LETTER XXXI.
Good morning! A good new year, my sweet sister, my sweet friend! May the morning of the new year shine brighter on you than it does on me, and the far north afford you a clear sun above the snowy, gleaming earth. Ah! a quiet sun-bright winter's day with us, when all the trees are white over with snow, and everything shines and gleams kindly and cheerfully in that pure air—that air which is so light and invigorating to breathe—then to ramble forth, as I so often have done at this season, across the fiords and fields of the park, how glorious it was! But here, in this glorious south, it now rains and pours with rain incessantly! The beautiful day on which I last wrote had no successor. To-day we have sleet, and altogether bad weather. The young trees on the La Fayette market look quite melancholy. The leaves hang on them like tatters. But I am very comfortable in my warm, light, excellent room, and there shines upon my chimney-piece a large bough full of the very sweetest—sweet in every way—little oranges; and beside them stand two large bottles of the genuine Louisiana grape-juice—new year's gifts from kind, new friends, who have brought summer and warmth into room and heart. I have sun enough on this new year, yes and even a little more, to give away in case anybody wanted it.
But I must tell you something about Bushkiton! Bushkiton is a festival, which was celebrated annually by the Indians of the Mississippi in these southern regions, when the Europeans first intruded themselves here. It appears to me the most remarkable of all the festivals of the North-American Indians, and some of its spiritual meaning might have been engrafted beneficially upon the white race, which has now seized upon the soil of the red man.
This festival occurred at the close of the year, and continued eight days. Each day had its separate ceremony; but the principal features of the whole ceremonial were fasting, purification, and self-contemplation. It is said, in the narrative describing it, “that on these days (the third, fifth, and seventh, if I recollect right), the men sate silent in the market-place.” Ashes played a principal part in the purifications; and it appears to me worthy of remark, that these ashes were to be conveyed to the warriors by young maidens who were still half children. The food, also, of which they partook during their fasts, was to be presented to them by these childish hands. The men—for the women are not mentioned at all—held also nocturnal dances by the light of the fire, during which they washed themselves with warm water, in which certain herbs and roots of a medicinal quality had been boiled. The seventh-night's dance appears most symbolical and significant. On the seventh day, the men again “sit silent in the market-place.” The eighth is the last great day of purification. The men then ascend a bank by the river, and throw themselves headlong into it, diving down many times. After this, they come out and reassume their everyday garments, manners, and occupations. It is remarkable, however, that after this time, everything which occurred before it is regarded as not having been. All neglect, all quarrels, great or small, between individuals of the nation are to be forgotten, and life is regarded as if new-born. Any one who, after this time, calls to remembrance any annoyance which occurred before it, or evinces any grudge, or cherishes ill-will, must pay a fine. Bushkiton returns every year as a festival of reconciliation and renovation. How excellent, if all bitter memories whatever could be washed away by this Indian Lethe! And who shall deny but that Bushkiton, with its inward desire and outward labour, might not be a good help for such purpose.
We civilised people should do well by adopting the Bushkiton of the savages. And there is a custom in the United States, especially in their large cities, and it is said to flourish in New York and New Orleans, which probably may have its origin in the Indians' feast of reconciliation. In these cities, New-year's day is regarded, in some sort, as a day of renovation and reconciliation. New-year's visits are the means made use of. If any quarrel has arisen during the past year between two individuals, or between two families, and if they have ceased to see one another, or to speak to one another, a visit paid on New-year's day is sufficient, without any further explanation, to make all amicable again between them. And both sides are silently agreed to forget all that is past, and to let life begin anew.
The ladies of “la haute volée” do not go out on this day, but sit at home, splendidly dressed, in their drawing-rooms, which are decorated for the occasion, to receive gentlemen, who pay complimentary visits; and I have heard it said, that many a gentleman who is blessed with a numerous acquaintance in good families, makes himself quite ill by incessantly driving about on this day from one house to another, rushing up steps and down steps many hundred times, from morning till late at night.
One kind family, among my new friends at New Orleans, invited me to spend this day with them, that I might see the cheerful scene. But it would have wearied me, without affording me what I need on New-year's day. If, however, there were here any genuine Indian Bushkiton, then would I gladly be present, that I might endeavour to forget. For this I would willingly plunge into the Mississippi, if I could only be certain of—coming up again! God's deep mercy shall be my Bushkiton!
And now, whilst the weather is bad, and the great world is paying visits and compliments, and polite gentlemen are sunning themselves in the beautiful smiles of elegant ladies, in gas-lighted drawing-rooms, I will, at my ease, converse with you about the occurrences of the last few days, about the slave-market and a slave-auction at which I have been present.
I saw nothing especially repulsive in these places, excepting the whole thing; and I cannot help feeling a sort of astonishment that such a thing, and such scenes, are possible in a community calling itself Christian. It seems to me sometimes as if it could not be reality, as if it were a dream.
The great slave-market is held in several houses situated in a particular part of the city. One is soon aware of their neighbourhood from the groups of coloured men and women, of all shades between black and light yellow, which stand or sit unemployed at the doors. Accompanied by my kind doctor, I visited some of these houses. We saw at one of them the slave-keeper, or owner—a kind, good-tempered man, who boasted of the good appearance of his people. The slaves were summoned into a large hall, and arranged in two rows. They were well fed and clothed, but I have heard it said by the people here that they have a very different appearance when they are brought hither, chained together two and two, in long rows, after many days' fatiguing marches.
I observed among the men some really athletic figures, with good countenances and remarkably good foreheads, broad and high. The slightest kind word or joke called forth a sunny smile, full of good-humour, on their countenances, and revealed a shining row of beautiful pearl-like teeth. There was one negro in particular, his price was two thousand dollars, to whom I took a great fancy, and I said aloud, that “I liked that boy, and I was sure we should be good friends.”
“Oh yes, missis!” with a good, cordial laugh.
Among the women, who were few in number in comparison with the men (there might be from seventy to eighty of them), there were some very pretty, light mulattoes. A gentleman took one of the prettiest of them by the chin, and opened her mouth to see the state of her gums and teeth, with no more ceremony than if she had been a horse. Had I been in her place I believe that I should have bitten his thumb, so much did I feel myself irritated by his behaviour, in which he evidently, no more than she, found anything offensive. Such is the custom of the place.
My inquiries from these poor human chattels confined themselves to the question of whence they came. Most of them came from Missouri and Kentucky. As I was constantly attended by the slave-keeper, I could not ask for any biographical information, nor could I, in any case, have been certain that what I here received was to be relied upon.
In another of these slave-houses I saw a gentleman whose exterior and expression I shall never forget. He seemed to be the owner of the slaves there, and my companion requested permission for himself and me to see them. He consented, but with an air, and a glance at me, as if he would annihilate me. He was a man of unusual size, and singularly handsome. His figure was herculean, and the head had the features of a Jupiter; but majesty and gentleness were there converted into a hardness which was really horrible. One might just as well have talked about justice and humanity to a block of stone as to that man. One could see by the cold expression of that dark blue eye, by those firmly-closed lips, that he had set his foot upon his own conscience, made an end of all hesitation and doubt, and bade defiance both to heaven and hell. He would have money. If he could, by crushing the whole human race in his hand, have converted them into money, he would have done it with pleasure. The whole world was to him nothing excepting as a means of making money. The whole world might go to rack and ruin so that he could but rise above it,—a rich man, as the only rich and powerful man in the world. If I wanted to pourtray the image of perfected, hardened selfishness, I would paint that beautiful head. That perfectly dark expression of countenance, the absence of light, life, joy, was only the more striking, because the complexion was fair; and the cheeks, although somewhat sunken, had a beautiful bloom. He seemed to be about fifty.
After having visited three slave-houses, or camps, and seen some of the rooms in which the slaves were lodged for the night—and which were great garrets without beds, chairs, or tables—I proceeded to the hospital of New Orleans. It is a large institution, and appears to me well managed. There were some cholera patients in it. One young man and a young girl lay dying. I laid my hand upon their foreheads, but they felt it not. They had already sunk into the last sleep.
I dined on this day, the 30th of December, at the house of my countryman, Mr. S., who wished to give me a real New Orleans dinner; and in particular a favourite soup in Louisiana, called gumbo, prepared from a kind of groat somewhat resembling sago.
Mr. S. is a lively little man, with a Creole grace of demeanour, very loquacious and kind. He is married—a second marriage—to a French Creole of New Orleans, and has by her several most beautiful little boys, with dark eyes and dark flowing locks, like little French children. The wife was also lovely, an excellent, simple creature, who never before had seen an authoress, and now seemed somewhat astonished to find her like other people, able to talk like them also. She seemed to have an idea that a person who wrote a book must talk like a book.
The New Orleans dinner was remarkably good, and gumbo is the crown of all the savoury and remarkable soups in the world—a regular elixir of life of the substantial kind. He who has once eaten gumbo may look down disdainfully upon the most genuine turtle soup. After dinner, my hostess, her sister, and myself had a charming gossip over the fire. It was a real refreshment both for tongue and ear to listen to, and to talk French after that unmelodious and confused English language.
In the evening I drank tea with a family of the name of C., planters of Louisiana. Deep sorrow for the loss of two promising children seemed to have depressed the father, and almost crushed the heart of the mother. One daughter, Julia, still remains. When I behold the dance of the moonbeams on the waves; when I perceive the scent of violets and the glance of the mild forget-me-not; when I see anything which is lovely and full of life, full of innocence and the joy of existence, but which, at the same time, looks as if it would not long linger on earth ;—I shall think, Julia of thee, and long to clasp thee once more to my heart, thou pale, lovely, beaming child of the South, and to hold thee yet on earth, that thy mother's heart may not break, and that thy father and thy home may yet have some light!
On the 31st of December I went with my kind and estimable physician to witness a slave-auction, which took place not far from my abode. It was held at one of the small auction-rooms which are found in various parts of New Orleans. The principal scene of slave auctions is a splendid Rotunda, the magnificent dome of which is worthy to resound with songs of freedom. I once went there with Mr. Lerner H., to be present at a great slave-auction; but we arrived too late.
