My personal recollections of the guests who came to my father’s house in “13 Buildings” are distinct. Henry Clay, a lifelong friend of father’s, the only one I ever heard call him “Dick” (even my mother did not do that), was a frequent visitor whenever he came to the Crescent City.
My father planned in 1844 to go to England, and his old friend gave him the following letter. It was never delivered, owing to the enforced abandonment of the plan, and hangs now on my library wall, framed, beside the Henry Clay portrait which illustrates this book and which is by far the best likeness I have ever seen of Kentucky’s gifted son.
Ashland, 16th July, 1844.
My Lord:
Richard H. Chinn, Esq., who will deliver this letter desiring the honor of your Lordship’s acquaintance, I take pleasure in introducing him (sic) to you as an eminent and highly respectable councillor at law, now residing in New Orleans, whom I have long known.
I avail myself of the opportunity to assure your Lordship of the constant esteem and regard of
Your Lordship’s faithful and obedient servant,
H. Clay.
The Right Honorable Lord Ashburton, London.
Gen. E. P. Gaines and his tiny, frisky wife, the noted Myra Clark Gaines, were also frequent guests. The General, a warrior, every inch of him, very tall, erect and pompously stately, always appeared at “functions” in full uniform, epaulettes, sword and what not, while she, all smiles and ringlets and flounces, hung upon his arm like a pink silk reticule. There also came Charles Gayarré, the Louisiana historian; John R. Grymes, the noted lawyer; Pierre Soulé, diplomat; Alec Bullitt, Alec Walker and George W. Kendall—all three editors of the leading paper of the day, the Picayune. And so on, including a host of others just as noted and interesting in their day, whose names are never mentioned now. I cannot omit mention of the famous wit and beauty, Miss Sally Carneal, niece of the original Nick Longworth, of Ohio, for, with her superb voice, she frequently entertained and entranced my father’s guests. I recall one occasion when she sang, with inimitable pathos and wild passion, a song I never wish to hear again, “The Maniac.” The little audience, roused to a pitch bordering on madness, was almost ready to shriek and tear its hair. Glendy Burke (does anybody remember him? He was an eligible parti then) fell in desperate love with her that night, and subsequently they married. All are gone now; and most of them forgotten, except, possibly, by an old lady, who sits at her fireside, and unfolds the book of memory....