CHAPTER XIV

THE NEW ORLEANS COTTON CENTENNIAL

I believe that distinguished southern gentleman, Colonel Morehead of North Carolina, is responsible for the next chapter of my life and of these random snapshots of memory. The Colonel certainly was the main factor in my mother’s appointment as Chief of the Woman’s Department of the New Orleans Cotton Centennial. Once she felt persuaded that she was “called” to this work, she put her hand to it with her accustomed energy. In those happy days we were inseparable; where she went I went. It was with keen anticipation of what lay before us that we prepared to leave our Boston home for a winter in Louisiana. One of my fragmentary journals helps me to recall the novel experience.

New Orleans, December 17, 1884. We arrived yesterday in time for the opening of the World’s Industrial and Cotton Centennial Exposition. The day was clear, the air like a caress after the northeaster we left in Boston. The city is gay with flags and flowers: the Pickwick Club is hung with garlands and live oak branches, banners, and cotton bales. The Mississippi is a vast yellow river that cuts the continent in two and flows past New Orleans without a ripple. We went by steamer to the Exposition grounds with Governor McEnery, the foreign consuls, and other bigwigs. There were dusky Mexican soldiers, with a military band, to whose strains we marched to the main Exposition building,--it covers thirty-three acres! As Chief of the Woman’s Department, Mama walked at the head of the Lady Commissioners. She loved keeping

[Illustration: MARGARET DELAND

From a photograph by Bachrach]

step with the music, and trotted along so gallantly! A telegram was read from President Arthur, declaring the Exposition open. The exercises began with a prayer from Rev. DeWitt Talmage,--it might have been shorter! When Major Burke, the Director and leading spirit, rose to speak, the crowd of forty thousand people fairly roared!

January 1, 1885. Impossible to sleep last night on account of serenaders and fireworks. As our “space” cannot be ready for exhibits for many days, we put in some sight-seeing. To Horticultural Hall, a large building with a glass roof, a fine fountain, ferns, and flora from many parts of the world. A giant cactus, twenty-five feet high, from Arizona. Scarlet macaws chattering overhead. Met Monsignore Gillow, the Mexican Commissioner, and congratulated him on Mexico’s magnificent showing at the Fair. The Monsignore was followed by his servant, a tall fellow dressed in red and yellow embroidered leather, with a green straw hat two feet high in the crown and three feet wide across the brim. While we talked with the master, a pretty girl tried to draw out the man. She spoke to him in French, English, and Spanish; he never even looked at her.

“That man is a stoic!” I said.

“No, he’s nothing but a Gringo!” she flashed.

To a Creole dinner at Mrs. King’s. Bouillabaisse better than we had in Marseilles. Creole cooking is delicious: a cross between Spanish and French cuisines. Branch King walked home with us. I like him. The King girls are all very bright.

To the stockyards. They say there has never been anything seen like the show of domestic animals. Chartres, a superb Percheron stallion, has a mane like Niagara Falls, hanging almost to the ground. Saw a string of gigantic Clydesdale yearling colts with feet big as soup plates; tiny harmless Galloway cattle with coats like a Newfoundland dog’s; hairy brown pigs from Kentucky; a white ox, the biggest I ever saw. As I was coaxing him to his feet, I read this warning:

“This ox is not to be drove up when he’s laying down, by order of the committee.”

January 6. To the old quarter of the town. Quaint houses of the French and Spanish time, very picturesque. Through a gloomy stone doorway, along a dark passage to an inner court with borders of violets in full bloom, palms, oranges, fig and banana trees. Through a cypress swamp of skeleton trees hung with the ghostly Spanish moss to lovely Lake Pontchartrain.

During the Exposition New Orleans became a cosmopolitan nerve center, as did Philadelphia in the Centennial of 1876 and Chicago during the World’s Fair of 1893. The vivid passionate city with its old Place d’Armes, wrought-iron balconies, hedges of Cherokee roses, broad-spreading live oaks, was crowded with travelers from all over the world. It was said that one of the by-products of the Exposition was the great number of intelligent and agreeable persons it brought to the city.