Dr. D. and I entered a large and somewhat cold and dirty hall, on the basement story of a house, and where a great number of people were assembled. About twenty gentlemenlike men stood in a half circle around a dirty wooden platform, which, for the moment, was unoccupied. On each side, by the wall, stood a number of black men and women, silent and serious. The whole assembly was silent, and it seemed to me as if a heavy grey cloud rested upon it. One heard through the open door the rain falling heavily in the street. The gentlemen looked askance at me, with a gloomy expression, and probably wished that they could send me to the North Pole.
Two gentlemen hastily entered; one of them, a tall, stout man, with a gay and good-tempered aspect, evidently a bon vivant, ascended the auction platform. I was told that he was an Englishman, and I can believe it from his blooming complexion, which was not American. He came apparently from a good breakfast, and he seemed to be actively employed in swallowing his last mouthful. He took the auctioneer's hammer in his hand, and addressed the assembly much as follows:—
“The slaves which I have now to sell, for what price I can get, are a few house-slaves, all the property of one master. This gentleman, having given his bond for a friend who afterwards became bankrupt, has been obliged to meet his responsibilities by parting with his faithful servants. These slaves are thus sold, not in consequence of any faults which they possess, or for any deficiencies. They are all faithful and excellent servants, and nothing but hard necessity would have compelled their master to part with them. They are worth the highest price, and he who purchases them may be sure that he increases the prosperity of his family.”
After this he beckoned to a woman among the blacks to come forward, and he gave her his hand to mount upon the platform, where she remained standing beside him. She was a tall, well-grown mulatto, with a handsome but sorrowful countenance, and a remarkably modest, noble demeanour. She bore on her arm a young, sleeping child, upon which, during the whole auction ceremonial, she kept her eyes immoveably riveted, with her head cast down. She wore a grey dress made to the throat, and a pale-yellow handkerchief, checked with brown, was tied round her head.
The auctioneer now began to laud this woman's good qualities, her skill, and her abilities, to the assembly. He praised her character, her good disposition, order, fidelity; her uncommon qualifications for taking care of a house; her piety, her talents, and remarked that the child which she bore at her breast, and which was to be sold with her, also increased her value. After this he shouted with a loud voice—“Now, gentlemen, how much for this very superior woman, this remarkable, &c., &c., and her child?”
He pointed with his out-stretched arm and fore-finger from one to another of the gentlemen who stood around, and first one and then another replied to his appeal, with a short silent nod, and all the while he continued in this style—
“Do you offer me five hundred dollars? Gentlemen, I am offered five hundred dollars for this superior woman and her child. It is a sum not to be thought of! She, with her child, is worth double that money. Five hundred and fifty, six hundred, six hundred and fifty, six hundred and sixty, six hundred and seventy. My good gentlemen, why do you not at once say, seven hundred dollars, for this uncommonly superior woman and her child? Seven hundred dollars, it is downright robbery! She would never have been sold at that price if her master had not been so unfortunate, &c. &c.”
The hammer fell heavily; the woman and her child were sold for seven hundred dollars, to one of those dark, silent figures before her. Who he was; whether he was good or bad, whether he would lead her into tolerable or intolerable slavery—of all this, the bought and sold woman and mother knew as little as I did, neither to what part of the world he would take her. And the father of her child—where was he?
With eyes still riveted upon that sleeping child, with dejected but yet submissive mien, the handsome mulatto stepped down from the auction-platform, to take her stand beside the wall, but on the opposite side of the room.
Next, a very dark, young negro girl stepped upon the platform, she wore a bright yellow handkerchief tied very daintily round her head, so that the two ends stood out like little wings, one on each side. Her figure was remarkably trim and neat, and her eyes glanced round the assembly, both boldly and inquiringly.
The auctioneer exalted her merits likewise, and then exclaimed,
“How much for this very likely young girl?”
She was soon sold, and if I recollect rightly, for three hundred and fifty dollars.
After her a young man took his place on the platform. “He was a mulatto, and had a remarkably good countenance, expressive of gentleness and refinement. He had been servant in his former master's family, had been brought up by him, was greatly beloved by him, and deserved to be so, a most excellent young man!”
He sold for six hundred dollars.
After this came an elderly woman, who had also one of those good-natured, excellent countenances so common among the black population, and whose demeanour and general appearance showed that she too had been in the service of a good master, and having been accustomed to gentle treatment had become gentle and happy. All these slaves, as well as the young girl, who looked pert rather than good, bore the impression of having been accustomed to an affectionate family life.
And now what was to be their future fate? How bitterly, if they fell into the hands of the wicked, would they feel the difference between then and now, how horrible would be their lot! The mother in particular, whose whole soul was centred in her child, and who perhaps would have soon to see that child sold away, far away from her, what would then be her state of mind!
No sermon, no anti-slavery oration could speak so powerfully against the institution of slavery as this slave-auction itself!
The master had been good, the servants good also, attached and faithful, and yet they were sold to whoever would buy them—sold like brute beasts!
In the evening.—New-year's day is at an end. I too have had visits from pplite gentlemen, hitherto strangers to me. Among them I shall remember, with especial pleasure, two brothers of the name of D., bankers of the city, earnest and cordial men, who are said to be remarkable for their brotherly affection and public spirit. My countryman, Herr Charles S., has sate and talked with me this evening. He has lived long in New Orleans, and knows many circumstances of great interest, is frank and agreeable, so that his society is extremely pleasant to me.
I am as comfortable in this house as I can desire, I have even enjoyed the bad weather, because it has enabled me to read a little, and to draw, and the latter is a necessary repose and refreshment to me. I have sketched the portraits of some of my friends, and painted that of my little attendant here, a pretty, dark mulatto, with lovely eyes, and a grand, yellow handkerchief around her brow, tied in a manner peculiar to the negroes of Louisiana. She has hitherto been, comparatively speaking, a happy slave.
“Have your owners been kind to you?” inquired I.
“I have never had a bad word from them, missis!” replied she.
But—there are slave-owners of another kind in New Orleans.
Sunday, January 5th.—Hastily and shortly a few words about many things which have occupied me during the last few days, especially yesterday and to-day.
Yesterday forenoon I visited the prisons of the city, accompanied by the superintendents and two distinguished lawyers. The outward management of the prisons seems to me excellent. Order and cleanliness prevail throughout, as is always the case wherever the Anglo-American legislates. I preserve the following features of the internal management.
I visited some rooms where women accused of capital offences were confined. Their dress spoke of circumstances far removed from poverty, but their countenances of the prevalence of violent and evil passion. Among them I remarked one in particular, a lady charged with the murder of her husband from jealousy, whose whole bearing denoted boldness and pride.
All these women declared their innocence, and complained of injustice. Each one had her own apartment, but might avail herself of companionship in the piazza which surrounded the building within a court. There sate under this piazza a group of negro women, apparently enjoying the sun, which was then shining warmly. They looked so good and quiet, and they all, especially two young girls, bore so evidently the stamp of innocence and of good disposition, that I asked, with no small degree of astonishment,
“Why are these here? What crimes have they committed?”
“They have committed no offence whatever,” was the reply. “But their master having given security for a person who is now bankrupt, they are brought in here to prevent their being seized and sold by auction to cover the demand, and here they will remain till their master finds an opportunity of recovering them.”
“You see,” said one of the lawyers, “that it is to defend them; it is for their advantage that they are here.”
“How long will they probably remain here?” inquired I, cogitating within myself as to what particular advantage could be derived by the innocent, from that daily association with these white ladies accused of the darkest crimes.
“Oh! at furthest two or three weeks; quite a short time,” replied the lawyer.
One of the young negro girls smiled, half sadly, half bitterly. “Two weeks!” said she, “we have already been here two years!”
I looked at the lawyer. He seemed a little confounded.
“Ah!” said he, “it is extraordinary; something quite unusual—very unusual; altogether an exceptional case—very rare!” And he hurried away from the place.
Again, and always this injustice against human beings whose sole crime is—a dark skin.
Immediately after dinner I paid a visit to the Catholic Orphan Asylum, where two hundred little girls are placed under the care of fifteen Sisters of Mercy—a beautiful and well-managed institution.
Scarcely had I returned thence, when I was taken by some of my acquaintances to the French opera, where I saw “Jerusalem,” by Verdi, which was very well given. The prima donna, Mademoiselle D., is a great favourite with the public, and deserves to be so, from her lovely figure, the nobility of her demeanour, and her exquisitely beautiful and melodious singing, although her voice in itself is not remarkable. Her hands and arms are of rare beauty, and their movement was in exquisite harmony with her singing.
The most interesting scene to me, however, was not on the stage, but in the theatre itself, where the ladies of New Orleans, seated in their boxes, presented the appearance of a parterre of white roses. They were all dressed in white, gauze-like dresses, with bare necks and arms, some of them very bare indeed, and some of them with flowers in their hair. All were very pale, but not unhealthy-looking, many of the young were quite pretty, with delicate features, and round, childlike countenances. Beauty is scarce here, as it is all over the world. The white pearl-powder, which the ladies here commonly use, gives to the complexion a great softness, in which, however, the art is too frequently apparent. I do not object to people, in social life, endeavouring to make themselves as beautiful as possible, but it should be done in the most delicate manner, and well done, otherwise the effect is coarse, and produces an unpleasing effect.
I sate in a box of the amphitheatre (which is divided into boxes) with an agreeable and musical gentleman, Mr. D., an acquaintance of my friend Lerner H.; and I had placed a beautiful white camellia which I received from him, in Mrs. G's beautiful dark-brown hair, and had the pleasure of seeing it shining out on her beautiful, noble head as she sate in her box in the front row. For the rest, I suffered from headache owing to the heat and exertions of the day, but was so anxious to be quite well by the morrow, when I was to visit the French Market with Mr. Lerner H., that by means of strong determination and strong coffee I succeeded; and accordingly at six o'clock in the early dawn, I and my cavalier took our way to the French portion of the city.
