong and strange emotions will be irresistibly excited in the breast of every one, "to war's dark scenes unused," on first beholding the scene of a sanguinary conflict, between man and man, whether it be grisly with carnage, pleasantly waving with the yellow harvest, or carpeted with green—our emotions, though perhaps equally deep, exhibited themselves very differently. For some moments, after gaining our position, we stood wrapped in silence. The wild and terrible scenes of which the ground we trod had been the theatre, passed vividly before my mind with almost the distinctness of reality, impressing it with reflections of a deep and solemn character. I stood upon the graves of the fallen! Every footfall disturbed human ashes! Human dust gathered upon our shoes as the dust of the plain! My thoughts were too full for utterance. "On the very spot where I stand"—thought I, "some gallant fellow poured out the best blood of his heart! Here, past me, and around me, flowed the sanguinary tide of death!—The fierce battle-cry—the bray of trumpets—the ringing of steel on steel—the roar of artillery hurling leaden and iron hail against human breasts—the rattling of musketry—the shouts of the victor, and the groans of the wounded, were here mingled—a whirlwind of noise and death!"

"Under those two oaks, which you see about half a mile over the field, Sir Edward was borne, by his retreating soldiers, to die"—said our guide, suddenly interrupting my momentary reverie. I looked in the direction indicated by his finger, and my eyes rested upon a venerable oak, towering in solitary grandeur over the field, and overshadowing the graves of the slain, who, in great numbers, had been sepultured beneath its shadow. How many eyes were fixed, with the fond recollection of their village homes amid clustering oaks in distant England, upon this noble tree—which, in a few moments, amid the howl of war, were closed for ever in the sleep of the dead! Of how many last looks were its branches the repositories! How many manly sighs were wafted toward its waving summit from the breast of many a brave man, who was never more to behold the wave of a green tree upon the pleasant earth!

It has been stated that Sir Edward Packenham fell, and was buried under this oak, or these oaks, (for I believe there are two,) but I have been informed, since my return from the field, by a gentleman who was commander of a troop of horse in the action, that when the British retreated, he saw from the parapet the body of General Packenham lying alone upon the ground, surrounded by the dead and wounded, readily distinguishable by its uniform; and, that during the armistice for the burial of the dead, he saw his body borne from the field by the British soldiers, who afterward conveyed it with them in their retreat to their fleet.

The rampart of earth upon which we stood, presented very little the appearance of having ever been a defence for three thousand breasts; resembling rather one of the numerous dikes constructed on the plantations near the river, to drain the very marshy soil which abounds in this region, than the military defences of a field of battle. It was a grassy embankment, extending, with the exception of an angle near the forest—about a mile in a straight line from the river to the cypress swamps in the rear; four feet high, and five or six feet broad. At the time of the battle it was the height of a man, and somewhat broader than at present, and along the whole front ran a fossé, containing five feet of water, and of the same breadth as the parapet. This was now nearly filled with earth, and could easily be leaped over at any point. The embankment throughout the whole extent is much worn, indented and, occasionally, levelled with the surface of the plain. Upon the top of it, before the battle, eight batteries were erected, with embrasures of cotton bales, piled transversely. Under cover of this friendly embankment, the Americans lay perdus, but not idle, during the greater portion of the battle.

A daring Tennessean, with a blanket tied round him, and a hat with a brim of enormous breadth, who seemed to be fighting "on his own hook," disdaining to raise his rifle over the bank of earth and fire, in safety to his person, like his more wary fellow soldiers, chose to spring, every time he fired, upon the breastwork, where, balancing himself, he would bring his rifle to his cheek, throw back his broad brim, take sight and fire, while the enemy were advancing to the attack, as deliberately as though shooting at a herd of deer; then leaping down on the inner side, he would reload, mount the works, cock his beaver, take aim, and crack again. "This he did," said an English officer, who was taken prisoner by him, and who laughingly related it as a good anecdote to Captain D——, my informant above alluded to—"five times in rapid succession, as I advanced at the head of my company, and though the grape whistled through the air over our heads, for the life of me I could not help smiling at his grotesque demi-savage, demi-quaker figure, as he threw back the broad flap of his castor to obtain a fair sight—deliberately raised his rifle—shut his left eye, and blazed away at us. I verily believe he brought down one of my men at every shot."

