Through the land of the strapping, thick-ribbed pioneers of Kentucky the strollers bent their course––a country where towns and hamlets were rapidly springing up in the smiling valleys or on the fertile hillsides; where new families dropping in, and old ones obeying the injunction to be “fruitful and multiply” had so swelled the population that the region, but a short time before sparsely settled, now teemed with a sturdy people. To Barnes’ satisfaction, many of the roads were all that could have been wished for, the turnpike system of the center of the state reflecting unbounded credit upon its builders.

If a people may be judged by its highways, Kentucky, thus early, with its macadamized roads deserved a prominent place in the sisterhood of states. Moreover, while mindful always of her own internal advancement, she persistently maintained an ever-watchful eye and closest scrutiny on the parental government and the acts of congress. “Give a Kentuckian a plug of tobacco and a political antagonist and he 214 will spend a comfortable day where’er he may be,” has been happily said. It was this hardy, horse-raising, tobacco-growing community which had given the peerless Clay to the administrative councils of the country; it was this rugged cattle-breeding, whisky-distilling people which had offered the fearless Zach Taylor to spread the country’s renown on the martial field.

What sunny memories were woven in that pilgrimage for the strollers! Remembrance of the corn-husking festivities, and the lads who, having found the red ears, kissed the lasses of their choice; of the dancing that followed––double-shuffle, Kentucky heel-tap, pigeon wing or Arkansas hoe-down! And mingling with the remembrance of such pleasing diversions were the yet more satisfying recollections of large audiences, generous-minded people and substantial rewards, well-won; rewards which enabled them shortly afterward to pay by post the landlord from whom they had fled.

Down the Father of Waters a month or so after their flight into the blue grass country steamed the packet bearing the company of players, leaving behind them the Chariot of the Muses.

At the time of their voyage down the Mississippi “the science of piloting was not a thing of the dead and pathetic past,” and wonderful accounts were written of the autocrats of the wheel and the characteristics of the ever-changing, ever-capricious river. “Accidents!” says an early steamboat captain. “Oh, sometimes we run foul of a snag or sawyer, occasionally 215 collapse a boiler and blow up sky-high. We get used to these little matters and don’t mind them.”

None of these trifling incidents was experienced by the players, however, who thereby lost, according to the Munchausens of the period, half of the pleasure and excitement of the trip. In fact, nothing more stirring than taking on wood from a flatboat alongside, or throwing a plank ashore for a passenger, varied the monotony of the hour, and, approaching their destination, the last day on the “floating palace” dawned serenely, uneventfully.

The gray of early morn became suffused with red, like the flush of life on a pallid cheek. Arrows of light shot out above the trees; an expectant hush pervaded the forest. Inside the cabin a sleepy negro began the formidable task of sweeping. This duty completed, he shook a bell, which feature of his daily occupation the darky entered into with diabolical energy, and soon the ear-rending discord brought the passengers on deck. But hot cornbread, steaks and steaming coffee speedily restored that equanimity of temper disturbed by the morning’s clangorous summons.

Breakfast over, some of the gentlemen repaired to the boiler deck for the enjoyment of cigars, the ladies surrounded the piano in the cabin, while a gambler busied himself in getting into the good graces of a young fellow who was seeing the world. Less lonely became the shores, as the boat, panting as if from long exertion, steamed on. Carrolton and Lafayette were 216 left behind. Now along the banks stretched the showy houses and slave plantations of the sugar planters; and soon, from the deck of the boat, the dome of the St. Charles and the cathedral towers loomed against the sky.

Beyond a mile or so of muddy water and a formidable fleet of old hulks, disreputable barges and “small fry broad-horns,” lay Algiers, graceless itself as the uninviting foreground; looking out contemplatively from its squalor at the inspiring view of Nouvelle Orleans, with the freighters, granaries and steamboats, three stories high, floating past; comparing its own inertia––if a city can be presumed capable of such edifying consciousness!––with the aspect of the busy levee, where cotton bales, sugar hogsheads, molasses casks, tobacco, hemp and other staple articles of the South, formed, as it were, a bulwark, or fortification of peace, for the habitations behind it. Such was the external appearance––suggestive of commerce––of that little center whose social and bohemian life was yet more interesting than its mercantile features.

At that period the city boasted of its Addison of letters––since forgotten; its Feu-de-joie, the peerless dancer, whose beauty had fired the Duke Gambade to that extravagant conduct which made the recipient of those marked attentions the talk of the town; its Roscius of the drama; its irresistible ingenue, the lovely, little Fantoccini; and its theatrical carpet-knight, M. Grimacier, whose intrigue with the stately and, heretofore, saintly Madame Etalage had, it was said 217 later, much to do with the unhappy taking-off of that ostentatious and haughty lady. It had Mlle. Affettuoso, songstress, with, it is true, an occasional break in her trill; and, last, but not least, that general friend of mankind, more puissant, powerful and necessary than all the nightingales, butterflies, or men of letters––who, nevertheless, are well enough in their places!––Tortier, the only Tortier, who carried the art de cuisine to ravishing perfection, whose ragouts were sonnets in sauce and whose fricassees nothing less than idyls!