The French Market is in full bloom on Sunday morning each week, and this also shows the difference between the French popular feeling and that of the Anglo-Norman, who would regard such a circumstance as Sabbath-breaking.
The French Market is one of the most lively and picturesque scenes of New Orleans. One feels as if transported at once to a great Paris marché, with this difference, that one here meets with various races of people, hears many different languages spoken, and sees the productions of various zones. Here are English, Irish, Germans, French, Spaniards, Mexicans. Here are negroes and Indians. Most of those who offer articles for sale, are black Creoles, or natives, who have the French animation and gaiety, who speak French fluently, and “Bon jour, madame! bon jour, madame!” was addressed to me from many lips with the most cheerful smiles, revealing the whitest of teeth, as I wandered among the stalls, which were piled up with game, and fruit and flowers, bread and confectionery, grain and vegetables, and innumerable good things all nicely arranged, and showing that abundance in the productions of the earth, which involuntarily excited the feeling of a sheer impossibility that there could be any want on the earth, if all was as it should be. The fruit-stalls were really a magnificent sight; they were gorgeous with the splendid fruits of every zone, amongst which were many tropical ones quite new to me. Between two and three thousand persons, partly purchasers and partly sellers, were here in movement, but through all there prevailed so much good order and so much sunny, amiable vivacity, that one could not help being heartily amused. People breakfasted and talked and laughed, just as in the markets at Paris, and were vociferous and jocular, especially the blacks—the children of the tropics beaming with life and mirth. The whole was a real, sunny southern scene, full of sunshine, cheerful life, and good humour.
On the outskirts of the market you found Indians. Little Indian girls were seated on the ground, wrapped in their blankets, with their serious, uniform, stiff countenances, and downcast eyes riveted upon an outspread cloth before them, on which were laid out wild roots and herbs which they had brought hither for sale. Behind them, and outside the market-place, Indian boys were shooting with bows and arrows to induce young, white gentlemen to purchase their toy-weapons. These red boys were adorned with some kind of brilliant ribbon round their brows, and with feathers, forming here also, a strong contrast to those pale, modest, and unadorned girls. These Indians were of the Chocta and Chickasaw tribes, many families of which may still be met with in Western Louisiana.
In the light of the ascending sun, for the sun was also at this market festival, and sucking the juice of delicious oranges, Lerner H. and I left the cheerful scene, and returned leisurely home by the harbour, where immense sugar hogsheads were stored.
Late in the forenoon I went to church. The minister, who is said to be “a genius,” preached of human love, in a heathenish way, by introducing the words of a celebrated romance:—
“If a man does not trouble himself more about his neighbours than about his cattle and his slaves, he does not deserve the name of a good man.”
This will suffice for the sermon and the preacher, who was not devoid of talent, especially in delivery, although that was accompanied by too much gesticulation.
Mr. G. took me in the afternoon to see the French burial-ground. It is really “a city of the dead;” whole streets and squares of tombs and graves, all standing above-ground, from the fear of the waters below, as the whole ground here is very dropsical; and among these no trees, no grass-plots, nothing green, with the exception of two single graves; no flowers, nothing which testifies of life, of memory, or of love. All was dead; all stony, all desolate: for neither were there here any living beings beside ourselves. Wherever we walked, we walked between walled graves and tombs; wherever we turned, the eye encountered tombs and bare walls, with nothing over them, with no background, except the clear, blue heaven, for it was bright above the city of the dead. I thus wandered through there immense grave-yards; it was the greatest contrast which could be imagined to the scene of the morning.
To-morrow I shall accompany Mr. and Mrs. G. to Mobile in Alabama, whither I am invited by Mrs. W. Le V., whom I have often heard spoken of as a very charming and much-celebrated “belle” both in the north and south of the United States. We shall travel by steam-boat across Lake Pontchartrain, and into the Gulf of Mexico, on the banks of which Movilla, now Mobile, is situated.
Summer, summer, perfect midsummer weather, my little Agatha! Oh! that I could by some magical power transport you to this air, or this air to you, for it would make you strong and happy, as happy as it has made me for the last few days. Ever since the fourth of January, when the weather changed from horrible to enchanting, and yet it had begun to clear up two days before, I have been in a sort of astonishment at such air, and such a delicious sensation as it occasions; and if I only had you here to enjoy it, I should want nothing more.
I left New Orleans on Monday afternoon, in company with the estimable Swedenborgian Mr. G. and his amiable and truly agreeable lady. It was the most beautiful evening, and the sun-set was glorious on Lake Pontchartrain, a large lake which empties itself into the Mexican Gulf, and upon the flat shores of which the planters of Louisiana have their beautiful, luxurious villas and gardens. The steam-boat, “Florida,” which conveyed us across the quiet, clear lake, was a flower among steam-boats, so ornamental and so pretty, and as yet in all its first freshness. Mr. G., one of the proprietors of the vessel, would not allow me to pay my passage. We inhaled the pleasant air, contemplated the magnificent evening sky, ate, drank, and slept well, and saw, the next morning, the sun rise bright above Mobile.
Mrs. Le V. came to meet me with her carriage. I found her a short, handsome lady, remarkably like Mrs. L. in appearance, bearing, and manner of speaking, but without her coldness of temperament. I had heard so much of Mrs. Le V.'s vivacity and grace that I was surprised to find evident traces of deep sorrow in her countenance. She had suffered two years ago, blow after blow in the death of her brother and two of her children, since which she has altogether withdrawn herself from society, the ornament of which she had hitherto been. She shut herself within her own room for several months, which were spent in incessant weeping. The visit of Lady Emmeline Stuart Wortley to Mobile, her intellectual society, and warm, womanly sympathy, drew the mourner somewhat out of her deep melancholy, and she is recovering by degrees. But all is still a burden to her, and she is, as it were, dead to the pleasures of the world. She believes that she can never overcome that sense of sorrow which seemed to have crushed her. Nevertheless she is cheerful, and even sometimes laughs heartily—but her eyes show that they have shed many tears.
Yesterday she drove me to a beautiful promenade through a Magnolia forest, along the shore of the Mexican Gulf. The magnolia is a laurel with evergreen foliage of a dark but clear colour; it is irregular in its form, but tall, and its head for the most part round and rich. Thick masses of moss, the Tillandsia usnoides, hang like veils over its strong, knotted branches, amid alcoves of dark foliage. It is not a beautiful, but an extremely poetical tree, and when it shoots forth its snow-white, fragrant flowers it seems to recal some beautiful poem of Lord Byron's.
The air was pleasant. The waves of the Mexican Gulf broke softly and broadly against the shore, with a loud, but soothing sound. The woods were silent, fresh and green. I rested, breathed, enjoyed, in deep harmony with the scene around me and the young, amiable lady at my side.
In the evening I went to the theatre, to which I was invited by the theatrical manager, who had the politeness to place a box at my disposal, during my stay in the city. I saw an amusing little piece called “Jenny Lind in Heidelberg,” which was performed with much humour; and I was greatly pleased by another piece, “The Daughters of the Stars,” in which a very young and highly-gifted actress, Miss Julia D., caused me, to my surprise, to shed tears. I have never seen any acting in which so much pathos was combined with so much freshness and truth to nature, since I saw Jenny Lind at the theatre in Stockholm.
From 7th to 12th July.—Beautiful, quiet days! I like Mobile, and the people of Mobile, and the weather of Mobile and everything in Mobile; I flourish in Mobile. My home here is with Mrs. W., the mother of Mr. Le V., a good old lady, the widow of the former Governor of Florida. The home is sunny and peaceful, and the appearance and demeanour of the negro slaves is sunny and peaceful also. I go out every morning to a camp of Chocta Indians, just outside the city, for it amuses me to see the life and manners of these wild people. In order to reach this camp, I must walk up Government-street, the principal street of the city, a broad, straight alley of beautiful villas, surrounded by trees and garden-plots; the most beautiful young orange trees covered with fruit shine in the sun, and the sun, that beautiful, beneficent southern sun, shines here all day long!
The Indian camp consists of thirteen bark huts, something like our booths at fairs, but always open on one side, at least during the day. Within, the huts have a very poverty-stricken appearance. The whole business and anxiety of the inmates seem to be catering for the stomach. I have been there at various times of the day, and have found them always occupied in eating or in preparing food. This morning they breakfasted on oranges, which, piled up in great heaps, seemed to have been lately fetched to the camp. I suspect that they were not of the very best quality; but it was a very lively scene, those red people eating that splendid fruit on the edge of the splendid sunbright forest. Fire is always burning in front of the bark huts, and old, shrivelled, grey-haired women sit by the fire, looking like real witches, sometimes stirring the contents of a kettle over the fire, and sometimes warming their skinny hands, and seeming as if they desired, as much as possible, to envelope themselves in the smoke. The children, who sit in groups around the fire, or leap about the green sward playing at ball, are handsome, full of animation, and have beautiful dark eyes. The young women are sometimes very much ornamented with armlets and necklaces, and have a deal of painted finery on their cheeks. One meets continually Indian women on their way to the city, carrying on their backs large baskets of light-wood billets, which they are taking thither for sale. These baskets are supported by a broad belt which they fasten round the forehead, like the Indian women of Minesota. The men at this season are out hunting in the higher mountain district of Alabama. A couple of them, who are still lingering here, have made themselves a screen of boughs and leaves among the trees, behind which they dress, paint, and adorn themselves. They have rings in their noses, and they attire themselves very showily. One of these Indians is an unusually handsome young man, and wears his hair in long locks falling on his shoulders. I have sketched a couple of the young girls; they look very plump and merry, and in features are not unlike Jewesses, that is to say, such as have broad and flat noses.
These Indians are praised for their integrity, and the exactness with which they keep a promise. Farther up the Alabama River, great numbers of Indians are still met with in a savage condition; but a great portion of the state of Alabama is still in a savage condition, not only as regards the country itself, but the manners of its white inhabitants. The state is young; having only obtained its constitution in 1817, and it has the institution of slavery, the institution of all others least conducive to spiritual and temporal advancement. The fetters of slavery bind the white masters as well as the black servants.
