I believe that distinguished southern gentleman, Colonel Morehead of North Carolina, is responsible for the next chapter of my life and of these random snapshots of memory. The Colonel certainly was the main factor in my mother’s appointment as Chief of the Woman’s Department of the New Orleans Cotton Centennial. Once she felt persuaded that she was “called” to this work, she put her hand to it with her accustomed energy. In those happy days we were inseparable; where she went I went. It was with keen anticipation of what lay before us that we prepared to leave our Boston home for a winter in Louisiana. One of my fragmentary journals helps me to recall the novel experience.
New Orleans, December 17, 1884. We arrived yesterday in time for the opening of the World’s Industrial and Cotton Centennial Exposition. The day was clear, the air like a caress after the northeaster we left in Boston. The city is gay with flags and flowers: the Pickwick Club is hung with garlands and live oak branches, banners, and cotton bales. The Mississippi is a vast yellow river that cuts the continent in two and flows past New Orleans without a ripple. We went by steamer to the Exposition grounds with Governor McEnery, the foreign consuls, and other bigwigs. There were dusky Mexican soldiers, with a military band, to whose strains we marched to the main Exposition building,—it covers thirty-three acres! As Chief of the Woman’s Department, Mama walked at the head of the Lady Commissioners. She loved keeping
MARGARET DELAND
From a photograph by Bachrach
step with the music, and trotted along so gallantly! A telegram was read from President Arthur, declaring the Exposition open. The exercises began with a prayer from Rev. DeWitt Talmage,—it might have been shorter! When Major Burke, the Director and leading spirit, rose to speak, the crowd of forty thousand people fairly roared!
January 1, 1885. Impossible to sleep last night on account of serenaders and fireworks. As our “space” cannot be ready for exhibits for many days, we put in some sight-seeing. To Horticultural Hall, a large building with a glass roof, a fine fountain, ferns, and flora from many parts of the world. A giant cactus, twenty-five feet high, from Arizona. Scarlet macaws chattering overhead. Met Monsignore Gillow, the Mexican Commissioner, and congratulated him on Mexico’s magnificent showing at the Fair. The Monsignore was followed by his servant, a tall fellow dressed in red and yellow embroidered leather, with a green straw hat two feet high in the crown and three feet wide across the brim. While we talked with the master, a pretty girl tried to draw out the man. She spoke to him in French, English, and Spanish; he never even looked at her.
“That man is a stoic!” I said.
“No, he’s nothing but a Gringo!” she flashed.