Following the strollers’ experiences with short engagements and improvised theaters, there was solace in the appearance of the city of cream and honey, and the players, assembled on the boiler deck, regarded the thriving port with mingled feelings as they drew nearer. Susan began forthwith to dream of conquests––a swarthy Mexican, the owner of an opal mine; a prince from Brazil; a hidalgo, exile, or any other notable among the cosmopolitan people. Adonis bethought himself of dusky beauties, waiting in their carriages at the stage entrance; sighing for him, languishing for him; whirling him away to a supper room––and Paradise! Regretfully the wiry old lady reverted to the time when she and her first husband had visited this Paris of the South, and, with a deep sigh, paid brief tribute to the memory of conjugal felicity.

Constance’s eyes were grave as they rested upon the city where she would either triumph or fail, and the seriousness of her task came over her, leaning with clasped hands against the railing of the boat. Among 218 that busy host what place would be made for her? How easy it seemed to be lost in the legion of workers; to be crushed in the swaying crowd! It was as though she were entering a room filled with strangers, and stood hesitating on the threshold. But youth’s assurance soon set aside this gloomy picture; the shadow of a smile lighted her face and her glance grew bright. At twenty the world is rosy and in the perspective are many castles.

Near by the soldier also leaned against the rail, looking not, however, at New Orleans but at her, while all unconscious of his regard she continued to gaze cityward. His face, too, was thoughtful. The haphazard journey was approaching its end, and with it, in all likelihood, the bond of union, the alliance of close comradeship associated with the wilderness. She was keenly alive to honor, fame, renown. What meaning had those words to him––save for her? He smiled bitterly, as a sudden revulsion of dark thoughts crowded upon him. He had had his bout; the sands of the arena that once had shone golden now were dust.

Drawing up to the levee, they became a part of the general bustle and confusion; hurriedly disembarked, rushed about for their luggage, because every one else was rushing; hastily entered carriages of which there was a limited supply, and were whisked off over the rough cobblestones which constituted the principal pavements of the city; catching momentary glimpses, between oscillations, of oyster saloons, fruit and old 219 clothes’ shops, and coffee stands, where the people ate in the open air. In every block were cafÉs or restaurants, and the sign “Furnished Rooms” appearing at frequent intervals along the thoroughfare through which they drove at headlong pace, bore evidence to the fact that the city harbored many strangers.

The hotel was finally reached––and what a unique hostelry it was! “Set the St. Charles down in St. Petersburg,” commented a chronicler in 1846, “and you would think it a palace; in Boston, and ten to one, you would christen it a college; in London, and it would remind you of an exchange.” It represented at that day the evolution of the American tavern, the primitive inn, instituted for passengers and wayfaring men; the development of the pot-house to the metropolitan hotel, of the rural ale-room to the palatial saloon.

“What a change from country hostelries!” soliloquized the manager, after the company were installed in commodious rooms. “No more inns where soap and towels are common property, and a comb, without its full complement of teeth, does service for all comers!” he continued, gazing around the apartment in which he found himself. “Think of real gas in your room, Barnes, and great chairs, easy as the arms of Morpheus! Are you comfortable, my dear?” he called out.

Constance’s voice in an adjoining room replied affirmatively, and he added: “I’m going down stairs to look around a bit.”

Beneath the porch and reception hall extended the large bar-room, where several score of men were enjoying their liquors and lunches, and the hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses and the noise made by the skilful mixer of drinks were as sweet music to the manager, when shortly after he strode to the bar. Wearing neither coat nor vest, the bartender’s ruffled shirt displayed a glistening stone; the sleeves were ornamented with gold buttons and the lace collar had a Byronic roll.

“What will you have, sir?” he said in a well-modulated voice to a big Virginian, who had preceded Barnes into the room.

“A julep,” was the reply, “and, while you are making it, a little whisky straight.”

A bottle of bourbon was set before him, and he wasted no valuable time while the bartender manipulated the more complicated drink. Experiencing the felicity of a man who has entered a higher civilization, the manager ordered a bottle of iced ale, drank it with gusto, and, seating himself, was soon partaking of a palatable dish. By this time the Virginian, joined by a friend, had ordered another julep for the near future and a little “straight” for the immediate present.

“Happy days!” said the former.

“And yours happier!” replied the newcomer.

“Why, it’s Utopia,” thought Barnes. “Every one is happy!”

But even as he thus ruminated, his glance fell upon 221 an old man at the next table whom the waiters treated with such deference the manager concluded he must be some one of no slight importance. This gentleman was thin, wrinkled and worn, with a face Voltairian in type, his hair scanty, his dress elegant, and his satirical smile like the “flash of a dagger in the sunlight.” He was inspecting his bouillon with manifest distrust, adjusting his eye-glass and thrusting his head close to the plate. The look of suspicion deepened and finally a grimace of triumph illumined his countenance, as he rapped excitedly on the table.

“Waiter, waiter, do you see that soup?” he almost shouted.

“Yes, Monsieur le Marquis,” was the humble response.

“Look at it well!” thundered the old gentleman. “Do you find nothing extraordinary about it?”

