We took an Esplanade Street car, as far as it went, then walked the Bayou road to a rickety bridge, on the further side of which was a quaint little rose-covered hut. To the artist’s eye it was an enchanting cottage. It was a fearfully hot day, so we had a quiet half hour; not a soul passed, to pause and look on and question and comment. We had a hot walk back to our mule car, which did not have a fixed schedule of arrivals and departures, and we were fain to accept the shelter of a decent little cabaret. The proprietor came outside and invited us within, and his cordial invitation was reinforced by a bustling Creole wife. How these people surprised Elise! So generous, so unconventional they were. I added to her surprise by ordering beer!—the only visible way, it appeared to me, of repaying their hospitality.
Another day we took a car in a different direction. When the car stopped—nowhere in particular, just came to the end of the rails—we walked on down, into sparse settlements, occasional fields, frequent crawfish ditches, to the Ursuline Convent, not a sketching trip this time, but a tour of observation. We had to tramp quite a bit, dodging now and again an inquisitive goat, of which my city companion was mortally afraid, following paths, possibly goat paths, for they meandered round about quite unnecessarily.
At length we reached the little entrance gate, to learn it was not visiting day. It was warm, and we were warmer and very tired. Across the road and the two inevitable ditches was a kind of lych gate, I do not know what other name to give it, a covered gateway and benches, where the family who lived behind the inclosure could take the air, and, incidentally, a bit of gossip, if they had any congenial neighbors. We felt neighborly just then and promptly crossed the ditches and narrow roadway and seated ourselves quite en famille.
Presently two young girls we had not seen presented themselves and invited us to enter the house. Upon our declining with suitable thanks, a mother came from the house and a grandmother, and we had to accept the cordial hospitality, with a sneaking feeling we had invited it by appropriating the tempting resting-spot. In the tiny parlor was a life-size, full-length portrait of a Confederate officer in full uniform, Captain Sambola, of the Washington Artillery.
They offered us refreshing eau sucrée and had us go to the back gallery to see the pet peacock. Grandmère made him show off. “Tournez, mon beau, tournez un peu,” and the proud bird turned around and spread his gaudy tail. We still talk of that naïve family and the peacock. The two young girls we saw in the yard had aprons filled with violets which they were gathering for the market. Mamma tossed quite a handful of the fragrant blooms into an Indian basket and presented them to Elise. They showed us a near path to the car, and we realized we had previously lost our way, and made many unnecessary steps, but would gladly have done it all over again to have had that glimpse of Creole life. Nothing I could have told my children would have been so effective as the little experience of the hospitality of the family of that “Capitaine en Washington Artillerie.”
St. Roch.
Our hostess mentioned St. Roch’s, and down there we went, easel and all. Those mule cars seemed to come to a final halt where there was no stopping place, and we always had to walk quite a bit to “get there,” no matter where we were bound. We walked a few blocks and turned a few corners, and most unexpectedly ran into the grounds of the sanctuary. At the gatekeeper’s little cottage we bought a candle and a book, I forget what it was about; and a leaden image of Saint Hubert, inscribed “Preservez nous du choléra.” We seemed to be expected to make the purchases, so we did not wish to disappoint the modest expectation. At a favorable spot the easel was opened, and my little lady proceeded to sketch a few tombstones and the belfry of St. Roch’s. A kindly priest wandered toward us to say it was against their rules to allow any sketching on the grounds, but as the work was on the way (and he commended it) she could complete the picture. Thus we strolled about the old city of my day, quite ignoring the beautiful Garden District of which everybody was so proud.
Down went we to see Congo Square and the old calaboose. The first is about to be rechristened (some twenty and something street) and the other has gone off the face of the earth, but old Congo Square was still there, and the calaboose, too, when I took my daughter to see the New Orleans of my day. A man with his pail and long brush was whitewashing trees in the square, and a dark-skinned woman was hanging red rags, probably flannel petticoats, on a railing in front of a house. “How picturesque!” in Elise’s eyes. She regretted she had not her brush and colors with her.