As the British resolutely advanced, though columns fell like the tall grain before the sickle at the fire of the Americans, this same officer approached at the head of his brave grenadiers amid the rolling fire of musketry from the lines of his unseen foes, undaunted and untouched. "Advance, my men!" he shouted as he reached the edge of the fossé—"follow me!" and sword in hand he leaped the ditch, and turning amidst the roar and flame of a hundred muskets to encourage his men, beheld to his surprise but a single man of his company upon his feet—more than fifty brave fellows, whom he had so gallantly led on to the attack, had been shot down. As he was about to leap back from his dangerous situation, his sword was shivered in his grasp by a rifle ball, and at the same instant the daring Tennessean sprang upon the parapet and levelled his deadly weapon at his breast, calmly observing, "Surrender, strannger—or, I may perforate ye!" "Chagrined," said the officer, at the close of his recital, "I was compelled to deliver to the bold fellow my mutilated sword, and pass over into the American lines."

"Here," said our guide and cicerone, advancing a few paces up the embankment, and placing his foot emphatically upon the ground, "here fell Renie."

This gallant man, with the calf of his leg shot away by a cannon-ball, leaped upon the breast-works with a shout of exultation, and was immediately shot through the heart, by an American private. Packenham, the favourite elêve of Wellington, and the "beau ideal" of a British soldier, after receiving a second wound, while attempting to rally his broken columns, fell directly in front of our position, not far from where Renie received his death-wound. In the disorder and panic of the first retreat of the British, he was left bleeding and forsaken among the dead and dying. Not far from this melancholy spot, Gibbes received his mortal wound; and near the place where this gallant officer fell, one of the staff of the English general was also shot down. The whole field was fruitful with scenes of thrilling interest. I should weary you by individualizing them. There was scarcely a spot on which I could cast my eyes, where a soldier had not poured out his life-blood. "As I stood upon the breast-works," said Captain Dunbar, "after the action, the field of battle before me was so thickly strewn with dead bodies, that I could have walked fifty yards over them without placing my foot upon the ground." How revolting the sight of a field thus sown must be to human nature! Man must indeed be humbled at such a spectacle.

We walked slowly over the ground, which annually waves with undulating harvests of the rich cane. Our guide was intelligent and sufficiently communicative without being garrulous. He was familiar with every interesting fact associated with the spot, and by his correct information rendered our visit both more satisfactory and agreeable than it otherwise would have been.

"Here gentilhommes, j'ai findé some bullet for you to buy," shouted a little French mulatto at the top of his voice, who, among other boys of various hues, had followed us to the field, "me, j'ai trop—too much;" and on reaching us, this double-tongued urchin turned his pockets inside out and discharged upon the ground a load of rusty grape shot, bullets, and fragments of lead—his little stock in trade, some, if not all of which, I surmised, had been manufactured for the occasion.

"Did you find them on the battle-ground, garçon?"

"Iss—oui, Messieurs, me did, de long-temps."

I was about to charge him with having prepared his pockets before leaving home, when Mr. C. exhibited a grape shot that he had picked from the dark soil in which it was half buried. I bought for a piccaiune,[9] the smallest currency of the country, the "load of grape," and we pursued our walk over the field, listening with much interest to the communications of our guide, conjuring up the past scenes of strife and searching for balls; which by and by began to thicken upon us so fast, that we were disposed to attribute a generative principle to grape-shot. We were told by our cicerone that they were found in great numbers by the ploughmen, and disposed of to curious visiters. On inquiring of him if false ones were not imposed upon the unsuspecting, he replied "No—there is no need of that—there is an abundance of those which are genuine."

"I'm got half a peck on um to hum, mysef, I'se found," exclaimed a little negro in a voice that sounded like the creaking of a shoe, bolting off at the same time for the treasure, like one of his own cannon-balls. What appalling evidence is this abundance of leaden and iron hail strewed over the field, of the terrible character of that war-storm which swept so fearfully over it. Flattened and round balls, grape of various sizes, and non-descript bits of iron were the principal objects picked up in our stroll over the ground.

