When one goes flying through London along a railway propped in the air ontall arches, he may inspect miles of upper bedrooms through the open windows,but the lower half of the houses is under his level and out of sight.
Similarly, in high-river stage, in the New Orleans region, the water is upto the top of the enclosing levee-rim, the flat country behind it lies low--representing the bottom of a dish--and as the boat swims along, high onthe flood, one looks down upon the houses and into the upper windows.
There is nothing but that frail breastwork of earth between the peopleand destruction.
The old brick salt-warehouses clustered at the upper end of the citylooked as they had always looked; warehouses which had had a kindof Aladdin's lamp experience, however, since I had seen them;for when the war broke out the proprietor went to bed one nightleaving them packed with thousands of sacks of vulgar salt,worth a couple of dollars a sack, and got up in the morning and foundhis mountain of salt turned into a mountain of gold, so to speak,so suddenly and to so dizzy a height had the war news sent upthe price of the article.
The vast reach of plank wharves remained unchanged, and there wereas many ships as ever: but the long array of steamboats had vanished;not altogether, of course, but not much of it was left.
The city itself had not changed--to the eye. It had greatly increasedin spread and population, but the look of the town was not altered.
The dust, waste-paper-littered, was still deep in the streets;the deep, trough-like gutters alongside the curbstones were still halffull of reposeful water with a dusty surface; the sidewalks were still--in the sugar and bacon region--encumbered by casks and barrelsand hogsheads; the great blocks of austerely plain commercial houseswere as dusty-looking as ever.
Canal Street was finer, and more attractive and stirring than formerly,with its drifting crowds of people, its several processions of hurryingstreet-cars, and--toward evening--its broad second-story verandas crowdedwith gentlemen and ladies clothed according to the latest mode.
Not that there is any 'architecture' in Canal Street: to speakin broad, general terms, there is no architecture in New Orleans,except in the cemeteries. It seems a strange thing to say of a wealthy,far-seeing, and energetic city of a quarter of a million inhabitants,but it is true. There is a huge granite U.S. Custom-house--costly enough,genuine enough, but as a decoration it is inferior to a gasometer.
It looks like a state prison. But it was built before the war.
Architecture in America may be said to have been born since the war.
New Orleans, I believe, has had the good luck--and in a sense the bad luck--to have had no great fire in late years. It must be so. If the oppositehad been the case, I think one would be able to tell the 'burnt district'
by the radical improvement in its architecture over the old forms.
One can do this in Boston and Chicago. The 'burnt district' of Bostonwas commonplace before the fire; but now there is no commercial districtin any city in the world that can surpass it--or perhaps even rival it--in beauty, elegance, and tastefulness.
However, New Orleans has begun--just this moment, as one may say.
When completed, the new Cotton Exchange will be a stately andbeautiful building; massive, substantial, full of architectural graces;no shams or false pretenses or uglinesses about it anywhere.
To the city, it will be worth many times its cost, for it willbreed its species. What has been lacking hitherto, was a modelto build toward; something to educate eye and taste; a SUGGESTER,so to speak.
The city is well outfitted with progressive men--thinking, sagacious,long-headed men. The contrast between the spirit of the city andthe city's architecture is like the contrast between waking and sleep.
Apparently there is a 'boom' in everything but that one dead feature.
The water in the gutters used to be stagnant and slimy, and a potentdisease-breeder; but the gutters are flushed now, two or three times a day,by powerful machinery; in many of the gutters the water never stands still,but has a steady current. Other sanitary improvements have been made;and with such effect that New Orleans claims to be (during the longintervals between the occasional yellow-fever assaults) one of thehealthiest cities in the union. There's plenty of ice now for everybody,manufactured in the town. It is a driving place commercially, and hasa great river, ocean, and railway business. At the date of our visit,it was the best lighted city in the union, electrically speaking.
The New Orleans electric lights were more numerous than those of New York,and very much better. One had this modified noonday not only in Canaland some neighboring chief streets, but all along a stretch of fivemiles of river frontage. There are good clubs in the city now--several of them but recently organized--and inviting modern-style pleasureresorts at West End and Spanish Fort. The telephone is everywhere.
One of the most notable advances is in journalism. The newspapers,as I remember them, were not a striking feature. Now they are.
Money is spent upon them with a free hand. They get the news, let it costwhat it may. The editorial work is not hack-grinding, but literature.
As an example of New Orleans journalistic achievement, it may bementioned that the 'Times-Democrat' of August 26, 1882, contained areport of the year's business of the towns of the Mississippi Valley,from New Orleans all the way to St. Paul--two thousand miles.
That issue of the paper consisted of forty pages; seven columns to the page;two hundred and eighty columns in all; fifteen hundred words to the column;an aggregate of four hundred and twenty thousand words. That is to say,not much short of three times as many words as there are in this book.
One may with sorrow contrast this with the architecture of New Orleans.
I have been speaking of public architecture only. The domesticarticle in New Orleans is reproachless, notwithstanding itremains as it always was. All the dwellings are of wood--in the American part of the town, I mean--and all have acomfortable look. Those in the wealthy quarter are spacious;painted snow-white usually, and generally have wide verandas,or double-verandas, supported by ornamental columns.
These mansions stand in the center of large grounds,and rise, garlanded with roses, out of the midst of swellingmasses of shining green foliage and many-colored blossoms.
No houses could well be in better harmony with their surroundings,or more pleasing to the eye, or more home-like and comfortable-looking.
One even becomes reconciled to the cistern presently; this is a mighty cask,painted green, and sometimes a couple of stories high, which is proppedagainst the house-corner on stilts. There is a mansion-and-brewerysuggestion about the combination which seems very incongruous at first.
But the people cannot have wells, and so they take rain-water. Neithercan they conveniently have cellars, or graves,are buried in graves--by permission, I take it, not requirement;but none else, except the destitute, who are buried at public expense.
The graves are but three or four feet deep.]> the town being built upon'made' ground; so they do without both, and few of the living complain,and none of the others.
The Metropolis of the South
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