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Far in the South, but without sun, at least for the present. But it shone brightly as we arrived at the Crescent City, which in the form of a half moon stands upon a broad tongue of land between the Mississippi and Lake Pontchartrain, into which great inland sea the waters of the Gulf of Mexico enter.

No less than three steamers had been blown up a short time before our arrival; one of them was quite new, and was out on an expedition of pleasure, with several of the most wealthy people of New Orleans on board. Many of these were very severely hurt, and two killed.

Our Noah's Ark, however, has borne us and all the animals safely to land.

The harbor which we entered was beautiful and inviting in its crescent form, but the roadstead was bad, and the quay of wood, and ill built.

On the arm of my faithful cavalier, Lerner H., I went on shore, and up to a magnificent building resembling the   [p. 195]   Pantheon at Rome, shining out white with its splendid columns, not of marble, but of stucco. This was the Hotel St. Charles, and here we at first took up our quarters.

But when I found that for a cold little room, with an immense bed, up three flights of stairs, with the privilege of the great saloon, where I would not go if I could help it, and the privilege of eating a variety of meals, which I could not eat without making myself ill, and at hours that did not suit me--when I found that for all this magnificence I must pay three dollars per day, without being able with it all to enjoy one pleasant hour, I became anxious to find another home.

And another home I soon found, through the kind care of my kind countryman, Mr. Charles Schmidt, brother to the Justitierraed. And this morning Lerner H. brought me hither in a carriage, amid rain and cold. I am now living in a private boarding-house, with a respectable widow. I have a large, handsome room, carpeted, and with a fire-place, and two large windows looking out into a market-place planted with young trees still green, and with a grass-plot in the centre. This is La Fayette Square. It is a beautiful and very quiet place. I esteem myself quite happy in my dwelling, for which I pay, together with my board, only ten dollars per week, which is low for New Orleans.

I became acquainted in St. Charles's Hotel with two persons who may hereafter become more to me than mere acquaintance; these are Mr. and Mrs. G. They are from Cincinnati, but are residing, like Mr. H., through the winter in New Orleans, where both gentlemen have business. Lerner H. had prepared me to like Mrs. G. very much.

When, on the morning after my arrival, I went down to breakfast in the great eating-hall, no one was as yet there, and I set myself to guess my new friends' friend from those who entered.

I beheld ladies enter one after another, all with dresses   [p. 196]   made high to the throat, little collars, without caps, and all dressed as much alike as if they had been modeled from one block; all were delicate, thin, or rather dried up, and looked, it seemed to me, dried up inwardly as well as outwardly. But in this I might be mistaken. Certain it is, I thirsted for a little life, a little individuality in the exterior as well as the interior. The Quakeresses are also all alike in costume. But what a clearly impressed individuality one reads in their countenances! Here, again, it was uniformity devoid of character; the simplicity was monotonous and tiresome. I had not discovered Mrs. G.

I said so to Lerner H. as he sat beside me at breakfast.

"Turn round," said he; "she sits at the table behind you!" (N.B.--We ate at long, narrow tables.)

I turned round, and met a gentle, oval, somewhat pale countenance, and a pair of deep, beautiful eyes, a clear forehead, over which the dark brown hair lay smooth on the temples in bands. That was Mrs. G. She was dressed like all the rest of the ladies, but in black silk; her hair was put up in the same style as the others, but still there was a great difference. She seemed to me a little stiff, but not dry; mild and noble.

I made a closer acquaintance with her on Christmas Eve, and on the afternoon of Christmas Day, which I spent in company in the great saloon with a portion of the population of St. Charles's Hotel, and she cordially pleased me. She has those refined, regular features which belong to American female beauty, and besides this, there is a quiet demeanor, that modest, dignified grace which one often does not meet with among the beauties of the New World. Mr. G., who is a good deal older than his handsome wife, has an animated, strongly-marked countenance; he is a warm Swedenborgian, and I foresee that we shall have some little contentions on this subject; but all in good part, for he is evidently a good Swedenborgian.

There was dancing in the great saloon. A young, handsome, and evidently consumptive girl waltzed with as much zeal as if she would make an end of herself; and her partner and lover helped her most loyally. I could not feel gay. I thought of Christmas in Sweden and at home. Here they did not understand how to celebrate Christmas. In Sweden, however, we do understand this festival.

I went to church on Christmas Day, to a grand church, the darkly-painted windows of which deprived it of all light, and heard a dry, soulless sermon. I was not edified, and felt as if New Orleans was a dry and wearisome place. I thought of the Christmas early morning service in our country churches, of the sledgings thither in the gay morning twilight, through pine woods, along the fresh snow; I thought of the little cottages in the woods, shining out with their Christmas candles; of the train of small peasant sledges, with their bells ringing merrily by the way; of the beautiful church, with its dark background of wood beaming with all its lighted meadows; of the cheerful scene of light and purple within it; those good country folk in their warm costume; I saw the representative of the Diet of Thyreste enter in his wolf-skin cloak at the church door; I saw the children with their beaming glances; I heard the animated, powerful hymn, "Hail to thee, lovely morning hour!" Yes, that was Christmas life and Christmas joy!

In New Orleans, Christmas is no Christmas. I felt as if I were in a heathen country.

On the evening of Christmas Day I was amused by a fine-speaking, original, elderly lady --a somewhat unusual personage among the women of the New World. Mrs. D. is worldly, but witty and peculiar with a vengeance; does not bend to the world, but has the courage to do what she likes even in dress. And her red velvet blowse, which, without a girdle, inwrapped her like a mantle, whether   [p. 198]   it is becoming or not in company, is very becoming to her tall, strong figure, which had quite a regal appearance, and was a refreshing sight to me. Thanks, Mrs. D.

If it clears up in the afternoon or in the morning, Mr. H. will take me to see the slave-market, which is one of the great sights of "the gay city." I begin now to have a presentiment of why I must go down the Mississippi, and why I must visit New Orleans.

December 27th. Three days' rain and bad weather in New Orleans--each day worse than the preceding, with sleet and cold. But I am quite well, my little heart, amuse myself in my excellent, cheerful room, and have to-day again one of those inward spring days which sometimes, in the midst of winter, astonish me with overflowing life, when every thing within my soul lives and grows in an infinite sunshine; when every thought bursts forth into blossom, and, as it were, produces abundant harvests, in a manner which astonishes and enchants me; when the head and breast feel too narrow for the emotions and the presentiments which are agitating within, and will, as it were, burst forth; when I feel myself to be a citizen of the world, and am ready to embrace the whole world; when I live--live--live! But enough of this. I can not, nevertheless, describe the animating impulse within me.

I embrace you and mamma in the fullness of my heart, and now close and send off this letter, for I believe it is long since I last wrote home.

P.S.--December 28th. At length a bright and beautiful day, after three days of incessant bad weather. And now one must be up and doing--visit asylums, schools, prisons, and drive out to plantations. I was yesterday, in the midst of the rain, surprised by a visit from unknown friends in New Orleans, warm, cordial people, so that it made me very happy. The heartfelt kindness of one young, amiable girl affected me to tears.

My new friends came with violets and invitations to go   [p. 199]   out with them to a plantation up the Mississippi, where they would show me "what slavery really is;" thus speak they who merely see it, or choose to see it, as it is in one or two cases under good masters. But I now know enough not to let myself be beguiled even by good people to believe what a young, handsome gentleman (either stupid or false) assured me last evening, that the slaves in America are "as happy as can be!" My new friends were evidently kind and warm-hearted people, and forgot how often others are different.

When I write next I shall tell you more about the free people, and the slave people, and slavery in the gay city of New Orleans.