Presently we come upon a procession that attracts our interest. A party of people, chiefly of the gentler sex—I cannot in this case say the fairer, as they are all black as coals—are slowly parading the sidewalk, the girls, even down to little children three or four years old, all clad in white. It has been raining and the streets are still wet; they are tramping over muddy crossings in white satin slippers, their white dresses draggling in the damp, while their brown or black faces and black shining eyes beam with a kind of grotesque incongruity through their white veils.
“A bridal party?” we remark interrogatively to our Hamlet. The Prince of Denmark shakes his head, and vouchsafes a grave and dreamy smile as he corrects our mistake: “No, ma’am. It’s a coloured funeral.”
Turning into Claiborne Street we fancy it must be the entrance-gate to the forest primeval; as far as the eye can reach we gaze through long vistas of ancient trees, whose huge trunks are gnarled and knotted and scarred by the passing ages. This delightful avenue has four rows of these glorious trees, with double car-tracks running under their cool and welcome shade; down the centre, and crossed by rude rustic bridges, runs what we supposed to be a narrow canal or natural running stream, but we learn that it is an open sewer, the peculiar soil and sanitary arrangements of the city necessitating a system of open drainage—which is, however, by no means unsightly or offensive; and through the arteries of the city there run these narrow sewers, carrying all the impurities and refuse as a kind of tributary offering to the glorious Mississippi.
The burial grounds or cemeteries we pass on our way have a strange appearance, as in consequence of the peculiarities of the soil and climate, the dead are not buried under the earth, but are laid upon its surface with the stone monument raised above them.
Another day we have a light springy carriage, and avoiding the car-tracks bowl over the soft green turf, beneath the arching trees, with the sunlight glinting through. We drive out of the city, and wind about among its picturesque suburbs—a charming drive, though the air is moist and warm, and our strength seems oozing from our finger-tips. We can imagine what New Orleans must be in summer time, when even in these April days our vital forces grow faint and feeble.
The public buildings, state offices, and churches, are remarkably fine architectural features of the city. There is no need to describe them here, for the written description of one church, unless indeed there is some special history connected therewith, sounds much the same as another; and any visitor to the city can get an excellent guide thereto and familiarise himself with their appearance so far as he desires, and some are interesting enough to repay him for his trouble.
There is one very favourite excursion, largely patronised by the inhabitants of the city on warm summer evenings, and one which the most casual tourist should not fail to take. We enter the little railway train in Canal Street, the very heart of the city, and steaming leisurely along we soon reach the outskirts, and run through pretty woodland scenery, with dainty dwellings scattered here and there among the full-foliaged trees. Presently we come upon a long stretch of open country; on one side is the canal, with a wide roadway and spacious tracts of cultivated lands beyond it. On the other side of the railway track, on our right, there runs a similar carriage road and footway running along the edge of a luxuriant thicket of green low-lying bushes, which seem like the ragged fringe of the virgin forest; then there rises clusters of slight willowy slips; a part of the pristine family of oaks and alders which have grown and developed into gigantic trees, thickening and twining their long arms together till they form an impenetrable mass of green, but instead of a bit of forest primeval, we are told that this is a most dismal swamp of many miles extent, utterly impassable for either man or beast, and varying from two to eight or ten feet deep, the abode of repulsive reptiles and other obnoxious creatures. They say that it is no uncommon thing at certain seasons of the year for a huge black or green snake to wriggle out of its home of slush and slime and coil itself up on the pathway, or an alligator will sometimes be found stretched along the railway track, its lidless eyes staring stupidly at the sun.
The whole of this part of New Orleans has been reclaimed from these extensive swamps, and no doubt, if the necessity should arise, the whole ground may be reclaimed and cultivated or built over; but such a proceeding could only be carried out at an almost fabulous expense, and as the great lungs of the city have plenty of breathing room in other directions, it will no doubt be left, for this century at least, in the occupation of noisome reptiles, the refuse of God’s creatures.
Lake Ponchartrain, where we are presently safely deposited, is one of the most picturesque spots in all this region; a silver shining sheet of water, on whose surface the passing clouds seem softly sailing, for the skies are reflected therein as in a mirror. We look across the water upon wide stretches of undulating cultivated lands, “with verdure clad,” a soft mossy carpet with purple flags and long lance-like grasses reaching down to the water’s edge. A lovely garden, artistically arranged with tropical flowers, fully half a mile long, runs along this side of the lake, and among the beds of gorgeous blossoms there are pretty winding walks, and rustic benches are arranged beneath wide-spreading shady trees. A glorious promenade runs like a golden band along the borders, and a pretty fancifully-built hotel and restaurant stands at the head of the lake. It is a perfect nest of a place, hung round with balconies and covered with climbing plants, the luxurious Virginian creeper with its wealth of purple bloom with white star-like flowers mingling between. Surrounding the hotel is a wide space studded with little marble-topped tables, dedicated to the convenience of the hungry and thirsty multitudes who flock thither up from the hot, dusty town on summer evenings, to breathe the fresh cool air which blows across the surface of the lake.
Tables and chairs are set in all kinds of shady nooks and corners, and merry parties are sipping sherbet, lemonade, and ice-cream; even the democratic “lager beer” is served in foaming goblets, and while the band is playing people stroll to and fro or group under the trees eating ices, and not always confining themselves to the above harmless beverages. They enjoy themselves each after his own fashion, and it is generally midnight before the last train returns with its living freight towards the town.