Even Mobile has its slave-market, which I visited, but found there merely a few mulatto girls, who remained unsold, and who looked stupid and indifferent, and who proposed to me that I should purchase them.
I have been repeatedly to the theatre, and always amused and interested by the young and promising actress, Miss D. I met her one evening, with a number of others of the theatrical company, at Mrs. Le V.'s. They all appeared agreeable and well-bred people, and young Miss D. was more beautiful in a room than on the stage, and as modest in dress and demeanour as any of the young Puritans of New England. She is accompanied by, or rather she accompanies her father, who also is an actor of merit. It is evident that actors in the New World take a higher position in educated society than they have yet done in Europe. They do not here form a caste.
I have also seen at Mrs. Le V.'s a great number of the grandees of Mobile, and more lovely young ladies I have never met with. Some of these were from the Northern States, and exhibited that intelligence and life which especially belongs to these states. And again I am compelled to feel that anything more agreeable than a lovely, refined American woman is scarcely to be found on the face of the earth.
Nor can I remember otherwise than with pleasure some elderly gentlemen, men of office in the States, who were wise and clear on all questions, with the exception of slavery. And among the young men I must have the pleasure of introducing to you, as my especial good friend, the young gifted poet and dramatic author, Mr. Reynolds, who has accompanied me on many of my rambles, and who has afforded me many an agreeable hour by his excellent heart and genuine conversation. He has prepared for the stage some national historical pieces, and one of his dramas, “Alfred and Inez, or the Siege of St. Augustine,” I shall take with me to read on my journey.
Lastly, I must tell you something of my little friend, Mrs. Le V. I mention her last because she has nestled into the inmost of my heart.
How pleasant it is to be fond of, and to love some one! That you know, my Agatha! And it is so strange that that little worldly lady, whom I had heard spoken of as a “belle,” and as the most splendid ornament of society wherever she went, has yet become almost as dear to me as a young sister! But she has become so from being so very excellent, because she has suffered much, and because under a worldly exterior there is an unusually sound and pure intellect, and a heart full of affection, which can cast aside all the vanities of the world for the power of gratifying those whom she loves. And with this young lady have I conversed of Trancendentalists and practical Christians, of Mormonism and Christianity, and have found it a pleasure to converse with her, a pleasure to her also which I little expected. We have been involuntarily and naturally attracted to each other, so that we feel as if we had been always acquainted. She says that I have given to her that spiritual food of which she stood in need, and she has given me a pleasure, a gratification which is nourishing to my heart. Octavia Le V. will be always united in my soul with the remembrance of the most delicious breezes and odours of the South, with the verdure of magnolia forests, with the fresh roar of the Mexican Gulf, with the sun and the song of birds in the orange groves of Mobile.
This fair daughter of beautiful Florida—for she was born in Florida, and there she spent her youth—is surrounded by a circle of relatives who seem to regard her as the apple of their eye; and if you would see the ideal of the relationship between a lady and her female slave, you should see Octavia Le V., and her clever, handsome mulatto attendant, Betsy. Betsy seems really not to live for anything else than for her Mistress, Octavia; to dress her hair, à la Mary Stuart, every day, and to see her handsome, gay, and admired, that is Betsy's life and happiness. She has travelled with Octavia in the United States, and when she gets on this subject, and can tell how captivating, how much admired, and worshipped was her lady, then is Betsy in her element.
“But, ah!” said Betsy, “she is now no longer like herself. Formerly she had such beautiful roses—you should have seen her! No, she has never been like herself, since her great sorrow!” And Betsy's eyes fill with tears.
Spite of Betsy's devoted affections; spite of Octavia' s seeing in her own and her mother's house none but happy slaves, she still belongs to those whose excellent hearts and understandings do not confuse good and evil. Whenever an opportunity occurs, she simply and earnestly expresses her conviction, that slavery is a curse, and on this subject we are perfectly harmonious.
Octavia le V. and I have agreed to go together to Cuba. In the morning therefore we set off to New Orleans, in order early the following day, the 14th, to go on board the steamer, “Pacific,” which proceeds thither at that time. The palms of Cuba shall fan Octavia's dejected countenance, and call fresh roses into her cheeks; her beautiful, kind eyes shall grow brighter as they raise themselves to that cloudless heaven; and there will I calmly talk to her of those subjects which can make her happy when I am no longer near her.—Such is my dream and my hope.
And now before I leave Alabama, and the pretty little city in which I have enjoyed so much kindness, I will merely tell you that Alabama is a cotton-growing state, and has in the south, plantations, sandy-tracts, and apparently thick forests, and in the north beautiful highlands; the Alleghany mountains become more depressed, and cease, and the prairies also; the scenery along its navigable rivers is celebrated, in particular on the river Mobile, on which Montgomery, the capital of the state, is situated. I have been greatly tempted to make a journey thither. But time! time! Railroads, steam-boats, schools, academies have begun, during the later years, to diffuse light and vigorous life within the slave state, the white lady citizens of which, it is said, have, here and there, still a custom of seeking for a higher life's enjoyment by rubbing their gums with snuff, which produces a sort of intoxication, very stimulating to the feelings, and to the conversation likewise.
The fascinating ladies of Movilla must bear the same relation to the snuff-taking ones, that the magnolia flower does to the flower of the henbane.
Adieu, beautiful, kind Mobile!
Adieu, my Agatha, my own sister friend. More from Cuba.
Ah no! there is no journey to Cuba this time! The journey from Mobile began under the most promising auspices. Octavia was gay and full of hope; she was now for the first time, after her sorrow, about to leave home and see new objects, and she was pleased to be with me, and I was pleased to be with her. The good Doctor le V. had presented his little wife with a handsome sum of money, that she might be able thoroughly to enjoy herself in Cuba. Octavia's mother, and her two pretty little girls had taken an affectionate leave of her, in the hope of seeing her return happy. Betsy was to travel with us, for Betsy spoke Spanish almost as well as Octavia; and Octavia could not dispense with Betsy, nor could Betsy live without Octavia; and Betsy was full of cheerful zeal, and managed cleverly and expeditiously all the business of the journey.
We went on board, and the morning sun arose gloriously over Lake Pontchartrain. We advanced the whole day calmly and in sunshine. We sate in Octavia's spacious cabin, I beg pardon, state-room, amid bouquets of flowers, inhaling the balmy atmosphere through the open window, and reading aloud, or conversing tranquilly with heartfelt, calm emotion. The moon shone gloriously in the evening. We sate on deck, some gentlemen made our acquaintance; introduced themselves, or were introduced by others, and soon formed a circle around Octavia, whose naturally easy and agreeable style of conversation always exercises a captivating power. It was late when we retired to rest. I perceived in the middle of the night that our course was suddenly checked, I rose and looked out of the window,—the moon shone bright over the mirror-like lake, and—we had run aground. It was about one in the morning. The next morning at six o'clock we were to have been at New Orleans, to go on board the “Pacific” at nine! Such had been our plan. But now we must remain where we were, until one o'clock the next day, when high water would carry us off. We had run a-ground on a sand-bank.
The next day was as beautiful as its predecessor; and when certain dark presentiments of our not being able to have any dinner were dissipated, by the endeavours of some of the gentlemen who had themselves rowed to land and there purchased provisions, and a most delicate and abundant dinner was the result, there was nothing disagreeable in our little misadventure, except that the journey to Cuba was delayed to an indefinite time, and that I probably should have to make the journey by myself, as Octavia could not remain so long from home.
It was not until ten o'clock at night that we reached land, and no railroad train was then running which would convey us to New Orleans. Betsy, who was never without resources, looked after our effects, and took charge of everything; and two polite gentlemen, who in genuine Anglo-American fashion, constituted themselves our cavaliers, conducted us to a country-house near the railway, where though the family was absent, a fire was soon lighted for us in a large drawing-room.
It was the most beautiful night. There was a large garden around, which was full of half-tropical plants, of a palm-like growth, such as I had never seen before. I spent a part of the night in wandering about among the beautiful, rare plants, all the more rare and beautiful, from the moonlight which threw over them its mystical romantic light.
Our polite gentlemen, who had ordered a carriage, finally conveyed us safe and sound to New Orleans. At half-past twelve we were at St. Charles's Hotel. It was quite full, and it was with difficulty that we obtained rooms up four pair of stairs. When I entered Octavia's room, I found her bathed in tears, lying with her face downward on a chair, and Betsy standing in the middle of the room, in a state of consternation, with her eyes riveted on her mistress.
“It was here, in this very room,” whispered Betsy to me, “that she (casting a glance on Octavia) lived two years ago, with those two little girls, and here she dressed them for a children's ball!”
I raised gently the head of the weeping Octavia. She said mildly,
“Will you change rooms with me?”
“Most willingly!” replied I.
Betsy and I removed Octavia into my room, nor did I leave her until I saw her somewhat calmer.
Our rooms were nearly under the roof, and I could not prevent myself measuring, with my eye, the distance from my window down to the court below, thinking what sort of leap I should have to make in case of fire breaking out in the hotel during the night—for people must always keep themselves prepared for such emergencies in the great cities of America. I started with the conviction that such a leap as that would be—my very last.
The next morning I was glad and thankful to find myself calmly in my bed. I found my poor Octavia still sadly out of spirits, but I was so tender of her in her sorrow, that I succeeded in drawing her away from images of death and corruption.
I shall this afternoon leave this hotel and remove to a private family, to which I am invited by young Miss W., from Massachusetts, in the name of her cousin. There was something so agreeable to me in her whole person and manner, and even in her mode of inviting me, that I immediately felt an inclination to accept the invitation, and gave a half promise. I had done that before I came to Mobile, and now this forenoon Miss W. called on me, and said, with her refined and somewhat arch smile, and her calm, resolute bearing,
“I consider myself, Miss Bremer, to have a right to inquire why you are at this place?”
