I remember well a lady and her two daughters who, about this time, came to New Orleans. The daughters were very gay, and very pretty. The first time I saw their mother she was in the hall speculating in pianos, and the next time I saw her she was in her own room. I did not know her again, as, when I had first seen her, she had jet black hair, a profusion of curls, clear red and white complexion, and magnificent teeth; her eyes shone like diamonds; she was tall, slender, and apparently a magnificent form. On entering the room, I saw her sitting on a chair. I looked half a dozen times for the lady, when she exclaimed, "Here I am; don't you know me?" "No, madam, I did not know you." "By George, no wonder; I have not got on my pretties." Her hair was white, and her beautiful curls were all false; her complexion was eau de beaute, blond de pearl, and rouge; her teeth were the most perfect deception that ever was made, and her beautiful form was a perfect skeleton; and to hear her swear, I will acknowledge I was frightened for once by a woman.
While I was speaking to her, a handsome, amiable-looking girl stepped in, and said, "Oh, ma, why are you not dressed before this!" She replied, "Oh, don't you know I was out playing cards till near three o'clock." Hearing her speak in this manner before a stranger, her daughter shook her head, when she said, "Oh, thunder, by gingoes, there's no use shaking your head; she will soon get to know me, and like me, too." But she did not know me—for I did not like such ladies. Her daughters I became very much attached to; they were elegant, graceful and amiable girls—the eldest rather more so than the other.
