Eight days in New-Orleans in February, 1847

by Albert James Pickett

Carrollton is a small place, but contains some fine residences; and there is a large public garden, tastefully laid out, belonging to the railroad company. The sale of wood seems to be the principal employment of the inhabitants. Rafts containing one hundred large logs about fifty feet long, almost entirely of ash, pinned together, are floated down from all parts of the world above Orleans, from as high up as Missouri. While winding their way through the torturous currents of the river, these raftsmen may be considered the most independent set of people that navigate the great watery thoroughfare. All boats and crafts avoid them and they have nothing to fear. A small hut of the most temporary character, made of boards, and sometimes the bottom of an old yawl turned up, is all the covering these amphibious and nondescript watermen have. Upon landing, the raft is sold to the proprietor of the wood yard. A log at a time is hauled upon the levee by large chains attached to a stationary windlass. It is then sawed into blocks four feet long, bolted up and put in cords which are sold for four dollars. At one of the wood yards, thirty hands were employed, and they sold $15,000 worth of wood per year.

I must ask pardon for so often recurring to Mr. Calhoun's great "inland sea." It is to me the most interesting of all objects. I sat upon the levee at Carrollton. I saw it in all its might and majesty, nothing interposing to intercept the view. I thought of the countless number of rills, of the many creeks, of the numerous lakes, and of the untold rivers, rising in different regions and latitudes thousands of miles apart, combining every variety of minerals known to the continent—here passing by me, confined in one vast and deep channel, lashing its banks with violence, and pressing onward and onward its mighty waters to the briney sea! I cannot say, "to its ocean home," for it has none. It finds no resting place in the Gulf like other rivers, but the sea groans and gives way to its immensity, and we find its discoloured current far within the tropics! The reader of this number being well acquainted with the low, marshy, dismal character of the several mouths of the Mississippi, will doubtless be surprised at being informed that there is a mountain there near four hundred feet high! He has only to reflect that the river from Natchez to the Balize is usually from three to four hundred feet deep; across the bar there is only eighteen feet water; beyond the bar, just in the ocean, the Gulf is unfathomable. So, then, the river in going into the sea, has to pass over a mountain, which it is strange has not been washed away, for the river, as before observed, is not arrested in its onward course by the ocean to much extent.

The levee at Carrollton is considerably higher than the plain upon which reposes the town. This great work that has occupied the labor, time, and enterprize of Louisiana for years, appears to afford a permanent and durable protection from the floods of the river. It commences at Fort Plaquemines, and extends to Baton Rouge, the distance of one hundred and sixty-three miles, on the east side of the river; on the west side it extends as high up as Arkansas. It will average four feet high and fifteen feet wide, and follows the river in its winding course. A visitor, seeing no ditch from which the earth is taken to erect this artificial dyke, is at first at a loss to know where soil was obtained to make it. On the margin of the river a continual deposit is forming called "batture;" this is drawn back from the river and makes the levee. It soon becomes soil, and has given rise to much litigation, for ownership is exercised over it when formed. The levee has not given way in a long time, to do any extensive damage. Near this place, in 1816, the river rising to an unprecedented height, broke through and inundated much of Orleans; but governor Claiborne had a vessel sunk in the crevasse, which stopped it.

CHAPTER IX.

ORLEANS AT NIGHT.—THE COMMERCE OF THE PLACE.—THE TWENTY-SECOND OF FEBRUARY.

When the sun sheds his last rays behind the hills of peaceful Alabama, then it is that the farmer whistles a note over his last furrow, and thanks himself that the toils of day are nearly over; then the hunter checks his horse, blows his last horn and turns for home; then the lazy angler rises from the green bank, strings his silvery fish, winds up his lines and quits the quiet stream; then the children cease to "gambol o'er the plain," and night soon shrouds all objects in darkness and repose.

Not so with Orleans. Over her massive buildings and pretty streets, the veil of night is cast in vain! Anon a soft and yellow light issues from a thousand lamps, and tells that untiring man is still abroad. Has the merchant pored over his books the whole day, he at this happy hour sups his tea, and thinks in anticipation of Monsieur Malet's delightful party. Has the lawyer attended upon the courts and given audience to clients, he now forms plans for this night's amusement. Has the laborious editor written "copy" by the long hour until exhausted and fatigued, he now kicks the exchange papers under the table, throws aside his pen, and recals with delight the Orleans Theatre and the sweet music of Norma. Has the gay matron visited and shopped, and shopped and visited for the last eight hours, she now once more attires herself for the splendid "route" of Mad. Solon. Has the creole maiden danced and sung, and slept and read, and lounged in flowing dishabille, she now rises from her delicious ottoman and for the St. Louis masquerade, once more adorns her lovely form. Has the good and pious man toiled all day in honorable trade in behalf of his virtuous wife and smiling children, he now sits around his evening meal, blesses his Maker for "all the good He gives," and catches with joy the sound of the deep-toned bell, calling him to the worship of his God. Thus may all tastes and dispositions find accommodation by "Orleans at night."

The cabs and coaches moving in all directions, with lights attached, resemble at a distance so many 'ignuis fatuis,' or jack o' the lanterns. They never stop, but go the whole night; for the gay and dissipated, surfeited with one amusement, seek another, and it is not uncommon for the same person to have made the entire rounds of the public amusements in one night. Stepping out of the theatre at eleven o'clock, they are escorted by the eager cabmen proposing to convey them to the Quarteroon Ball, the St. Louis Masquerade, and many other places. By the way, these cabs are most delightful inventions, easy to get in, fine to ride in. To prevent cheating on the part of the driver, the police have arranged the fare, so that the visitor pays one dollar per hour, as long as he rides. The city is supplied with one thousand cabs and coaches for public hire. There are fifteen hundred milk and market wagons. The quantity of milk consumed at the St. Charles Hotel alone, is eighty gallons per day!