I could not do other than consent to be taken to Annunciation Street, and to the house of Mr. C, this very afternoon. Miss W. obviated all my but’s and if’s; she is a true descendant of the Pilgrims in her steadfastness of purpose, to which is added that charm which makes it irresistible.
I here find myself once more among friends, Mr. Lerner H., Mr. and Mrs. G., with whom I shall, in about an hour's time, drive out upon a road, about six miles long, made of cockle-shells, which runs along the shore. It is one of the remarkable things of New Orleans. Mr. G. resides at Cincinnati, but has business at New Orleans, and he and his wife will remain at an hotel here during the winter months, together with their two children, two magnificent boys, the youngest still quite young, and their nurse, a stout, capital negro woman, a free negro, but bound by the silken bonds of attachment, stronger than the iron fetters of slavery. Many families take up their abode thus at hotels for several months, and many young couples live in the same way also, during the first months of their marriage. That, however, is not so much because they relish hotel life, as because it is very expensive to establish themselves in their own houses in America, and a family generally will have a house wholly to themselves. A young couple will frequently not wait to be married until they are wealthy enough “to keep house,” as it is termed. That, however, in the meantime, is the object after which they strive. I have heard many ladies complain of the emptiness and weariness of life in an hotel, and deplore its influence on young girls, who have in it only too many temptations to live merely for pleasure, admiration, and vanity.
Later.—I have seen Octavia once more the ornament of society, although still pale and her eyes red with weeping, dressed in grand costume, in a black satin dress, which from its many points and adornments I call Yucca Gloriosa, surrounded by a little court of gentlemen, “faire la belle conversation,” in one of the splendid drawing-rooms of the hotel. Friends and admirers will soon make Octavia lively here, and I can now leave her comfortably and go to a quieter home and to my amiable North Americans. Octavia is a rose, Anne W. is a diamond, Mrs. G. a genuine pearl, and you—you are my Agatha!
My dear Heart!****
January 20th.—I began to write, but was interrupted, on the second day after my removal to this good, quiet home, the home of a young couple, gentle and quiet people who seem to live wholly and entirely for each other, and their two little children, the youngest still a baby, just now beginning to open his little rosy mouth, and smile and coo. It was the most glorious weather on the afternoon and evening of the day on which I removed here; I cannot describe the deliciousness of the air, the serenity of the heavens, the enchanting beauty of the sun, the clouds, the moon, and the stars on this day, when merely to live, to see, and to breathe sufficed to give a fulness to life. Miss W. and I sate out on the piazza with oleanders and magnolias around us, and enjoyed this affluence of nature. Tall aloes, the yucca gloriosa, and many rare trees and plants shone out verdantly from the little flower-beds of the garden which surround the lovely house. I enjoyed, besides this, her conversation, which is distinguished by its freshness and originality, its perfectly independent and earnest mode of feeling and judging. I again perceived that imprisoned fire which I had before seen glimmering in her clear, dark-brown eyes, diamond-like and still. It warmed me. We talked about Jane Eyre, and I, for the first time, heard any one openly express my own secret wishes with regard to Jane's behaviour to Rochester. I love that virtue which is above conventional morality, and which knows something better than to be merely—free from blame.
But I ought to tell you the cause of the interruption in my letter yesterday. First, it was the cold, and then it was the fire. I will explain. The day which succeeded that beautiful summer-day of which I have spoken was wretched weather, so cold, that it shook both soul and body, and made me so irritable and so out of humour, that I thanked my good fortune not to have slaves, and that I thus should not be excited to wreak my bad temper on them. Never, until I came into America, had I any experience of the power which the feelings of the body can have over the soul. God help the slave-owner and the slave in this variable climate, the penetrative atmosphere of which causes both body and soul to vibrate according to its temperature.
Well, I was frozen, but I had a fire in my large handsome room. Octavia Le V. came, and Mrs. G., for I had began to sketch their portraits in my album, and they were to sit to me.
I enjoyed the contemplation and the drawing of these two amiable ladies, the noble, earnest regular profile of Mrs. G., and the round, childlike, piquant countenance of Octavia Le V., with its little turned-up nose, which I imagine resembles Cleopatra's, and its fantastic arrangement of the hair, the artistic labour of Betsy's hands. We were very comfortable; Mrs. G. sat before the fire, Octavia before me, and we were talking earnestly and cheerfully about love, when a messenger came to Mrs. G. from her husband, requesting her to send her keys. St. Charles's hotel was on fire. Mrs. G. could not be easy to remain; she knew that her husband and her children were at the burning hotel, and thither she hastened.
Octavia Le V. had, before she came to me, given Betsy leave to go out, and had locked her room door. There was no one at the hotel who would take charge of her room, or her effects. Her beautiful wardrobe, her casket containing several hundred dollars, destined to defray the expenses of her journey to Cuba, all would probably become the prey of the flames.
“Ah it is quite certain everything will be destroyed,” said Octavia, and sat tranquilly before me an image of unexampled equanimity. The heart which had bled with the deepest sorrow could not agitate itself by the loss of earthly possessions; the eye which had wept so long over a beloved brother and those dear children, had no tears for worldly adversity. I saw this evidently, whilst Octavia calmly reckoned up everything which her room contained, and which would now be consumed. She said that early that morning she had seen a volume of black smoke issue from under her bed. She gave the alarm, and sent a message to the master of the hotel, who replied, that there was no danger, that the smoke had merely found its way thither through a defect in one of the chimney-flues, and that all would soon be put to rights. An hour afterwards smoke was again in the room; but it seemed perfectly to have subsided when she left the hotel.
I had seen so much of Betsy's precaution and alertness, as well as affection, for her mistress, that I could not but hope for and rely upon her help on this occasion.
“She will soon,” said I, “hear of the fire, and then she will immediately hasten to the place, and find some means of saving your property.”
“She will not hear of it,” said Octavia, “she has gone a long way out of the city. The hotel is built of wood, and the fire will consume it in a few hours, besides I am certain that the fire has broke out near my room. Oh, no! all the things will be destroyed.”
The loss seemed as nothing to Octavia. She was much more uneasy on account of the distress which her husband and her mother would feel if they should hear of the circumstance before she wrote.
In the meantime, as hour after hour went on, and we received no tidings either from Betsy or from St. Charles's, Octavia determined to go to one of her friends, who dwelt not far from the great hotel, that she might there gain some information, or even still go to the place itself.
When she had been gone about an hour, there was a hasty ring at the gate which leads from the garden into the street. I recognised Betsy, and rushed down to speak to her.
“How is it, Betsy?” cried I.
“All safe! " said she, so out of breath that she could hardly speak, but with a beaming countenance. “I have all the money with me!” and she laid her hand upon her breast. “Where is my missis?”
“I believe that she is gone to St. Charles's,” said I.
“There is no longer a St. Charles's,” said Betsy. “It is burned to the ground!”
And so it was. In less than three hours time that splendid building was a heap of ashes, and its population of nearly four hundred persons were houseless.
I went out with Betsy to seek for Mrs. Le V.
On our way, that faithful creature told me how the rumour of the fire had reached her, how she had hastened to the hotel, how one of the gentlemen there, a friend of Mrs. Le V., had broken open the door of her room, and how he and Betsy had saved all Octavia' s property. Not an article was lost. Betsy told me still more as we went along, of how much she loved her mistress; of how she might have been married, more than once, and how there was still a free man in the north who would gladly have her, but she could not think of leaving Mrs. Le V. “She was so fond of her, she should never leave her.”
But who would not be fond of Octavia?
When we reached the residence of Mrs. Le V.'s friend, we found that she had been taken thence to a small hotel in the neighbourhood of St. Charles, and thither Betsy hastened to seek for her.
With the thought of Mrs. G. I went to the scene of conflagration, in the hope of hearing some tidings of her there, and was fortunate enough when near the place to meet her eldest son, and to hear from him that she, his father, and little brother were all well lodged in the house of a friend at no great distance. I passed St. Charles's; merely a small number of people were now busied about the fire. It had done its work, and the flames were now consuming the lower portion of the beautiful colonnades, and ravaging the remains of the basement story. The burning ruins produced a very picturesque effect. Not a trace of tumult or disorder appeared on the open space in front. Everything had been already disposed of and housed elsewhere; everything was tranquil; it was now only about four hours from the outbreak of the fire. And I have heard to-day that a subscription is already on foot to erect another St. Charles. American expedition!
A few persons have been injured by the fire, and many have lost their effects. The fire broke out just by Octavia's room, which was very near mine. How fortunate that it did not happen in the night!
I do not grieve about St. Charles's. It was, in my opinion, a dear, uncomfortable, splendid hotel, and worthy of such a death! I was obliged to pay four dollars and a quarter for a residence there of one night and half a day in a dark room, four stories high. But Louisiana is a very dear place, the dearest in the United States.
From 20th to 27th January.—Quiet days, but disagreeable weather! Since the day when I last wrote, and when the weather had changed from warm to bitterly cold, it has rained incessantly, and been cold and cheerless with a perseverance such as I scarcely ever saw before. Not a blue speck in the heavens, not a sunbeam—perpetual fog, sleet and grey cold. To-day, for the first time, it has cleared up, and seems as if it would again become pleasant. This weather has caused many excursions, both within and out of the city, to be deferred. But how thankful I am for my quiet and pleasant home daring this time! Mr. and Mrs. C. are kind, gentle, and very quiet people, and that order and comfort which is a distinguishing feature of American homes, prevails in their house. Anne W. is full of life and quiet fire, imprisoned within her, as in the diamond; she is an intellectual and interesting being, who affords me great pleasure, from the originality of her character, and her reading aloud in the evening. In this way she has made me acquainted with various English poets hitherto almost unknown to me. It has been a great pleasure to me to hear her read Shelley's magnificent poem, “Prometheus Unbound,” which would be the most glorious poem of the age if its conclusion had been equal to its opening scenes. But this is stranded on a thread-bare morality. I have also enjoyed the reading of Browning's poems and dramatic pieces, as well as some by Elizabeth Barrett, the wife of Browning. Browning does not appear to me great as an artist. There is a deficiency of strength and coherence in his compositions. But a something singularly grand and pure in feeling and tendency gladdens and warms the heart. A spirit of noble, self-sufficing heroism permeates his poems. One feels oneself refreshed as by the waftings of a something divinely great.