Again the bouillon was examined, to the amusement of the manager.

“I am sorry, Monsieur le Marquis; I can detect nothing unusual,” politely responded the waiter, when he had concluded a pains-taking scrutiny with all the gravity and seriousness attending so momentous an investigation.

“You are blind!” exclaimed the old man. “See there; a spot of grease floating in the bouillon, and there, another and another! In fact, here is an ‘Archipelago of Greece!’” This witticism was relieved by an ironical smile. “Take it away!”

The waiter hurried off with the offending dish and the old man looked immensely satisfied over the disturbance he had created.

“Well has it been said,” thought the manager, “that the destiny of a nation depends upon the digestion of its first minister! I wonder what he’ll do next?”

Course after course that followed was rejected, the guest keeping up a running comment:

“This sauce is not properly prepared. This salad is not well mixed. I shall starve in this place. These truffles; spoiled in the importation!”

“Oh, Monsieur le Marquis,”––clasping his hands in despair––“they were preserved in melted paraffin.”

“What do I care about your paraffin? Never mind anything more, waiter. I could not eat a mouthful. What is the bill? Very well; and there is something for yourself, blockhead.”

“Thank you, Monsieur le Marquis.” Deferentially.

“The worst meal I’ve ever had! And I’ve been in Europe, Asia and Africa. Abominable––abominable––idiot of a waiter––miserable place, miserable––and this dyspepsia––”

Thus running on, with snatches of caustic criticism, the old gentleman shambled out, the waiter holding the door open for him and bowing obsequiously.

“An amiable individual!” observed Barnes to the waiter. “Is he stopping at the hotel?”

“No, Monsieur. He has an elegant house near by. The last time he was here he complimented the cook 223 and praised the sauces. He is a little––what you call it?––whimsical!”

“Yes; slightly inclined that way. But is he here alone?”

“He is, Monsieur. He loses great sums in the gambling rooms. He keeps a box at the theater for the season. He is a prince––a great lord––?”

“Even if he calls you ‘liar’ and ‘blockhead’?”

“Oh, Monsieur,”––displaying a silver dollar with an expressive shrug of the shoulders––“this is the––what you call it?––balm.”

“And very good balm, too,” said Barnes, heartily.

Still grumbling to himself, the marquis reached the main corridor, where the scene was almost as animated as in the bar and where the principal topic of conversation seemed to be horses and races that had been or were about to be run. “I’d put Uncle Rastus’ mule against that hoss!” “That four-year-old’s quick as a runaway nigger!” “Five hundred, the gelding beats the runaway nigger!” “Any takers on Jolly Rogers?” were among the snatches of talk which lent life and zest to the various groups.

Sitting moodily in a corner, with legs crossed and hat upon his knee, was a young man whose careless glance wandered from time to time from his cigar to the passing figures. As the marquis slowly hobbled along, with an effort to appear alert, the young man arose quickly and came forward with a conventional smile, intercepting the old nobleman near the door.

“My dear Monsieur le Marquis,” he exclaimed, effusively, “it is with pleasure I see you recovered from your recent indisposition.”

“Recovered!” almost shrieked the marquis. “I’m far from recovered; I’m worse than ever. I detest congratulations, Monsieur! It’s what a lying world always does when you are on the verge of dissolution.”

“You are as discerning as ever,” murmured the land baron––for it was Edward Mauville.

“I’m not fit to be around; I only came out”––with a sardonic chuckle––“because the doctors said it would be fatal.”

“Surely you do not desire––”

“To show them they are impostors? Yes.”

“And does New Orleans continue to please you?” asked the other, with some of that pride Southerners entertained in those days for their queen city.

“How does the exile like the forced land of his adoption?” returned the nobleman, irritably. “My king is in exile. Why should I not be also? Should I stay there, herd with the cattle, call every shipjack ‘Citizen’ and every clod ‘Brother’; treat every scrub as though she were a duchess?”

“There is, indeed, a regrettable tendency to deify common clay nowadays,” assented the patroon, soothingly.

“Why, your ‘Citizen’ regards it as condescension to notice a man of condition!” said the marquis, violently. “When my king was driven away by the rabble 225 the ocean was not too broad to separate me from a swinish civilization. I will never go back; I will live there no more!”

“That is good news for us,” returned the land baron.

“Your politeness almost reconciles me to staying,” said the old man, more affably. “But I am on my way to the club. What do you say to a rubber?”

The patroon readily assented. In front of the hotel waited the marquis’ carriage, on the door of which was his coat-of-arms––argent, three mounts vert, on each a sable bird. Entering this conveyance, they were soon being driven over the stones at a pace which jarred every bone in the marquis’ body and threatened to shake the breath of life from his trembling and attenuated figure. He jumped about like a parched pea, and when finally they drew up with a jerk and a jolt, the marquis was fairly gasping. After an interval to recover himself, he took his companion’s arm, and, with his assistance, mounted the broad steps leading to the handsome and commodious club house.

“At least,” said the nobleman, dryly, as he paused on the stairs, “our pavements are so well-kept in Paris that a drive there in a tumbril to the scaffold is preferable to a coach in New Orleans!”