and perfunctorily executed with libations of mint-julep. After making reservations for the “sleepers,” we purchased tickets for the “Primrose and West” minstrels. Gautrell said he felt like a new clock after shedding his “war-clothes,” and proposed an augmentation to the christening; entering a “grill,” the order was soon taken and filled to the connoisseurship of the “Kentucky colonel.”
After a few rounds of this delicious Southern beverage, we repaired to the Poindexter, checked our baggage through to New Orleans, and dined sumptuously on teal and water-cress. As the coffee and cigarettes were being served, a trombone “rag” burst forth from the minstrel band near the entrance to the theatre; as the last notes of this died away, we hastened to the parquet, arriving in time for the grand opening scene. Having enjoyed the show, our grips were collected at the hotel, and a short walk to the station found us in ample time for the train. As the Pullman vestibule sleepers rolled in, we were not long in getting aboard and having the porter arrange the berths for a night of restful sleep.
The trip by rail through the Gulf States was enlivened on either side by scenery of commanding excellence. Cards were played, and the dusky porter was playfully bullied to the delight of the news-butcher who seemed to dote on the porter’s repartee. The most important cities our trip included were Birmingham, Montgomery, and Mobile. After crossing Lake Pontchartrain, I observed, from the dining-car window, the crescent-shaped site of our destination. On the arrival at the station near the levee, my eyes immediately feasted on what had previously been a dream: Negroes humming a medley as they rolled the huge cotton bales along the levee and aboard the Mississippi steam-boats; a happy-go-lucky bunch of darkies whose hard work commands a compensation of two bits per hour. Gautrell and Clark, being from Georgia, smiled at the interest I took in this scene. Strolling along Canal Street, we switched to the left at the Clay monument and entered St. Charles Street, where after a walk of two blocks we entered the magnificent St. Charles Hotel. “Everything taken, gentlemen,”
was the clerk’s pert response to our request for accommodations. “The Mardi Gras season,” he said, “in the city of Nawrleans is one lawg week fo’ the hotels, and without makine reservations in advance, the chances fo’ accommodations is a foa cod draw.” He, however, directed us to a splendid place, in fact preferable to the hotel, a small row of flats on Carondelet Street, with modern conveniences and near the heart of the city. Here we engaged rooms, free from the busy whirl and the bang, jam, smash, of the trunk-line populace.
The city was being profusely arrayed in its holiday attire for the famous Creole fiesta, the Mardi Gras, which was but three days off. Large arches were nearing completion, windows were being decorated with the prettiest designs, while every building, from its gable to the wainscoting or foundation, presented a striking spectacle with its flabelliform folds of orange and black drapery.
A splendid trolley system affords an elegant view of the entire city, every car leaves and returns to the Clay monument on Canal
Street; from these can be seen the beautiful government buildings, colleges, churches, cathedral, race-course, and the historic city park, on whose sombre site, in the days before the rebellion, the affairs of honor were settled with the keen blade of the rapier or flash of the pistol, the staid old oaks remaining as monuments, but unable to bear testimony to the duels they sheltered in past generations. Lake Pontchartrain, a broad expanse of water connecting with the Gulf of Mexico, is the daily scene in season of fishermen making a haul of the finny denizens of all species.
Riding out Ursuline Avenue you see, flying over the paddock and immense grandstand of the world-renowned race-track, the colors of the Crescent City Jockey Club gently floating in the breeze; the grassy carpet of the inclosure, encircled by the red-shale turf, around which the lithe-limbed thoroughbreds dash for the wire in incommunicable antagony, exerting every fibre as if conscious of the triumph of a victory. Here may be seen during the winter meet the most noted race-horses, trainers, jockeys,
judges, bookmakers, plungers, touts, and race-course patronage of the modern turf, some backing the favorites, while others (experienced handicappers) play the long shots. After the races, “Farbachers” café on Royal Street, a famous resort for the turf element, was daily the evening scene of extravagant gayety, particularly by those patrons whose plunging had been favored by fortune.
It had occurred to Gautrell, himself of French extraction, that he had often heard of New Orleans “gumbo” as being a dish par excellence; having sauntered into this famous hostelry, “okra gumbo” for three was ordered. Unlike “chilli-concarni,” the staff of life of the Mexicans, “okra gumbo,” though prepared from okra, meats, and vegetables, is devoid of cayenne pepper flavor. Clark, who had evidently never sampled “tobasco sauce,” remarked that catsup came in very small bottles in New Orleans, at the same time drawing the stopper and pouring the fiery liquid over his “gumbo” like so much “Worcestershire.” As the tears filled Clark’s eyes, he said, “Fellows,