I spent one evening with Mr. and Mrs. D., friends of Mr. Lerner H., and heard good music, well played by amateur musicians, gentlemen and ladies of the Northern States. Another evening I attended the Opera, where I heard Meyerbeer's “Prophète.” The piece is unpoetical and meagre in its conception, but it affords grand spectacle, and the music of Meyerbeer has, in all cases, some dramatic, characteristically beautiful parts. Mrs. D., who performed the part of the mother of the prophet, played and sang nobly and well. The prophet was a wearisome person, so was his beloved. If the piece instead of being founded on a poor love intrigue, had been sustained by religious fanaticism and spiritual pride, such as we meet with in the historical prophet, John of Leyden, the opera would have had a true interest. As it is, there is no food for thought, and it excited my nerves to that degree with its continual startling effects, that it was with difficulty I could keep my eyes open. The last scene was monstrously magnificent, and woke me up a little. The sight of the white garmented, lovely young Creoles in the pit and boxes charmed my eyes as before. But I discovered some pearl-powdered noses on the faces of some of the elderly ladies.
I have also visited asylums and schools, in consequence of invitations. New Orleans is divided into three municipalities; the schools are said to have greatly improved within the last few years; teachers, both male and female, come hither from the Northern States, and wherever they come, they bring with them that energetic educational life which distinguishes those States. A female teacher in one of the schools of New Orleans can obtain a salary of one thousand dollars annually; but the living, on the other hand, costs three times as much as in the other States of the Union.
I heard the boys in the great boys' school singing boldly the praise of their native land, as
The land of the brave and the land of the free!
This is sung in the Slave States without any one perceiving the satire of the domestic institution, which such praise implies.
Thus, from childhood upwards, is the natural sense of right, and the pure glance of youth, falsified by the institution of slavery.
And it does not operate injuriously merely upon the upright mind of the child, so that it does not perceive the lie, but also upon its heart and its character. A noble lady of New Orleans, who has resided there some years, told me a great deal of the unhappy effects of slavery upon the education of the child, and its influence in making the young disposition stubborn and intractable. The child, surrounded by slaves from the cradle, accustoms himself to command them, to have all his caprices gratified, or to see the refusal punished, often with cruelty. Hence results that violence of temper, and those ferocious and bloody scenes which are of such frequent occurrence in the Slave States. And how can it be otherwise? Even I have seen a few examples of the behaviour of children to slaves, which has shown how much this institution tends to develop the naturally despotic disposition of the child.
I visited a school for young girls, where I could not but admire their capacity for making intellectual salto mortales.
During the examination which the superintendent caused them to pass through, and which they passed through with remarkable ability, the questions were proposed something in this style:—
“What is snow? How large is the standing army of the Emperor of Russia? Where is Lapland? Who was Napoleon? What is salt-petre? How far is the earth from the sun? When did Shakspeare live? In what year did Washington die? What is the amount of the population of France? What is the moon?” and so on.
The girls answered in chorus, very quickly, and for the most part quite correctly. The whole examination was a succession of surprises to me, and I cannot do other than admire the kind of order which must be obtained in those young souls, from their contact with snow, the standing army of Russia, Lapland, Napoleon, salt-petre, Washington, the population of France, and the moon!
I must now tell you about a real African tornado which Anne W. and I witnessed last Sunday afternoon. It was in the African church, for even here, in this gay, light-hearted city of New Orleans, has Christianity commenced its work of renovated life; and they have Sunday schools for negro children, where they receive instruction about the Saviour; and the negro slaves are able to serve God in their own church.
We came too late to hear the sermon in this African church, whither we had betaken ourselves. But at the close of the service, a so-called Class-meeting was held. I do not know whether I have already said that the Methodists form, within their community, certain divisions or Classes, which elect their own leaders or exhorters. These exhorters go round at the class-meeting, to such of the members of their class as they deem to stand in need of consolation or encouragement, talk to them, aloud or in an under-voice, receive their confessions, impart advice to them, and so on. I had seen such a class-meeting at Washington, and knew therefore what was the kind of scene which we might expect. But my expectations were quite exceeded here. Here we were nearer the tropical sun than at Washington.
The exhorters went around, and began to converse here and there with the people who sate on the benches. Scarcely, however, had they talked for a minute, before the person addressed came into a state of exaltation, and began to speak and to perorate more loudly and more vehemently than the exhorter himself, and so to overpower him. There was one exhorter in particular, whose black, good-natured countenance was illumined by so great a degree of the inward light, by so much good-humour and joy, that it was a pleasure to see him, and to hear him too; for although his phrases were pretty much the same, and the same over again, yet they were words full of Christian pith and marrow, and they were uttered with so much cordiality, that they could not do other than go straight to the heart with enlivening power. Sometimes his ideas seemed to come to an end, and he stood, as it were, seeking for a moment; but then he would begin again with what he had just now said, and his words always brought with them the same warmth and faithfulness, and he looked like a life-infusing sunbeam. And it was only as the messenger of the joy in Christ that he preached:
“Hold fast by Christ! He is the Lord! He is the mighty One! He will help. He will do everything well! Trust in Him, my sister, my brother. Call upon him. Yes. Yes. Hold fast by Christ! He is the Lord!” &c. &c.
By degrees the noise increased in the church, and became a storm of voices and cries. The words were heard, “Yes, come Lord Jesus! Come, oh come, oh glory!” and they who thus cried aloud began to leap; leapt aloft with a motion as of a cork flying out of a bottle, whilst they waved their arms and their handkerchiefs in the air, as if they were endeavouring to bring something down, and all the while crying aloud “Come, oh come!” And as they leapt, they twisted their bodies round in a sort of cork-screw fashion, and were evidently in a state of convulsion; sometimes they fell down and rolled in the aisle, amid loud, lamenting cries and groans. I saw our tropical exhorter, the man with the sun-bright countenance, talking to a young negro with a crooked nose and eyes that squinted, and he too, very soon, began to talk and to preach, as he sprung high into the air leaping up and down with incredible elasticity. Whichever way we looked in the church we saw somebody leaping up and fanning the air; the whole church seemed transformed into a regular Bedlam, and the noise and the tumult was horrible. Still, however, the exhorters made their rounds with beaming countenances, as if they were in their right element, and as if everything were going on as it ought to do. Presently we saw our hearty exhorter address a few words to a tall, handsome Mulatto woman, who sate before us, and whilst he was preaching to her she began to preach to him; both talked for some time, with evident enchantment till she also got into motion, and sprang aloft with such vehemence, that three other women took hold of her by the skirts, as if to hold her still on the earth. Two of these laughed quietly, whilst they continued to hold her down, and she to leap up and throw her arms around. At length she fell and rolled about amid convulsive groans. After that she rose up and began to walk about, up and down the church with outspread arms, ejaculating every now and then, “Hallelujah!” Her appearance was now calm, earnest, and really beautiful. Amid all the wild tumult of crying and leaping, on the right hand and the left, she continued to walk up and down the church, in all directions, with outspread arms, eyes cast upwards, exclaiming, in a low voice, “Hallelujah! Hallelujah!” At length she sank down upon her knees on the platform by the altar, and there she became still.
After the crying and the leaping had continued for a good quarter of an hour longer, several negroes raised the Mulatto woman, who was lying prostrate by the altar. She was now quite rigid. They bore her to a bench in front of us, and laid her down upon it.
“What has happened to her?” inquired Anne W. from a young negro girl whom she knew.
“Converted!” said she laconically, and joined those who were softly rubbing the pulses of the converted.
I laid my hand upon her brow. It was quite cold, so also were her hands.
When by degrees she had recovered consciousness, her glance was still fixed, but it seemed to me that it was directed rather inwardly than outwardly: she talked to herself in a low voice, and such a beautiful, blissful expression was portrayed in her countenance that I would willingly experience that which she then experienced, saw or perceived. It was no ordinary, no earthly scene. Her countenance was as it were transfigured. As soon as, after deep sighs, she had returned to her usual state, her appearance became usual also. But her demeanour was changed; she wept much, but calmly and silently.
The tornado gradually subsided in the church; shrieking and leaping, admonishing and preaching, all became hushed; and now people shook hands with each other, talked, laughed, congratulated one another, so heartily, so cheerfully, with such cordial warmth and good-will that it was a pleasure to behold. Of the whole raging, exciting scene there remained merely a feeling of satisfaction and pleasure, as if they had been together at some joyful feast.
I confess, however, to having been thoroughly amused by the frolic. Not so Anne W., who regarded that disorderly, wild worship with a feeling of astonishment, almost of indignation; and when our warm-hearted exhorter came up to us, and turning especially to her, apologised for not having observed us before, that it was with no intention to neglect us, and so on, I saw her lovely, coral-red, upper-lip curl with a bitter scorn as she replied, “I cannot see in what respect you have neglected us.” The man looked as if he would have been glad, with all his heart, to have preached to us, and, for my own part, I would gladly have listened to his Christian exhortation given with its African ardour. We shook hands, however, in the name of our common Lord and Master.
And spite of all the irrationality and the want of good taste which may be felt in such scenes, I am certain that there is in them, although as yet in a chaotic state, the element of true African worship. Give only intelligence, order, system to this outbreak of the warm emotions, longings, and presentiments of life, and then that which now appears hideous will become beautiful, that which is discordant will become harmonious. The children of Africa may yet give us a form of divine worship in which invocation, supplication, and songs of praise may respond to the inner life of the fervent soul!