“January 7. Last evening to the _fête_ of the Twelfth Night Revelers. Ballroom very handsome with giant palmettoes, flowers and hundreds of caged birds. With a wild burst of music, the masked Revelers stalked in, marched round the hall, at a signal broke ranks, each captured a partner and the ball opened with the ‘Masker’s Quadrille.’ My Reveler wore a terrific devil mask which did not hide his merry blue eyes. We all trooped to the end of the room, where on a raised dais stood a mammoth cake made up of many little boxes filled with goodies; one held besides a ring. The lucky girl who got it became the queen of the ball. Home very late escorted by some of the Revelers, who left us at our door and went off singing a pretty Creole song, _Adieu, ma belle!_”

The Mardi Gras festivities were splendid that season. The Queen of the Carnival was Miss Celeste Stauffer, a famous New Orleans belle. Among her many admirers was Governor Samuel J. Tilden of New York, who some years afterward remembered her handsomely in his will. The King was Mr. Maury, a good-looking young Creole. The balls and pageants that marked the reign of the royal pair were admirable. They must have cost a deal of hard work as well as money, for the pains shown in every detail of costume, decoration, music, made one ache! At an earlier Carnival, the poor King was so active in his efforts to make memorable his rule of merriment that on the morning of Ash Wednesday he was found lifeless in his bed, having literally worked himself to death.

Among the season’s belles was Cora Urquhart, later Mrs. James Brown Potter. She was already “stage struck”, and her father, Colonel Urquhart, sympathized with her ambition to become an actress. She was a lovely creature, with such an appealing manner that while you talked with her she made you feel that she was dependent upon you for all that made that hour of life worth while. The New Orleans women are not like any others; they have a quality as unique as the _salt_ of the Andalusian, a sort of veiled fire like an opal’s. We made several friends among them. I remember best of all Mrs. William W. King and her four interesting daughters, in their large comfortable house on South Rampart Street. Here I first felt the flavor and charm of Southern family life, which has a character all its own. Mrs. King was large of heart and friendly of manner, with such a glow of hospitality about her that I still have a warm feeling when I think of her and her kindness. She was the daughter of Branch Miller, one of the men who made New Orleans famous in his day for good eating and drinking and fine living. He was noted for his wit and brilliant conversation, so that his daughter and grand-daughters came by their gifts through inheritance. “Uncle” Tom Miller, Mrs. King’s brother, carried on the family traditions, and his dinners were as famous in New Orleans as Uncle Sam Ward’s in Washington.

North Rampart Street lay on the other side of Canal Street; it ran down to Esplanade Street, where lived Mrs. Slocumb with her daughter Cora, later the Countess of Brazza, and her sister, Mrs. Johnson. This house was very gay during the Exposition, and we enjoyed its frank hospitality to the full. Not far away was the home of Mr. George William Nott, the most genial of men. Madame Nott, his mother, and his lovely wife were among the interesting women of New Orleans. It was at this house that I first saw General de Trobriand, one of the romantic figures of the Civil War. He came in to make his daily visit to Madame Nott, carrying a bunch of blush roses. He and my mother were old acquaintances, and while they talked together in French, I studied the General. He was one of the most distinguished looking men I have ever known, every inch the French aristocrat, in spite of his smart uniform of an American Major General. Five or six years before this time, he paid New Orleans the compliment of choosing it for his home, on his retirement from active service. To find the Union General, who in 1875 had arrested the whole of the Louisiana Legislature during the dreadful Reconstruction period, now an honored and beloved resident of New Orleans, was piquant enough. I never saw his house in Rue Clouett, the French quarter of the city, though I met him again at Madame Nott’s and more than once enjoyed a bouquet of his famous roses.

Our life in New Orleans was like a changeable fabric, woven with black and gold threads. The dark strands were the grave cares, the hard work for the Woman’s Department, the gold weave the magic of the old city and its fascinating people. We soon found that the Management of the Exposition was in financial difficulties, and that the funds promised for the expenses of the Woman’s Department were not forthcoming. My mother, who had personally solicited the exhibits, felt morally responsible for their being properly displayed and safely returned to their owners; she therefore assumed the financial obligations of her department. The story has been told elsewhere of her valiant fight and final triumph. My part was to keep her from killing herself with work, by adding a little play from time to time, and to do my own task as Superintendent of the Literary Division. I soon established the library of the Woman’s Department in a quiet corner of our gallery, and here the lady commissioners and their guests rested and read the books, periodicals, and papers.

The navy came gallantly to our rescue through Admiral Jouett of the flagship _Tennessee_ and Captain Kane of the _Galena_. A detail of ship’s carpenters and a mighty armorer helped unpack and install our exhibits and the navy band played at our “opening.” I remember a luncheon party on the _Tennessee_, the ship that in 1870 had been reported lost with all on board, when my father was on his way to Santo Domingo. The Admiral introduced Mr. Henry Watterson, who was to sit next me at lunch.

I was aware of an alert ironical face, of keen eyes that seemed to challenge mine, of a manner less flattering than I was accustomed to after these weeks amid the chivalrous men of New Orleans. As we sat down to table, Mr. Watterson seemed to stiffen and left me to open the conversation with the innocent question:

“Do you live in New Orleans, Mr. Watterson, or are you a stranger like ourselves?”