The night was rapidly approaching—for we had lingered long on this interesting spot—and precluded our visit to the oaks, to which it had been our intention to extend our walk; and as we turned to retrace our steps with our pockets heavy with metal, something rang to the touch of my foot, which, on lifting and cleansing it from the loam, we discovered to be the butt-piece of a musket. As this was the most valuable relic which the field afforded, C. was invested with it, for the purpose of placing it in the museum or Codman's amateur collection, for the benefit of the curious, when he returns to that land of curious bipeds, where such kind of mementos are duly estimated. Twilight had already commenced, as, advancing over the same ground across which the gallant Packenham led his veteran army, we fearlessly leaped the fossé and, unresisted, ascended the parapet. Hastening to free our impatient horses from their thraldom, we mounted them, and—not forgetting a suitable douceur, by way of "a consideration" to our obliging cicerone—spurred for the city. As we arrived at the head of the lane and emerged again upon the high-way, I paused for an instant upon the summit of the Levée to take a last view of the battle-ground which lay in calm repose under the gathering twilight—challenging the strongest exercise of the imagination to believe it ever to have borne other than its present rural character, or echoed to other sounds than the whistle of the careless slave as he cut the luxuriant cane, the gun of the sportsman, or the melancholy song of the plough-boy.

FOOTNOTE:

XX.

The spacious bar-room of our magnificent hotel, as I descended to it on Sabbath morning, resounded to the footsteps of a hundred gentlemen, some promenading and in earnest conversation—some hastening to, or lounging about the bar, that magnet of attraction to thirsty spirits, on which was displayed a row of rapidly disappearing glasses, containing the tempting, green-leaved, mint-julep—while, along the sides of the large room, or clustered around the tall, black columns, which extended through the centre of the hall, were others, some tête à tête, and others again smoking, and sipping in quiet their morning potation. A few, with legs à la Trollope, upon the tables, were reading stray papers, and at the farther extremity of the hall, standing around a lofty desk, were ranks of merchants similarly engaged. My northern friend, with whom I had planned a visit to the cathedral, met me at the door of the hotel, around which, upon the side-walk, was gathered a knot of fashionably dressed, cane-wearing young men, talking, all together, of a duel that had taken place, or was about to "come off," we could not ascertain exactly which, from the few words heard in passing to the street. This, by the by, is a frequent theme of conversation here, and too often based upon facts to be one of light moment.[10]

The morning was cloudless and beautiful. The air was mild, and for the city, elastic and exhilarating. The sun shone down warm and cheerfully, enlivening the spirits, and making all things glad with its brightness. The whole city had come forth into the streets to enjoy it; and as we passed from Camp-street across Canal, into Chartres-street, all the gay inhabitants, one would verily believe, had turned out as to a gala. The long, narrow streets were thronged with moving multitudes, and flashing with scarfs, ribbons, and feathers. Children, with large expressive eyes, and clustering locks, their heads surmounted with tasselled caps and fancy hats, arrayed in their "brightest and best," bounded along behind their more soberly arrayed, but not less gay parents, followed by gaudily dressed slaves, who chattered incessantly with half-suppressed laughter to their acquaintances on the opposite trottoir. Clerks, just such looking young men as you will meet on Sabbath mornings in Broadway, or Cornhill—released from their six days' confinement—lounged by us arm in arm, as fine as the tailor and hair-dresser could make them. Crowds, or gangs of American and English sailors, mingling most companionably, on a cruise through the city, rolled jollily along—the same careless independent fellows that they are all the world over. I have observed that in foreign ports, the seamen of these once hostile nations link together like brothers. This is as it should be. The good feeling existing generally among all classes of Americans toward the mother country, must be gratifying both to reflecting Americans and to Englishmen. These sons of Neptune were all dressed nearly alike in blue jackets, and full white trowsers, with black silk handkerchiefs knotted carelessly around their necks, and confined by some nautical breast-pin, in the shape of a foul anchor, a ship under her three top-sails, or plain gold hearts, pierced by arrows. Sailors are very sentimental fellows on shore! In direct contrast to these frank-looking, open-browed tars, who yawed along the side-walk, as a landsman would walk on a ship's deck at sea, we passed, near the head of Bienville-street, a straggling crew of some Spanish trader, clothed in tarry pantaloons and woollen shirts, and girt about with red and blue sashes, bucanier fashion, with filthy black whiskers, and stealthy glowing eyes, who glided warily along with lowering brows. The unsailor-like French sailor—the half horse and half alligator Kentucky boatman—the gentlemanly, carelessly-dressed cotton planter—the pale valetudinarian, from the north, whose deep sunken eye told of suicidal vigils over the midnight lamp—a noble looking foreigner, and a wretched beggar—a troop of Swiss emigrants, from the grand sire to the infant, and a gang of Erin's toil-worn exiles—all mingled en masse—swept along in this living current; while, gazing down upon the moving multitude from lofty balconies, were clusters of bright eyes, and sunny faces flashed from every window.