How many there are, even in our cold North, who in their youthful years have felt an Africa of religious life, and who might have produced glorious flowers and fruits, if it only could have existed; if it had not been smothered by the snow and the grey-coldness of conventionality—had not been imprisoned in the stone church of custom.
I have visited some other churches in New Orleans, a Unitarian, an Episcopalian, and a Catholic church, the last with the name dear to me, that of St. Theresa. But the heavenly spirit of St. Theresa was not there. An Irishman jabbered an unintelligible jargon, and in not one of these houses of God could I observe or obtain that which I sought for—edification. There was, at all events, life and ardour in the church of the negro assembly.
What more have I to tell you about New Orleans? That it is a large city of one hundred thousand inhabitants, and the commercial capital of the southern portion of the Mississippi Valley, you can learn from books. The crescent-formed site of the city on the Mississippi is beautiful, and it has some handsome streets and markets, and splendid houses surrounded with trees and shrubs, like other American cities. The French and older portions of the city have a more bald and business-like character; but New Orleans is beyond everything else a business and trading city, and it is far behind the other large cities of the United States as regards institutions for a higher intellectual and moral culture. It does not possess any means of artistic enjoyment excepting at the theatres, and these, especially as regards dramatic scenes, do not take a very elevated stand.
At the present moment, people here are occupied with the prosecution of several of the gentlemen who accompanied Lopez as leaders on his robber expedition to Cuba. Lopez has been released, on his finding surety to a considerable amount—15,000 dollars, I believe—but a certain Colonel Henderson, and others, have yet to be tried, and are to plead their own cause, as they are said to be possessed of great ability in—making speeches. The New Orleans gentlemen laugh, and call the whole thing “a farce,” which will not result in anything but—long speeches! There is no earnestness in the prosecution, and this gives rise to somewhat more than a suspicion, that certain Slave States have an interest in the expedition.
I have rambled about the city during the few fine days which have occurred whilst I have been here, but have found few objects of interest for the eye, excepting those lovely, coloured Creole women, who, with their delicate features, fine eyes, and pretty heads, adorned with showy handkerchiefs, tastefully arranged, according to the custom of New Orleans, produce a very piquante appearance; and I have seen in the streets young servant-girls, quadroons, whose beauty was perfect. Their figures also are generally slender, and remarkably well-proportioned.
New Orleans has long been known as a “very gay city,” but has not so good a reputation for its morality, into which French levity is strongly infused. This, however, it is said, decreases in proportion as the Anglo-American people obtain sway in the city. And their influence grows even here rapidly. The French population, on the contrary, does not increase, and their influence is on the decline. Nor have I heard the most favourable testimony given to the commercial morality of New Orleans. On one occasion I heard a merchant, a friend of mine, say, as he stood among the sugar-hogsheads on one of the great wharves of the city, “There has been more rascality practised on this very place, than would be sufficient to sink the whole city!”
Nevertheless, there is a good public spirit at work, to make the city worthy to maintain its place on the earth. One excellent institution now in progress of erection here, is a large sailors' home, in which it is intended to board and lodge in an excellent manner, and at a reasonable rate, sailors whose vessels are lying in the harbour, either to land, or to take in cargo. Hitherto, mariners arriving at the city have had no other abode than in alehouses, which were regular nests of thieves. The large and magnificent house which is now being erected by good men of the city, will henceforth provide a comfortable and safe haven for the mariner. Two of my gentleman friends, who are working for this cause, hope to interest Jenny Lind in it, who is shortly expected hither from Cuba; and as the house is intended for the benefit of the Swedish as well as any other seamen, it is probable that this patriotic and generous Swede will interest herself in its behalf.
I read to-day in a New Orleans paper, “The Daily Piccayune,” (piccayune is the name of a little Spanish silver coin which is current here, value fivepence), a beautiful and earnest address to the inhabitants of New Orleans, beseeching them to leave the celebrated Swedish singer at full liberty in the exercise of her well-known beneficence, and not to fail in proper respect to a stranger by their obtrusiveness or exhortations, etc.
And it must be confessed, that although Jenny Lind has often had just cause to complain of the Americans' well-meant, but frequently thoughtless and childish obtrusiveness, yet I have often had opportunities of knowing and admiring the beautiful and magnanimous manner in which people here have felt for her. How many there are who have satisfied themselves by a silent benediction, rather than cause her a moment's annoyance; how many who would not allow themselves to approach her, because they knew that they could not give her pleasure by so doing, nor would venture to invite her to their homes for the same reason.
I remember hearing an estimable old gentleman, a judge at Cincinnati—a magnificent old man he was!—say that he accompanied her, in the newspapers, every step of her journey, with that interest and solicitude which a father might have for his daughter; and that he felt real distress that she should, in any degree, compromise her beautiful reputation by any unadvised step. And I have heard so much said about Jenny Lind in America, that I know that while people love in her the singer and the giver of money, they love still more the young woman, in her beautiful rôle and reputation—the ideal Jenny Lind.
But I must now speak of Louisiana and New Orleans. Louisiana, as you know, was first discovered by the Spaniards and French. The French were the first who attempted to colonise Louisiana. They began and left off, and then began afresh. It would not succeed. But a great deal was said in France and England about Louisiana as a promised land, an Eldorado, with immeasurable internal wealth ready to be brought to light, and faith in this gave rise to the gigantic financial speculation of John Law, based upon the fabulous, delusive wealth of Louisiana, and afterwards to the great bankruptcy of all who had taken part in that wild speculation. Louisiana, or that vast country embracing the southern part of the Mississippi, and which at that time included Arkansas, passed afterwards from the dominion of the French to that of the Spaniards, then back to that of the French, until, in the year 1803, Louisiana was purchased by the government of the United States, and united to them as an independent state. In the meantime, Louisiana had been cultivated and peopled by the French, Spaniards, English, Germans, and other nations, and New Orleans had slowly grown up, amid inundations and hurricanes, and with small prospect of ever becoming that “crescent city” which it now is.
The population of Lousiana did not exceed fifty thousand souls, not reckoning the Indians, when it was incorporated with the United States. Seven years later the amount of its population was threefold. The new epoch, and new life, however, of both Louisiana and New Orleans, first commenced when, in the year 1812, the first steamboat came thither upon the Great River. This was soon followed by hundreds of other steamboats, and New Orleans rapidly increased to a city of the first rank among the cities of the south.
The whole of Louisiana is flat, in part swampy and under water, and in part rich and fertile country; sugar, cotton, maize, rice, indigo, are the products of Louisiana. In the northern portion, where the sand elevates itself into little hills, are forests, which abound in many kinds of trees, oak, chesnut, walnut, sassafras, magnolia and poplar. In the south the palmetto, mulberry, live-oak, cedar and pine, and everywhere an abundant growth of the wild vine. There are also many navigable rivers, tributaries of the Mississippi, which, as well as bogs and small lakes, abound in alligators. These alligators, though they do not venture to attack full-grown men, not unfrequently carry off little negro children. Louisiana is said to produce many poisonous plants, serpents, and other noxious creatures. It seems to me an undesirable place in every way. I would not live in it for all its sugar and cotton.
I must now tell something of the internal history of New Orleans, or rather a story which has struck me. That noble-minded Mr. Poinsett, the old ex-minister of South Carolina, told me that slavery seemed to operate still more prejudicially on women than on men, and that women not unfrequently were found to be the cruellest slave-owners. And, whether it was a mere accident or a confirmation of the truth of this assertion—the most terrible instances which I heard mentioned in South Carolina of the maltreatment of slaves, were of women—and of women belonging to the higher grades of society. I believe I already have told you of the two ladies in Charleston, who were publicly accused for the murder of their slaves, the one by hunger the other by flogging, and who, although they were acquitted by cowardly laws and lawyers, yet fell under the ban of public opprobrium, and were left to a dishonourable solitude and to——the judgment of God.
My friend of the Mississippi, the pure conscience of Louisiana, had asserted the same fact as Mr. Poinsett, and as if it were in substantiation thereof, New Orleans has not in its chronicle of crime a more bloody or a more detested name than that of—a woman, Mrs. Lallorue, born Macarthy. It is to the honour of New Orleans that this wealthy lady has been obliged to fly from the fury of its hatred. But how long before that time had she tormented her victims?
It appears that the behaviour of her brother to his mistresses of the coloured race, excited her hatred towards them. Other slave-owners maltreat their slaves in the irritation of the moment or the excess of temper; but Madame Lallorue maltreated hers because she enjoyed and relished their sufferings. She was the possessor of a large plantation, and indulged upon it her arbitrary sway in such a manner as roused her neighbours in arms against her. They announced to her that they would no longer hear of such transactions; and that in case they did, she should become amenable to law.
On this Madame Lallorue fled to New Orleans, where, less under observation, she could devote herself to her own private pleasure. She here derived an income by hiring out her slaves, who every week were compelled to bring home their earnings to her. If, however, they did not return to the time, or if their earnings were less than she thought proper—woe to them! Her own house-slaves had no better fate; on the slightest occasion—which never fails for those who desire it—she confined them in the cellar, fettered with iron chains, where she visited them only to practise her cruelty on them. I will not tell you the means which she used to indulge her lust of cruelty—the chronicles of heathenism and fanaticism know nothing worse. Enough—the doleful cries of her victims found their way above-ground, through stone walls and bolted doors, and made themselves heard. It was noised abroad in the city. The heart of the people swelled with indignation. They gathered in crowds round the house in which she lived; they vowed to release the victims, to pull down the house, and take vengeance on this monster in the shape of woman. The business was in rapid progress; the walls of the house were beginning to fall, when—the mayor appeared with an armed force. Madame Lallorue's house was preserved, and an opportunity was afforded her to escape through a back gate. She fled, half-dressed, out of New Orleans; and, somewhat later, left America.
She afterwards lived in Paris, and received there the income of an immense property acquired in Louisiana, by what means we know. She died, it is said, only a short time since.—Who can doubt a hell after death when they see the life and pleasure of such persons on earth! Madame Lallorue's husband, a Frenchman, still resides in New Orleans, and is said to be a man of good character. He must at that time have lived separate from his wife.