He glanced at me sideways--if looks could kill I should not be alive to-day--as he answered icily, “I am from Louisville, Kentucky, Miss.”

“Editor of the _Courier-Journal_”, whispered my other neighbor. I should have known, but so obviously didn’t, that Mr. Watterson would not speak to me again, devoting himself to the lady on the other side who knew all about him. In spite of my chagrin, I listened to his brilliant talk and have retained a strong impression of “Marse Henry.” He seemed to me a fiery, impetuous man, a little vain, a little cocksure, but likable and with a fine sense of humor. He had deep-set eyes under beetling brows with shaggy eyebrows. Nothing escaped those eyes and little those sharp ears. I was not long in finding out who Mr. Watterson was, and what he stood for, and finally made his acquaintance, after all these years, by reading the two long volumes of his autobiography. He wielded a pen like a sword and from first to last was one of the ablest who fought for the cause of the Confederacy, and later for the Democratic Party.

Ichizo Hattori, the Japanese Commissioner, was one of the interesting figures at the Exposition. He was keen to learn about our schools and colleges and in return for what my mother told him, he taught me to admire the art of his people. I remember two things Hattori told us about the public schools in Japan.

“We allow private education only on condition that the pupils are examined with the children of the public schools. If they fail to pass after three trials, they must enter the public schools.”

_A propos_ of the Japanese teachers, Hattori said:

“Every five years our teachers are examined to see if they are keeping up with the progress of the age. While we are exacting, we try to make the teacher’s position attractive by giving them titles and rank, so that the profession may not be treated as an unimportant one.”

April 7. To the Exposition. Spent the morning in my office, writing to the women who have lent us their books, telling of the plan to give the whole collection of 1400 volumes to the New Orleans Women’s Club at the close of the Exposition.

April 23. Louisiana Day! Sixty thousand people in Exposition Park; order and good feeling everywhere. I am asked to be sponsor for one of the companies in the competition drill next week. Very charming, the way they have here of bringing the ladies into public ceremonies. Last night to a _fête_ at the Jockey Club. Full moonlight. Fifteen hundred doctors gathered for the Medical Congress were invited. Most of them came; some were rough diamonds!

April 24. To a wedding in the old cathedral of St. Louis. The bride, Miss Daisy Breaux (now Mrs. Calhoun), was followed by a dozen bridesmaids dressed as field flowers. Two fairy children walked before the bride, whose long court train was carried by a pair of little black velvet pages with Van Dyke collars. Her face looked like a sunbeam caught between the folds of her wedding veil. At the reception met Mr. Walker Fearn, the newly appointed Minister to Greece. He asked me much of Athens. He seems quite the right man for the office. He has a good-looking daughter.

April 25. General Beauregard and Mr. Nott drove us to the Spanish Fort for dinner. The blue iris, so wonderful last week, has almost gone. The talk was thrilling. The General spoke of the Mexican War, where he first distinguished himself; of the beauty of the country, the exhilarating life free from care, full of excitement. I asked him if he had hesitated about throwing in his lot with the Confederacy in 1861,--he was superintendent of the military academy at West Point at the time the war broke out.

“No,” he said, “I was sorry, but I did not hesitate. Louisiana, my own State, summoned me; it was as if the voice of my mother had called me.”

General Beauregard looks more a Frenchman than an American, and prefers to speak French. He is small, active, with fiery eyes, and a military cut. He does not like to talk about the Civil War, and is almost the only person here I have known well who has not mentioned General Butler and the silver spoons.

On the twenty-fifth of April, 1862, twenty-three years before the day we dined with General Beauregard at the Spanish Fort, our friend Lieutenant George Hamilton Perkins, with Captain Bailey of the United States Navy, landed on the levee at New Orleans and walked alone through an angry mob to the City Hall to demand the surrender of the city in the name of Commodore Farragut. More than once I have asked my friend Commodore Perkins to tell me of that adventure, but he always put me off, saying it was too old a story. George Cable, who as a boy saw the whole affair, thus describes it:

The crowd on the levee howled and screamed with rage. And now the rain came down in sheets. There came a roar of shoutings and imprecations and crowding feet down Common Street. “Hurrah for Jeff Davis! Shoot them! Kill them! Hang them!” I locked the door on the outside and ran to the front of the mob, calling with the rest, “Hurrah for Jeff Davis!” About every third man had a weapon out. Two officers of the United States Navy were walking abreast, unguarded and alone, looking not to right or left, never frowning, never flinching, while the mob screamed in their ears, shook cocked pistols in their faces, cursed and crowded and gnashed upon them. So through the gates of death those two men walked to the City Hall to demand the town’s surrender. It was one of the bravest deeds I ever saw done.