As we approached the cathedral, a dark-hued and finely moulded quadroon, with only a flowing veil upon her head, glided majestically past us. The elegant olive-browned Louisianese—the rosy-cheeked maiden from La belle riviere—the Parisian gentilhomme—a dignified, light-mustachoed palsgrave, and a portly sea-captain—the haughty Englishman and prouder southerner—a blanketed Choctaw, and a negro in uniform—slaves and freed-men of every shade, elbowed each other very familiarly as they traversed in various directions the crowded side-walks.

Crossing rue St. Louis, we came in collision with a party of gens d'armes with drawn swords in their hands, which they used as walking canes, leading an unlucky culprit to the calaboose—that "black-hole" of the city. Soldiers in splendid uniforms, with clashing and jingling accoutrements, were continually hurrying past us to parade. At the corner of Toulouse-street we met a straggling procession of bare-headed, sturdy-looking priests, in soiled black surplices and fashionable boots, preceded by half a dozen white-robed boys, bare-legged and dirty. By this dignified procession, among which the crowd promiscuously mingled as they passed along, and whose august approach is usually notified by the jingling of the "sacring bell," was borne the sacred "host." They hastily passed us, shoved and jostled by the crowd, who scarcely gave way to them as they hastened on their ghostly message. These things are done differently in Buenos Ayres or Rio Janeiro, where such a procession is escorted by an armed guard, and a bayonet thrust, or a night in a Spanish prison, is the penalty for neglecting to genuflect, or uncover the heretical head. As we issued from Chartres-street—where all "nations and kingdoms and tongues" seemed to have united to form its pageant of life—upon the esplanade in front of the cathedral, we were surprised by the sound of martial music pealing clearly above the confusion of tongues, the tramp of feet, and the rattling of carriages. On and around the noble green, soldiers in various uniforms, some of them of a gorgeous and splendid description, were assembling for parade. Members of the creole regiment—the finest body of military men I ever beheld, with the exception of a Brazilian regiment of blacks—were rapidly marshalling in the square. And mounted hussars, with lofty caps and in glittering mail, were thundering in from the various streets, their spurs, chains and sabres, ringing and jingling warlike music, as they dashed up to the rendezvous.

At the head of this noble square, so variegated and tumultuous with its dazzling mimicry of war, rose in solemn and imposing grandeur the venerable cathedral, lifting its heavy towers high above the emmet-crowd beneath. Its doors, in front of which was extended a line of carriages, were thronged with a motley crowd, whose attention was equally divided between the religious ceremonies within the temple and the military display without. We forced our way through the mass, which was composed of strangers like ourselves—casual spectators—servants—hack-drivers—fruit sellers, and some few, who, like the publican, worshipped "afar off."

It was the celebration of the Eucharist. Within, crowds were kneeling upon the pavement under the corridor and along the aisles—some in attitudes of the profoundest humility and awe. Others were kneeling, as nominal Protestants stand in prayer, without intention or feeling of humility; but merely assuming the posture as a matter of form. Among these last were many young Frenchmen, whose pantaloons were kept from soiling by white handkerchiefs as they kneeled, playing with their watch-guards, twirling their narrow-brimmed silk hats, or gazing idly about over the prostrate multitude. Here and there kneeled a fine female figure; and dark eyes from artfully arranged veils wandered every where but over the missal, clasped in unconscious fingers. At the base of a massive column two fair girls, kneeling side by side, were laughingly whispering together. But there were also venerable sires with locks of snow, and aged matrons, and manly forms of men, and graceful women, maidens and children, who bowed with their faces to the ground in deep devotion. As we entered, the solemn peal of an organ, mingled with the deep toned voices of the priests chanting the imposing mass, rolled over the prostrate assembly; at the same moment the host was elevated and the multitude, bowing their foreheads to the pavement, profoundly adored this Roman schechinah, or visible presence of the Saviour.