This circumstance occurred ten or twelve years since.
If it really be true that women are the worst of slave-owners, it must proceed from their temperament being in general more excitable, and from the climate having an unusually irritating effect upon the nervous system by its stimulating character; besides which, women generally exceed men in their extremes either of good or evil; they are by nature more eccentric, more spiritual, nearer the spirits, whether they be angels or devils.
In Sweden also—in the highest circles of Stockholm—we have known ladies whose domestics bore bloody marks, and whom the police were obliged to take in charge. Countess L. was amiable, kind, agreeable to everybody except her domestics, and she was not able to keep a servant in her house beyond six weeks. We have had the ladies of two foreign ministers—both English—both of whom, from their treatment of their servants, deserved the Christmas gift which one of them received from an acquaintance of the family—a bloody medal of bravery! A good thing is it that the servants of these ladies could leave them, thanks to the laws of a free country! But here, in this free country, people can, in the face of such facts, still defend slavery as a patriarchal institution, quite compatible with the laws of a free people, and with human rights and happiness!
I have had here several contests with a lady who defends these opinions, and who, in order to prove the justice and equity of slavery, and the happiness of the negro slaves under this excellent institution, avails herself of arguments and sophisms, backwards and forwards, with such an amazing contempt of logic and all sound reason, that I have sometimes become dumb from sheer astonishment.
I avoid, in a general way as much as possible, conversation on this subject. The question of slavery is a sore eye which winches at the slightest touch. It is painful to the good, and it irritates those who are not good; whilst it serves no purpose one way or the other. I am therefore silent, when I can be so with an easy conscience: but for all that, it is evident that the question cannot rest; that the work of light has commenced for the release of the children of Africa, and that their condition, even here, is improving with every passing year.
I would gladly tell you of some good female slave-owner who might be placed as a counterbalance to Mrs. Lallorue, but—I do not know any; such, however, must exist. The very bad make a great noise, and the good but very little. But I must tell you of a gentleman, a slave-owner, who seems to me to stand in the slave States as an opened door to the house of bondage.
Two years ago there died, in New Orleans, a gentleman named Macdonald, who left behind him a property of many millions of dollars, the whole of which he bequeathed for purposes of public benevolence in Louisiana. This singular man, who lived in the most miserly manner, expended next to nothing upon himself, and never gave away anything, not even to his near relatives, who were almost perishing of want; his one thought was how to save, to accumulate, and by the increase of each day to double his capital, and to this end all his activity and industry were applied, even in the smallest thing. He was parsimonious even of his words, and parted with nothing unnecessarily.
Nevertheless he had great thoughts and plans. He considered himself as destined by Providence to acquire an immense property, by means of which to achieve great things for the good of the State of which he was a native. He regarded himself therefore as the steward of his wealth, and maintained that he had no right to give even the smallest portion thereof for the most trifling object. These, at least, were the pretexts with which he gilded his parsimony and his hardness of heart.
He said: “If I, year after year, double my capital in this (a certain given) proportion, I shall in the end become the richest man in Louisiana; I might, continuing in this way, ultimately purchase the whole of Louisiana, and then——.” Then he would do great things, which would make Louisiana the finest and the happiest state in the Union. And Macdonald had views for this purpose, and plans which prove him to have been possessed of a deeply thinking mind. But the poor man forgot that he was mortal, and, although he attained to an extreme old age, yet he had not nearly acquired the wealth after which he strove when he was surprised by—death. His magnificent plans will die with him, and effect little or nothing for Louisiana, except possibly in one respect, and that is the one of which I spoke as—the opening of the prison-door.
Macdonald was a planter and the owner of slaves. He determined to emancipate his slaves, and that in a mode by which they should gain, and he lose nothing.
He said to them:
“You shall work yourselves free, and purchase your own release from slavery for the same sum which I paid for you. I will give you the means of doing this. You shall work for me five days in each week, as heretofore, for food, clothing, and habitation; you shall work for me also on the sixth day, but I will pay you wages for that, and give you credit for the money thus earned, which I will employ for you. Thus the first year. During the second year you shall be paid for two days' labour in the week, provided that you work industriously and well;—the following year, three, and so on, till the sum is acquired which is requisite for my reimbursement, and for you to have a little over, so that you may possess enough to begin life with in Liberia, whither I shall send you when you are free.”
The slaves knew that Macdonald would keep his word. They began to labour with new heart, because they now laboured for their own freedom and their future well-being. Some accomplished it more rapidly, others more slowly, but within two years all the slaves on the plantation had worked themselves free. Macdonald fulfilled his part to them as he had promised, and they could now become free without detriment either to themselves or others. They had become accustomed to work, to forethought, and self-government, at least so far as regarded their own affairs. In the meantime Macdonald's plantation had been unusually well cultivated, and the slaves had repaid their original purchase-money.
I do not know whether it was Macdonald's intention to have his plantation afterwards cultivated by white labourers or by free blacks; but one thing appears to me certain, and that is, that Macdonald's mode of effecting the emancipation of slaves is deserving of consideration and imitation, as one of the wisest which can be devised for the gradual and general release of both the blacks and the whites of North America from the fetters of slavery.
I know many estimable and thinking men of New Orleans who consider that such a mode of emancipation, as would, by degrees, convert the negro slaves into free labourers, might be put into operation without much difficulty, and that all those dangerous results which people imagine are, in great measure, only fears and fancies.
I have been told that the severest slave-owners in this neighbourhood are French, and I can credit it from the French popular temperament; the Scotch and the Dutch take the second place. Slaves of small and poor proprietors often suffer very much from hunger, as do also cattle. I heard to-day of one place where a considerable number of cattle had literally perished for want of food.
I have made inquiries after the Christmas dances and festivities of the negro slaves, of which I heard so much, but the sugar-harvest was late last year, and the sugar-grinding was not over till after New-year's day; the cotton is still being plucked on the plantations, and the dances are deferred. I have now travelled in search of these negro festivities, from one end of the slave States to the other, without having been lucky enough to meet with, to see, nay nor even to hear, of one such occasion. I believe, nevertheless, that they do occur here and there on the plantations.
For the rest, I have experienced so much kindness, have met with so many good and warm-hearted friends, that I have been both astonished and affected. I had always heard New Orleans mentioned as a very lively but not very literary city, and Mr. Lerner H. had prepared me to find that the people of New Orleans liked to see that which was beautiful. It was clear, therefore, that for that very reason they would not like to look at me; and yet they have come and come again to me, have overwhelmed me with kindness and presents, as well men as women, and made my days pleasant in many ways. For my own part, I have no other memories of New Orleans but those of pleasure and gratitude.
Octavia Le V. returned home a few days ago. Those eyes, which remained dry and bright when she was in danger of losing all her ornaments and her money, overflowed with tears when she had to part from her newly-found friend. I kissed away the tears from those pale cheeks. I feel that I am heartily attached to her.
Mrs. G. has been an incomparable friend to me at this time when I had to prepare my wardrobe for Cuba—somewhat elegant, and of a light summer texture at the same time—and when I had divers little misfortunes, partly caused by the dressmaker, but principally through my own blunders. You know how annoying all such business is to me; but you can scarcely imagine how I have felt it here, where weariness both of body and mind, as well as ignorance of prices and persons in the dress-making and millinery world, rendered all my difficulties ten-fold. Neither can you at all imagine how kind and amiable Mrs. G. has been during all these great little troubles; her patience, her good temper; nor lastly how well she has helped me with everything. Yes—I am ashamed when I compare myself with her: but then she is one of the most amiable people I ever met with.
In the evening.—I have now had my last drive with Anne W. along the beautiful cockle-shell road to Lake Pontchartrain. The air was delicious, and the sky once more gazed upon us with blue eyes from between the clouds, which parted more and more. The road for the most part runs through flat and still unreclaimed forest-land. One does not here see our beautiful moss and lichen-covered mountains and hills, but thickets of the primeval forest, from which, on all sides, look forth those beautiful palmetto trees, with their large fan-like leaves waving in the air, and the regular and graceful form of many half-tropical plants, which, indicating a new phase of earth's vegetable productions, have a wonderful fascination for me.
In the morning, in the morning, my Agatha, I shall go on board the great steamer, “The Philadelphia,” and in three days I shall be at Cuba. I shall be very glad to get there, both because I shall see some new beauties of nature, and because I shall breathe a milder air, and shall escape during the winter months this variable American climate, which is so trying to my strength both of body and mind. I have become physically ten years' older during this twelve months' journey in North America.
But be not afraid for me, my dear heart, but trust, as I do, that my travelling fairy, your little friend, which has hitherto conducted me safely through all perils—which conducted me without any misadventure down the whole extent of the Mississippi to New Orleans, at the very time when four steamers, with their passengers, were blown into the air upon its waters, and caused me to remove from St. Charles's Hotel to this good home the day before the hotel became the prey of flames,—the same will conduct me safe and sound once more to my own sister-friend, to YOU.
P.S. I have been gladdened here by letters from my friends in the North, the Downings, the Springs, and the Lowells. These friends accompany me like good spirits, and I must tell you so, because you must love my friends. Maria Lowell writes—the little travelling companion who went with us everywhere, and to Niagara, and yet which never spoke, and remained so quiet, was—a little boy, who now, large and stout and rosy, is little Mabel's oracle. She listens to every sound he utters, and says to it all, “what does little brother mean?” Beloved, happy Maria!
Jenny Lind is now in Havannah, and people speak differently of the success of her concerts. I believe, nevertheless, that she will gain the victory over her adversaries, who in reality belong to the French party in the country, and who contest her rank as a great singer. She will be received here in New Orleans with enthusiasm; every heart is warm, every ear open to her. She will leave Havanna just when I am arriving, and it is doubtful whether I shall see her.
I am well, my beloved child, and in good spirits. God grant that you are so too! And you must be so with the help of homœopathy. May Æsculapius enlighten you and those concerned.
I shall soon write again from Cuba!