10 P.M.
We have been going up-stream very quietly, in this dark, soft night, zigzagging up its mighty length to avoid the current. Sometimes we were so near the shores we could almost touch the ghostly willow-trees; while mournful, suppressed night noises fell upon our ears. The mosquitoes are about the size of flies—not the singing variety, but the quiet, biteful kind. My energies are needed to keep them off, so good night; all is quiet along the Mississippi. We have ninety miles from quarantine to New Orleans.
May 5th. In the train, going through Georgia and North Carolina.
We got into New Orleans yesterday at 6.30 A.M., under a blazing sun. There were reporters and photographers galore at the dock to meet us and the good ship Yankton. They did not, however, get fat on what they got from N., who refused to discuss the Mexican situation in any way. But we did lend ourselves to the camera. We were photographed on the ship, on the blazing pier, in the noisy streets, near by, among a horror of trucks and drays rattling over huge cobblestones, and a few more terrors in ink will be broadcast. I then went to the nearest good shop and got a black taffeta gown (a Paquin model with low, white-tulle neck), and began to feel quite human again. Then we motored about for several hours with one of the officers, through a city of beautiful homes, interesting old French and foreign quarters, driving at last over a magnificent causeway. On one side was a swamp filled by all sorts of tropical vegetation, and, doubtless, inhabited by wet, creeping things; on the other side, a broad canal. We reached a place called West End, on Lake Pontchartrain, where we lunched on shrimps, soft-shelled crabs, and broiled chicken, quite up to the culinary reputation of New Orleans. Afterward we went back to the boat under a relentless afternoon sun and over more of those unforgetable cobblestones.
I was completely done up. They were coaling as we got back to the ship, but the sailors hastily shoveled a way for me, and I threw myself on my bed in a state of complete exhaustion. When I came on deck again at 5.30 the hideous coaling was done, the decks were washed, and everything was in apple-pie order. Crowds were again on the pier, and the photographers got in more work. The golden figure of Cleopatra that decorates the prow was blood-red in the afternoon sun. At six we started out with Captain Joyce, who had literally “stood on the burning deck” all day, overseeing the coaling process. We wanted to show him a little of the city in the sudden, beautiful, balm-like gloaming. We stopped a moment at the St. Charles, where I mailed my long Yankton letter, and found it overflowing with Americans from Mexico, with smiles or frowns upon their faces, according as they were going to or leaving a bank account. We then went to Antoine’s, which has been celebrated for seventy-five years. There we had a perfect dinner, preceded by a mysterious and delightful appetizer, called a “pink angel,” or some such name, most soothing in effect. (It proved to be made of the forbidden absinthe.) Also there were oysters, roasted in some dainty way, chicken okra, soft-shelled crabs again, and frozen stuffed tomatoes.
New Orleans still retains a certain Old World flavor and picturesqueness. One might even dream here. Everything is not sacrificed at the altar of what is called efficiency—that famous American word which everywhere hits the returning native.
Some of the newspapers were quite amusing, and all were complimentary. One congratulates N. on being relieved “from the daily task of delivering ultimatums to, and being hugged by, Huerta.” Others are very anxious to know if “Vic Huerta” kissed and embraced Mr. O’Shaughnessy on his departure. The abrazo is certainly not in form or favor in the more reticent United States of America.
Richmond Hotel, Washington, D. C.
We got in at seven o’clock, and, accompanied by the usual press contingent, came to this hotel. The proprietor had telegraphed to us to New Orleans, saying that N. was the greatest diplomat of the century, American patriot, and hero. We thought we’d try him, he sounded so very pleasant, and we have found comfortable quarters. Now, while waiting breakfast, ordered from a Portuguese, I have these few minutes.
An amusing letter from Richard Harding Davis is here, inclosing newspaper head-lines two and a half inches high—“O’Shaughnessy Safe.” He adds, “Any man who gets his name in type this size should be satisfied that republics are not ungrateful!”