Having, with some difficulty, worked our way through the worshippers, who, after the solemn service of the consecration of the bread and wine was finished, arose from their knees, we gained an eligible situation by one of the pillars which support the vaulted roof, and there took our post of observation. A marble font of holy water stood near us on our right hand, into which all true Catholics who entered or departed from the church, dipped the tip of a finger, with the greatest possible veneration; and therewith—the while moving their lips with a brief, indistinctly-heard prayer—crossed themselves upon both the forehead and the breast. This ceremony was also performed by proxy. A very handsome French lady entered the church, while we leaned against the column, and advancing directly to the font, dipped her ungloved finger into the consecrated laver, made the sign of the cross first upon her own fine forehead, and then turning, stooped down and crossed affectionately and prayerfully the pure, olive brows of two beautiful little girls who followed her, and the forehead of an infant borne in the arms of a slave; who, dipping her tawny fingers in the water, blessed her own black forehead; and then all passed up the aisle toward the altar—a sanctified family! How like infant baptism, this beautiful and affecting little scene of a mother thus blessing in the sincerity of her heart, her innocent offspring! White, black, and yellow—the rich and the poor, the freeman and slave, all dipped in the same font—were all blessed by the same water. A beautiful emblem of the undistinguishing blood of the Saviour of the world!

Not far from this holy vessel, behind a table or temporary altar, sat a man with a scowling brow and a superstitious eye, coarsely dressed, without vest or cravat. Before him lay a large salver strewed in great profusion with pieces of silver coin from a bit to a dollar. On the centre, and only part of the waiter not piled with money, lay a silver crucifix. At the moment this display caught our eyes, and before we had time to form any conjectures as to its object, a mulatress gave us the desired explanation. Crossing from the broad aisle of the church, she reverently approached the spot and kneeling before the altar, added a quarter of a dollar to the glittering pile, and bending over, kissed first the feet, then the knees, hands, and wounded side of the image, while real tears flowed down her saffron cheeks. Elevating her prostrate form, she passed to the font, dipped her finger in the holy water and disappeared amid the crowd at the door. A gay demoiselle tripping lightly past us, bent on one knee before the waiter, threw down upon it a heavy piece of silver, and, less humble than the one who had preceded her, imprinted a kiss upon the metal lips of the image and glided from the cathedral. She was followed by a lame negro, darker than Othello, uglier and more clumsy than Caliban, who for a piccaiune, which tinkled upon the salver, had the privilege of saluting the senseless image from head to foot in the most devotional and lavish manner. A little child, led by its nurse, followed, and timidly, at the direction of its coloured governess, kissed the calm and expansive forehead of the sculptured idol. During the half hour we remained, there was a continual flow of the current of devotees to this spot, in their way to and from the high altar. But I observed that ten blacks approached the crucifix for every white!

This altar with its enriched salver is merely a Roman Catholic "contribution-box,"—a new way of doing an old thing. Some of the Protestant churches resound with a sacred hymn, or the voice of the clergyman reading a portion of the liturgy or discipline, calculated to inspire charitable feelings, while the contribution-box or bag makes its begging tour among the pews. In the cathedral the same feelings are excited by an appeal to the senses through the silent exhibition of the sufferings of the Redeemer. With one, the ear is the road to the heart, with the other, the eye; but if it is only reached, it were useless to quibble about the medium of application.

I lingered long after the great body of the congregation had departed. Here and there, before a favourite shrine—the tutelary guardian of the devotee—kneeled only a solitary individual. Close by my side, before the pictured representation of a martyrdom, bent a female form enveloped in mourning robes, her features concealed in the folds of a rich black veil. Far off, before the distant shrine of the Virgin Mother, knelt a very old man engaged in inaudible prayer, with his head pressed upon the cold stone pavement. Slowly and reflectingly I paced the deserted aisles toward the high altar, which stood in the midst of a splendid and dazzling creation of gold and silver, rich colouring, architectural finery, and gorgeous decorations, burning tapers, and candlesticks like silver pillars; the whole extending from the pavement to the ceiling, and all so mingled and confused in the religious gloom of the church, that I was unable to analyse or form any distinct idea of it. But the coup d'œil was unrivalled by any display I had ever seen in an American temple.

At the lower termination of the side aisles of the cathedral, stood dark mahogany confessionals, with blinds at the sides—reminding one of sentry boxes. These, however, were deserted and apparently seldom occupied. Sins must be diminished here, or penitents have grown more discreet than in former times! In a little while the cathedral, save by a poor woman kneeling devoutly before a wretched picture, which I took to be a representation of the martyrdom of saint Peter, became silent and deserted. While gazing upon the image of the Virgin Mary, arrayed like a prima donna, and profusely decorated with finery, standing pensively within an isolated niche, to the left of the grand altar, a slight noise, and the simultaneous agitation of a curtain, drew my attention to the entrance of a trio of young ladies, through a side door hitherto concealed behind the arras, preceded by an elderly brown-complexioned lady, of the most duenna-like physiognomy and bearing. Without noticing the presence of a stranger and a heretic—for I was gazing most undevoutly and heretically upon the jewelled image before me as they entered—they dipped the tips of their fingers in a font of holy water which stood by the entrance—passed into the centre aisle in front of the great crucifix, and kneeling in a cluster upon a rich carpet, spread upon the pavement over the crypts of the distinguished dead, by a female slave who attended them, were at once engaged in the most absorbing devotion. After a short period they arose—bowed sweepingly to the crucifix, genuflected most gracefully with a sort of familiar nod of recognition before the shrine of the Virgin, and moistening the ends of their fingers again in the marble basin, quietly disappeared.