Thus, through all the hurly-burly of our active life I sometimes caught glimpses of the stirring events of long ago that make the history of Louisiana so enthralling. “The late onpleasantness” was generally avoided in conversation except when we were in the company of Northerners. I greatly preferred consorting with the Creoles, who still dominated the social life of the city, and did not speak of themselves as Americans if they could avoid it. Why should they? Their civilization is Latin to the core! While they celebrate the national holiday on the Fourth of July, ten days later they observe with far more pomp and circumstance the Fourteenth of July, the French national holiday, that commemorates the fall of the Bastille.

We made a pilgrimage to the lovely old Girard Street cemetery where in the street of tombs we found the inscription:

“Francis Marion Ward, died 1847.”

This was my mother’s youngest brother, the adored “Mannie”, who perished in the terrible yellow fever epidemic which carried off one eighth of the population.

Our six months in New Orleans were breathless ones, crowded with strong emotions and vivid impressions. The best people of the place were hospitable beyond belief, but there were some who resented the appointment of a Northern woman to the office my mother held; and she used to say,

“Satan has a fresh flower for me every morning when I come to my desk.”

Among our friends was Judge Charles Gayarré, the historian of Louisiana, a fine vigorous old man who did the honors of the city to all visiting literary folk. Among these was Charles Dudley Warner, who fell under the spell of the place and wrote delightfully about it. Then there was Joaquin Miller, the Poet of the Sierras. I still keep a valentine in his writing signed “Joch Keen.” He was a striking figure, with his long blond hair, high boots, velvet coat, and scarlet neckerchief. He often called in the evening when our work at the Exposition was done, and sometimes recited his verses, in a musical singsong. Miller’s “given” name was Cincinnatus Heine; he took the more fanciful Joaquin in memory of a Mexican bandit he had defended in the days when he practiced law. I was glad to learn from Miss Hewitt that the last lines of his noble poem to her grandfather Peter Cooper are engraved on the base of New York’s statue of that great citizen.

And wisest he in this whole wide land Of hoarding till old and grey; For all you can hold in your cold dead hand Is what you have given away.

My mother founded in New Orleans that winter a literary club called the Pans. Two of the members, Grace King and Elizabeth Bisland, became well-known writers, and a third Pan, Henry Austin, made some reputation as a journalist. The Pans gave a reception for Mr. Warner, Joaquin Miller and other visiting literary men, but they took no notice of the most interesting of them all, George W. Cable. The feeling against Cable was then very strong. He was brought to call on us after dark, and we were warned not to speak of the visit, as he had come to New Orleans on some private business and his friends did not wish it known he was in the city.

“Some hot-blood would pick a quarrel with him and try to force him into a duel,” we were told. Though Cable had put New Orleans on the map with his stories, he was accused of having held his own people up to ridicule! He was a small, well-made man with keen dark eyes, a sweet voice, and a personality that took an audience by storm when he read his Creole dialect stories, or chanted the queer Gumbo songs of the Louisiana negroes.

“_Quand patate la cuite, a pas mangé, a pas mangé li!_” I can hear his very voice as I write the words from memory.

There was good opera that winter at the old Theater, where Adelina Patti made her _débût_ as a child and won instant recognition. Colonel Mapleson’s Company gave many excellent productions. I recall a gala performance of the “Barber of Seville” when Joaquin Miller brought his friend Buffalo Bill into our box and presented him to my mother. Colonel Cody was dressed in cowboy fashion; his long hair reached his shoulders in loose curls. Big, bluff, manly, he was as dramatic a figure as any on the stage.

In mid-June the affairs of the Woman’s Department were finally wound up, and we left New Orleans. In the last days I had the forlorn sense that I was saying good-by forever to a city more foreign than the cities of Europe, and yet mine in a sense in which they could never be. I paid a last visit to the old French market. Hortense, the ancient quadroon who had sold me many trifles, gave me as a parting present a package of powdered saffron for “_lagnappe_”--or, as we should say more prosaically, thrown in for luck!

Later I strove to put some of my impressions of Louisiana in a story called “Atalanta in the South.”

I remember this period as a time of strain and stress. The year before our New Orleans experience we lost the beloved Uncle Sam Ward; the year after, my dear sister, Julia Anagnos, was taken from us. These breaks in the family circle saddened us both immeasurably. My mother buckled more grimly than ever to her ceaseless round of work, “grinding with all her mills”, while to me life that had stretched so immeasurably long began to shrink incomprehensibly. Then all was suddenly changed by the most important event of my existence.

On the seventh of February, 1887, John Elliott and I were married at my mother’s house, by our minister, James Freeman Clarke, who christened me. I can claim no credit for having been born the daughter of my famous parents, but a good deal for my choice of a husband.

[Illustration: JOHN ELLIOTT AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-TWO]