Arrival at New Orleans.—Cursory Reflections.

It is certainly mournful for a traveller to dwell among the monuments of Pompeii, of Herculaneum, and of Rome. There, if he feels at all, he feels among these wrecks of past grandeur, that he is nothing. A totally different sensation possesses the mind on entering an American city. In these man beholds what he can contend with, and what he can accomplish, when his strength is not checked by the arbitrary will of a despot. New Orleans, the wet grave[F], where the hopes of thousands are buried; for eighty years the wretched asylum for the outcasts of France and Spain, who could not venture 100 paces beyond its gates without utterly sinking to the breast in mud, or being attacked by alligators; has become in the space of twenty-three years one of the most beautiful cities of the Union, inhabited by 40,000 persons, who trade with half the world. The view is splendid beyond description, when you pass down the stream, which is here a mile broad, rolls its immense volume of waters in a bed above 200 feet deep, and as if conscious of its strength, appears to look quietly on the bustle of the habitations of man. Both its banks are lined with charming sugar plantations, from the midst of which rises the airy mansion of the wealthy planter, surrounded with orange, banana, lime, and fig trees, the growth of a climate approaching to the torrid zone. In the rear you discover the cabins of the negroes and the sugar-houses, and just at the entrance of the port, groups of smaller houses, as if erected for the purpose of concealing the prospect of the town. As soon as the steam-boats pass these out posts, New Orleans, in the form of a half moon, appears in all its splendour. The river runs for a distance of four or five miles in a southern direction; here it suddenly takes an eastern course, which it pursues for the space of two miles, thus forming a semicircular bend. A single glance exhibits to view the harbour, the vessels at anchor, together with the city, situated as it were at the feet of the passenger. The first object that presents itself is the dirty and uncouth backwoods flat boat. Hams, ears of corn, apples, whiskey barrels, are strewed upon it, or are fixed to poles to direct the attention of the buyers. Close by are the rather more decent keel-boats, with cotton, furs, whiskey, flour; next the elegant steam-boat, which by its hissing and repeated sounds, announces either its arrival or departure, and sends forth immense columns of black smoke, that form into long clouds above the city. Farther on are the smaller merchant vessels, the sloops and schooners from the Havannah, Vera Cruz, Tampico; then the brigs; and lastly, the elegant ships appearing like a forest of masts[G].What in Philadelphia and even in New York is dispersed in several points, is here offered at once to the eye—a truly enchanting prospect. Most of the steam-boats were kept back by the lowness of the Ohio, at Cincinnati, Louisville, and Nashville; we landed, therefore, close to the shore without encountering any impediment. In a moment our state room was filled with five or six clerks, from the newspaper printing offices, and a dozen negroes; the former to inspect the log-book of the steam-boat, and to lay before their subscribers the names of the goods, and of the passengers arrived; the latter to offer their services in carrying our trunks. After labouring to climb over the mountains of cotton bales which obstructed our passage, we went on shore. The city had increased beyond expectation, within the last four years. More than 700 brick houses had been erected; a new street (the Levee), was already half finished; the houses throughout were solid, and more or less in an elegant style. It was on a Sunday that we arrived; the shops, the stores of the French and creoles, were open as usual, and if there were fewer buyers than on other days, the coffeehouses, grog-shops, and the estaminets, as they are called, of the French and German inhabitants, exhibited a more noisy scene. A kind of music, accompanied with human, or rather inhuman voices, resounded in almost every direction. This little respect paid to the Sabbath is a relic of the French revolution and of Buonaparte, for whom the French and the creoles of Louisiana have an unlimited respect, imitating him as poor minds generally do, as far as they are able, in his bad qualities, his contempt of venerable customs, and his egotism, and leaving his great deeds and the noble traits in his character to the imitation of others better qualified to appreciate them.

To a new comer, accustomed in the north to the dignified and quiet keeping of the Sabbath, this appears very shocking. The Anglo-Americans, with few exceptions, remain even here faithful to their ancient custom of keeping the Sabbath holy. I had many opportunities of appreciating the importance of the keeping of the Sabbath, particularly in new states. A well regulated observance of this day is productive of incalculable benefits, and though it is sometimes carried too far in the northern states, as is certainly the case in Pennsylvania and New England, still the public ought firmly to maintain this institution in full force. The man who provides in six days for his personal wants, may dedicate the seventh to the improvement of his mind; and this he can only accomplish by abstaining from all trifling amusements. In a despotic monarchy the case is different; there the government has no doubt every reason for allowing its slaves, after six toilsome days of labour, the indulgence of twenty-four hours of amusement, that they may forget themselves and their fate in the dissipation of dancing, smoking, and drinking. The case ought to be otherwise in a republic, where even the poor constitute, or are about to constitute, part of the sovereign body. These ought to remember to what purposes they are destined, and not to allow themselves, under any circumstances, to be the dupes of others. The keeping of the Sabbath is their surest safeguard. If there were no opportunities offered for dancing, their sons and their daughters would stay at home, either reading their Bible, or attending to other appropriate intellectual occupations, and learning in this manner their rights and duties, and those of other people. The American has not deviated in this respect from his English kinsman. If you enter his dwelling on the Sabbath, you will find the family, old and young, quietly sitting down, the Bible in hand, thus preparing themselves for the toils and hardships to come, and acquiring the firmness and confidence so necessary in human life; a confidence, which we so justly admire in the British nation; as far distant from the bravado of the French, as the unfeeling and base stupidity of the Russians; and which never displays itself in brighter colours than in the hour of danger. We are in this manner enabled to account for those high traits of character in moments full of peril—traits not surpassed in the most brilliant and the most virtuous epochs of Greece or of Rome. A single fact will speak volumes—the Kent East Indiaman, burning and going down in the bay of Biscay, in 1825. Ladies, gentlemen, officers, and soldiers, all on board exhibited a magnanimity of heart, and a truly Christian heroism, which must fill even the most rancorous enemies of the British people with admiration and regard. What a different picture would have been presented to us, if half a regiment of Bonaparte’s soldiers had been on board the ship!