I was now alone in the vast building. Though the current of human life flowed around its walls, with a great tumult of mingled sounds, yet only a noise, like the faintly heard murmuring of distant surf, penetrated its massive walls, and broke a silence like that of the grave which reigned within. The illustrious dead slept beneath the hollow pavement, which echoed to my footfall like a vaulted sepulchre. The ghastly images of slaughtered men looked down upon me from the walls, with agony depicted on their pale and unearthly countenances, seen indistinctly through the dim twilight of the place. The melancholy tapers burned faintly before the deserted shrines, increasing, rather than illuminating the gloom of the venerable temple. Gradually, under the combined influence of these gloomy objects, I felt a solemnity stealing over me, awed and depressed by the tomb-like repose that reigned around. Suddenly the clear light of noon-day flashed in through the drawn curtain, and another worshipper entered. Turning to take a last glance at the interior of this imposing fabric, so well calculated to excite the religious feelings of even a descendant of the Puritans, I drew aside the curtain, and the next moment was involved in the life, bustle, and tumult of the streets of a large city, whose noise, confusion, and bright sunshine contrasted strangely with the perfect stillness and "dim religious light" of the cathedral.

FOOTNOTE:

XXI.

"Do you attend the Theatre d'Orleans to night?" inquired a young Bostonian, forgetful of his orthodox habits—last Sabbath evening, twirling while he spoke a ticket in his fingers—"you know the maxim—when one is in Rome"—

"I have not been here quite long enough yet to apply the rule," said I; "is not the theatre open on other evenings of the week?" "Very seldom," he replied, "unless in the gayest part of the season—though I believe there is to be a performance some night this week; I will ascertain when and accompany you."

You are aware that the rituals, or established forms of the Roman church, do not prohibit amusements on this sacred day. The Sabbath, consequently, in a city, the majority of whose inhabitants are Catholics, is not observed as in the estimation of New-Englanders, or Protestants it should be. The lively Orleanese defend the custom of crowding their theatres, attending military parades, assembling in ball-rooms, and mingling in the dangerous masquerade on this day, by wielding the scriptural weapon—"the Sabbath was made for man—not man for the Sabbath;" and then making their own inductions, they argue that the Sabbath is, literally, as the term imports, a day of rest, and not a day of religious labour. They farther argue, that religion was bestowed upon man, not to lessen, but to augment his happiness—and that it ought therefore to infuse a spirit of cheerfulness and hilarity into the mind—for cheerfulness is the twin-sister of religion.

Last evening, as I entered my room, after a visit to two noble packet ships just arrived from New-York, which as nearly resemble "floating palaces" as any thing not described in the Arabian tales well can—I discovered, lying upon my table, a ticket for the American or Camp-street theatre, folded in a narrow slip of a play-bill, which informed me that the laughable entertainment of the "Three Hunchbacks," with the interesting play of "Cinderella," was to constitute the performance of the night: Cinderella, that tale which, with Blue Beard, the Forty Thieves, and some others, has such charms for children, and which, represented on the stage, has the power to lead stern man, with softened feelings, back to infancy. In a few moments afterward my Boston friend, who had left the ticket in my room, came in with another for the French theatre, giving me a choice between the two. I decided upon attending both, dividing the evening between them. After tea we sallied out, in company with half of those who were at the supper-table, on our way to the theatre. The street and adjacent buildings shone brilliantly, with the glare of many lamps suspended from the theatre and coffee houses in the vicinity. A noisy crowd was gathered around the ticket-office—the side-walks were filled with boys and negroes—and the curb-stone was lined with coloured females, each surrounded by bonbons, fruit, nuts, cakes, pies, gingerbread, and all the other et cetera of a "cake-woman's commodity." Entering the theatre, which is a plain handsome edifice, with a stuccoed front, and ascending a broad flight of steps, we passed across the first lobby, down a narrow aisle, opened through the centre of the boxes into the pit or parquette, as it is here termed, which is considered the most eligible and fashionable part of the house. This is rather reversing the order of things as found with us at the north. The pews, or slips—for the internal arrangement, were precisely like those of a church—were cushioned with crimson materials, and filled with bonnetless ladies, with their heads dressed à la Madonna. We seated ourselves near the orchestra. The large green curtain still concealed the mimic world behind it; and I embraced the few moments of delay previous to its rising, to gaze upon this Thespian temple of the south, and a New Orleans audience.

The "parquette" was brilliant with bright eyes and pretty faces; and upon the bending galaxy of ladies which glittered in the front of the boxes around it, I seemed to gaze through the medium of a rainbow. There were, it must be confessed, some plain enough faces among them; but, at the first glance of the eye, one might verily have believed himself encircled by a gallery of houris. The general character of their faces was decidedly American; exactly such as one gazes upon at the Tremont or Park theatre; and I will henceforward eschew physiognomy, if "I guess" would not have dropped more naturally from the lips of one half who were before me, while conversing, than "I reckon." There were but few French faces among the females; but, with two or three exceptions, these were extremely pretty. Most of the delicately-reared Creoles, or Louisianian ladies, are eminently beautiful. A Psyche-like fascination slumbers in their dark, eloquent eyes, whose richly fringed lids droop timidly over them—softening but not diminishing their brilliance. Their style of beauty is unique, and not easily classed. It is neither French nor English, but a combination of both, mellowed and enriched under a southern sky.—They are just such creatures as Vesta and Venus would have moulded, had they united to form a faultless woman.

The interior of the house was richly decorated; and the panelling in the interior of the boxes was composed of massive mirror-plates, multiplying the audience with a fine effect. The stage was lofty, extensive, and so constructed, either intentionally or accidentally, as to reflect the voice with unusual precision and distinctness. The scenery was in general well executed: one of the forest scenes struck me as remarkably true to nature, both in colouring and design. While surveying the gaudy interior, variegated with gilding, colouring, and mirrors, the usual cry of "Down, down?—Hats off," warned us to be seated. The performance was good for the pieces represented. The company, with the indefatigable Caldwell at its head, is strong and of a respectable character. When the second act was concluded we left the house; and passing through a parti-coloured mob, gathered around the entrance, and elbowing a gens d'armes or two, stationed in the lobby in terrorem to the turbulent—we gained the street, amidst a shouting of "Your check, sir! your check!—Give me your check—Please give me your check!—check!—check!—check!" from a host of boys, who knocked one another about unmercifully in their exertions to secure the prizes, which, to escape a mobbing, we threw into the midst of them; and jumping into a carriage in waiting, drove off to the French theatre, leaving them embroiled in a pêle mêle, in which the sciences of phlebotomy and phrenology were "being" tested by very practical applications.

After a drive of half a league or more through long and narrow streets, dimly lighted by swinging lamps, we were set down at the door of the Theatre d'Orleans, around which a crowd was assembled of as different a character, from that we had just escaped, as would have met our eyes had we been deposited before the Theatre Royale in Paris. The street was illuminated from the brilliantly lighted cafés and cabarets, clustered around this "nucleus" of gayety and amusement. As we crossed the broad pavé into the vestibule of the theatre, the rapidly enunciated, nasal sounds of the French language assailed our ears from every side. Ascending the stairs and entering the boxes, I was struck with the liveliness and brilliancy of the scene, which the interior exhibited to the eye. "Magnificent!" was upon my lips—but a moment's observation convinced me that its brilliancy was an illusion, created by numerous lights, and an artful arrangement and lavish display of gilding and colouring. The whole of the interior, including the stage decorations and scenic effect, was much inferior to that of the house we had just quitted. The boxes—if caverns resembling the interior of a ship's long-boat, with one end elevated three feet, and equally convenient, can be so called—were cheerless and uncomfortable. There were but few females in the house, and none of these were in the pit, as at the other theatre. Among them I saw but two or three pretty faces; and evidently none were of the first class of French society in this city. The house was thinly attended, presenting, wherever I turned my eyes, a "beggarly account of empty boxes." I found that I had chosen a night, of all others, the least calculated to give me a good idea of a French audience, in a cis-Atlantic French theatre. After remaining half an hour, wearied with a tiresome ritornello of a popular French air—listening with the devotion of a "Polytechnique" to the blood-stirring Marseillaise hymn—amused at the closing scene of a laughable comédie, and edified by the first of a pantomime, and observing, that with but one lovely exception, the Mesdames du scêne were very plain, and the Messieurs very handsome, we left the theatre and returned to our hotel, whose deserted bar-room, containing here and there a straggler, presented a striking contrast to the noise and bustle of the multitude by which it was thronged at noon-day. In general, strangers consider the tout ensemble of this theatre on Sabbath evenings, and on others when the élite of the New-Orleans society is collected there, decidedly superior to that of any other in the United States.

Beside the theatres there are other public buildings in this city, deserving the attention of a stranger, whose institution generally reflects the highest eulogium upon individuals, and the public. The effects of the benevolence of the generous M. Poydras, will for ever remain monuments of his piety and of the nobleness of his nature. Generation after generation will rise up from the bosom of this great city and "call him blessed." The charitable institutions of this city are lights which redeem the darker shades of its moral picture. Regarded as originators of benevolence, carried out into efficient operation, the Orleanese possess a moral beauty in their character as citizens and men, infinitely transcending that of many other cities ostensibly living under a higher code of morals. In the male and female orphan asylums, which are distinct institutions, endowed by the donations of M. Poydras—in a library for the use of young men, and in her hospitals and various charitable institutions, mostly sustained by Roman Catholic influence and patronage, whose doors are ever open to the stranger and the moneyless—the poor and the lame—the halt and the blind—and unceasingly send forth, during the fearful scourges which lay waste this ill-fated city, angels of mercy in human forms to heal the sick—comfort the dying—bind up the broken-hearted—feed the hungry, and clothe the naked—in these institutions—the ever living monuments of her humanity—New-Orleans, reviled as she has been abroad, holds a high rank among the cities of Christendom.

An original and able writer, with one or two extracts from whom I will conclude this letter, in allusion to this city says—"the French here, as elsewhere, display their characteristic urbanity and politeness, and are the same gay, dancing, spectacle-loving people, that they are found to be in every other place. There is, no doubt, much gambling and dissipation practised here, and different licensed gambling houses pay a large tax for their licenses. Much has been said abroad about the profligacy of manners and morals here. Amidst such a multitude, composed in a great measure of the low people of all nations, there must of course be much debauchery and low vice. But all the disgusting forms of vice, debauchery and drunkenness, are assorted together in their own place. Each man has an elective attraction to men of his own standing and order.

"This city necessarily exercises a very great influence over all the western country. There is no distinguished merchant, or planter, or farmer, in the Mississippi valley, who has not made at least one trip to this place. Here they see acting at the French and American theatres. Here they go to see at least, if not to take a part in, the pursuits of the "roulette and temple of Fortune." Here they come from the remote and isolated points of the west to behold the "city lions," and learn the ways of men in great towns; and they necessarily carry back an impression, from what they have seen, and heard. It is of inconceivable importance to the western country, that New-Orleans should be enlightened, moral, and religious. It has a numerous and respectable corps of professional men, and issues a considerable number of well edited papers.

"The police of the city is at once mild and energetic. Notwithstanding the multifarious character of the people, collected from every country and every climate, notwithstanding the multitude of boatmen and sailors, notwithstanding the mass of the people that rushes along the streets is of the most incongruous materials, there are fewer broils and quarrels here than in almost any other city. The municipal and the criminal courts are prompt in administering justice, and larcenies and broils are effectually punished without any just grounds of complaint about the "law's delay." On the whole we conclude, that the morals of those people, who profess to have any degree of self-respect, are not behind those of the other cities of the Union.

"Much has been said abroad, in regard to the unhealthiness of this city; and the danger of a residence here for an unacclimated person has been exaggerated. This circumstance, more than all others, has retarded its increase. The chance of an unacclimated young man from the north, for surviving the first summer, is by some considered only as one to two. Unhappily, when the dog-star is in the sky, there is but too much probability that the epidemic will sweep the place with the besom of destruction. Hundreds of the unacclimated poor from the north, and more than half from Ireland, fall victims to it. But the city is now furnished with noble water works; and is in this way supplied with the healthy and excellent water of the river. Very great improvements have been recently made and are constantly making, in paving the city, in removing the wooden sewers, and replacing them by those of stone. The low places, where the waters used to stagnate, are drained, or filled up. Tracts of swamp about the town are also draining, or filling up; and this work, constantly pursued, will probably contribute more to the salubrity of the city, than all the other efforts to this end united."